Diva Diaries Box Set

2. Charlie

Chapter Two

Charlie

Jazz is the Marmite of music, love it or hate it

The next day, Charlie sat in front of his laptop feeling “inspired,” which according to the postman was one of the many joys of celibacy . . .

His study, or spare room as Francis liked to call it, was covered in pictures and Post-its. Playing in the background was the Smiths, Charlie’s “band of the month”—recommended by the same postman, who had, after a few, described the Smiths as “melancholic,” “poetic,” and “perfect for a man and his one hand.”

Charlie stuck a picture of a crayon-drawn Red Riding Hood on top of a “has been” Post-it.

Charlie joined the writers’ group when the twins left. Charlie was trying his hand at short stories, while George fancied himself a playwright and bored the group with long-winded monologues about the war years.

Charlie had managed to write a short love story about an overbearing woman who loved jazz and hated every man including Santa Clause and an ol’ fella who hated jazz and thought spending time with women was as much fun as filling in a tax return.

Louis Armstrong, a camper van, and Santa Clause in a G-string.

Charlie was aiming for romance with a hint of erotica. What he got was the writers’ group in stitches asking him to read it again, with emphasis on the G-string.

George’s face lit up. A writer with wit and no copyright? He had a vision.

“I could use someone like you,” he said.

Charlie gulped his tea. “Me?”

“For the panto, you could help me with the script.”

“I’ve never seen a panto let alone written one,” said Charlie with a mild sense of panic.

“You’ll pick it up,” said George.

“Pick it up? You make it sound a virus.”

George chuckled. “See what I mean? Comedy is in your every pore . . . your sweat drips double entendre.” (A few of the group pulled a face.)

“I am not sure. The twins have just left, and Francis has plans—redecorating, refurbishing, redesigning, and that’s just the shed.”

“Every line’s a winner. You’ll be perfect.” George patted his arm.

“I’m not joking, she’s a list longer than a vat receipt. It’ll be the next millennium before I’m finished,” said Charlie.

The postman, who for some reason was in the same room working on the heating, grunted, “That’s women for you.”

George eyed him. “Could you not do that when we are finished?”

The postman unscrewed a knob, the heater hissed; he looked up, spanner posed. “No amount of good writing will sort Derek.”

George huffed.

“You need to tell him. He thinks his dame is what the panto needs.”

Charlie had spent the next few weeks working on his Red Riding Hood. He collected pictures, scribbled notes, and took over the spare room—much to Francis’s disgusts. Francis also had plans, none of which included Red Riding Hood or the Smiths.

Charlie was a house husband who had happily brought up two sets of twins while baking, making home brew, and failing to protect the endless supply of hens from a fox he had named the devil incarnate.

However, now that the last of the children had left for college, the house was empty. He had no one to bake for, and only a few scraggy hens to care for. Francis didn’t do carbs, or for that matter anything eggy.

Charlie felt rudderless and past his sell-by date and spent most of his day waiting for the postman to come so they could swap Smiths songs and sightings of the fox, until George commandeered him. George had given him a script to read, along with videos of their previous pantos.

Charlie drained his coffee and turned up the Smiths . . .

Heaven knows I’m miserable now . . .

Francis entered with a slam, poured a gin, and with another slam shut the fridge.

Why do I smile at people I’d much rather kick in the eye?

Charlie waited for a “the Smiths, must we?” moan; when none came, he waited for the jazz to hit the sound waves.

Francis loved jazz. And, after a few gins, expressed that love . . . by humping her spidery silhouette to the beat with nothing on but an elastic band around her blond ponytail. It took Charlie years of “you must be joking” before he realised dancing nude was not a come-on.

He stared at his laptop, added a few flourishes of humor, and then erased them again.

Still no jazz . . .

Francis thumped up the stairs—humming. Charlie looked up as she stuck her head around the corner. She looked . . . happy? Charlie, confused, smiled back.

“Is that quiche I smell?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Great!”

“Great?” He looked at her; Francis’s idea of great was a polished floor, matching nail and toe polish, and an early finish at the salon, never food. He looked at his wife casually leaning against the bedroom door, looking perky—and she hadn’t even touched her gin.

“Daisy loves quiche,” she said.

“Daisy? What’s she got to do with my quiche?”

“She’s at a loose end,” said Francis.

“Again? That woman has more loose ends than your clients.”

“That’s split ends,” Francis said.

She downed her gin, let out a dramatic that’s better sigh, and looked at Charlie. “Still helping those wankers in the panto?”

Francis had a distaste for the panto crowd on par with s*x. According to her, they were as “musical as a cornered cat.”

“Daisy has a theory,” said Francis.

Charlie let out a here we go sigh. For the last few years, Daisy had slowly etched her way into their lives. Daisy was helping Francis revamp her salon and most of their revamp meetings were held in the spare room, and each time he asked how they were getting on they looked at each other like schoolgirls. Charlie’s patience was wearing thinner than a crisp. He would have happily slept on the couch if it wasn’t for the thought of Daisy walking in.

“She says there is more to George.”

“What?” spluttered Charlie.

“And you should be careful.”

“The guy owns a caravan park.”

“He was in the army.”

“Hardly MFI.”

She looked at her empty glass. “She says it will not finish with a script.”

Charlie, wondering what it was, was about to ask when Francis chipped in.

“You should be wary.”

Charlie stopped. He thought about Derek. “Wary of what?” he muttered.

Francis didn’t answer. She had disappeared downstairs; Daisy had arrived.