Just Below The Surface

By A R Grundy

Ordinary people. Ordinary lives. It’s not a crime. It’s not intentional. But how far and how deep do reverberations reach when a perfectly ordinary decision serves to crack the veneer that cloaks the person lying just below the surface?

In middle-class, English society the superficial image is all. It is rare to delve beneath the small talk, the polite enquiries and the remedies a cup of tea can bring. A sense of decency, decorum and conservative values prevails. Suppressed emotion generally remains suppressed. But beneath this lie angst, boredom, unrequited love, and a deep desire for something ‘more’.

The Middle Classes are either fiercely proud of their working class backgrounds or else striving to touch the hem of the swirling skirts of the upper classes. Seldom are they satisifed - or proud - to be simply Middle Class.

This story reveals and explores the emotional, psychological and sometimes humorous repercussions resulting from one woman’s choice. She is a daughter, mother, sister, ex-wife and friend and her actions have an impact on those closest to her. For some, it is a subliminal awakening leading to the discovery of dormant love, passion, joy and warmth. For others, it reveals gritty determination, feistiness and a sense of adventure. But where blessings lie, there also lies malevolence and, albeit it in the minority, the uncovering of a cold-hearted, morality-challenging soul provokes still further the underlying, unwittingly-stifled sensibilities of the majority.

The reader may enjoy a ‘looking glass’ experience into the lives of ten characters that culminate in traits awakened, illusions shattered, emotions uncovered, bridges mended. The reader may also accept the gentle challenge to walk in parallel with the characters, tapping into the rich seam of empathetic recognition, the fine line between the persona we present and the person we might allow ourselves to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A R Grundy
• Release date: Feb 26, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458156969

A R Grundy

In my fast-approaching 50 years, I have experienced wildly disparate living standards, comfortably within and skirting round the edges of Middle Class England. With a wealth of material to draw on and an acute discernment of the Middle Class psyche, I have written engagingly, humorously, sometimes deeply about the stifled emotions of the Middle Classes so often elegantly extinguished with a nice cup of tea and a forced smile.

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JUST BELOW THE SURFACE

by A R Grundy

Smashwords Edition | Copyright 2011 A R Grundy

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CHAPTER ONE

Are we all barking mad? I mean every single one of us?

At that point, Verity’s teenaged daughter burst into the kitchen, made a garbled, pizzicato announcement about how she’d wasted ten phone calls on a tear-stained, tone-deaf hopeful leaving the X Factor, threw her arms into the air in disgust and burst out again.

Yes. was Jake’s flat response.

Verity, a single mum to a single-minded daughter, and Jake her friend and confidante of many years were taste-testing a grandiose selection of red wines, the agreed favourite of which would be served at Verity’s forthcoming wedding. Setting the date for the wedding had been an arduous task, but Verity had decided, after lengthy consultation with Jake, that it would be no more than one year after meeting her future husband. When that might be was anybody’s guess.

Ooh, now then, that’s a saucy little number. Rich, fruity, tickles past your tongue, lingers for just long enough, then warms your tonsils on the way down. I’m going to give it hmmm… 8.75.

Jake! Don’t change the subject! I was serious.

Sorry my cherub, my little viper with the whiplash tongue. Where were we then? Oh, yes, everyone’s mad…

Jake was an averagely handsome chap sporting well-chiselled features, steely blue eyes framed by long lashes and mousy hair that receded in a sufficiently mature and sensible way so as not to draw attention or ribald comments. Attractive women had been drawn to him and some had stayed there as long as six or seven months. Others, days. He lived a comfortable bachelor’s existence though not necessarily by choice and some day soon, he felt sure, his soul would intermingle with another’s and his days would be set out before him in wedded harmony. But, until that day, he would continue as the life and soul, the rock, the steadfast reliable friend, the amusing and companionable work colleague, the philosopher general.

Jake and Verity had flirted with the idea of pooling their resources and outwardly becoming a couple more than once over the sixteen or so years they had known each other. But since their days at the sixth form college an unbreakable bond of friendship had not only brought them close together, but had also formed a seemingly insurmountable barrier to that ever happening. It is often said that the most durable and loving relationships involve two people who are not only in love, but are also the very best of friends. But Jake and Verity’s friendship was of the type that could very well be shattered should they take things further, so entrenched was their history.

Constance, Verity’s fourteen-year-old daughter, she who feasts on the televisual mediocrity of talent shows and yearns for the spotlight and the boards of a London stage, had been conceived during the last throws of Jake’s eighteenth birthday party. Her father, unusually for the day, had done the decent thing and married Verity, though Verity had rather been bullied into it by her parents. A ten-year marriage that had seen Constance’s father’s wealth rise meteorically through his entrepreneurial deftness, ended, if not amicably, then with the minimum of fuss, leaving Verity and Constance housed in suburban splendour and with an obese bank account on which to scrape by.

Out of Constance’s earshot, her father was referred to as ‘The Narc, a label alluding to his strongly narcissistic tendencies. Tendencies", actually, was without doubt a colossal understatement; to say he was narcissistic would be akin to describing the Empire State Building as ‘quite tall’. The man was so self-centred that he had been virtually blind to the everyday needs, wants and desires of his wife and daughter. It may have been a quality that had served him well in his business ventures but it had been catastrophic to his family life. After the divorce, he took himself off to a loft conversion in a well-to-do area of London, the place where he had probably spent eighty percent of his married life. Verity took as little interest as possible in her ex-husband’s new life and had become particularly adept at switching off when Constance bounded in after a weekend spent with her father lavishing theatre tickets, meals out and expensive trinkets on her. It would seem that The Narc had been totally nonplussed at his wife’s inexplicable demand for a divorce after ten years of increasingly comfortable living standards and of blooming material wealth. How true it is of those inclined towards narcissism not to be aware that those around them do not share such high opinions of the only person of any importance in the known universe. The Narc simply couldn’t understand why his wife did not believe that he was as wonderful as he himself believed.

He missed his daughter, or rather, he missed the status of ‘family man’ that his daughter had brought him. Whilst he had insisted on seeing his daughter once a fortnight during the divorce proceedings, due to ‘unavoidable’ business meetings abroad this turned out to be a more sporadic arrangement. Even when he did see her, she was often left in the care of Alicia, his ‘personal assistant’ when she was younger. Alicia had increasingly been replaced by the television set as Constance became, as he believed, safe to leave alone. But he pummelled her with expensive gifts and evenings out to the latest West End extravaganza and Constance, being of an impressionable age, had been easily bought and believed her father to be a good but hard-done-by man. Hard-done-by, because at almost every opportunity The Narc would play for sympathy, trampling over his daughters raw and undeveloped emotions, claiming to have no friends and a terrible life without her mother.

As Constance grew older, however, she became more adept at spotting anomalies in his stories and reported back to her mother that his kitchen cupboards held such items as sunflower seeds, lentils, mung beans and that his fridge was home to vegetarian burgers, packets of Quorn; items that her father had certainly never consumed, but as Verity knew, would have regularly been found on Alicia’s dinner plate. There were other clues too, such as two place settings discovered in the dishwasher from the night before Constance’s arrival; feminine toiletries in the bathroom. To be succinct, The Narc’s claims of loneliness were considerably and more frequently undermined by Constance’s inadvertent detective work.

Verity knew, as perhaps only a wife can know, that her husband had been indulging his ego in a long-term affair with Alicia. The Narc had not been sufficiently covert in a way that, perhaps subconsciously, he had wanted to be found out. Too much of a coward to admit his infidelity and suffer the consequences that that would bring, small inconsistencies in his daily life shone like beacons on a cliff top, warning ships of the dangerous rocks below and whilst Verity was well aware of those rocks, she navigated away from them, making mental notes along the way, storing them up as they built into an avalanche of evidence against him.

Many embittered wives would, perhaps, have presented this evidence to their errant husbands and used it to excellent effect in their divorce proceedings. But Verity, throughout her life, had always put the feelings of others before her own and wanted to protect her daughter, believing that it was of vital importance that Constance should have as good a relationship with her father, post-divorce, as possible. She kept her evidence in reserve, as a back-up to be used as a last resort if The Narc became difficult over the divorce proceedings. This proved unnecessary and, although The Narc play-acted being hurt and feigned incomprehension, the divorce rattled through the courts with relative ease.

"Yes. Everyone is mad, Jake. Can there be a single person walking this Earth, with the possible exception of a Buddhist monk, who isn’t completely screwed up inside? The worst thing is most people don’t even know it. At least those poor sods that have actually been certified as having lost the plot have some kind of awareness of it. There’s a kind of ironic honesty about that. But the rest of us, monks excluded of course, never realise what the fuck is going on until… well, until it’s too late or something snaps and bingo! You’re left wondering where the bloody hell that came from and what the hell you’re going to do to put things back to the fragile pretence of an existence you were living before the scheiss hit the fan!"

Another vat of wine, dear? Jake was well used to Verity’s soul-searching outbursts. She was a highly intelligent woman and had a propensity, in Jake’s opinion, to think too deeply about things. Her Getting-on-with-life versus Thinking-about-life balance was always skewed towards the latter. She was erudite, articulate and expressive…

Oh, ram it up your Khyber!

Charm personified, I’m sure. It didn’t matter how irritated Verity became, how frustrated, how vociferous or expletively expressive; Jake was phased by very little in this world and his toneless sarcasm, as intended, removed the sting from Verity’s tongue. She laughed an effervescent, relief-laden laugh and wrapped her arm loosely around Jake’s shoulders.

"The most charming person you’ll ever get to meet, lardy boy. She lifted her wine glass to her lips. Now, 8.75 you said, didn’t you. I’m going to give it, hmm… she took a sip and slooshed it around her gums and over her tongue before tilting back her head, gargling loudly and swallowing. I’m going to give it nine…no. I’m going to give it nine point one seven four recurring."

Right. Nine point one seven four recurring. He wrote it down on their official score pad. I’ll average that out later.

Make sure you do. This is very important. My wedding wine. Rather than slurring her words, Verity’s oral tell-tale of her level of inebriation manifested itself either in philosophical outbursts or staccato sentences, rarely longer than four words.

Now, she began, Madness. Okay, not madness. Just, you know, general. Things. People. Everyone’s fucked up aren’t they? Everyone. I mean nobody knows, do they? Why we’re here, I mean. You know. What’s the point? Nobody knows. Are we just animals? Another species? The only purpose to procreate? If that’s right, then why give us a fucking brain? Why give us emotions? Why give us dreams? And, and scientists. And bleeding philosophers!? Especially, bleeding philosophers!

We’re stuck with it Verity. Jake was very matter-of-fact. I don’t think we really need to know. In fact, the only people who really need to know are those people who can’t just accept life and get on with it. They have to think. All the time. About why and what and with whom. He paused for effect. Life is life. Life is living. It’s simply ‘being’ and inter-reacting with others who are simply being. We find love. We don’t find love. We have children. We don’t have children. What does it matter? We’re tiny, insignificant specks. What we do with our lives is up to us. There doesn’t have to be a reason for it. Just think; if your mum and dad hadn’t got it together when they did, you wouldn’t be here at all. You’re a coincidence, that’s all. There’s no ‘great plan’. There’s no real reason for you being here…

Yes, but…

No. There’s no ‘yes, but’. What you mean, really, is that we’re all brought up to think and behave in a certain way. We behave in a manner that, primarily, seeks approval from our own society. But that’s a society we have created. It’s not natural by any means. And, practically speaking we, as a species, have not been living as we do for very long. Just a matter of a few generations. A handful of centuries. Prior to that, life was very different – and for hundreds of thousands of years it was very different. Essentially, Western society has developed far more quickly than our own physiological and psychological development. So, men are still hunters. But hunting now means working nine to five in the office to bring home the bacon, rather than hurling a spear at an unsuspecting hog in the forest. Women are still homemakers. But women have careers now too.

You’re getting deep now, Jakey.

Well, you started it! He grinned widely. Look, now’s not the time, is it? We’ve both sampled far too much vino. Let’s just leave it, for the moment anyway, that, yes, everyone is fucked up but you only notice that you’re fucked up if you think about it for too long. If you just get on with things, you’re much less likely to fall through the cracks. Hmmm?

Hmm. Okay. Have we tried that one yet? Verity waved an outstretched finger towards an expensive-looking bottle of red.

Nope. We were saving that one ‘til last. Shall I pop the cork?

Yes, you pop the cork. But it’ll have to be good to beat nine point one seven four recurring…

They whiled away the rest of the evening, sampling and scoring their wine. They chatted amicably about trivial, every-day matters of no particular consequence and at two-thirty a.m. they went to bed. Jake stayed over in the spare room, though it was most commonly referred to as Jake’s room due to the frequency of his visits. They both slept the untroubled, heavy sleep of those who have consumed an anaesthetising quantity of alcohol.

CHAPTER TWO

The next morning was a bright, almost too bright really, start to a weekend in June and both Jake and Verity eagerly consumed a full English breakfast; the finest hangover cure known to man. Strong fresh coffee and a nicely chilled glass of tomato juice also aided the restoration of their constitutions.

So, what’s the order of play for today then? Jake spoke only after both plates had been relieved of their contents; a long-established ritual to allow the brain and vocal chords to function in something approaching normality.

Verity dabbed at her lips with a linen napkin. Well, I’m dropping Constance off at her dance class at eleven. She’s then going home with Olivia and staying over. Other than that I have absolutely no plans whatsoever. She paused and a cloud appeared from nowhere. Ah, I forgot. My mother’s dropping round after her aquarobics. No doubt she’ll stay for lunch and drag it into late afternoon. Verity looked dismayed, but then suddenly sat bolt upright and smiled broadly. No! She’s got a funeral at two! Woo hoo!

I’m not sure that’s the appropriate reaction, Verity, darling.

Verity’s enthusiastic demeanour diminished only slightly. No. No, you’re probably right. Anyway, other than that, no plans. What about you?

I have neither a Plan A nor a Plan B. In fact, I have no plan either. He took his half-mug of remaining coffee in one go and let out a deep sigh.

Well, you probably don’t want to hang around to give my mother a good listening to. I wouldn’t either, only it’s a hereditary thing – I’m obliged by blood. So, why don’t we hook up later and see what’s what?

No. You’re mother likes me – though God knows why - and I know damned well she’s less acerbic when I’m around. I will do the gallant thing and remain at your side, the better to fend off your mother’s Herculean sarcasm and poisonous tongue. I will defend my Verity to the last! Jake thrust his arm through the air, piercing an imaginary villain with his imaginary sword.

Verity giggled. My hero, she said, planting the back of her hand against her forehead, gazing wistfully through the ceiling. Both Verity and Jake were fond of the old silent movies of the Twenties and Thirties. So much so, that Verity, only a year or so ago, had had professional photographs taken, dressed in the 1920’s style, soft-focussed in pearls, feathers and a flapper dress. She could have been a silent movie queen; her wide, emerald green eyes, soft complexion and auburn hair in a bob, curled and waxed smooth against her porcelain skin. A dappling of freckles over and around her petite nose and her delicately-raised cheekbones lent a girlish quality to her features and the photographs, developed in black and white, would have graced the cover of Vogue had she been of sufficient celebrity in the day. But this was the twenty-first century and she wasn’t a celebrity, not that one had to do much to become a celebrity in the twenty-first century; Andy Worhol’s fifteen minutes of fame had stretched to a lifetime in some cases, if not to a lucrative few years. Her favourite of the photographs graced her bedroom wall, framed, behind glass and large enough to dominate the room. Jake, also, adored this particular photograph and had his own copy, slightly smaller, but nevertheless imposing, over the fireplace of his thatched, sixteenth-century cottage. Visitors to Jake’s home would inevitably pass comment on this stunning photograph and Jake would derive delicious and puerile pleasure from making up stories about the little-known starlet of the silent movie era.

You know it, babe. Jake Horton; every ladies dream man; never known to turn his back on a damsel in distress.

Constance was fully prepared for her dance class and entered the kitchen, dramatically, dressed, for the first time, in full costume for her up-coming show.

Well? she demanded.

She had clinched the role of an Oompah-Loompah in her dance class’s performance of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Her orange face, white eyebrows and moss-green, regency hair would have been enough to set the most serious of Russian dictators on a course of uncontrollable laughter but add to that the calf-length white dungarees and pom-pom shoes, then it could only be said that Verity and Jake displayed exemplary and extraordinary self-control.

Just like the real thing! Jake exclaimed, rather over-enthusiastically.

Yep! Yep! It’s fantastic! a similar over-reaction from Verity.

I look ridiculous. Constance’s enthusiasm was harder to find.

Well, Jake began, "Oompah-Loompahs do look ridiculous. So, from that point of view, you’ve done a great job…" His face cracked. He grabbed his empty coffee mug and planted it firmly to his lips.

Yes, continued Verity, beaming unnaturally at her daughter, "in fact, if you think about it, all the characters in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory look ridiculous. Well, except little Charlie I suppose." That was as much as she could say, particularly as, out of the corner of her eye, she could see Jake biting the edge of his mug. She forced a coughing fit, but her eyes crinkled and watered slightly, giving away her poorly disguised hilarity.

Humph! Constance turned on her heels. I will be in the hall, mother, when you have recovered enough to give me a lift.

Constance’s exit from the kitchen allowed both adults to dispense with their feeble charades. Sparing Constance further humiliation, they both laughed silently, just like in the old movies. They wiped the tears from their eyes and, eventually, Verity was sober enough to venture into the hall and gather Constance and her paraphernalia into the car for the ten-minute journey to her dance school.

A couple of minutes passed in silence as they travelled the tree-lined suburban passageway to the hallowed halls of Miss Topham’s Dance and Drama Workshop.

Honestly. Constance said in disgust and exasperation of equal measure.

What? Verity responded innocently.

You and Jake. You’re like a couple of two-year-olds. When you come to see my show, I want you right at the back. I don’t want to see your stupid faces, grinning like idiots or even worse, trying to hide your laughter behind your stupid hands.

I’m sorry, Sweetheart. We just weren’t expecting to see you like that, that’s all. And anyway, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is one of those shows where you’re supposed to smile and laugh.

No it isn’t! It’s a very serious play about sad people who have things missing in their lives and who lose out because of those things. Even Charlie gets greedy, but he owns up in the end.

Constance had plainly absorbed Miss Topham’s over-dramatised analysis of the Roald Dahl classic.

"Well, there’s a moral tale or two in there, but it is supposed to be fun too, Sweetheart..."

Anyway, I don’t know why you and Jake don’t just get married and be done with it. Constance changed the subject completely.

What? Verity was genuinely taken aback. Constance had never said anything remotely concerning her mother’s relationships, especially not with Jake. After all, he’d been around for Constance’s entire life: the traditional family ‘uncle’.

Well, it’s obvious you love him. And he loves you. You can see it a mile off. And, let’s face it Mum, you’re not getting any younger and you’ve hardly had George Clooney falling at your feet have you?

Excuse me, young lady! For your information, what Jake and I have is a very close friendship. We’ve known each other for years. We’re best of friends and that’s all. And anyway, when did you become the world’s greatest expert on adult relationships? You’re barely out of nappies yourself!

Constance steamed and spoke between gritted teeth. I’m nearly fifteen, mother. I’m old enough to know what’s going on and I think you and Jake would be great together. He spends half his life round at ours as it is. He may as well pop the question and finish the job.

Constance! Will you, for goodness sake, shut up! I want to hear no more about it. You should be concentrating on your own life. On your schoolwork, your sports and your flipping dance class! Verity gestured towards the Dance Workshop at which they had just arrived.

Constance shrugged. Whatever…

Right. Now, have you packed everything for Olivia’s?

Well, it’s a bit late to be asking that, isn’t it?

Constance!

Yes, Mum, I have. It’s all in my holdall. Constance intoned with a resigned sigh.

Good. Well, enjoy your rehearsal. Text me when you get to Olivia’s.

Okay.

And… Verity proffered a cheek

Another sigh. Louder this time as Constance leaned over to give her mum a peck.

Bye, Mum. Love to Jakey Wakey. She grinned, cheekily as she stepped out of the car.

Verity couldn’t help but grin too. Clear off rugrat!

As Verity approached home on the return journey, her heart sank as she recognised her mother’s car occupying Verity’s space on the drive. She growled like a defensive rottweiler and mounted the kerb, parking over half the pavement.

As she inserted the key and opened the front door, gales of laughter spread through the hallway to greet her. Jake, apparently, had turned on the charm. She dumped her bag and car keys on the hall table and strode purposefully into the kitchen. A steaming cafetiere of fresh Columbian coffee sat on the bare farmhouse table between Jake and Verity’s mother, Claudia. A handsome woman of strikingly similar, yet more hardened features to Verity, Claudia, like so many of her generation, was dressed immaculately – despite having not long returned from her aquarobics class. Neither a hair nor a speck of make-up was out of place. Slightly disconcerting to Verity, though, was the fact that Claudia was not attired in the traditional funereal black that she was expecting. In fact she’d rarely seen her mother dressed quite so brightly in a white summer dress with large, vivid fuchsia flowers at randomly, yet perfectly arranged, positions. Complemented by a soft pink leather clutch bag, matching nubuck sling backs and a string of cerise pearls, one could imagine that she was soon to be sipping tea within spitting distance of royalty, rather than attending such a dour occasion as a funeral.

Hello, mother. Verity sounded surprised.

Hello Verity, dear. You sound surprised my darling. Were you not expecting me?

No, no. I knew you were coming but I thought you said you were going to a funeral.

Well, I am dear.

Did you not like the deceased… whoever that may be?

What on earth makes you say that, darling? Claudia appeared genuinely puzzled. And, actually, the deceased, as you put it, was a very good friend of mine. We’d known each other for more than thirty years. Dear Henrietta… Claudia raised her head to the ceiling as if she were gazing upon an apparition of Henrietta, floating ethereally above their heads. Jake and I were just talking about her; she was a wonderful person, you know – an inspiration. Never sat still for a minute. Could raise funds like nobody else and for more charities than you could shake a stick at. What’s more she did it with fun. None of your boring old tombolas or whist drives or God forsaken jumble sales in the village hall. Oh, no. Not with Henny. She’d go sky-diving, rock climbing, white water rafting, you name it. She truly was an inspiration.

Then… what’s with the bright, flowery summer dress? Wouldn’t the latest little black number from Harvey Nichs be more appropriate?

Oh… Claudia laughed. I see what you’re getting at now. No, no, dear, no. You see we’ve all to follow Henny’s instructions to the letter. She doesn’t want misery, tears, black dress and morbid hymns. No pompous, god-fearing vicar delivering platitudes. She wants everyone to dress brightly, as if we were going to Ascot on Lady’s Day or some other such occasion. And we’re going to be singing The Beatles, Ella Fitzgerald and Frank Sinatra. She’s hired a ten-piece Dixie jazz band to liven it all up a bit and afterwards there’s going to be dancing and a banquet at the Town Hall.

"She’s hired? Mother, she’s dead. How can she have hired a jazz band?"

Oh, Verity, don’t be obtuse, dear. You know what I mean. She’s ‘made provision for’, then. Claudia made quote mark gestures with her forefingers. She knew she was going to die, poor thing. Knew for quite some time. Breast cancer – got her in the end. She’d made her funeral plans a long time ago and when she knew the end was near, she made sure everything would be in place. An organiser like Henny, you never met.

Claudia had never had a ‘proper’ job; certainly not nine to five with a wage at the end of it. But she had worked. She had worked at climbing the social ladder and had achieved the dizzy heights of upper middle class, whatever that was these days. She’d married more for position than for love, although Verity’s father had been a dashing, handsome and charming man. A wing commander in the Royal Air Force with old money and a country house to inherit, he was considered quite a catch. And to be fair to Claudia, she had loved him – in her way. She was certainly faithful, loyal and even dutiful. She spoke fondly and admiringly of him at every opportunity, though whether this was due to genuine feelings or more for reflected glory, Verity wasn’t sure either way.

This upstanding man of virtue, fortitude and a level of leadership that commanded respect as well as affection had his life tragically cut short in a training exercise. Aboard one of Her Majesty’s most impressive aircraft carriers, a fighter pilot in howling conditions misjudged his landing and crashed horrifically onto the deck, casting severed parts of his jet tumbling at great speed in all directions. One such piece of debris smashed its way through a window on the bridge from which Wing Commander William George Albert Bailey had been overseeing operations. He had died instantly. No pain. Virtually no time I which to realise he was about to die. The turn out for his funeral was enormous, spilling onto the graveyard and further, onto the lane alongside his local village church where he was appreciatively given full naval honours. It was a moving, emotional ceremony, not least for Verity who was only twenty-two years of age at the time.

With her unquestionably striking looks and her comparative wealth and status, Claudia had not been short of suitors in the ensuing ten years, but she had taken none seriously, preferring the company of her many friends and acquaintances. Perhaps, after all, she had loved William; loved him deeply to the very core of her soul and simply not realised it. How many of us only know the true depth of feeling for another after they are gone? The fact of the matter was that as far as Claudia was concerned, the bankers, directors, chairmen, eminent doctors, university dons, television producers, retired men of means and even the flamboyant entrepreneurs that had courted her attention could not hold a candle to her Bill. Claudia bounced through her day-to-day life, flitting from a coffee morning to a charity fund-raiser and reverberating back again to a cocktail evening or a gardening club. It would not be true to say that she didn’t have a care