Life Less Lived

A novel by Tony Spencer in 14 chapters

Chapter 1

Monday, 6 shopping days to Christmas

Jessica Lovage-Martin was bitterly cold and miserable as she wiped her dripping nose again. There were days, she thought, when the glamour of being on the telly as a roving BBC regional news reporter was not all it was cracked up to be. This was definitely one of those days. With just six shopping days to Christmas, she was standing in the middle of rural Sussex in an exposed muddy meadow. The leafless woodland backdrop did nothing to shelter her from the freezing wind and the drizzle driving in directly from the coast, some dozen miles away, was insinuating every minute gap in her stylish but apparently ineffectual showerproofs.

The cameraman and director were both extremely well wrapped up, somewhat less fashionably and measurably cosier than she was, all sheltered from the excesses of the weather behind an enormous golfing umbrella. Dave the cameraman insisted this shelter was essential for his equipment rather than any personal comfort.

The director shared the umbrella on one side of Dave with Jessica on the other but, despite the shelter covering their backs, all three were shivering. The other two were a senior team that worked together regularly, based out of the Brighton Studios. Jessica was many years their junior, usually based at the somewhat larger, more distant, Southampton Studios. Unfortunately this local news subject, the proposed route for the extension to a motorway, was in the no-man's land mid-way between the two population centres.

Before today Jessica had never met either of her new colleagues, although she had heard of the experienced and well-respected director by reputation alone. All afternoon the other two had been exchanging knowing glances at her growing discomfort and chipping away at her fragile confidence.

Even at the outset Jessica had not been made welcome, such was the only now apparent to her rivalry between the two studios. The Brighton pair seemed to think this site was in their patch and they should have been working with one of their own, more experienced, presenter colleagues. Not that Jessica was that inexperienced, although at 24 she was by far the youngest member of this temporary team. She had been on outside broadcasts for 18 months and was hoping to get an anchor job over the next year or so. This afternoon, Jessica determined, that a move inside couldn't come soon enough.

She also decided that she hated with a vengeance both of her temporary colleagues, simply for making this day much more miserable than it could otherwise have been.

The afternoon had not started off too well at the outset, soon after Jessica introduced herself. Dave gruffly replied "Dave" and pointedly referred to her all afternoon as "Jessie", which had always been exclusively reserved as a pet name by her parents since she was a little girl.

As for the director, it was a case of "you can call me 'producer-stroke-director', sweetheart" and had been condescendingly calling her "sweetheart" or "sweetie" at every opportunity since.

Now, some three hours and more after they had started filming this report, the young reporter was reluctantly preparing to emerge from sharing her companions' meagre cover to interview the next in a seemingly inexhaustible line of mad conservationists. They were protesting against the route for an extension of the South Coast motorway scheduled to bulldoze its inexorable passage through another bunch of gloomy woods in some daft old biddy's rural backyard.

Already during this interminably long, grey, mid-winter afternoon she had filmed some very dull interviews with half a dozen anoraked doddery old do-gooders, a couple of scruffy unwashed protesters and an enthusiastic but totally inarticulate newt-obsessed professor from Worthing University. None of them so far worth broadcasting at any time before three o'clock in the morning. However, the mean producer/director once more passed over the shared clipboard, insisting,

"Keep going through this repeating ritual, Sweetie, in the hope of us getting at least something barely usable by the fast approaching deadline for the six o'clock local news, otherwise, we're fucked Sweetheart, but we techies won't get the blame."

In the gathering early twilight, by the camera's harsh white light, Jessica checked the now soggy list of names and notes which had entries made in the producer/director's barely-legible scrawl.

"Daniel Medcalf, 54, county councillor: spec planning, rec & environment, ex MEP, local," Jessica read.

Another old fogey specialising in Environment, she surmised, he was twice her age plus another six years. 'Oh no, another oddbod in tweed and wellies, what a fucking waste of my time.'

"Right, where is this paragon of Nimbyism?" she addressed the producer/director through the comms mike pinned to her coat lapel. She emerged from the shelter of the umbrella into the freezing rain, gripping the furry sound microphone in her right hand and the clipboard in her left.

"Another fuckwit, no doubt," she whispered, more to herself than the producer/director in particular, "This is going to be another waste of everybody's time."

"Walking towards you now, three o'clock" rasped the distorted voice through Jessica's earpiece. "And, sweetheart, I see we've saved the best for last, trust me," said the producer/director, adding mischievously "He's the most photogenic of the bunch so far, I'm sure you wouldn't mind giving him some quality interviewing time. If you can't, then this assignment is finally fucked, sweetie."

The cameraman's circular pool of light panned round to Jessica's right and a tall, slim, well-dressed man emerged from the gloom into the stark white light, blinking for a few moments as his eyes adjusted to the sudden glare, before stopping at the regulation interview distance in front of her, perfectly framed for the camera. Jessica looked him over while he approached as these slight adjustments on his part were being made.

'Mmmm,' she thought, 'nicely cut and fitted tan overcoat, with a glimpse of dark grey or court-coloured suit, smart cream or white shirt and neat double-Windsor knotted necktie appearing at the neck.' Jessica was slim and relatively tall at 5ft 8ins but this Councillor Medcalf towered above her by another five or six inches. His face was handsome, Jessica thought, very handsome in fact, with a long face, strong chin, straight nose and, highlighted by the rapidly shrinking pupils, irises of deep photogenic blue. He wore a wide-brimmed tweed hat, which complemented his coat and brown leather gloves. While everyone else, including Jessica, felt chilled to the bone, he just looked, well ... cool.

The newcomer had stopped about 18 inches away from Jessica and he carefully removed his hat and gloves, tucking the gloves inside the hat and casually dropping the neat bundle by his large sensibly booted feet. He languidly brushed a long-fingered hand through his short thick hair which, in the camera lights, Jessica thought must've originally been a dark colour but now delightfully decorated with flecks of steel highlights.

The councillor was ready for his interview in a matter of seconds. He had settled his frame comfortably, composed his features and was relaxed enough to smile serenely at Jessica. His smile was warm, and his lively intelligent eyes had already given her a complete once over and twinkled in the glare of Dave's artificial light. Just for a second Jessica went ever so slightly weak at the knees.

At that moment, a sudden gust of wind and sleety rain whipped across the field, strong enough to dislodge a sizeable lock of Jessica's damp auburn hair across her face, directly in front of her eyes. Encumbered as she was with a large furry microphone, which she was keeping out of camera shot in one hand and her clipboard in the other, she was resigned to leave the rogue tress where it lay, thankful that at least it happened while her back was to the camera. Then Councillor Medcalf slowly lifted his left hand to her face and, with a single sweeping motion, gently swept the offending wand of hair away and smoothly tucked it behind her right ear. He removed his hand, his longest finger tip almost accidentally lightly stroking the line of her jaw and he smiled gently at her, the light dancing, she thought, in those delightful blue eyes.

Jessica's thoughts were spontaneously filled with the words "You're absolutely gorgeous!" and suddenly, she wasn't entirely sure whether she had merely thought this phrase, silently mouthed it or even, to her horror, actually verbalised it. To hide the embarrassment of both his kind gentle gesture and her gushing thoughts, she rushed headlong into the interview, hoping that Dave behind her was rolling with the camera.

"Councillor Medcalf, what is so important to you and local residents about these woods behind us?..." she launched as professionally as her flustered consciousness could muster.

Medcalf's features moulded themselves into those reminiscent of a concerned physician about to deliver your worst fears, whilst tempered with sincere encouragement for an eventual full recovery. "Well," he began...

***

Aunt Marina, as she was universally known to all her family, even somewhat condescendingly by her own siblings, had covered the 15-minute walk home from her former workplace in record time. She had ripped down the High Street and along the narrow terraced streets, turning left and right until she reached the block of flats which screamed 'welcome home' to her, comforted that she hadn't been accosted by anyone she knew on her desperate homeward dash. Although her stature was quite short, barely 5ft 3in in her stockinged feet, she was spare of frame and surprisingly fit.

Marina ran without pause up the three flights of concrete stairs, 39 steps in all, and rushed down the open-air pathway to the outer door of her tiny flat on the top floor of the anonymous block of ex-council flats. Fumbling deep within her large shoulder bag, searching for her elusive keys with watery eyes that had absolutely nothing to do with the near freezing temperatures. She eventually located them in a corner of the bag, shook out the front door key from the bunch and thrust it to the hilt into the mortice lock. She twisted the key a turn to the left, extracted the key, followed by another jangling fumble, located the Yale key and used that with another sharp twist to release the final lock. She pushed to open, squeezed inside and leaned against the door, shutting out that nasty cruel world beyond.

Only when the sprung lock clicked shut and she was alone at last did she allow her watery eyes to release their potent torrent. Then she slowly slid down the door, ending with a slight bump to sit on the floor and sob her heart out for a full quarter hour.

Once she had released that pent-up tension, she reasoned that, actually, her boss, Mr Patel had been very reasonable and kind after he had asked her to step into the office for a private conflab. This had been as soon as the part-time afternoon staff for the small convenience store he owned had arrived for work. Normally Mr Patel maintained a bluff disinterest in staff and customers alike. However, all who knew him well understood that it was an act and mockingly rolled their eyes every time he feigned his usual rude unappreciation of their custom or support.

In his private office, it was clear that this time he took no pleasure in informing Marina that he was selling up the old shop. Now that his family had all left home and had found themselves excellent jobs away from this rather rundown district of the overcrowded city, he was finally retiring and selling the store. He would move away from the area to enjoy his declining years with a daughter's family in a quieter part of the country. The transition process had reached an advanced stage and had been a well-maintained secret. The business was sold and the buyers, a young Indian family new to the area, would not require any non-family staff once they took possession. This meant that everyone in the employ of Mr Patel was about to lose their job. This was all happening with immediate effect, the new owners were bringing in contractors to refit the store between Christmas and New Year. Mr Patel had said that he wanted Marina, as his longest-serving and undoubtedly best worker, to know how the land lay before it was announced to the rest of the staff.

Marina had stopped sobbing by now. She picked up her cavernous bag from where she had dropped it by her side and searched around inside it before pulling out a couple of tissues from a handy pack, dabbed them under both eyes and blew her nose.

She got up then, and kicked off her winter boots before slipping her feet into her carpet slippers, where they had lain abandoned since the most recent changeover earlier that morning. She walked into the narrow galley kitchen at the right of the hallway, put her bag on the table and stepped the single step over to the kettle in its place on the counter. Hefting it, she judged it contained sufficient water from the early morning boil for her immediate requirements, set it down again and pressed the "on" switch. She moved back to the table, dragged out one of the two chairs and sat down. She pulled her bag towards her and searched it once more. She soon found the DL envelope she sought, extracted the letter and reopened it with slightly shaky hands.

Setting the letter to one side, after she had reread it through two or three times just to make sure she fully understood it, Marina opened the enclosed folded cheque and read that again, too. It was made out for twenty thousand pounds. She had never had so much money at any one time, of that she was certain. The letter explained, in more formal terms than Mr Patel had earlier outlined, that the sum was made up of 36 weeks' redundancy entitlement, free of tax, three months' severance, her last month's wage arrears and three-and-a-bit weeks' holiday pay which was also owed to her. The letter explained that the relevant printed wage slips and P45 notice would follow in a few days, no doubt once the wages clerk had been given her own severance notice.

Even with the tax and insurance deductions against part of the overall pay, she still had in excess of a year's earnings at her disposal, all in one go. She would have to get this paid into her account, but she really didn't feel up to facing the world again right at this moment. She knew it would now be after Christmas before the money would be available to draw against. At least the three months' severance gave her a period of grace while she found another job without having to resort to the dole office. Although with the current unrest over Brexit going on, she thought, would she easily pick up another job in that time? She had no formal qualifications and the job at Mr Patel's had been the best job she had ever had to date. She had passed a Tesco Express store and a Marks & Spencer busy with shoppers on her flight home without even giving them a second thought.

Marina considered how she would manage if she struggled to get another full-time job at minimum wage. Her biggest outlay each month was the mortgage repayments on the flat. She would have to find out how much debt was outstanding and see if she had enough, along with most of her accumulated savings, to pay off the balance. Savings accounts since the banks collapsed at the start of this recession were paying a fraction of a percent interest, but she was paying, she thought, about five or six percent on her mortgage loan. If she could reduce that, it would certainly give her piece of mind, which was at least a comfort.

This situation had at a single stroke knocked her sideways out of her comfort zone. Completely out of the blue she was being forced by circumstances to reassess her situation and make decisions to determine how she wanted to occupy her life from this point on. She felt was at a crossroads in her life.

It dawned on her that for the very first time in her life she was at a point where she could actually consider her options with very little consideration for anyone else.

Never before had she had this luxury, the freedom to make any choices herself. Just for once she could afford to be selfish, considering only her benefits, without having to worry about how any of her lifestyle changes would affect others who depended on her. OK, there was still her niece Tracey, who was Marina's lodger in the two-bed flat, to consider. Tracey was also at a defining moment in her life and Marina was sure that any decision made about her own future would make little difference to Tracey and her unborn child.

Behind her the water in the kettle boiled, and the switch clicked off automatically. In conditioned reflex to this event, she arose and, moving on auto pilot, warmed the pot, popped in two spoonfuls of tea from the caddy and stirred the leaves before replacing the top. Marina unhooked a bright red Poole Pottery mug from the hooked row of dissimilar mugs and poured into it a measure of semi-skimmed milk released from a two-pint plastic container taken from the fridge. The mug was the only survivor of the souvenirs of a family holiday, a long time ago. Absent-mindedly swirling the teapot for a few moments to aid extraction into the infusion, she grabbed the nylon strainer from the cutlery drawer, balanced it on the mug rim and poured from the pot that proverbial cup that cheers. She really needed this.

She sat at the little table and sipped her hot tea. As she relaxed, perhaps because she became aware of the warmth of the mug seeping into her chilled hands, she realised that the body heat generated by her desperate flight home had completely evaporated and the coldness of the unheated flat had started to bite and she shivered. Of course, there was normally no-one in the place at this time of the day, so the time switch had turned off the central heating some four or five hours ago. It was, she thought, decidedly chilly even though she still had her outside coat on. She had often reflected that the jerry-built ex-council flat usually felt colder inside than it was outside. At least now she would have no trouble settling the gas and electric bill, for this quarter at any rate.

She went out into the hallway and adjusted the thermostat from its customary minimum 15 degrees to a more comfortable 20. She listened for a few seconds, waiting for the gas boiler to react to the new setting and kick in. Satisfied that it had, she sat down again to finish her tea and continue her ruminations. Eventually she felt warm enough to remove her coat and replaced it with her fluffy dressing gown, which she fetched from behind her bedroom door further down the hallway corridor.

By general opinion among the younger of her close relatives, although she would be loath to believe it herself, Aunt Marina was, in a single word, adorable. Naturally small and neat, with a slim figure, even the reasonably-priced everyday clothes that she usually wore hung well from her spare frame and looked good on her. She had rich chestnut brown hair, which inclined to be thick and frizzy, so she wore it comfortably short, not quite shoulder-length but not excessively cropped either. She was actually overdue a visit to the hairdressers, perhaps now she thought she would have time to do so at her convenience, perhaps this time splash out and maybe go for a colour. She smiled at the thought. She was naturally self-deprecating and would describe her hair colour as brown or 'mousy' and she wondered if going darker or even lighter with blond highlights would give her more of a lift, perhaps boost her chances in the job market.

Marina would certainly own up to the feeling that she possessed a plain round and open face, usually completely bereft of any cosmetic enhancements. Her nose was on the small size but not quite neat enough, she thought, to be regarded as cute. Her eyes were her best feature, everyone said so, dark brown with pale flecks of amber and green; warm eyes which were both trusting and trustworthy. Above the eyes, the brown unplucked eyebrows were thicker than was fashionable nowadays, but it was an unfussy look with which she was comfortable. Her lips were quite pouty and, following this morning's exertions were full of blood and a healthy red colour. She had suffered in the past from chaffed lips and cold sores, so she was meticulous in applying moisturisers and lip salve to keep them supple and protected from the ravages of a coastal winter or summer. Her skin was clear and her cheeks rosy, again presently tinted by her recent exposure to the rather chilly elements without enhancement by pigmented compounds. If she wore scent at all it was usually light and flowery in preference to heavily sensual. Overall, she felt her face was anonymous, she was everywoman and she really did not seek to be noticed in a crowd.