40 Something - Safety Read online

  40 Something

  Safety

  Shannon Peel

  Copyright 2016

  Available as a Digital only

  ISBN 978-0-9917694-7-6

  March 2016

  Smashwords

  40 Something is the sole property of its author and cannot in any way be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, photocopied, or any information storage and retrieval system. It may not be used without the express permission of the author. Requests can be sent to [email protected]

  About 40 Something

  40 Something is a novel being written as a series of novellas of approximately 14 000-20 000 words. Think of it as TV show episodes.

  Follow the author on social media to find out when the next instalment of the series is published. If you wish to share your stories about being a 40 something woman in today’s world please contact the author at [email protected]

  Come by the author’s website www.shannonpeel.com for extras and information on the series, the author, other works by the author, and her social media.

  If you liked this novella, please feel free to share it with friends & family. Any reviews posted on Goodreads, Amazon, or any bookselling site are very appreciated.

  The author hopes you enjoy the story as it unfolds and will share your experiences with her.

  Safety

  Is the second novella in the 40 Something series.

  Summary of Sunday Dinner

  Sunday Dinner, ISBN: 978-0-9917694-6-9, is the first novella in the series.

  To read the second novella in the Series, Safety, all you really need to know about the first novella is that women are enjoying a girl’s night out at the local pub when Sophie’s ex-husband, Craig, shows up and yanks her out forcibly.

  The police arrest Craig and the women decide that Sophie needs to leave her basement suite. Lindsay offers her a place to stay.

  Charlie is a divorce attorney and her sister Rose has asked her to help her friend Sophie with her recent separation.

  Now you are up to date enough to read Safety. The second instalment in the novella series 40 Something.

  Past

  Charlie

  I look like a pig.

  Not a cute little piglet.

  I mean a fat sow just before the slaughter. I’m wearing a shift dress that is too tight. I’m popping out of the top of it, which is par for the course for most clothes, and I’d rip the seams if I sat down.

  I hate shopping.

  Clothes just don’t fit me right. If a dress or shirt fits my bust line it is too big everywhere else on me. If I buy something that fits the rest of me, it pulls tight across the bust. In this case, I swear the sizing is wrong. I hate finding clothes.

  That’s not even the worst part of shopping for clothes.

  I’m a Plus size. There I said it. I am a size 18, 4 sizes larger than what retail considers desirable.

  Retail stores hate plus sized women.

  Don’t believe me? Walk into any store that sells both regular sizes and plus sizes.

  Where do they put the plus sizes? In the far back corner usually reserved for the clearance items no one wants except at cut-rate prices. If that’s not enough to convince you that us plus size girls are despised by the fashion industry, take a look at the clothes offered to us.

  I can walk into a store and see a cute dress displayed on a perfect, perky, plastic mannequin in the front. It would suit my hourglass figure as it comes in at the waist, however, the largest size it comes in is 14. I head to the corner of shame in the back to see if I can find it in my size. I can’t.

  Nothing cute comes in my size. OK, so it has gotten better over the years and now one can find clothes that were actually designed for larger, curvier, women. They aren’t cute though and the selection at any given time is a quarter of what there is at the front of the store. In fact, most fashion stores don’t even carry a plus size section, cutting a plus sized woman’s options down even further.

  So, here I am standing in the changing room, looking at myself in the mirror and wondering why the fashion industry hates me so much. Why are cute clothes only designed for women with no curves? It’s like if a woman has breasts and hips she is not sexually desirable, she’s ugly. Who designs this stuff anyway?

  I start laughing. The answer is so simple I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before. Whether or not I am worthy enough of beautiful clothes, that suit my body, is determined by a very outspoken, judgemental, image crazed group of gay men and super thin skeletal women.

  And whom do they find attractive? Young boys.

  OK. So this theory might be complete bollocks, but it makes me feel better as I stand in front of a three way mirror in an ill fitting dress designed for a mannequin and not a real women.

  “What’s so funny?”

  I turn and see this gorgeous woman who is probably ten years younger than me. She’s leggy, with the right sized boobs for the outfit she’s wearing. At that moment my theory about gay men designing clothes for women who look like boys flies out of my head and I feel like a fat, ugly, sow again.

  “Uhm nothing really.”

  “You know that dress is all wrong for you.”

  “Ya. I kind of got that.” I look down at myself and want to gag.

  “You need something that comes in tighter here at the waist, is looser along the bust and then you’d be hot stuff.” Oh, I like her.

  “Hi. I’m Charlie.”

  “I’m Lindsay. You know there has to be something come on let’s take a look shall we?”

  “Lead the way.”

  She grabs a handful of dresses and has me try them on and model them for her. Each dress more ill fitting than the last and I’m getting more and more frustrated. Beside this woman I am ugly, fat, and worthless. I look in the mirror and wonder what man would even look at me, let alone want to get to know me, looking like this? Only the desperate, depraved, and discarded. It’s feels so unfair. I am a smart, successful, amazing woman and I repulse every decent quality man I walk by.

  “I mean really who designs this crap?” She asks.

  “Gay men who hate curvy women.”

  We both break out laughing. Her laugh fills the store. I really like her.

  Lindsay

  I’m nervous.

  I’m Fucking shaking.

  The butterflies flying around my guts are more like popcorn being made in a hot air popper striking my insides at full speed. I pace around the room glancing at the door waiting. The waiting is killing me. Doubt floods my mind. Will she be angry with me? Will she even remember me? Will she talk to me or just sit in that corner and cry?

  I glance down at my dress, and smooth it out. It’s matronly. Probably the only matronly thing I own. My lawyer insisted I dress modestly. I hope this is modest enough. I start pacing again, from the window to the door to the window. Waiting. I glance at the clock on the wall. She’s late. Fear grips me by the throat and I can’t breathe. She’s not coming. The fucking asshole changed his mind, court order or not.

  The door opens.

  I close my eyes too scared to see.

  “Hello Momma.”

  I open my eyes and there is my baby. My sweet baby girl. So beautiful. I don’t move. I’m frozen to the spot. Fear is gripping harder will she turn and run?

  “Baby.” I can feel the smile on my face its huge.

  She walks in timid and unsure looking behind her at the social worker who nods and with that, she turns around and runs to me.

  “Mommy.”

  I fall to my knees and take her in my arms, tears stream down my face. I don’t care. I don’t want to let her go. I hold her tighter to me. Trying t
o make her a part of me. I can feel her body shaking as she sobs along with me. Three months is a long time to not see your daughter. Three fucking months and all I get is an hour with her. I can feel the anger at the injustice of it, but now isn’t the time for anger.

  I inhale the scent of my daughter’s hair, trying to commit it to my long term memory, again. I feel her body so close to mine. I hold her, mould her to me, I wish I could put her back. Put her back inside my womb, where she was with me all the time. I wish I would of treasured those moments instead of hating every second of being pregnant. I was so dumb.

  “Mommy too tight.”

  “Oh sorry baby. Sorry. Mommy missed you so much.”

  I ease off but I don’t let her go. I can’t look her in the face yet. I am so ashamed. I tried to be a good mom with Evelyn. I did things with her. I even read to her. We had tea parties and shopping trips. We had spa days. All the things I’d never done with Destiny.

  “Mommy. I brought you a present.”

  “You did? I brought you a present too.”

  She bought me a beautiful silver necklace with an intricate pendant of a mother and child in a heart. She put it on my neck.

  “I’ll never take it off.” I promise her.

  “And I’ll never take off mine.” She pulls an identical necklace from her pocket and I put it on her. “Now we will always be together mommy. No matter where I go.” I smile. She looks sad. “I’m sorry mommy.”

  “Sorry? What for baby?”

  “I’m sorry that I go away on trips with father and leave you behind. I don’t want to, but father says you can’t come. You can’t leave here, so you have to stay. I want to stay, I do. I don’t want to go away all the time.”

  “Oh sweetie you have nothing to feel sorry about. You get to see the world. You get to see so much that I never get to see. I want you to take lots of pictures and send them to me. I want to see what you are doing. That way I’ll be there with you. I want you to have fun and see the world OK? That’s why your daddy takes you with him on his trips.”

  “You don’t want me here with you?”

  “Oh baby.” The tears are falling again and my heart is breaking. “I want you here with me so bad it hurts me here inside.”

  “Then why can’t I stay with you?”

  “Who would take care of daddy?”

  “He has people.”

  “He needs his little girl. He needs his little girl to help him be happy and young, so he’ll live a long time.”

  “Don’t you need me?”

  “I am young and strong. Stronger than your daddy. I love you so much. I wish you could be with me all the time. I love you. I love you. I love you to the Moon.”

  “I love you to the Moon and back.”

  “I love you to Mars.”

  We laugh and laugh, trying to out do each other with who loves whom more.

  Then I give her my gift. It’s a book made up of photos of us together from the day she was born until the last time I saw her. I’ve written little messages in the pages about how wonderful she is. My memories of her. How much I love her. How I miss her. We share those memories together, her on my lap and me holding her as she turns each page of our lives together.

  “Time’s up.”

  I hadn’t even noticed the social worker come in. I was so engrossed in my time with Evelyn.

  “An hour already? She just got here a minute ago.”

  “It’s been an hour. Come on Evelyn.” The social worker says.

  “I don’t want to go.” She grips my neck and I grip her in a hug. “I want to stay with mommy.”

  “Evelyn.” A male voice.

  We both look up at the man standing in the doorway, like he owns this whole place and everyone in it, expecting to be obeyed without question.

  “Father.”

  “Time to go. Your Mother has seen you.”

  Evelyn doesn’t move. I can feel her body stiffen. Tears start falling down her face, big ones. Her bottom lip is huge and trembling.

  “Evelyn. Please. Sweetheart. I have to be somewhere.”

  “Another hour Father, please. Please. I just want to see Mother for a little while longer.”

  I’ve never seen my ex-husband falter in negotiations with anyone. Not his business rivals, not his associates, not his friends, not his children, not his grandchildren. It’s his way or no way. You take what he gives you and you are to be grateful that he even noticed you. The man does not have a heart.

  “Evelyn.”

  “Daddy, please.”

  “Oh all right. I’ll go run a few errands and when I come back you’ll be ready to go?”

  “Yes daddy. Thank you daddy.”

  She jumps off my knee and runs to him hugging him and the man’s eyes actually have tears in them. I’m astounded.

  Justine

  Harper came home from school waiving an invitation to his best friend, Jack’s, 10th birthday party. Every year this kid's mom goes all out. The lady is Martha Stewart on steroids. My kid's are lucky if I remember to pick up the cake on the way to whatever venue I booked for the party. This woman transforms her home into party central and makes the whole thing an experience.

  For the kid's 6th birthday she made these pop up pirate invitations. She made them. The kids were supposed to dress up like pirates. That’s right, a fucking costume. It wasn't good enough to just show up with a gift, I had to figure out a costume for the event. Worse, I'm expected to stay because it's a big person event too. I'm not one for socializing and thankfully costumes were optional for adults.

  As soon as we get there she hands Harper an old looking aged piece of paper. It’s a letter written, in calligraphy, that says:

  Blackbeard the Pirate has stolen Captain Jack's treasure and he needs your help to find it. Meet him on his ship. It is below the tavern where the world's best chili is made. On the way you will need to find a few things to help Captain Jack battle Blackbeard.

  Great. A treasure hunt. No, correction. A scavenger hunt.

  Harper drags me down the stairs to the basement where a ship has been constructed out of large cardboard boxes. The floor is covered in blue tarps secured down with large stones and there is even a mermaid swimming in the water. To get onto the ship Harper had to walk the plank. A balance beam made out of wood and about a foot off the ground.

  This is not a birthday party. It is a theatre production.

  “Wow. Can you believe this party?” Christine leans over and whispers in my ear. “I thought last years Thomas the Train party was over the top. Kathleen out did herself this time.”

  “I know. Harper is going to want something like this. Is the whole class here?”

  “Yep. Along with a few more.”

  I can feel a head ache coming on, just from the thought of all the work that has gone into this day. I don’t understand how she does it or even why she does it, all this work for a party that lasts what, 3 hours? She must be exhausted by the end of the day.

  “I don’t know about you Justine, but I think this calls for a bowl of wine, coming?”

  I follow Christine to the kitchen, which has been converted into a pirate’s pub with a wench and bartender.

  “Arr Matey what ye be wanting?”

  “Two glasses of white wine.” Christine orders and the bartender, Kathleen’s brother, places two half full glasses on the kitchen island’s eating bar. I take a few sips and smile conspiratorially at Christine. “Let’s go outside.”

  The deck was even decorated to make it appear like an extension of the pirate’s pub. This must cost them a fortune.

  “How much do you think she spends on these things?” I ask Christine.

  “A few hundred dollars and weeks of work. I saw Rose in the grocery store the other day, she seems to be doing well.” I nod. “Any chance her and Gus are on the outs?”

  I force a laugh while shaking my head. Every single woman, and even a few married ones, I know ask me regularly if there is any chance that Gus will be si
ngle. A few are even bold enough to ask how my marriage is holding up in hopes that Gary will be a free agent soon. I bet a few of them have considered offering up a sacrifice to the gods that I’ll die leaving Gary a grieving widow.

  “A girl can always dream.”

  “How is the hunt for the new man coming?”

  It’s her turn to laugh and her laugh is genuine.

  “It’s not. I swear there are no decent single men out there. You won the lotto when you snagged Gary. I went on this one date, if you can even call it that, and the guy shows up at the pub, he’s 20 years older than his photos and the age on his profile.”

  “What? Why would he do that?”

  “Cause he can. Thinks that if younger women just meet him and see how charming he is, they will over look the lies. He even asked me what I thought of him. I told him that he didn’t look anything like his photos and that I didn’t appreciate the bait and switch because it makes him look like a liar.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Yep I did. He asked for the bill, threw it at me and said he’d buy dinner next time and walked out.”

  “What did he expect you to say?”

  “Probably that he was great, even though he was 20 years older than I thought he was and could we go back to his place. The idiot.”

  “I thought only women lied about their age.”

  “So did I. Apparently, not. Men are just as delusional and vain.”

  “Christine, Justine, hello. I think there’s a bad joke in there.”

  “Gwentine, have a seat.” Christine says and I hold up my glass of wine to Gwen in a cheers motion. “Maybe we can start a trend.”