No Man No Cry

By Katy Christie

Bold. Inspiring. Poignant. Funny. Four women ... four life choices.

Olivia, Lindsay, Patty and Helen forge new lives for themselves, free from the debilitating effects of their selfish, calculating, indifferent men. Who needs them?

Olivia is fat. Okay, Olivia is grossly overweight, but she doesn’t care. She is a sensual and bubbly drama teacher who is unwittingly caught up in her own stage show when she falls for a senior student. But then with a husband like Dominic, who can blame her? When her antics with pupil Jamie become Oscar material, it’s goodbye teaching career. Unfortunately, Dominic is not so easily got rid of.

Lindsay is lost and alone in her self-imposed seclusion in the wilds of Scotland. She finds it difficult to cope with life until she is forced to face its stark reality, which necessitates coming to terms with the death of her husband, Brian, and her mother’s encroaching dementia. Heartache and pathos, along with assorted alarm clocks, make for uncomfortable bedfellows.

Patty is a very mixed-up lady; prim social worker by day and formidable rock chic by night. When criticism of her boss’s handling of a high-profile case sends her career, and her life, plummeting into a tailspin, she is compelled to rethink the choices she has made.

Helen, successful woman in the city, is not so fortunate in love. Since her self-image is wrapped up in the man she’s screwing, the rocky state of her third marriage is making her sick – literally. Fuelled by the uncertainty of how she will face life without her customary masculine prop, she begins her search for a more reliable crutch.

These women meet up in the raw heat of an Andalucian summer, where passions crackle like ice cubes in Sangria. Amorous gardeners, bullfights and unwanted, visiting men force them to confront their demons and reluctantly reveal the secrets of their pasts. Despite this catharsis, can these four disparate women finally dispel their fears and suspicions and open up to each other? And can they really live happily ever after without a man?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Katy Christie
• Release date: Jul 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465847393

Katy Christie

The profile photo is of a winter twilight in the Empty Quarter, near the border of Saudi Arabia. Almost time for a gin and tonic. If I had a religion, it would have to be an animistic one - a kinship with nature, and possibly the universe if I got to know it. I love the deserts of Arabia and the mountains of Scotland, both with a profound passion, while the mundane in my life, my job as a teacher in Dubai, is the necessity that permits the luxury of writing.

Book preview

Part I

Chapter 1

Name:Olivia Kettering

Age:55

Job:Drama teacher

Status:Married to a moron

One by one, the students finally left. Olivia slumped over her desk and allowed her head to drop onto her clasped hands. She released one and blindly reached out to open the drawer on her right and her fingers landed on the dog-eared corners of the script for ‘The Roses of Eyam’. She delved deeper and retrieved the pack of aspirin that was hiding underneath, and popped a couple into her mouth, slugging them down with the dregs of her tea. It was cold. Like my life. She cautiously raised her head, moving it as little as possible. So far so good.

From her position by the window, she could see a motley assortment of kids, their uniforms in various stages of disarray, making their way home - or not, as the case may be. She had no idea what they did once they left the school building, and if truth be told, she didn’t actually care since they were no longer in her charge. She looked at her watch. She should be on her way home herself by now if she had any reason to. The dull sensation she felt was a familiar one and if it were just herself, she’d be happy to return to her semi in the suburbs. If she could go home and be alone, she’d be as happy as a mosquito in a nudist colony. Home alone. That had a wonderful ring to it.

She could smell the rain before she saw it, and when she looked up the drizzle was spreading across the dusty windows, like mascara streaks on wet cheeks. The tang was musty, as though after only one week’s drought, the soil badly needed a wash. The squeaking of her classroom door interrupted her meanderings, and she turned in time to see the top half of the headmaster appear from behind the door. His bald head and scrawny neck reminded her of a gnarled tortoise peering out of its shell.

‘Not going home tonight?’ he smirked, as though making some profound witticism.

‘No, saves energy, Mr Cameron.’

He gave her a baffled look, cut short his proposed laugh, and without another words, retreated backwards into the hallway again.

Bugger! Why did she have to exasperate him? He’d probably arrange for her to be on playground duty all next week. She had to keep reminding herself that not all men were like her husband. Were they? She didn’t have to antagonise them all. She stood up, threw her bag over her shoulder, took her car keys from the desk and made her way down the sterile flight of stairs that led to the exit. She didn’t pass a soul en route, and no one seemed to be outside either as she stepped through the double doors and out into the rain. Her car was about fifty metres away, the only one remaining in the car park. She’d left the ancient red Volvo parked under a tree and it was now covered in an assortment of leaves and branches, pasted onto it like a child’s collage.

‘Hi Mrs K.’

She jumped at the sound. Jamie, one of her senior students, slinked out from behind the tree, looking guilty, but presenting her with such a disarming smile that she found it difficult to imagine him culpable of any wrongdoing. She threw him a distracted wave in passing, got into the car and drove off. A final look in her rear view mirror before passing through the school gate, showed Jamie still standing where she’d left him. He waved. Cheeky sod.

The casserole was simmering in the oven, sending out eat-me waves, when Olivia heard Dominic’s Jag purring into its place in the double garage; his sleek and sexy steed in bed with her rusty old mare. It kind of parodied their marriage, really. Dominic was something of a whiz in the city, or so he kept telling her, although she tended to think of him as more of a wide boy made good. She’d long given up asking him where his considerable income came from. Nor did she have a clue as to the actual amount he did earn, since he insisted on separate bank accounts. He had paid for their home (there was no longer any mortgage), and he would cover the cost of their holidays (destinations chosen by him), but Olivia was expected to meet the rest of the household, as well as her personal expenses, from her teacher’s salary. And she just knew that he revelled in her grovelling whenever it fell short.

Dominic entered the kitchen through the door that linked the integral garage with the rest of the house. He carried his briefcase in one hand and was tossing his car keys in the other. He made a final catch and put them in his pocket.

‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Lasagne and green salad.’

‘When will it be ready?’

‘In about fifteen minutes.’

Dominic looked at his watch, sighed a little, but said no more, as he skirted around her and made his way upstairs. Olivia was still holding the knife she’d used to chop the cucumber. She looked at it now with evil intent, then reluctantly dropped it into the sink.

They ate in silence. Dominic had a newspaper propped up in front of him and Olivia was watching him read. She had no idea why she did this, why she didn’t get a book or something too. It was probably because she actually hated the idea of two people sitting at a dining table together and not having a conversation. No matter how banal, at least it was some form of communication. If both were, or just one of them was, reading then what was the point in sharing a meal together? Why not eat at different locations? She didn’t like eating and reading anyway, found it difficult to keep the pages open at the right place, and tended to drop food down her cleavage because her focus was on the written page rather than the path to her mouth.

On a whim, she stood up, picked up her plate and marched over to the sofa. She plonked herself down (ignoring the slice of cucumber that flipped off her plate and landed between the cushions) and switched on the TV. EastEnders. She could have cut the air with that knife she’d left in the sink.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Eating dinner, watching TV.’

‘You don’t like EastEnders.’

‘I know.’

‘Why are you not sitting at the table?’ He sounded like a school dinner lady.

‘Because I’m sitting here.’

‘I can see that. I’m not blind.’

She picked up her fork and awkwardly ate the lasagne with her left hand, while using her right to turn up the volume on the remote. It still wasn’t loud enough to smother his indignant puffs.

‘Okay (puff), I’ve put my newspaper away. You have my full attention. You’ve made your point, now come back to the table.’ Now he sounded more like a teacher: Mrs Deveraux actually, the one with the nasally whine.

This could have been it. This could have been the final showdown, the mother of all arguments that would end it all. Why did he have to go and capitulate in such a patronising way? Why did he never give her (them?) the opportunity to get it all out, have a screaming match and bring their sham of a marriage to an ignoble end?

She curbed her frustration and rose from the sofa. (It was at an interesting bit in EastEnders. Some nasty guy seemed to be getting his comeuppance. Maybe she should watch it more often.) She lifted her plate and reluctantly brought it, and herself, back to the table. They sat in silence for the remainder of their meal and later went peacefully to bed. She would have to try harder next time.

The following morning, Olivia heard the alarm go off – seemingly forever - on Dominic’s side of the bed. She had two choices: either clamber over Dominic’s inert body and switch it off, or bury her head under her pillow and wait for Dominic to do it. As she disappeared under the pillow, she heard his groan and felt a waft of cold air as the duvet lifted and the ringing stopped.

‘Tea,’ he grunted.

She couldn’t remember whose turn it was, and from his tone she wasn’t sure if he was posing a question or issuing an order. His movement out of the bed told her the answer and she snuggled down for an extra five minutes as she heard Dominic padding his way downstairs. When he returned, carrying a mug in each hand and with the paper tucked under his arm, Olivia was already sitting up waiting. He placed one mug on her bedside table. She plumped her pillows and took a grateful sip of the hot liquid. There was too much sugar in it.

‘I’ll be late tonight,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve got a rehearsal.’

‘Another bloody rehearsal?’

‘It’s only the second this week. The play’s next month and we’re not nearly ready. We’ll probably be up to nightly rehearsals during the last week.’

‘And then nightly performances.’

‘Only three.’

‘Why can’t you have a normal office job?’

‘You mean like a typist?’

‘At least you’d be home at sensible hours, have dinner ready.’

Olivia chose to abstain from this one. She picked up the newspaper and began flicking through the review section.

‘What is for my dinner tonight then?’

‘There’s a steak pie in the freezer.’

‘TV dinners again.’

She briefly wondered if he was making some witty reference to the previous night’s mini rebellion but his face, as serious as a March wind, told her otherwise.

‘I cooked it myself last week.’

Dominic emitted an indeterminate grunt as he threw back the covers and got out of bed. Olivia watched his tight behind as he headed for the shower. She knew it was firm because she always grabbed his butt during their monthly get-togethers. He didn’t have a bad figure, she just didn’t fancy it any more. Anyway, she always grasped his bottom during sex because she wanted to get it over and done with quickly. It seemed to instantly make him quiver and come.

She waited until she could hear the water running, got up herself, went into the kitchen and poured the oversweet tea down the sink. Then she prepared their packed lunches: smoked salmon and fresh dill for Dominic, cottage cheese and cucumber for her. When she heard him humming to himself in the bedroom, she knew the shower was free. For as long as she could remember, this had been their established routine, Olivia moulding her actions around his.

She heard him slamming the outside door while the tepid water was still streaming over her ample body. She briefly thought about masturbating, her only means of carnal pleasure for many years, but she was afraid it might take too long and she had a class first period. Oh well, perhaps her sexual frustration would give her an edge.

Hers was the last car to arrive in the car park again and so the only available space was the same one under the tree, exposed to falling branches and bird shit. As she got out of the car, she was reminded of that student lurking behind the tree the previous afternoon. She belatedly walked around the car to reassure herself there had been no acts of vandalism, and then headed inside the school’s double entrance doors. First bell had rung and all the kids were already inside, shuffling their way to their classrooms. She’d have to go straight to hers, no chance of a coffee. She climbed the stairs and just as she was rounding the corner, she ran headlong into the head.

‘Ah, Mrs Kettering, so you did expound that energy after all.’

‘Sorry?’

‘No, no need to apologise, morning traffic and all that, I understand,’ he said as he bumbled off in the direction of his office. Olivia stood for a moment, slightly bewildered, but was immediately alerted to more pressing concerns by the raucous noise emanating from Room 23. There was a short-lived silence as she entered the classroom, then a variety of little asides … Take too long over breakfast, Miss?… Get stuck in the lift? Car break down?… Did you have a breakdown, Miss? She gathered them back into line by playing a game of hangman with the word, DISCOURTEOUS.

A movement outside caused her to raise her head in the direction of the car park. She had a good view of it from where she was standing in front of the white board, pen in hand. She thought she saw a figure crouch down behind the Volvo. She peered out through the murky windows. There was someone; she could see him now. It was that Jamie again. What was he doing there? It all seemed a bit suspicious and she hoped he wasn’t damaging her car. She knew it was old, but that was hardly the point. She wondered if she’d made a mistake giving him a leading part in the play. How reliable was he? Jamie Hamilton was in her lower sixth class and was playing the part of William Mompesson in ‘The Roses of Eyam’. But why on earth was he hanging around her car?

Chapter 2

Name:Helen Dunsmore

Age:52

Job:Advertising executive.

Status:Unwanted, unloved, unhappy.

Helen came out of The Plough position and flopped down onto her yoga mat. She surreptitiously looked around to see if anyone had noticed the tears streaming down her cheeks, but the rest of the class seemed intent on the pose, gazing at their inverted navels. She had no tissues with her and so she sat there, vulnerable to the inquisitive stares now that bodies were becoming upright again and heads were turning in her direction like poppies to the sun. She surreptitiously wiped her nose with the back of her hand and affected a look of indifference, wishing she’d sat at the back of the room when she had the opportunity. She had no idea what had brought on the tears. It was as though the physical release of the yoga had opened mental floodgates, allowing her emotions to come pouring down her cheeks.

She decided not to stay for the cool-down process and, with a nod of her head, she indicated her intention to leave to the instructor. She rolled up her mat and made her way to the door at the back of the hall. Several mirrored images of a long, tall blonde woman, wearing an orange postcard print top and matching pants, strode out with her. She didn’t bother with a shower or getting changed, just threw on her tracksuit top and sat down heavily on the bench that circled the changing room lockers. And thought about Kevin.

She knew he didn’t love her any more. She could tell by the way he no longer looked at her. They got on well enough, although now that she thought about it, that was probably because they had succumbed to living a parallel existence, each going their own way with as little interaction as possible; lives that never crossed.

She’d begun to set little tests for Kevin, ones which he constantly failed. She would undress provocatively in front of him, pretending it was an unpretentious act, all the while gauging his reaction. He barely glanced in her direction, but if he did, he would quickly look away again - either with distaste or disinterest - Helen was never entirely sure which. He rarely touched her any more and if they did make contact, it was usually accidental. For example, just the other day they had bumped into each other in the hallway, and instantly their bodies had ricocheted apart – one like-magnet repelling the other. In bed, if their feet touched, his promptly whooshed away faster than the speed of light.

In fact, if she were to really concentrate, and think about all the ominous signs, she could probably make a list as long as her legs. But why bother? The evidence was already staring her in the face, and it was only that stupid yoga that had brought it all to the surface. Helen blew her nose again, then looked up and saw Olivia, in baggy T-shirt and bright yellow leggings, standing in front of her, looking concerned.

Helen picked up her bag and faked a smile. ‘Fruit juice?’ Without waiting for a response, she made her way to the coffee shop on the ground floor, assuming Olivia was falling in behind. She was. Their limited friendship, restricted to the yoga class, had sprung up when they both started at the same time, several years previously. It was a mystery to Helen. Olivia was not Helen’s type at all. She was small and fat and she was a teacher. Helen usually chose her friends from a fund of the attractive and the vivacious, people whose jobs or lifestyles reflected her own, or if not exactly her own, at least, her aspirations for her own. Olivia represented the opposite extremity. She was everything Helen strove not to be. First and foremost was her size. Helen had determined, long ago, that she would never allow herself to get like that again. She gave an involuntary shiver and quickly subdued the suppressed memories. Fat memories.

Helen really did believe that obesity was catching. Fat people were always surrounded by donuts and cream cakes, packets of crisps and pints of lager; things that could lure the most unsuspecting wraith. So, she surmised, the only way to avoid those temptations was to avoid those people. And for most of her adult life, Helen had. She still hadn’t fathomed how Olivia had managed to break through her firewall. And regardless of the amount of time that Olivia spent on that yoga mat, it still didn’t seem to reduce her size in the slightest. And how she managed to get into some of the positions, Helen had no idea, although some of the groans she heard emanating from Olivia’s contorted body suggested Olivia also held the same misgivings. In her favour, Olivia had a very attractive face, and beautiful eyes, protected by luscious long lashes. Unfortunately, the layers of fat framing them effectively subsumed those stunning windows to the soul. And she was a teacher. What on earth did Helen have in common with a teacher? Helen had no answer to this dichotomy. She just knew that their friendship had sprung up by chance, like an unforeseen weed, determined to survive without any apparent form of nourishment.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Olivia asked.

‘It’s nothing.’ Helen waved off her troubles with a sodden tissue.

‘How’s the job? You still working those long hours?’

Olivia was persistent. Helen gave her that. ‘Job’s great and you know I don’t mind the hours, they just fly by. Last week we had a great brainstorming session with HSBC, all about cultural norms and expectations and it was quite revealing. I met some interesting people; they were a good bunch.’ Helen feigned a coolness to match the kiwi and mint concoction she was sipping, all the while looking longingly at the crumbs assembling around Olivia’s mouth as she tucked into a large almond croissant.

‘How’s Kevin?’ Olivia persevered.

The woman was like a Rottweiler. Helen held Olivia’s eyes, intending to convey a warning signal, but her glare was returned with a look of empathy, of compassion. Helen leant back into her seat and considered this subtle disclosure. She unwittingly found herself speculating on Olivia’s marriage and wondered if it was all it was cracked up to be. Not that she actually had any idea what it was cracked up to be. But Olivia’s palpable understanding had hit a nerve. Helen hesitated, and for a second she was merely a hair’s breadth away from spilling all her fears into Olivia’s sympathetic ears. But the moment passed.

‘He’s okay. How’s Dominic?’

It was strange, this mutual cordiality towards their respective husbands, men they had never met, and yet asked of on a regular basis. Helen wondered if one day, one of them would slip, discharge the marital covenant, untie the bonds (chains?), and say what she was really thinking, allow trust to be the true measure of friendship.

Olivia’s mellow voice roused her from her meanderings. ‘Oh, Dominic’s fine. He’s a bit pissed off at the moment because so much of my time is given up to this forthcoming production, thinks I should be the little wife at home, slippers by the fire and all that.’

Olivia had laughed, but Helen detected a chink in the chain mail. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘scratch any man and you’ll find an old-fashioned chauvinist under the surface, longing for those ubiquitous slippers.’

They both laughed, their own facades only just intact. Then something happened. When she looked back on it later, Helen had no idea what had got into her, what had possessed her to encourage this imperfect, impossible friendship. Before she could stop herself, the words were tumbling out of her mouth.

‘Why don’t we all get together?’

‘What do you mean?’ Olivia sprang forward eagerly in her seat.

Helen had no option but to carry on. ‘Why don’t you and Dominic come round for dinner one night this week?’ Please let them be busy.

‘Well, thank you, that would be great, and this week’s perfect. Next week would have been impossible as I’ll be in the full swing of rehearsals. What night were you thinking of?’

And that was it, done and dusted. In a matter of minutes, Helen had invited her fat friend and her probably (it was catching after all) equally fat husband for supper. She’d have to cook for a legion. Helen maintained her most sociable smile as they settled on the following Friday, swapped emails and phone numbers and Helen agreed to forward written directions - for Dominic to decipher - as Olivia was ‘hopeless at them’.

As they picked up their belongings to leave the coffee shop, Helen held back. She waited until Olivia was out of sight, then she leant across to Olivia’s discarded plate and popped a remaining croissant crumb into her salivating mouth.

Helen was in the kitchen when she heard Kevin arrive, the familiar growl of his Harley on the driveway signalling his return. She smiled to herself. Kevin was like a big kid, he loved that bike with a passion. More than me? The sudden thought ambushed her and caused her to sigh audibly just as Kevin entered the kitchen through the archway. He didn’t notice. He looked past her as he kissed her cheek, walked across the mosaic-tiled floor and removed a cool beer from the fridge’s top shelf. He hissed it open and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Had a good day?’ Helen asked.

‘Not bad. And you?’

‘Yeah, it was fair. We had some good feedback from that cultural awareness session at HSBC. There was this one guy …’ Her amiable prattle was interrupted.

‘Sorry, love, I’ve just got to catch the end of the Motocross. I’ll hear about it later, okay?’

Before Helen had time to acquiesce, or not, Kevin was already on his way to the lounge, beer in one hand, Sports section in the other. Helen heard him pick up the remote and soon after, the tinny buzz of racing engines.

Before they sat down together for dinner, Helen changed into an old Roberto Cavalli jersey dress that was one of her favourites. She knew she suited its particular shade of red, and the clinging fabric emphasised her well-toned body. The final argument in its favour was that it was old enough to suggest a carelessness of choice. She didn’t want Kevin to suss the amount of effort she expended in her attempts to turn him on.

Kevin arrived at the table and Helen placed the plated meal in front of him and sat down opposite, her eyes vigilant.

‘I’ve invited one of the women from my yoga class for dinner on Friday.’

‘Yeah? That’s nice.’

‘You don’t have a problem with Friday, do you?’

‘Friday? No, that’s okay.’

‘She’s fat and I’ve never met him.’

Kevin raised an eyebrow.

‘What should we cook for them? They’ll probably eat loads.’

Kevin shrugged his shoulders.

‘I don’t know whether to pander to their tastes and make something full and filling, or to go down the healthy route, send some subtle hints. What do you think?’

‘Not sure, whatever you want.’

Helen wondered how long it had been since she’d had any form of meaningful conversation with her husband. She was sure they used to talk incessantly, somewhere in the distant past. She looked at him now, in a daydream, totally unaware of her scrutiny. She still found him incredibly attractive, with his spiky, sandy hair and rugged, I-don’t-give-a-fuck, attitude. When he rode off on his bike each morning, she still watched him with something close to awe, amazed at her good fortune, mystified that such a man had fallen for her. Third time lucky, but perhaps her optimism was a little premature.

Helen brought her thoughts back to the present, noticed that Kevin, like her, was off in his own world again. They must have eaten absent-mindedly, their plates now as empty as their wineglasses … their lives.

‘Top up?’ she asked.

Kevin shook his head and Helen leaned across to retrieve his plate, taking a second or two longer than necessary in order to give him time to appreciate the low cut of her dress. But he seemed oblivious to her charms and stared right through her pert breasts. She clattered his plate on top of hers, dropped his cutlery onto the top plate and flounced off to the kitchen. She was aware of Kevin’s belated look at her departing figure and when he shouted after her, her heart began to flutter.

‘You’ve got something stuck to your skirt.’

She put her hand on her right hip and removed the offending thread, realising how disappointed she was that he had referred to that part of her anatomy, that part that he used to adore, as her skirt and not her bum.

As she got ready for bed, Helen wondered how long Kevin could keep avoiding her? She tried to recall the last time they’d made love, and couldn’t. She pulled open her nightwear drawer and found what she was searching for; the turquoise chiffon baby doll, lying at the bottom of the pile, told her that she hadn’t worn it for a while. She lifted it over her head and allowed its cool silkiness to envelop her body. She positioned herself in front of the dressing table so that its three, mirrored sections gave her a viewpoint from every angle. She bent forwards, satisfied with the way the material emphasised the curve of her hips, and gave a little shimmy. She picked up one of the perfume bottles that were arrayed across the surface of the dressing table, and sprayed