After the initial hello’s, the gang, sensing Franco’s anger, hovered awkwardly in the doorway. Seb broke the ice:
“Mimi, my little angel, if it’s ok wit you, I’m goin ta have a quick shower before we eat. I’m starvin, could eat the ass out of a low-flying duck.”
Mimi, grateful for the distraction, said that supper would be ready in half an hour and dragged the gob smacked Tony off to the kitchen; he couldn’t take his eyes off the uber glamorous Maria. Anton and Mark followed them, trying to explain the low-flying duck comment.
Tara, finding herself alone in the hallway with the beautiful couple, mumbled something about feeling dirty, needing a shower and shot up the stairs faster than a rabbit at a dog track.
Passing Franco’s bedroom she spotted Maria’s smart little Vuitton case perched territorially on his bed… the bastard, he lied! Fists clenched with anger, she stomped down the corridor and slammed her door shut with an almighty crash.
Wincing at the noise, knowing exactly where it came from, Franco stood facing Maria.
“What the hell are you doing here, Maria? How did you find this place?” he shouted, whatever feelings he may have had for her, fast turning to hate.
“Dahling,” she purred, “that’s no way to treat your baby.”
“You sounded so stressed my baby,” she seduced, lowering her voice.“I thought I’d come over and give you some of my special lovin,” stressing the word ‘special’, she stepped closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. He backed away. The smell of her cloying perfume heavy between them.
“Hey Franco, relax, your baby is here now,” she snuggled up against him; painted talons trailed the back of his neck, making his skin crawl. He recoiled in disgust, anxiously checking the hallway, there’s no way he needed Tara to see this little act of affection.
“Don’t,” he shouted, yanking her arm away from his neck. “You’re not my baby Maria, I want you out of here now,” she stared back at him, stunned. “You know it’s over between us; I can’t believe you have the cheek to just turn up.”
Pushing her away he went to the front door to see if she had a car with her, but the driveway was empty, he pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling you a taxi now Maria, I’m not playing your games, it’s over… capiche?”
It was time for her academy award performance. Falling in a near faint she grabbed the banister, slumped to the bottom of the staircase and started to howl. The sound of heaving sobs filled the house. She knew full well that he couldn’t cope with tears; she’d worn waterproof mascara in anticipation.
“Come on now, Maria, stop this,” he knew she was laying it on, but it still made him feel shitty.
“It’s ok,” he sighed, pulling her up and walking her into the living room, “look I’m sorry, I lost my cool, it was just a shock to find you here.”
He sat her on the sofa and got a large brandy from the drinks cabinet. He needed to calm her down and get her out of there, pronto. Tara would be going bananas.
“Oh Franco, I can’t help it, I love you so much, I can’t live without you, please don’t ask me to leave… please… please,” she begged, not letting him get a word in. He handed her the brandy.
He was a sucker for tears; they always got to him, making him feel guilty, innocent or not. Dragging his hands nervously through his hair, he stood watching her, curled up on the sofa sipping the drink… merda, why can’t women be like football? He understood football, the rules were simple, you knew your position, had a game plan and the ref sorted out any rumpus.
He couldn’t fathom females, one minute sex goddesses, the next crying babies, the next vindictive vixens. No instruction manuals, no time on the bench, no red card, just a full-on penalty shootout followed by sudden death - his normally.
How was he going to sort this one out? Tara would be shitting bricks by now. He had to get Maria out of there.
Mimi poked her head around the door from the kitchen taking in the scene. She softly asked, “everything ok, Franco?” he shrugged his shoulders, helpless, he needed her help.
“Let’s take her upstairs to rest before supper, Franco,” she took the brandy out of Maria’s clutches and gestured for Franco to help lift her - taking no nonsense.
Holding the staggering Maria between them, they manoeuvred up the staircase to the landing. With surprising control her body lurched off in the direction of Franco’s bedroom, which was not what he had in mind, but he said nothing, not wanting to break the peace… oh look, her bag is here already, what a surprise!
Maria fell to the bed, pushing the suitcase aside, a large brown envelope that had been perched on top slid to the floor. Franco bent to pick it up.
“Oh, Michael asked me to give you that, it seemed urgent, so…”
“You saw Michael,” he shouted, his anger resurfacing. A cursory glance from Mimi stopped him in his tracks. “Err… we’ll talk later, get some rest.”
He took the envelope and left the room. As Mimi pulled the door shut behind them, he gave her a kiss on the head as a thank you. She waited until they were halfway down the staircase before she wagged a warning finger at his chest.
“You look after yourself with that one Franco, she’s trouble, I can smell it. Tara’s a good’un, you hang onto her. Tony told me you have a flame burning, and if he likes her, she must be special,” she stabbed a finger into his chest.“Be warned!”
It was not normally her place to meddle in Franco’s private affairs, but Maria was dangerous. She was the devious calculating type that would pull out all the stops to get a moneyed ring on her finger. Tony would have a fit if he knew she was interfering, but in her opinion men didn’t spot users until it was too late, their egos generally got in the way, especially if they had a pretty face and lifted their petticoats.
Having said her piece, she scurried off to the kitchen before a stunned Franco could say a word.
He smiled to himself, it would have taken a lot for Mimi to be so outspoken, he didn’t mind, in fact it was reassuring to hear that the old couple approved of Tara. It reminded him of one of his mother’s chants; the most important decision a man makes is his choice of bride - a woman can make or break him.
The house quiet, he wandered into the living room, stood by the window and took a moment to enjoy the breath-taking view; the reason he chose Ravello. Nestled into a protective jagged rock face, the villa gazed out to sea, either side thunderous cliffs fell to the waters below, fishing boats bobbed precariously in and out of their coves. Soaring birds swept the sky beyond the terrace, chasing thermals over a sheet of cornflower blue that stretched out for miles to meet the coral skyline of a rousing sunset - it was show time in the heavens.
He loved this country; the colours, the air, the pace, he could breathe. The villa was his secret haven, to escape the hassles of London, sadly he’d brought some with him on this trip, but it was worth it to be with Tara. She was gorgeous, perfect for him; he wanted to marry her, but how to convince her? Maria had done such a bloody good job of the ‘gloriously happy couple’ routine that he doubted Tara would trust him again.
Looking down, he’d almost forgotten the envelope in his hand, probably a contract. ‘Urgent, Private & Confidential’ had been scribbled across the envelope in spidery writing. He forcefully tore it open, annoyed at Maria, and even more annoyed at being disturbed with work papers; he was supposed to be on bloody holiday.
Putting his hand into the envelope, he pulled out a stack of grainy black and white photographs, paper clipped together with a hand written note in the same spidery writing;
TAKE A GOOD LOOK AT WHAT YOUR BITCH HAS BEEN UP TO!
WHILE THE CATS AWAY, THE MICE … FUCK!
“What the hell?”
Franco read and reread the note, not getting it. He then flicked through the pictures. They were an assortment of shots showing a naked man and woman in various positions, soft porn.
“What the…”
Some of his fans were a little over-zealous, but
he hadn’t received dirty pictures before. Probably some nutter getting turned on by sharing ‘readers wives’ shots of him and the missus, or was it a prank from one of his team mates, they were always up to something.
“Who the hell is this?” he peered closely at the prints, trying to see if he recognised the people in them.
He couldn’t make out faces, but it seemed to be the same man and woman in each shot. The pictures started innocently enough with the couple sitting on a sofa, drinks in hand, laughing. They went on to the girl leaning back against a window, her robe falling off her shoulder, the man standing in front, fondling her breasts, they were kissing passionately.
The next shots stepped up a gear, both were naked; the woman was on all fours in front of the sofa, being taken doggy style. The male knelt behind, holding her spread arse as he rocked it backwards and forwards over his cock, his face intense, studying the entry, he was about to climax.
More were taken on a bed; the man lay on his back with the woman’s head in his lap, his cock in her mouth as she tickled his balls. From the look on his face she gave good head. They swapped positions; she lay on her back with a pillow wedged beneath her hips. Knees bent, he pushed her thighs wide apart and burrowed his face into her. She threw back her head in pleasure, her mouth gaped open. He obviously knew what he was doing also. The final shot was of the two of them sleeping, cuddled in the spooning position; a white sheet partially covering their glistening bodies.
The pictures were arousing. The couple looked good together, they were obviously enjoying it; it was real hot sex, not posed for the camera. He wasn’t sure about the guy, but the woman seemed vaguely familiar. Franco tried to focus in on her face, but it was always just out of shot, hidden from view. He flicked through the pictures again examining each one, then he saw it, her face was clear alright, very clear…
Franco stared, disbelieving, his heart in his throat. It was Tara… his Tara. His stomach turned, he felt nauseas. Where had he seen the guy before? Racking his brains, he finally recognised the face from a picture on Tara’s fridge, and of course the sofa was familiar now, and the bloody bed, and the window… merda, are these old photos, from before we met?
He clutched at straws… that’s it, they are old shots of her with her ex… but who sent them and why? Feeling weak, he staggered to the sofa and sat down. He needed to find out when they were taken, his mind crazy with a spaghetti of thoughts he frantically scanned the pictures for a sign.
He’d proposed to this girl today and here she was, giving it to someone else, all over the guy, thoroughly bloody enjoying herself… these have to be old… think… think!
Sweeping everything off the coffee table he made a space to spread out the vile evidence. Trying to remain calm, he placed them in time-frame order, and leaned in close to scrutinise each one. He found nothing to date them, the guy’s hair was shorter than he remembered, but that didn’t mean a thing.
Then he saw it.
During the throes of passion at their last lunchtime session, he’d accidentally scratched her cheek with his watch bracelet, blood trickled down her face, he’d wanted to stop pummelling into her and sort it out, but she was too far gone to let him stop, telling him to ignore it.
They had laughed about it afterwards, how was she going to explain a bloody cut to the office? It hadn’t hurt, but left a small one inch surface scar on her skin. He’d kissed it better, over and over, apologising, mortified at having hurt her. It now came back to haunt him.
On one of the window shots, you could see part of her face; she was being kissed passionately by the man, smothered by him. He knew what that felt like, his stomach lurched with pain. Lamplight from the street shone in through the window, casting a yellow band of light across her cheek, the healing scar was there for all to see. Proof that the pictures had been taken since Franco and she were together; she was still shagging her ex… the two-faced little bitch!
He remembered that he thought her a bitch the day they first met, at Seb’s studio, why the hell hadn’t he followed his instincts and left her well alone?... Maria’s an angel compared to this slut!
Seb was showered, dressed and ready for copious amounts of food. He skipped into the living room to cadge a quick scotch while he waited for supper, and maybe some of those tasty black olives Mimi left lying around. He found Franco hunched over the coffee table studying papers. Jumping smartly over the arm of the sofa he plonked himself down beside Franco, playfully grabbing his shoulders and shaking them.
“Franco, my man, you’re a star, what a great day, you’re a natural, you’re gonna love the shots…”
The cheeriness in his voice faded as he followed Franco’s gaze to the photographs spread out across the table. It took a while for the images to sink in… ohmigod, porn, that’s a bit much, what if Mimi wanders through… gawd blimey, these Iti’s… getting up to go, thinking he’d caught Franco lusting over porn, he recognized Tara’s face.
“Hold on a minute,” he said aloud. “That’s Tara, for chrissakes,” he leaned in closer. “What the hell’s she doing…?”
“She’s fucking someone Seb,” Franco barked. “What do you think she’s fucking doing? The bitch is two-timing me!”
Seb picked up one of the shots for an even closer look; he was right… jeysus, pretty saucy stuff. Then he recognized the guy and started to laugh.
“That’s not someone, that’s Ed, an ex of Tara’s mate; they split up a long time ago. He’s married, no problemo mate, don’t get your knickers in a twist, these pictures are well old. Where the hell did you get them?”
Chucking the picture back onto the table, glad to have put out the fire, he started to get up from the couch… now where the bloody hell’s the scotch, jeysus, didn’t know Ed had such a big cock, no wonder Tara had a smile on her face. It was probably best not to share that thought with Franco, sense of humour failure imminent.
Franco was having none of it. “Fuck off, I know what I’m talking about,” he grabbed the window shot, and pushed it into Seb’s surprised face.
“You see that cut on her face, MATE,” his finger angrily prodded the picture. “I did that to her, MATE, it’s recent, MATE,” he shouted.
He had a thing about being called mate, he hated it, especially right now, if Seb didn’t shut up, he was gonna knock him out. Seb carried on trying to placate him.
“That’s nothing, mate, a trick of the light, trust me, I’m a photographer, mate,” he gave Franco a consolatory pat on the back, trying to be helpful. “Scratches happen on negatives all the time, mate, it’s n…”
CRACK… Franco punched Seb’s lights out, which is not easy from a seated position on a sofa, Seb thought afterwards.
Ignoring the stunned Seb writhing in pain, blood streaming from his nose, Franco grabbed the pictures and charged out the front door. He jumped into the Jeep and screeched off down the winding cliff road, snarling gear changes wrecked the tranquillity of the sunset.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Supper that night was interesting. Franco and his beloved jeep had disappeared. Mimi feared he was angry with her after her outburst, she shouldn’t have interfered.
Anton, Mark, Seb, and Tony were sitting at the table when Maria, miraculously composed after her breakdown, swanned into the dining room. She was totally overdressed, wearing a short black designer number that cost a small mortgage. Automatically assuming the role of queen bee, she rudely plonked herself down at the head of the table and coolly flicked back her glossy curls. Mimi watched in disbelief, passing around plates of steaming carbonara… that’s Franco’s chair, the cheek!
Tony, fearing a bowl of pasta ending up in Maria’s lap, tenderly squeezed his wife’s arm.
“Down girl… he’s not here anyway, he won’t mind,” he whispered, cheekily patting her bottom, taking her mind off the enemy.
Anton played wine waiter. Mark wondered if Mimi had any ketchup… all this Italian stuff was a little fussy for him, burger and chips would be good.
/> Tara burst into the dining room, flushed from a hot bath, still stinging with anger at Franco’s lies. She searched the room ready for battle … where the hell is that cheating bastard? But on spotting the uber glamorous, uber skinny Maria gloating, presiding over proceedings from his chair, her confidence sank… ohmigod, she looks amazing… that dress wouldn’t fit past my ankle… subconsciously pulling in her stomach… shit, I need a diet.
Maria casually looked Tara up and down, ‘totally unimpressed’ written on her taut botoxed face. She managed to make Tara feel fat, frumpy and inadequate in less than a nanosecond. She considered turning round and forgetting dinner… she’s really getting on my tits, this bird… at least they are MY tits, not saline chicken filets, sutured onto a stick insect’s sternum… no way is she going to intimidate me?
Determined to rearrange the pecking order, Tara stood tall, yanked back her shoulders and kicked out her full DD cup… take that you bitch, they’re all mine! Tara (and her chest) marched to the chair furthest from Maria. Mark and Tony’s eyes nearly popped out, they hadn’t noticed Tara’s cleavage before.
“Just salad for me, thank you, Mimi.”
Mimi gave an understanding smile, ignored the request and passed her a plate of mouth-watering pasta.
“You can be on a diet when you are back in London, here you eat good Italian food. Anton, wine for Miss Tara please.”
Tara took the plate, it smelt too good to refuse… urrgh, so bloody weak, that diet lasted all of one second. Mimi gave her a conspiratorial wink, giving hope that at least she saw scheming Maria for what she was. Why was Franco blind to it? What was it with men not being able to see a devious woman from a thousand paces? Were they that stupid? It should be part of a boy’s curriculum, along with how to remain faithful, there is a life outside football, farting is not that funny and dishes don’t magically clean themselves.
The Penance List Page 20