Is this any good?/novel?

BETTER THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

Chapter 1
Wow, that was some story thought Joan as she placed the paperback onto the coffee
table. The novel, Chick Lit, was not really intended for her age group, mid sixties, but she’d thoroughly enjoyed it, and why not? The elderly were just teenagers in old skin.
Joan sat back on the shiny, leather sofa and sipped her coffee. Sparked off by the contents of the book, she reflected on the fifty years she deemed wasted on two dead leg husbands.
Jeez, that’s half a century! The first, fat, flawed and futile, the second and current one, well, yes, the second and current one…
She lit a cigarette, drew heavily on it and made her mind up there and then that she was going to get a life, not just any old life, a young life, a sort of Chick Lit life, a life she’d missed out on all those years ago. Three kids before ones twenty first birthday had been far from a good starting point. Joan hadn’t been in love with him but a sexual ‘experiment’ had led to an unwanted pregnancy and society at that time made sure there were to be no single mothers. A man-child for a so called husband and an even worse mother-in-law, the type you could gladly drop into an acid bath so all trace had gone, well except for dentures.
She glanced at the calendar and pondered on a date from when her new life should begin.
But where to begin? Botox, Crystal-blast, Face-lift? I need something. It’s ok to think chick but when your skin thinks hen…there’s more lines on it than a Rhode Island road map.
Dvorak’s Humoresque belted out from the phone and penetrated Joan’s thoughts. ‘Help the aged,’ she answered.
‘Hi, it’s me.’
‘Jules! I was going to ring you but I thought you’d still be zedding it. How’d it go?’ Joan perked up at the sound of her best friend’s voice, and then realised, that her voice sounded wary.
‘You’re not going to like this Joan, are you sitting comfortably?’
For Jules to say that, the news had to be big. Joan leant against the arm of a chair.
‘Go on, what happened?’
‘She’s blonde, tubby… and wait for it…about twenty five years old.’
Joan was silent for a moment. So it was true beyond a doubt, Pete had a bit on the side. She slid down the arm of the chair to the seat. Maybe Jules had seen the evidence, but Joan herself hadn’t.
‘Get her address?’
‘Yeah, rough district, look, I’ll come across and we can chat at length. Ok?’
Joan replaced the receiver and went to the drinks cabinet. At least she’s fat. She mused.
Selecting the most expensive red, she uncorked it and poured a large, no, a very large glass. Her friend liked red too, as she always said, ‘at our age it’s good for the old arteries.’
Jules arrived in her brand new Smart car; it had made a good disguise the previous evening for tracking Peter, Joan’s husband.
‘I suspected some time ago he was playing around Jules, although, really I can’t imagine who’d fancy a clapped out eighty two year old. He’s recently invested in some new Y-fronts too, what sort of woman shags a man who wears Y-Fronts? The mind boggles.’
The second bottle of red was having a pleasant couldn’t-care-less attitude on Joan’s grey matter. She giggled along with Jules imagining Pete getting his leg over.
‘Perhaps he makes a better sugar-granddaddy than a sugar-daddy,’ she laughed.
For all the mirth, Jules could see a deep sadness behind her friend’s eyes. Pals from school days they’d stuck together over the years. They’d become more like sisters than their own sisters.
‘This isn’t the first woman Pete’s shagged but this time I want facts, enough’s enough. besides, this new sex-on-legs-cow’s had a profound effect on him.’
Basically a kind person, in recent years he’d become retaliative, sarcastic and decidedly cold in his manner towards her.
‘In the early years my ‘fiery’ nature turned him on and he even admitted that to this end he sometimes goaded me! What really bugs me as well, he used to love the way I flounced off when we rowed, he loved watching my long, dark hair swinging about. Now, he says I’m aggressive or I need anger therapy, cheeky sod, he obviously thinks silver hair isn’t good enough for him. Jeez, he doesn’t even have looks. Mind you, he has some charm and a good sense of humour.’
‘Joan, you’re getting morose, have another glass.’ Jules uncorked another bottle.
‘The only saving grace in all this is that he’s fifteen years older then you.’
‘And?’
‘Well, odds are that he’ll die before you.’
Joan held her head back and laughed, it was a long drawn out belly-laugh.
‘Don’t make me laugh; he’s like a fucking robot. Do you know the only thing wrong with him is that he’s got a corn?’ She laughed out loud again then gulped her wine. She became morose again. ‘Do you know what the experts say in the scientific world? They say if one is fit by the age of eighty, there’s no reason, as to why one won’t reach ninety.’ She began to sob. ‘I can’t go another shite decade with him’
‘The booze is making you miserable Joan. You know, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be, being a widow. Ones income’s halved for starters.’
‘You’re right, I’m always bloody moaning, aren’t I? The only thing is, in ten years time, I don’t want to be sitting here wishing I’d got a life, and just crocheting antimacassars. Anyway what do you think of this idea?’ Joan lit yet another fag.
‘Let’s have a bite to eat and a nice black coffee first, don’t forget I have to drive home.’
‘Good idea.’ She glanced at the clock, ‘Pete’ll be at least another hour yet.’
Whilst they both tucked in to ham sandwiches and sipped black coffee, Joan explained a few ideas she’d come up with to enhance both hers and Jules’ lives. Her friend listened intently, eyes widening from time to time.
‘I’ll get back home now and I promise that I’ll have a good think about what we’ve discussed.’
The two women bade their goodbyes and Jules drove off, back to her bungalow a few miles away.
Joan tidied up the lounge then washed the dishes. She liked everything to be neat and tidy. The bungalow was a new build when they had bought it. Three bedrooms, a large lounge, the kitchen wasn’t small either. The gardens front, back and side were extensive and over the years the many plants and shrubs they had planted together now gave the garden a colourful, mature look. Joan’s favourite spot was where the swing seat was positioned. Under a pagoda, covered with purple and white Clematis, it gave shelter from the hottest sun and a peaceful haven away from neighbours prying eyes. She was proud of her achievements for someone stemming from a childhood of poverty; you’ve not done bad lass. She often told herself.
She heard Pete coming in after his visit to his daughter’s, well, after his night of passion rather.
‘Hi,’ she greeted him all smiles.
‘Hi,’ was his response.
‘Have a nice evening?’ She continued dusting the furniture, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.
‘Oh, it was ok, she wasn’t well enough to make us a meal so I went out for a take-away.’
Oh, yeah, a blonde-tubby-about-twenty-five-year-old one, she wanted to say but desisted.
‘When she feels better, she wants me to take her to her old school friend’s for a weekend, she lives in Newcastle.’
‘That’ll be nice for you both,’ said with just a tad of sarcasm.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ Pete side glanced at Joan and waited for her reaction.
‘Who? Me? I’ve never restricted your movements, of course I don’t mind.’
Great stuff, she thought, now my plans can come into being, how could he moan about me travelling now? Ha. She laughed to herself, some men are so stupid.
Pete went off into his study, no doubt reliving the night of passion he’d had with his lover and dreaming about the forthcoming weekend with the slag. Joan continued with the housework whilst plotting her new life, well, he was being economical with the truth and what’s good enough for the goose is good enough for the gander, but in this case surely that should be what’s good enough for the gander is good enough for the goose. Who wrote these proverbs?
Dvorak’s Humoresque rang out. ‘Orphaned widows,’ she answered.
It was her friend Mo, crying down the phone, should she get a divorce from her lying, cheating husband. Jeez, that’s all I need. Why can’t others deal with their own nightmares? I’ve got plenty of my own to be going on with thanks.
Mo’d found a packet of condoms again in the pocket of his best suit.
Think yourself lucky he’s got the sense to use ‘em, she wanted to say but thought it too cruel.
The husband in question was six feet four, drop-dead-gorgeous and had women just drooling and dropping at his feet. Joan had wondered how long it’d be before he strayed when he took Mo to the registrars…well, it was her third marriage, (church was out of the question) but at least the ceremonies had been that close together, Joan had been able to wear the same outfit for each one.
‘Best not to worry Mo, why don’t you go out and go mad with his credit card.? That’s good therapy.’
‘You’re right Joan; I’ve seen a gorgeous leather coat and boots I like.’
‘Good, hurt his pocket. I’ll see you next week then.’
Joan replaced the receiver. Women just can’t win. Here’s an ugly old fool shagging around and there’s a handsome young fool doing the very same. Or was it the women? Why do women shag others husbands?
Sex with Pete that night was as boring as ever even though she suspected he was practicing various methods to try when screwing his tart.
Besides Joan had other things on her mind, she had dinner to cook tomorrow for four friends…vegetarian friends. What the hell can I make? Pete turned her over.
Perhaps a Soya spag bol could be the answer. Where to get Soya though? Pete’s hand was wandering. I could get some humus and tortillas, yes, that’d be nice as a starter.
Pete was reaching his climax now. Jeez, planning dinner for four is damned harder than having sex.
The following evening, Joan served up the spaghetti bolognaise. It had been simple to make and she was most impressed with the taste of the Soya meat.
Pete poured out the wine for their friends. Joan had a head start on the others; she’d partaken of a few glasses whilst preparing dinner.
The strange mixture of characters seated themselves at the table. Sebastian and wife Isabel, not their real names but they liked the sound of them. Both retired civil servants they were quite boring and staid.
Joan had thought long ago that their real names were probably Cyril and Ethel or the likes.
John and Anne, real names, he was great fun and an extravert, how he came to be married to her was always a mystery to Joan. He was still quite shaggable. John was a lawyer; she was a barmaid when they met. She sure knew what she was doing having got pregnant a couple of weeks later. They had more money than sense. Nevertheless, they were good fun and Joan liked them both, she sat with her guests. ‘Help yourselves to Parmesan and get stuck in.’
‘So, what are your plans for this summer, each and all?’ asked John.
‘Jules and me are going for a month to a nudist complex in Jamaica,’ she blurted out.
The others didn’t know whether to believe her and reacted with guffaws.
‘I’m serious. Then we plan on going to Bali for a further month, lots of nightlife there apparently.’
‘I’ve always wanted to try nudism,’ offered Sebastian.
‘You’ve never mentioned that.’ Isabel looked horrified.
Joan viewed Seb from the corner of her eye, hmm, more to him than he lets on. Dark Horse, eh?
‘When was all this arranged then?’ Pete’s eyes flared.
Oh here we go; there’ll be a few days of sulky silence now, the cheeky two-timing bastard, don’t get mad…get everything Joan, she smiled back at him. ‘Oh, it’s not been arranged yet, me and Jules were just talking about it, when you were at your…’
‘I would never go anywhere without John.’ Anne butted in.
Joan sipped her wine and eyed up John this time, I bet you wouldn’t, now if my husband was as gorgeous as him…..’More garlic bread anyone?’
‘Why don’t we all go to Jamaica?’ John took the proffered bread. ‘Sounds great fun.’
Joan bit into a chunk of bread, yeah, right; your wife’d look gorgeous nude….not.
Anne was at least eighteen stones but only five feet two. She’d had a weight problem as long as Joan could think back, well a stuffing-your-face-with-food problem more like.
She had a copycat problem too, constantly clocking the clothes Joan wore and racing down to the shops to buy duplicates. This amused Joan greatly and took it as a compliment. Sometimes and just for devilment, she would tell Anne a different shop to where she’d bought her clobber and watch her friend’s frustration when she couldn’t find replicas. Even if she did, there was no way they ever looked as good on her as on the five feet ten, slender Joan.
‘I need a facelift or something before I travel, either of you tried that crystal-blasting treatment?’
Anne looked indignant, ‘My skin doesn’t need any treatment whatsoever, and I haven’t even got any wrinkles yet.’
Oh yes you do, it’s just that the fat puffs your face out, wrinkles with it. Joan smirked to herself. Lose ten stone and your skin’d look like a bloody pachyderm’s.
‘Yes, you have beautiful skin,’ commented Isabel.
‘For her age,’ quipped John at which Anne’s face became decidedly ugly. John’s and Joan’s eyes met, she quickly looked away and bit on a gherkin to stop her bursting into laughter. That would have been the end of her and Anne. The trouble with Anne was that if she wasn’t the centre of attraction, she wasn’t playing but this sort of attention wasn’t the type intended. Joan waited for her to explode and wasn’t disappointed.
‘You’re a shit a friggin’ shit. Do you know that?’
Isabel blushed to the roots of her hair and chomped on a gherkin. These gherkins were coming in handy. Seb looked at his watch. John didn’t react; he was as used to these outbursts as were the hosts. There were a few moments silence.
‘We’re going to the Festival Hall next weekend,’ announced Seb.
‘What’s on?’ Pete asked.
‘A Beethoven concert, it should be excellent.’
‘Indeed,’ said John.
A conversation about the classics ensued. Anne went into a sulk but Joan was accustomed to that and knew that she would soon ‘come round’.
Apart from the one fracas the evening went well and it was three am before the guests left.
John had still seemed keen on the nudist holiday, as did Seb but Joan didn’t want any hangers-on, not at the launch of her new life.
Pete’s hands began to wander. Oh, no, puh-lease not at this time in the morning, does he never stop it?
This time there was no dinner for four to plan so she lay back and thought of her session at the gym and pool the next day.
The four friends relaxed in the Jacuzzi, a white wine each. This was their time to be together once a week; an hour in the gym followed by forty lengths in the pool and then a dip into the hot bubbling water for a natter. Privately owned the complex was luxurious never crowded and suited the quartet perfectly.
Anne was still reeling from the night before, ‘I’m going to really go mad with the credit card now,’ she sipped her wine.
‘Not another Prada bag, how many’s that you’ve got?’ asked Brenda.
‘Do I give a shit? I’ll buy matching shoes an’ all.’
‘He was only joking Anne,’ said Joan.
‘Yeah, well I’m teaching him not to give sly digs even in jest.’
‘Why, what did he say?’ Brenda leaned forward; she liked nothing better than a bit of gossip and others’ disharmony with one another.
‘He implied that I looked alright for my age.’
Jules glanced at Joan and they both smirked. Anne lacked self esteem and they all recognised this, it did get tiresome sometimes though, always trying to reassure her that she was a loved and treasured friend. She had more clothes in her possession than the whole of Debenham’s put together, or should that be Christian Dior or the likes, only exclusive stuff was good enough for Anne.
‘Have you seen Newbloom’s new range?’ asked Brenda enthusiastically. ‘They’ve got some gorgeous tops in.’
‘I haven’t been in recently,’ replied Joan. Newbloom wasn’t her style but did agree that the stuff was enough to pay for fashion items that were out of style within weeks. Brenda didn’t look nice in anything, at sixty four, she’d no fashion sense but none of the others had the heart to tell her. Today she’d mixed a trendy top with a 1970s skirt, and a pair of 1980s shoes. The top as usual was way too young for her and bordered on the ridiculous, she preferred sleeveless too and Joan thought there was nothing worse than having wrinkled old arms on display. Brenda and husband were vastly rich and so she got away with any look according to her, and not giving a damn for what anyone thought.
‘Anyway, I’m more interested in face treatment at the mo,’ said Joan.
‘A friend of mine has just had that…that…er, is it crystal-blasting or something?’
‘Round here, Brenda?’ Joan was keen to find out.
‘No, in London somewhere.’
‘Fancy a trip to London Jules?’ Joan and her friend chuckled.
‘I’m up for anything these days,’ she replied.
‘I’ll come with you an’ all.’
‘You said last night that you’d never go anywhere without John.’
‘I know but that were last night and I’d had a few jars,’ Anne sipped her wine. ‘Any road, I’ll be able to shop at Harrods, that’ll piss him off.’
The four left the complex and went to the nearby pub for lunch and to discuss their plans for a weekend in London.
Mysteris…don’t you ever read books????????!!!!!!!!!!