Blanche Hollins and Frank Clayton (IP)

Blanche Hollins sat at her dressing table and peered at her face in the mirror. Did she look ok? It was years since she’d been on a date. She picked up the lip pencil and began slowly guiding it around the outside of her mouth, but her hand was shaking, so the line, when she finished, was uneven. She flung the pencil down in frustration. A drink – that would fix things. A bit of dutch courage – nothing wrong with that. She had one every evening when she got home from her charity shop, and maybe another one or two after that. Sometimes it seemed like magic – one minute the bottle of wine would be full, the next it would be empty; it was easily done.

She felt the satisfying heat rising inside after her the first glass – that was better. She poured another and took it back to her bedroom. Before she sat down again, she looked around to check that nothing was out of place – she was meticulously neat – never could bear a messy room. The sham pillows were artfully arranged against the quilted satin bedcover – very feminine – she did love pink – and the cute teddy bears sat, lined up like soldiers in the middle looking charming. They showed she was still a girl at heart.

She took another sip of wine and began the lipstick all over again – a nice rich plum colour – very tasteful. She leant forward; did the lines show too much? Was she mutton dressed as lamb? Was the leopard skin print too much? She thought, and then did another button up – there – so long as she didn’t show too much cleavage she’d be fine. She wouldn’t want Frank to get the wrong idea. She’d wear the pink pearls too – the same ones Twiggy had worn in the M&S adverts – she was around the same age as Blanche and a favourite role model – growing old gracefully they both were.

She wondered what Frank would be like – he had a nice sounding name – nothing pretentious about Frank Clayton. They hadn’t spent much time emailing – she had only joined the site recently – a leap into the dark after mother died. She’d done that “computers for the over fifties” course at the local library – everyone had been so kind there – it had been full of ladies like her; that was where she’d met Mavis who’d told her about LoveMatch.com – all so tasteful – and they vet them very carefully – they don’t take just anyone. She’d filled in all her details at the very next session, paid her hundred pounds – satisfaction guaranteed or your money back it had said, so that was all right - and then the following day Frank had turned up in her inbox. He did sound lovely.

She’d printed out his profile and shown it to Mavis. What was it he’d said again? “A bit of an old romantic” – that did sound nice; like something out of a film. She sighed – it had been so long since there had been any romance in her life. Mother had been a real tie the last ten years or so – not that she’d begrudged any of it, there just hadn’t been much time left for a social life as well.

She wasn’t sure what had gone wrong before then – she had always been close to her parents – only children often were, and – well – Mr. Right just hadn’t come along. Maybe now it would be different. It wouldn’t be for lack of trying anyway. She bent down to put on her rather racy kitten heeled shoes – chosen especially for the occasion, then let herself out of the front door, shoulders squared, to walk the short distance to the wine bar on the High Street and there face Frank, and whatever fate had in store for her. She was nervous, but excited – it felt almost like the start of a Mills and Boon novel.

Frank was still in the bathroom. He was running late, he knew that. He’d lost track of time sitting on the loo with the Sporting Life; still – he didn’t go in for all that muck some men covered themselves with – shouldn’t take long – a few squirts of deodorant, a quick look in the mirror to comb the old hair over the bald patch. He glanced at himself sideways, pulling his stomach in as he tightened the belt as far as he could – would she notice the way he seemed to spill over the top? No – he was pretty sure it wouldn’t show once the leather jacket was on. He could easily pass for the same age as he’d been in that photo – anyway, he knew the lighting in those bars was always very low. He finished the glass of whiskey – a real man’s drink – and put the empty bottle in the cupboard with the others. He stubbed out his cigarette and put a mint in his mouth. He did hope this one would be all right. He missed a woman about the place – it hadn’t been the same since Michelle had gone.

He hadn’t meant to do it – it had been her fault really – she’d let herself go – stupid cow. He’d warned her time after time – lose some weight – do your hair properly – take a bit of trouble – had she listened? No she hadn’t; she’d just carried on, moping around, looking more and more miserable slumped in front of the TV, nagging and nagging about the drink, until finally one night he couldn’t take it any more – he’d been drunk, but he’d been pushed beyond all endurance – anyone could see that – something inside him had snapped, suddenly.

It hadn’t been hard to make it look like an accident. Those cellar steps were treacherous, especially for someone carrying all that extra weight – it made her very clumsy indeed. Leaving it until last thing at night had been a stroke of genius, even if he did say so himself. It had been so easy to explain away the fact that he hadn’t found her until the next morning. Such a heavy sleeper he was – not even an earthquake could wake him up.

There had been a few ladies since then, but it was all so different nowadays – Frank winced when he remembered the last one – she’d been so – unladylike was the only word he could think of – she’d asked him – interrogated him more like – all sorts of things about his money, and the value of his house. He shook his head – women shouldn’t be like that – far too bossy. He liked them more pliable. He picked up his car keys, whistling softly, and let himself out of the front door.