It's been a long time since I posted anything - so here goes! Enjoy!

                                THE NORTH SHORE LADIES BOOK CLUB

Episode 1 

Therese slapped on the icing in big dollops – some of it didn’t land on the cupcakes, so she got a clean napkin and laboriously wiped around the plate, like she’d seen them do on those cooking shows, She didn’t know how you iced cupcakes, really, nor was she sure how you made them from scratch, because she’d bought a packet mix.  Mustn’t let Patricia see the box.  She scrunched it up and tossed it in the bin. 

The girls were coming soon and she still had to get ready.  What should she wear? In this oppressive summer heat the humidity launched itself at your hair, making it limp and unmanageable. Come on, it’s only the Book Club.  You meet once a month at each other’s houses and you yak for two hours.  She didn’t know why she was still in it – force of habit, and since she’d moved into the Village friends were scarce – the ones who hadn’t dropped off the twig were all in their comfortable harbour side homes with their silver-haired banker husbands who stacked the dishwasher for them and took out the garbage.

She selected a canary yellow blouse she’d bought at an op shop – Michael had always said yellow brought out her eyes - and threw on her slimming navy slacks. She hoped the pinkish lipstick wouldn’t bleed around her mouth too much, and patted on a bit of blusher.   Was her hair bit greasy?  But what did it matter, really? It’s not as if they were teenagers but still…women could be very judgemental.  It started in infants’ school, when your little friends commented on your ribbons or your socks or the way you had your hair done.  

Was it War and Peace or that Fifty Shades of Grey?  She wasn’t sure.  Did it matter when the books were simply secondary to the gossip and the camaraderie? Ah yes, it was some obscure self-help tome – Face your Problems with Panache or Down the Chakra Cave or some such.   Oh yes, the sandwiches - the Waldorf Chicken triangles looked a bit sad with chunks of celery escaping, and the tomato ones had already gone soggy, seeping through the white bread.  What else? Plates, napkins.  She found some clean ones scrunched under the tea towels.  Therese took a deep breath.  Where was that book?

Finally she found it hiding beneath last night’s jumbo packet of Smith’s Salt and Vinegar chips she’d emptied while watching yet another reality show – was it Mob Wives with those enormous breasted women married to jailbirds or some renovation show where blonde ponytailed shrill twentysomethings screamed at their partners if they couldn’t find a drill or a Number 7 screwdriver.  By the end Therese felt like telling them where to stick their drill.

It was Harnessing Your She Warrior.  She hadn’t got past the first few pages before falling asleep, so now she quickly perused the dustjacket for more information.  No time.  Someone was banging on the door.  She must remember to get that doorbell fixed.  

The banging continued.  Oh God – was there a lingering stain of pink icing on her teeth?  She’d only given herself a cursory glance in the bathroom mirror.

“That will have to do.  Never mind.  Answer the bloody door, Therese!” her little voice of Admonition said. “And forget about obsessing what you look like, you’re a middle-aged ordinary woman, stop trying to look like something you aren’t” Sometimes this voice bore a remarkable resemblance to her mother, Prudence. Sometimes she could just ignore it.

She just knew it would be Patricia at the door.  Punctual as a Swiss watch.

 “Hi, Patricia, you’re early.  So nice to see you” Therese’s lips barely brushed Patricia’s.

Thrusting the Royal Doulton plate at her, Patricia said, her wide mouth baring yellowing teeth:

“Well, how are you coping in this heat?  I just brought you a little something – Madeleines.”

 “Lovely - biscuits, are they? They smell wonderful.”

“They’re a cross between a biscuit and a cake.  You remember, Marcel Proust?”

Therese nodded and smiled – Patricia’s croissants and cakes were delicious – but then she wondered who Marcel Proust was – perhaps the guy who had the bakery down the road?  Certainly sounded French, and then the suspicion floated through - was Patricia popping into his establishment to pick up these delectable goodies and not slaving over a hot oven, as everyone assumed. She’d been rake thin since her ballet days at school, before she got too tall. How did she do it?

Therese very carefully placed the Madeleines on the dining table and pulled out a chair for Patricia.

“Take a seat, I’ve just got to finish off.” She scurried into the tiny kitchen.

 “What’s happening in your neck of the woods?” Privately, Therese thought it must be baking, baking, baking, or perhaps she was having it off with Marcel? You never knew. Patricia, never married, fancy free, the baker in his flour covered apron, a spatula between his teeth, dancing the light fantastic with Patricia, who would be holding aloft a plate of chocolate eclairs. Therese shook her head to free herself of the image.

 There was another knock on the door and Patricia got up. 

“I’ll get that for you, it’ll probably be Diana.”

Diana, all five foot two of her, whom Therese secretly dubbed The General, was pushing an attractive fiftyish blonde ahead of her.

Diana screamed in her high pitched soprano. “Hello, hello, where’s the hostess?”

She and Patricia airkissed and Patricia stared at the newcomer.

“Oh, this is Caroline, a friend of mine.  I naturally assumed it would be OK if I brought her along. She hasn’t read the book or anything, have you love, but I think she’ll enjoy our little group, don’t you?”

No-one would argue with Diana, not since she told them she beat up her nanny when she was seven years old because she told her Santa didn’t exist. Diana hadn’t changed, except now she was bigger and bolder. Therese was a little afraid of her.

“So, should we start, then?” Therese announced brightly, as she sat down. “Brenda’s always late, isn’t she?” Brenda often reminded her of a tentative little mouse when she hurried in, in her little fitted frocks and permed hair with little waves either side – she looked like the Queen. Therese began:

 “Welcome to our book club, Caroline.  Diana’s probably told you what happens – we each choose a book, then we meet once a month to talk about it - all a bit of fun, really.  What do you do, Caroline?  You’re obviously too young to be retired.”

Diana cut in “She’s my amazingly wonderful hairdresser and beautician. I just found out she has Mondays off and invited her along.”

“Caroline?” Therese ventured.

Caroline took a sip of coffee and cleared her throat.

“Thanks for inviting me along.  I..um…I haven’t read the book, but looking forward to being part of…”

“You’ll love it, Caroline – and none of us are going to bite are we?” Diana said, looking to the others for agreement.

“So how did you guys get together?  Has it been going long, the Book Club?”

“Oh, we were all at school together.  But then a couple of years ago, at the school reunion, God, I don’t even want to say how many years it was and we all reconnected.  It’s been lovely” Therese replied.

There was another knock on the door, and Therese got up to answer it.

“Excuse me.  You just carry on.”

From the front door they could hear “Oh, Hi Brenda…no, no, not at all, we’re just getting started.  You OK?  You look a little pale.”