All That I Leave Behind by Alison Walsh Page B

drank at weekends.
    ‘It’s Jo Malone. You bought it for my birthday.’
    ‘I did? Well, I have very good taste, clearly.’ They chuckled, because they both knew that he’d sent India off to buy it. June lifted her head to peck his red cheek and fluff his gingery hair, then they both settled down to watch. He was quieter than usual, not ranting on about Alan Sugar and how he knew nothing at all about people. He did this every time they watched and June knew that this was because, secretly, Gerry had always wanted to do telly and was annoyed at not having been asked. He’d have loved to be Alan Sugar, she thought, but she also knew that he’d come across badly with his ginger hair and that big red face of his and his old-man sayings. His grumpy catchphrases were great on his morning radio show: they whipped the nation into a frenzy of outrage every day between 9 and 12, but on TV – no. Not that she’d ever tell him. That wasn’t her job.
    ‘How was the fitting?’
    Alan Sugar was wagging his finger at some cross-looking blonde girl with a severe hairdo. ‘It was fine. Mary-Pat was rude, of course.’
    ‘She’s always rude.’
    ‘I know, but this time, she was extra rude.’
    ‘Is that possible?’ Gerry half-smiled. And then there was a long pause as the girl was told, ‘You’re fired.’ ‘Too right,’ Gerry said, nodding in her direction. ‘She was a proper madam.’
    ‘She said that the dress was too expensive and that Rosie should wear heels and not “clumpy wedges”. And then she had a row with Melissa on the way to the bus – something about her dressing like a slut for the wedding. Oh, Lord, I was never so glad to see the back of the two of them.’ Poor Rosie, she thought, trying to banish the thought that if she’d never appeared, if she’d just stayed away, none of this would be happening. It was unfair to blame her, of course, but it was the truth. If she’d never come back, things would have stayed the same. And the same was just fine.
    ‘How’s your father?’
    ‘What?’ Gerry had never had the slightest interest in Daddy, apart from finding him a figure of mild entertainment. ‘He’s fine – much better.’
    ‘That’s good. It’s sad to think that your mind can just take you like that, isn’t it, and at that age?’
    ‘Yes, it is,’ she thought, suddenly realising that that was exactly what it was. Sad. Then she looked at Gerry, who was now squinting out the window into the garden, his grey eyes watering.
    ‘Do you want your glasses?’
    ‘What? No. I don’t need them.’
    Yes, you do, June thought. You’re blind as a bat. She sighed. ‘What’s up?’
    ‘What? Oh, you know. Just thinking of your old fellah, wondering if it’ll be me next. I never thought I’d get old, do you know that? I never thought it’d happen to me.’
    June sat up and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Everyone gets old, Gerry, it’s part of life.’
    He shrugged. ‘Is it? Not in my game. Do you know, I saw an advert for plastic surgery the other week, in the back of one of the Sunday magazines, and I couldn’t help it, I just wondered if a little bit of work might do it,’ and at this, he mimed a facelift, pulling his eyes back at the corners so that they slanted bizarrely. ‘They’re all at it nowadays. Look at Simon Cowell.’
    ‘Oh, Gerry, you don’t need plastic surgery.’ June laughed. ‘You are just gorgeous and handsome and perfect, do you hear me?’ And she sat up and planted a kiss on his lips. They both knew that she was lying. Gerry wasn’t handsome – he looked like a farmer who’d been out in the fields for too long – but she loved him. She’d loved him ever since that first time they’d met in the Shelbourne – she knew that. They used to joke about it because he’d been with his friend Jim, a handsome barrister with nicely silvering hair and a range of pinstriped suits, and yet she’d gone for the short dumpy guy in the crumpled chinos. It was because he was