Vintage Babes Read Online Free PDF Page B

he would have demanded a word-by-word report of his conversation, but at the first mention of ‘share options’ my brain had disengaged.
    ‘Dad, I’m not interested.’
    ‘You should be.’
    ‘I’m perfectly happy on my own.’
    He patted my hand, as if I was a misguided child, then kissed me goodbye. ‘So you say.’
    ‘It’s true. I’m happy with my house, with my –’
    I hesitated. I had been going to say ‘with my job’, but the work situation didn’t thrill me at the moment.
    ‘You’d be even happier if you had someone.’
    ‘Would I? Does it follow? You may think so, but I enjoy my independence. In any case,’ I added quickly, to stem a protest, ‘I never see anyone I fancy.’
    He grunted. ‘You never look!’
     
    Girls in their thirties might be desperately seeking Mr Right, or Mr Darcy, but I’d been there, done that and torn up the T-shirt for rags, I reflected, as I drove along. After an experimental and educational spell a few years back, I had accepted life as a born-again single and was at ease living by myself. Mistress of my own fate and a free spirit, able to do whatever I wanted when I wanted. Able to take charge of the TV remote control, weep over late night movies, shave my legs in the bath. Tom had complained bitterly about the latter. I missed the sex – missed it like mad – and having someone to scratch that inaccessible itch on my back, but I didn’t miss ironing shirts or being forced to listen to endless moans about how, these days, so many politicians looked and sounded like third-rate car salesmen. Or the national indignity of having Prime Ministers who wore jeans.
    ‘My life is fine,’ I informed a squirrel which was standing, upright and still, on the distant grass verge. ‘Honest.’
    It was fine, yet there’s no denying that a solo existence requires effort and, now and then, I do feel sorry for myself. When I see married couples who are relaxed and loving together, I can’t help thinking how good it would be to have someone to grow old with. To share the trials and tribulations, the laughs, the holidays, the intimate thoughts. To cozily reminisce about past experiences. But after twenty-two years of what we had both agreed was a happy marriage, I had always assumed that someone would be Tom.
    I had also assumed my father would remain forever faithful to my mother’s memory. But then I’d never considered him to be a babe magnet – though he does have a full head of white hair, his own teeth, apart from a couple of bridges, and, despite arthritic twinges, he walks miles, executes a mean foxtrot – so Gillian has reported – and, on occasion, kicks a ball with his great-granddaughter. The idea of him ‘playing the field’ troubled me. He seemed destined to hurt the old ladies and could get hurt himself. So far as I was aware, he’d never looked at another woman when my mum was alive and now to–
    ‘Oh no!’ I yelped.
    Anyone who travels Surrey’s renowned leafy lanes will know from the scraps of fur and intestine regularly pancaked to the tarmac that the odds of running over a squirrel must be high. Squirrels do not halt at the kerb, look right, look left and proceed with care. Nor wait for a passing lollipop lady. Trustingly, foolishly, they dash straight beneath the wheels of your Ford Focus. Or this one had. It had remained still until I’d drawn level, then sprinted out, kamikaze style. Because squirrels look so delicate, I’d always imagined that if you ran over one – heaven forbid – you wouldn’t feel a thing. Not true. I felt a bump, albeit a light one, and a crunch. The crunch was sickening. It turned my stomach.
    Fearful the poor little creature would be writhing in its death throes, I risked a glance in my rear-view mirror. There was no movement. No blood and twitching guts, either. Just an inert ball of grey fur lying on the road. Had it passed on to an acorn-filled heaven or merely knocked itself out cold? Should I stop, go back and