by Katie Fforde
‘Ring her when we get back,' said Elsa. 'I've got her number. I'm sure she'd be thrilled to have a tenant.’
After that, they had a wonderful evening. The restaurant was kind to them and they were all much happier now. Bron phoned Roger, who seemed surprisingly relaxed about her being away, which made her less anxious. Sarah, the problem of where Bron should live solved, pushed thoughts of Hugo and his gazelle-like friend out of her mind. Elsa, pleased to think she'd found the solution for Bron, revealed her sharp sense of humour to good effect, and the waiters, obviously relieved that the group had started laughing again, plied them with liqueurs on the house.
‘What's this?' asked Sarah when the glasses arrived. 'Strega, signorina,' said the waiter.
‘What's it like?'
‘Fuel oil,' said Elsa. 'I had it with my parents once.’
‘That doesn't sound very nice,' said Sarah, looking at her glass anxiously.
‘It is, sort of,' explained Elsa. 'Not sure why.'
‘OK,' said Sarah. She took a sip and coughed. 'Mm. I see what you mean.'
‘And desserts?' broke in the waiter, happy now his offerings had been accepted.
‘We might as well,' said Bron. 'After all, we none of us have wedding dresses to get into.'
‘I have got a ball gown to make though,' said Elsa, after the waiter had taken both the menus and their orders. `Ooh, tell us!' said the others.
When it was time to go home, Bron took her shoes off and walked barefoot back to the hotel, supported by the others who had more sensible shoes.
‘That was the best evening out I've had in a long time,' said Sarah. 'Who needs men?’
The other two didn't reply.
Chapter Seventeen
The prospect of living on her own when she'd never done it before was daunting, but now she'd made the decision Bron was determined not to slip back into the inertia that had kept her with Roger for so long.
She telephoned Mrs Lennox-Featherstone during her lunch hour the next day, not wanting to lose a moment longer. Much to Bron's relief, she was very quick on the uptake.
‘Bron? The hairdresser? Lovely to hear from you. What can I do for you?'
‘Well, Elsa, the dressmaker?'
‘Charming girl, lives in black. Yes?'
‘She said you had a cottage you might like to rent.'
‘Absolutely, I have! Can't get it insured as an empty property and I wasn't planning on doing anything to it until the autumn. It's far too soon after the wedding for me to get my head round all that. So if you wanted it for a while I'd be only too delighted.' She had paused. 'It might be rather wonderful having a top-rate hairdresser so close.’
Bron had laughed and assured Vanessa that she could summon her at any time, day or night, to do her hair. The rent was really low and she felt it was the least she could do.
‘But I can't actually show it to you until the weekend. You're not in too much of a hurry, are you?’
In fact, Bron had been hoping to see – possibly begin to move into it – a lot sooner than that. 'Well…' she began. 'I'm doing a course every night this week, including Saturday, now that I think of it. But if you wanted to pick the key up after eight on Saturday, that would be fine.’
*
'So I had to be satisfied with that,' she had told Elsa on the phone when she'd finished thanking Mrs Lennox-Featherstone and convincing her she'd be the perfect tenant.
‘But you'll be able to pack and stuff, won't you? If you want to leave anything round here, just let me know.'
‘That's kind of you, Elsa. I'll try and fit it all in my car but if I need somewhere to put stuff, I'll be on to you. I don't want to tell Roger until I'm certain… It might be uninhabitable.'
‘Well, I think you're being really brave about all this,' said Elsa. 'And you know Sarah and I are here for you if you need us.’
Bron felt touched yet again by how supportive they were both being. 'Thank you. I don't feel very brave, just hideously guilty. He hates change. Even though I don't think he really loves me, he won't want me to leave.’
She spent the rest of the week planning her escape. She put a lot of clothes into bags, telling Roger she was having a clear-out. There was an awful lot of stuff that she'd paid for and was intending to take – things that he wouldn't need personally – but couldn't until she'd at least told him she was going. He may not have been the most noticing man on the planet, but even he would think something was up if she started unscrewing mirrors and shelving units from the walls.
On Saturday morning she felt distinctly nervous and slightly less confident in her decision. Roger had been very nice all week, and she almost wanted to change her mind. But she wouldn't let herself. She had Elsa and Sarah to give her moral support and she knew that even if she and Roger didn't hate each other, they didn't really make each other happy.
‘I'm going to see a friend,' she said, perched on the bed while he ate the breakfast she'd brought him. 'It means I'll miss cricket but I'll be back in time to cook you a lovely supper. I thought I'd get a couple of steaks and make real chips.'
‘Great,' said Roger, tucking into eggs and bacon. 'I need a big meal after all that running around.’
Bron smiled, patted his foot under the duvet and left.
She hadn't really lied, she realised, just not told all the truth. For while Roger was at cricket, she was going to be packing her stuff. Only after the dinner, the bottle of wine and the ice cream and hot chocolate sauce, would she tell him she wouldn't be having Sunday lunch with his parents but would be leaving home instead.
She felt bad about his mother. She'd have to go and visit her later, when Pat'd got over the shock.
Having done her shopping, buying supplies for her own first days in her new home as well as Roger's farewell meal, she drove home. She'd allowed plenty of time for him to leave for cricket but, strangely, his car was in the drive when she got back.
Had cricket been cancelled for some reason? She couldn't think why. It was a lovely day, perfect for it: sunny, but not too hot.
Planning to tell him she'd wanted to put the steaks in the fridge before meeting her friend, she put her key in the lock and instantly knew something was wrong. There was perfume in the air that wasn't hers, but was familiar. Then she heard laughter coming from upstairs. She knew instinctively what she'd find, but her feet carried her upstairs anyway.
She found Roger and Sasha in bed together. Sasha was sitting on top of Roger. She was wearing the ghastly underwear that did so much for his libido and so little for Bron's.
She felt sick. She thought she might indeed vomit, but actually, she almost felt more sorry for Roger and Sasha as they looked at her in horror and then Sasha let out a small scream and fell off Roger.
‘Oh God, Bron! I thought you were out all day!' he said, fighting to get out from under Sasha's controlling thighs.
Sweat broke out over Bron's face as the reality of the scene threatened to overwhelm her. Even though she no longer wanted to be with Roger she felt horribly betrayed. It was their bedroom he was having sex in, on her sheets, with her boss. She took a deep breath and went to the wardrobe, took out a large carrier bag and then started unloading the top of her dressing table into it.
‘Well, I came back,' she said, slightly calmer now. After all, she kept repeating to herself, she'd been leaving him anyway.
Roger just lay there, blinking at her.
‘Oh, Bron,' said Sasha, sitting up now, the sheet barely covering her ample bosom, 'this is only a bit of fun. No need to take it too seriously. It doesn't need to change anything.’
Bron stopped putting nail varnish into its box. 'You're wearing my underwear – you must have changed out of yours! But don't worry,' she went on quickly. 'The last thing I want is for you to give it back to me.'
‘You're not going to say anything to anyone, are you?' asked Sasha.
Typical of her boss to worry about her reputation. Looking, albeit rather reluctantly, at her now Bron realised Sash
a suddenly seemed older and less glossy and groomed than she usually did. She was several years older than both of them and an unexpected spark of compassion rose in Bron. 'At the salon? Probably not. I don't want Roger any more anyway. You can have him as your young stud if you like.'
‘Hang on!' Roger sat up, suddenly full of righteous indignation. 'What do you mean you don't want me any more! I was going to marry you, Bron!’
Bron started to laugh. It was all so ridiculous. And so clear. Roger had, he thought, moulded her into the perfect wife, but a perfect wife wasn't enough. He wanted a mistress as well – one who just happened to be her boss.
‘I'm sorry not to be more flattered, but you never asked and I wasn't going to marry you back,' said Bron. 'I was going to tell you I was leaving anyway – tonight.'
‘What do you mean? Where would you go?'
‘I have a place arranged, thank you for your concern.’
He tried to speak for a few moments and then managed, 'But my parents think you're perfect for me!' Roger was still in denial. He might well have thought about upgrading from a mere hairdresser to the salon-owner but it had never occurred to him that the hairdresser might leave him. He was outraged.
‘I'm very fond of your mother, Roger, but you're going to turn into your father very soon, and he's a fascist.' It was bliss finally letting it all out.
‘How dare you talk about my father like that!' Roger jumped out of bed, naked, his whole body jiggling with indignation. It was hard not to see the funny side. She stifled a giggle.
‘Sorry to hurt your feelings, but you must admit he makes Genghis Khan seem like a bleeding-heart liberal. I don't know how poor Pat has put up with him all these years. And you're just the same!'
‘I don't know how you can say that!' He was now struggling into a pair of boxer shorts. 'I give to charity, don't I?'
‘So does the Mafia, Roger! And I should warn you,' she said to Sasha, 'that he won't bother with foreplay after the first six months. As for looking for your G spot, without Sat Nav, he hasn't a chance.' She frowned. 'Maybe that was a bit unfair. Sat Nav can lose far easier-to-find places than that.'
‘Now you're being disgusting.' Roger was now wearing trousers and it gave him a bit of confidence.
Feeling her own confidence growing by the minute, Bron stood up straight and confronted Roger. 'You're a fine one to talk! You dress your girlfriend up in my underwear and say I'm being disgusting!' she said.
‘Bron!' A T-shirt gave Roger the upper hand, or so he thought. 'You're blowing this up out of all proportion.'
‘At the risk of being thought disgusting again, I think you've been the one doing that!'
‘Really, I had no idea you had such a filthy mind!’
She shrugged, for the first time a little rueful. 'I didn't intend to give you the character-assassination speech, but you did rather ask for it.' She moved to the dressing table, opened a drawer and took out a large plastic bag she had ready. And to think she'd been feeling guilty about leaving him. She swept everything on the table into it.
Sasha was getting back into her clothes and Roger put on his socks and shoes. 'You're over-reacting,' he said. 'Typical bloody woman!’
Bron sighed briefly, her anger abating a little. Originally, she had only been going to take what she really needed.
She wasn't going to take everything she'd paid for, just because she could. But now she was intent on stripping the bedroom of anything she'd bought personally. There was a huge dress carrier ready in the wardrobe and she slid the dressing-table mirror and one of the bedside lights into this while Roger was still staring at her.
‘You can't take the furniture!' he roared.
‘I can if I paid for it. I won't take the mattress though. It's been sullied.' She had to stifle another giggle. 'Sullied' was such a lovely word and she hadn't realised she'd known it until it popped out. Adrenalin was keeping her going, she realised, aware that later the shock of all this would hit her. But at this moment, she was on a high.
She was aware of Sasha and Roger whispering to each other, probably wondering if she'd gone off her head. She'd never felt so on her head. The bathroom was the next place to get the treatment, although she left the shaving mirror as it had been a present from her to Roger and she couldn't see properly in it anyway. She then went downstairs to the kitchen.
Her carrier bags were full so she found a bin-liner and started filling it with gadgets: the blender, the toaster and the steamer. Roger came in while she had the knife block, full of knives, in her hand.
‘You can't take that!' Roger's trousers were half tucked into his socks. 'It was a present from my parents!’
‘Yes,' replied Bron, half admiring him for being so confrontational when she was so well armed. 'To me!’
‘Shall I put the kettle on?' suggested Sasha from behind him, now fully dressed and anxious to soothe the situation if she could.
‘If you're desperate for a cup, that's a good idea,' said Bron. 'I'll be taking it in a minute.'
‘You cannot just strip my house like this!' Roger was pulsating with indignation. 'It's robbery!' He wasn't even trying to win her back.
‘OK, I'll leave the kettle,' Bron conceded, 'although it's mine by right.' She knew there was a kettle in the cottage. Mrs Lennox-Featherstone had sent her an inventory of what was there.
She surveyed the kitchen and considered taking the saucepans, but then left them. They'd been her parents', left behind when they moved to Spain, and they weren't very good ones. Her cookery books she decided were just too heavy; as it was she could only just drag the sack into the hall before going back for another.
‘What do you need that for?' demanded Roger, seeing her detach the bin-bag from the roll. 'You've taken everything that isn't nailed down!'
‘There's the standard lamp in the sitting room!' Bron had to bite her lip to stop herself laughing. She had no intention of taking the standard lamp, although that too had come from her parents.
‘This is bloody ridiculous!'
‘OK then, Roger, I'll do a deal with you. Help me get this lot into my car and I won't take anything else if you really need it.'
‘I've put a couple of sugars in your tea, Rog,' said Sasha. 'For the shock. This must be so upsetting for you.’
Bron shook her head in disbelief but didn't say anything. Roger hated being called Rog even more than he hated sugar in tea.
When she drove away twenty minutes later, Bron gave a little toot of triumph on the horn. At that moment she felt she could conquer the world.
Chapter Eighteen
Bron's calm gave up on her when she was halfway to pick up the keys from Mrs Lennox-Featherstone. She pulled into a lay-by and did some deep-breathing exercises, but they didn't stop the shaking that was convulsing her body. She burrowed in her bag and found some Rescue Remedy and after a few moments she calmed down.
‘Is it the Rescue Remedy, or is it the time you take to take it that calms you?' she wondered out loud, partly to test her voice for tremors. She blew her nose, then she checked her make-up, removed the accumulation of it that had landed under her eyes, and drove on. Vanessa had said she could pick the key up anytime, but if she wanted a guided tour first, she'd have to wait until after eight. Bron had fully intended to wait until someone could show her over the cottage, but then she hadn't intended to find Roger in bed with her boss. Shit happens: plans have to change.
The door of the big house was opened by the housekeeper – she presumed. Elsa had mentioned there was one.
‘Oh, hi!' Bron said breezily. 'I'm a bit earlier than expected, but could I have the key to the cottage?’
The housekeeper said, 'Come in. Mrs Vanessa is out, but she left a message about the key.’
Bron followed her anxiously into the hallway. A 'message about the key' did not sound like the actual key, which was what she needed. Supposing she couldn't move into the cottage directly, what could she do? She didn't want to land on Elsa's or Sarah's floor, although she could as
a last resort. She didn't really want to talk about what had happened, not yet. It was too raw. She wanted to establish herself in her new home first. Although not having to meet Mrs Lennox-Featherstone just then was a bit of a relief.
The housekeeper came back with a bulging plastic bag. 'Here you are. You'll need the duvet and the sheets and things. Mrs Vanessa always lets the house with bedding.' She smiled.
Bron smiled back with relief. Her new landlady hadn't mentioned bedding on the inventory but in her haste to get away, she'd forgotten all about it anyway. She had a feeling there were a lot of things she'd forgotten.
‘You have to get the key from James, next door,' the housekeeper went on. 'The man came to read the meter. He let him in.' She frowned a little. 'You want tea or something? You not looking well.’
Bron forced a smile. 'Oh, I'm fine! I'll just take these and find my new home. Please tell Mrs – er, Mrs Vanessa how grateful I am to have somewhere to live.’
As she drove away, with bedding but without a key, she thought this must have sounded rather odd.
*
There were the two cottages, side by side. She could tell which one was hers because there was a fairly muddy old Volvo outside the other. James, who had the key, must be in, which was a huge relief. She didn't really want to sit in her car for hours waiting for him. It would have looked so pathetic.
She got out and went up the short path to the front door and knocked. She could hear music playing and tried to identify it as a distraction while she waited. What on earth was she going to say? 'Hi, I'm Bron, your new neighbour. Can I have the key?’
She didn't have a chance to say anything much. As James opened the door, a large dog streamed out into the garden, circled her and went back into the cottage. By the time James had finished telling it off and then congratulating it for returning a lot of the preliminary stuff was redundant. Then she realised she recognised him and cursed herself for not making the connection before. He was the gardener, and the man she had met on the riverbank.