The Con
Page 1
To my Russell
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
“What’s up suckers?” boomed the teenager swaggering into the kitchen.
“Arthur, stop speaking like that!” despaired his mother, turning to Sophia and rolling her eyes. “This is what you get nowadays for top school fees, they all want to be street.
“And put your hood down, it looks ridiculous!” she shouted after him, as he disappeared straight up to his room.
Three years since her husband passed away, and things were rapidly spiralling out of control at home. Forced to make all the family decisions on her own now, and struggling. The children kept pushing her patience to its limits, and nothing ever seemed to go right.
Mary had been a good wife, content with her lot. Henry had always been the one in charge, consulting her on everything, and ultimately shouldering responsibility. Life with him had been good, no complaints – but without him, a hellish nightmare.
In her lowest moments, inconsolably miserable, Mary would sit up in bed late at night and quietly sob, occasionally digging out the vodka bottle, hidden for emergencies on top of the wardrobe. The alcohol helped her drop off to sleep, only to face the same shit another day, trapped in the brutal grip of depression.
Her eldest daughter strutted into the room wearing ridiculously high heels.
“Anyone seen my iPhone?” demanded Kitty.
At the end of her tether, Mary sounded fed up. “It’ll be wherever you left it. Aren’t those shoes a bit much for mooching round the house?”
“They’re new. Trying to wear them in for a party, do you like them?” She swivelled round to show off her vertiginous sparkly sandals.
Leaning both elbows on the work surface, she tilted her head with a cute smile at her mother.
“Mum, can I use your credit card? There’s a new clinic; everyone’s raving about it. Emily’s going to get her lips done. I’ve promised to go with her, thought I might get a bit of Botox done while I’m there.”
“No, sorry, sweetheart. I think you need to put the brakes on all these cosmetic treatments, you’re starting to look like a different person.”
Kitty attempted to frown, but her brows remained frozen. Standing up, she slammed her hands on her hips for effect instead.
“For fuck’s sake, Mum, you just don’t understand, everyone does it now. It’s the norm, and I’m sick of having to beg for money all the time.” She stormed out of the kitchen, and slammed the door so hard everything on the dresser rattled. Mary flinched.
Sophia felt sorry for Mary, who was trying her best but over-compensating for being a single parent, aware that today must be especially hard for her – the anniversary of Henry’s death. Nobody was mentioning the significance of the date, but Sophia knew and realised the importance of being there for support. The children didn’t appear to be so emotional about the event; they were all in their teens and “at that age”. Arthur was the eldest and the most like Henry: tall, blonde and intelligent, doing well at school and hoping to get into Durham. Kitty, two years younger and the exact opposite, was a small busty blonde bursting with attitude. She had a kind heart, but her paternal grandmother’s sharp tongue, and was fervently keen to be grown up. Sixteen going on twenty-six. Teeth, tan and tits with puffy lips. She had successfully worn down her mother, and ticked off her wish list for whiter teeth, Botox and ludicrously expensive real hair extensions – at sixteen and a half!
Horrified, Mary was too fatigued to do battle any more, and shamefully gave in to whatever the self-entitled little cow demanded. Anything for a quiet life. The pumped-up lips repulsed Mary the most, her naturally beautiful daughter now beginning to look like a clone.
Thank goodness the youngest wasn’t so image obsessed. A year younger than Kitty but the poor thing had her own multitude of problems to contend with. Not least that Henry had chosen to christen her Tertia (meaning third), and then nicknamed her Titty, which didn’t help.
Titty was riddled with anxiety, and only six when first evaluated by a child psychologist. Since then she had been assessed by almost every reputable quack in the country, all intent on solving her fragile mental state and frequent panic attacks. However, she seemed to be showing signs of improvement lately, thanks to a new addition in the household, an emotional support animal – a little white mouse, named Mr Bojangles, that she carried with her at all times.
Mary let out a deep sigh, collapsed into one of the chairs and flopped forwards onto the kitchen table, covered her face with her hands and started to cry.
“I can’t do anything right. The kids never stop complaining 'it wasn’t like this when Dad was alive' and they’re right – I miss Henry so much.”
Seizing a box of tissues from the dresser, Sophia rushed round the table to comfort her. Fifteen years ago, when Sophia had started her own company, Mary had been one of her first interior design clients. The Pembrokes had been very good to her over the years, constantly keeping in touch, and booking endless work to their £8 million house near Kensington High Street.
As one of England’s most respected fine art auctioneers, Henry had commanded a whopping salary, on top of a substantial family inheritance. He left his entire fortune to Mary in his will. Now an extremely wealthy widow, she would never have to worry about money again. He also set up a trust to benefit the children, one million pounds each, payable on their twenty-first birthdays.
The Pembrokes were a popular family with a busy social life that had ground to a halt five years ago when Henry was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
Able to afford the best, he had consulted the top specialists. But, tragically, even money couldn’t help to prolong his life. Mary tried her best to remain positive, and lovingly nursed him at home throughout two long and difficult years. They tried everything, but nothing could beat the cancer. There were good days and bad days, until finally Henry withered away in front of her eyes to a pathetic skeleton.
Mary’s stiff upper lip enabled her to remain stoic to the bitter end, never showing her utter desolation at losing her rock, her world, her everything.
The children retreated into their shells, shutting themselves in their rooms for hours on end. Being a mother to fatherless children was incredibly hard; Mary kept her chin up and prayed things would improve but they just kept getting worse.
The kitchen door opened silently, and Titty timidly peeped round it. After a quick glance at her mother, without saying a word, she scuttled off again.
“You need a break,” declared Sophia.
“I know. But where can a fifty-year-old widow on the verge of a breakdown go on her own?” asked Mary.
Sophia stood up, wracking her brains, her pretty face contorting with worry, mindlessly nibbling the skin around her finger n
ails. Deeply concerned about Mary’s mental health – she seemed on the verge of collapse – Sophia knew she had to come up with an answer fairly quickly.
Despite the fourteen-year age gap, the two women had been friends a long time; Sophia would do anything she could to help Mary. Her life had practically ground to a halt, immersed in grief for so long. If there’s a god up there, prayed Sophia, surely it’s time for Mary’s life to move on.
“I’ve had a thought,” suggested Sophia gently. “I’m off to France next week to start refurbishing an old farmhouse near Aix for Bernard Maskell. He’s putting me up in his boutique hotel on the coast, half an hour away – Hôtel d’Eau Bleue. A fortnight of sun and sea would do you the world of good, why don’t you come with me?”
Mary lifted her face and wiped her eyes, so Sophia continued with slightly more enthusiasm. “While I’m at work during the day, you can relax, swim and sunbathe. In the evenings, we’ll find nice little local restaurants and explore the countryside’s endless fields of lavender and sunflowers.”
Mary blew her nose noisily into a soggy tissue. “What about the kids?”
“They’re old enough to look after themselves. Plus you’ve got a cleaner who can keep an eye on them every day. Stop thinking about everyone else, and put yourself first for a change. You need a break – or you’ll have a breakdown!”
“I know,” she mumbled.
“Come on. You deserve some time to yourself to think things through, and hopefully try to move on.”
“You’re right,” agreed Mary feebly.
“Excellent!” concluded Sophia cheerily. “I’ll pick you up Monday morning, around ten, for Heathrow. My office will organise everything and book you into Bernard’s hotel. Make sure you pack a sunhat and plenty of sunscreen.”
Mary groaned. “Just remembered, none of my holiday clothes fit me anymore. Forget it, I can’t come.”
“Why on earth not?”
“I’ve got nothing to wear.”
“Stop making excuses. Surely you’ve got at least one outfit, that’ll do for the time being. Come on, the markets in Provence are amazing, we’ll buy you some new clothes when we’re there.”
Desperate for a break from the door-slamming arguments with her children, and genuinely touched by Sophia’s sweet support, Mary thought this might be exactly what she needed to lift her spirits.
“Okay, you’ve persuaded me!”
Chapter 2
Sunbathing beside an infinity pool, overlooking the bright blue Mediterranean Sea, would make most people feel fabulous. Unfortunately for Mary, it was highlighting how much she’d let herself go. Her old swimsuit looked like it had shrunk. At least two sizes too small now, constantly creeping up into an uncomfortable wedgie, she kept tugging it back down with increased irritation. A nagging reminder of recent weight gain, which hadn’t been so noticeable at home when disguised with long cardigans and baggy tops.
Feeling self-conscious, Mary spread a pool towel over her legs like a blanket, and lay back on the sun-lounger, trying to relax. She was dwarfed by her enormous sunhat, a wide-brimmed straw embroidered with the words Do Not Disturb. It had been a present from Henry for their final holiday and was one of many triggers that had been making her cry, on and off, all morning, large black sunglasses hiding red puffy eyes.
Sophia had left for work straight after breakfast – her first day on site at Bernard Maskell’s farmhouse – and she wouldn’t be back until the evening. Mary couldn’t remember the last time she had had an entire day all to herself. No children, interruptions or meals to rustle up, just complete solitude. Since Henry passed away, she hadn’t had time to grieve properly. There was always something or someone demanding her attention, and never enough time to herself. It felt odd having nothing to do but dwell on sorrowful thoughts.
This morning her untethered emotions were swinging like a pendulum, from the heartbreak of missing Henry to the anger of being abandoned. Well aware that wallowing in misery wouldn’t achieve anything, except puffier eyelids, she tried hard to focus on happier memories, flicking through photos on her phone, some making her smile and others making her sad. Sometimes she wished she could pretend Henry hadn’t gone forever, then she might not feel so lonely. She’d secretly kept his favourite sweater tucked away in a bottom drawer. Whenever she was missing him really badly, she would nuzzle her face into the neck and sniff, convinced there was still a faint whiff of his aftershave.
Increased noise and movement around the pool signalled people beginning to think about lunch. Not having much of an appetite, unused to the heat, Mary ordered a small salad with a large glass of wine as a treat. As a rule, she never drank during the day; it just gave her a splitting headache later on.
When the waiter cleared away her empty salad plate, she couldn’t resist his suggestion of another glass. Why not? She was on holiday.
She realised too late that it had been a mistake to drink two glasses of wine in the sun. Her head was starting to throb already; maybe a dip in the pool would improve things. Checking nobody was looking, she wrapped the largest towel round herself and tentatively made her way towards the steps, dropping the towel at the last moment, and hastily submerging up to her shoulders in the water.
She couldn’t help noticing, out of the corner of her eye, that the other women her age looked better, with healthier figures and more fashionable swimwear. Dammit, she’d forgotten to leave her hat behind. Aware she must look ridiculous wearing an enormous sunhat in the pool, but reluctant to dash back with it, she made a valiant attempt to swim with it on, holding her head up uncomfortably high to stop the brim dipping in the water. After two lengths of awkward breaststroke, she admitted defeat and scuttled back up the steps, grabbing her towel, and wrapping it round herself as quickly as possible, before bolting back to the security of her sun bed.
While she’d been away, the waiter had removed her empty wineglass and replaced it with a fresh one and a miniature bucket of ice; she found it impossible to resist adding a few cubes to make a nice tinkling sound in the glass. Mary settled back into her comfy position, mindlessly sipping and gazing out to sea, not noticing, at first, the woman that had appeared quietly beside her with lovely long brown legs in a wheelchair.
“Sorry to bother you. Noticed the slogan, and guessed you must speak English. Have you seen any spare pool towels, please?”
Mary peered out from under her wide-brimmed straw hat. The woman was also in her early fifties, with a fabulous suntan, smart silver bob and designer sunglasses.
“Sorry, no idea. But this one’s spare if you’d like it?” she said, offering her a clean folded towel.
“Very kind, thank you,” said the glamorous newcomer, gratefully accepting the towel and slowly refolding it on her lap whilst continuing to make small talk. “Fabulous hotel isn’t it? How long are you here for?”
“A fortnight. Here with a friend, an interior designer renovating a large farmhouse half an hour away. She very kindly asked me to join her, reckoned I needed a break from …”
Mary paused as the penny dropped; the wine had gone to her head and loosened her tongue. Completely ignoring Mary’s hesitation, the woman in the wheelchair pressed on. “Sorry, forgot to introduce myself. I’m Mo.”
“Mary,” she replied politely, wondering how long Mo intended to sit there. Making a quick assessment, she noticed Mo’s long scarlet nails were painted exactly the same shade as the rosebuds on her sundress – obviously high maintenance.
“A fortnight, you lucky thing!” enthused Mo, spying Mary’s almost empty wine glass and quickly turning to the passing waiter.
“Two more glasses of the same please – large.” Giving Mary a friendly grin and tapping the frame of the wheelchair, she continued, “Doesn’t matter if I get legless in this!”
Mary wasn’t sure how to respond. Also, she didn’t want another drink, she’d had more than enough already, but Mo seemed determined to interrupt her peaceful solitude.
“Couldn’t help n
oticing you were a bit tearful earlier, not bad news I hope,” Mo enquired nosily. Mary bit her lip to avoid answering, fidgeting with mild irritation. It was none of her damn business. Playing for time, she carefully rearranged the damp towel over her legs, wishing she’d got the assertiveness to give this busybody the brush-off.
Mo appeared to take no notice, and continued to pry. Fed up with her inquisitive questions, resorting to clipped replies, Mary prayed she would take the subtle hint and go away.
Then the wine kicked in. Her fourth glass on an almost empty stomach. Foolishly throwing caution to the wind, and slurring badly, Mary opened up to Mo.
She started slowly at the beginning by describing how Henry had battled pancreatic cancer for two long years before passing away. Mo listened intently, appearing to have all the time in the world – the perfect confidante – every now and then emitting little murmurs of comfort and understanding, encouraging Mary to keep talking.
Reaching out to place her hand over Mary’s, Mo looked concerned and spoke softly. “It must have been hard for you.”
“It was,” replied Mary, her bottom lip wobbling imperceptibly.
“You poor thing. Are you on your own now or do you have children?”
“Three teenagers. They give me a reason to go on. After Henry passed away I struggled to get out of bed, just wanted to shut myself away.”
“How have your children been about it all?”
Mary touched the pendant on her necklace, a present from them last Christmas.
“They have their ups and downs. Sometimes they surprise me with their ability to cope, but on dark days they shut themselves away and won’t talk to anyone, even me, but we battle on.”
“It helps to talk,” soothed Mo in a kind and sympathetic tone. “I’ve always found my work to be a helpful distraction – do you work?”
“No, not since getting married. Running a large family house in Kensington, three children and a hectic social life has always kept me run off my feet. I help at our local homeless shelter once a fortnight, and do my best to support a couple of animal charities, yet despite having a full-time cleaner I never seem to have any free time. Sounds like I’m complaining, I’m not, compared to most I know I’m incredibly lucky – Henry left me very well off …” Her voice trailed off as she fiddled with the corner of the towel over her legs. “But I’d willingly swop all the money for just one more day with Henry, to tell him again how much I love him and what a wonderful husband he was.”