‘Sorry?’
‘You know, nudge nudge, wink wink. He’s still up for a bit of slap and tickle.’
I flushed. ‘Sure.’ Another lie.
‘That’s good. Tom went off sex almost instantly. Men fall into two groups when it comes to their partner getting big with child. There are those who love it, and feel all macho and protective as their woman’s body changes shape, and then there are those who make any excuse they can to avoid bonking their partner for the next nine months. I think it’s the whole Madonna-whore thing. Pregnant women become saint-like to some men and they just can’t lay a finger on their woman as a result. Apart from anything else, Tom just didn’t find my elephant ankles terribly sexy.’ Daisy sighed.
‘Oh,’ I said flatly. ‘I honestly haven’t even thought about whether we’ll have a sex life during my pregnancy. I’m still coming to terms with actually being pregnant.’
‘Have you and Marcus had a bonk since you found out?’
‘Daisy!’ I exclaimed. ‘What sort of a question is that for goodness sake?’
‘A nosy one,’ Daisy conceded. ‘Well, have you?’
‘As it happens,’ I rolled my eyes, ‘no, we haven’t.’
‘Ah,’ Daisy nodded knowingly. ‘So it might well be that Marcus is like my Tom. You’ll have to be patient with him, Florrie. It’s not personal.’
‘It’s only been forty-eight hours since we found out. We don’t have sex morning, noon and night, you know.’
‘Really?’ Daisy raised her eyebrows in surprise. ‘What’s with all the doorstep tomfooleries then? Marcus always acts like he’s a walking hormone gland and that you have a constantly arousing effect on him.’
I gave a mirthless hoot. Daisy regarded me curiously. I immediately attempted to inject some oomph into the laugh, as if Daisy’s comment had tickled me in some way. Unfortunately I ended up tinkling, and for a second or two sounded annoyingly like Harriet.
‘I think a lot of Marcus’s doorstep nonsense is simply to annoy Alison,’ I said. ‘He knows how prissy Ali is, and just likes winding her up.’
‘Oh,’ said Daisy looking disappointed. ‘So how often do you two really do it?’
‘Do what?’ I asked, feigning ignorance.
‘Have sex!’ Daisy cried. ‘Please tell me it’s only once a fortnight. Reassure me that the pace of my love life is normal for a married woman with three kids.’
‘Of course it’s normal!’ I grinned. ‘There are millions of women out there,’ I waved a hand at the world beyond my lounge window, ‘who are worn out looking after their families and simply want to sleep.’
‘Ah,’ Daisy gave me a crafty look, ‘but you’re not actually looking after a little one right now. You have yet to deal with the sleepless nights and months of feeling like a zombie. You are still,’ she put her head on one side to consider, ‘a sleek creature with your boobs above your naval and a stomach that hasn’t dropped like frayed knicker elastic. So come on, Florrie. You can tell me. On average, how often do you and Marcus have a bonk?’
‘I’m starting to think you’re obsessed with sex.’
‘Says the woman who flirts with the postman.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Well, if you really must know–’
‘I really, really must.’
‘It was...let me see…last Sunday.’ Yet another lie.
Daisy’s face fell. ‘That’s only four days ago. For a moment I thought you were going to tell me you were part of the Every Other Week Brigade.’ Her dismay was evident.
I smiled. ‘Let’s talk about something else. But first, I’ll make some more coffee.’
As I walked out to my kitchen, Daisy’s question about the frequency of my sex life needled my conscience. The truth was I simply couldn’t remember the last time Marcus and I had been intimate.
Chapter Eleven
As soon as Daisy had left, I rang the surgery for an appointment to see my GP. Usually it was a two-week wait to see a doctor, but this morning the Gods were on my side.
‘There’s been a cancellation,’ said the receptionist. ‘Dr Baily can see you tomorrow morning.’
‘Thanks,’ I said and rang off.
Scribbling the appointment in my diary, I then set about carefully loading Luca’s painting into the boot of my car. However, when I arrived at Serafino’s Cucina, he wasn’t there. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. As I alternated between the two emotions, a member of staff took the painting on my behalf.
‘Tell Luca he can settle up with me next week,’ I said. ‘There’s no rush.’
I then headed off to Harriet Montgomery’s home. Set high on a hill overlooking Lower Amblegate, it struck me the Montgomery-Murray-Wells’ pile was a bit like a castle overlooking its kingdom, with Harriet queen of all she surveyed. As I drove along the winding and seemingly never-ending tree-lined drive I began to feel a little overwhelmed by my surroundings, especially when the mansion was finally revealed in all its sprawling splendour. A couple of gardeners were toiling away on flowerbeds full of colourful promise. For a moment I dithered where to park the car. Oh for goodness sake, Florrie. Just make up your mind. Anywhere will do. There’s loads of room. Settling for a spot by a clipped hedge with not a twig out of place, I locked the car and walked towards the house. A number of steps led up to a huge double-fronted door. To one side was a rope-pull to operate an old-fashioned bell. I was about to haul on it when the door opened, taking me by surprise.
‘Hello, Florrie,’ said Harriet.
She looked immaculate. Harriet was still wearing the smart outfit she’d worn on television earlier. I suddenly felt horribly underdressed in my casual top and jeans which were already feeling tight around the waist.
‘Hi,’ I smiled. ‘You must be psychic. I hadn’t even rung the bell.’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh that’s just a bit of character nonsense in keeping with the place. I saw you approaching. There are cameras in various places around the top of the hill and at intermittent spots along the drive.’
‘Ah,’ I nodded. Harriet had just cleverly reminded me this wasn’t an ordinary human being I was visiting.
‘Well do come in,’ Harriet said. Her tone was extremely brusque leaving me in no doubt this meeting was most definitely business, and not a social call. ‘I’m expecting company in an hour, so I need to get the finer details of this commission sorted fairly swiftly.’
‘Sure,’ I said, opting for a bit of briskness myself. Nothing wrong in letting her think I was a busy artist with a diary bursting with appointments. I followed her into the hallway which was about the size of my entire house. Without a doubt, it had the wow factor. I took in the high ceilings, flagstone floor and a sweeping staircase complete with ornate balustrade. The surrounding walls were punctuated with huge windows, a feature in their own right. They poured forth the sort of light that turns dust motes silver and touches everything with an ethereal quality. ‘This is the most perfect area to paint,’ I said, unable to keep the enthusiasm from my voice.
‘But not very private,’ Harriet pointed out. ‘Follow me, please.’
I recognised an order when given one. As Harriet moved towards the staircase, I scampered after her. The stairway swept upwards circumnavigating galleried landings on two more floors. Along an inner hallway and set to one side, a smaller staircase led into the eaves and roof space. A century ago, this would have been the servants’ quarters. Today it looked as though nobody ever came up here. The lay-out was almost like a corridor in that you passed through one room straight into another. There were no doors, only doorways. The first room was completely empty, the second had been turned into a bathroom, and the third contained nothing but an enormous wrought iron bed. Harriet caught me looking. She paused.
‘Gertrude, Martin’s sister, sleeps up here when she visits.’ Harriet checked the room over with a proprietary air.
I leant against the doorframe. ‘Doesn’t your sister-in-law find her guest bedroom rather removed from
the rest of the house?’
‘On the contrary.’ Harriet gave a twisted smile. ‘I think she feels quite at home in the rafters. After all, Gertrude is a total old bat.’
‘Ah.’ I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so kept quiet. Even so, it was nice to know that even ex-movie stars sometimes had issues with family members just like the rest of us ordinary folk. Harriet turned her back on her sister-in-law’s occasional sleeping quarters and led me into the fourth and final room. This, like the first room, was empty.
‘You will paint me in here.’
Harriet marched to the far end where the original dormer window had been revamped into a Juliet balcony. She pulled the door open. Immediately bird song and spring fragrances invaded my senses. I inhaled appreciatively and moved across the floor to Harriet’s side to peer out. What a view. From here I could see the whole of Lower Amblegate spread below, including The Cul-de-Sac. I could even see Alison’s car on her drive! Which reminded me.
‘Did you catch up with Alison?’ I asked. Harriet looked at me blankly. ‘She rushed off to see you this morning,’ I explained, ‘but you were in London.’
‘You must be mistaken, Florrie. My work with Alison is finished. Regarding the May Ball, I’ve instructed Alison exactly what I want, where I want it, and how. All that remains to be done is for me to talk to the paparazzi, and tie up a few loose ends with a discreet roving film crew.’
I was stunned at Harriet’s breathtaking dismissal of my neighbour. It was clear from Harriet’s tone that Alison had served her purpose. My heart squeezed for my neighbour’s feelings when she realised her coveted close friendship with Harriet had amounted to nothing more than being taken advantage of.
‘So,’ Harriet flung her arms wide and turned to look at the loft space. ‘This is going to be your studio throughout the duration. It’s wonderfully private. I can walk around starkers up here with no prying eyes peering in.’
‘That’s good to know, but I just want to say I’m more than happy to paint you from a photograph in my studio at home,’ I pointed out.
‘No, no, no, Florrie,’ said Harriet waggling a finger at me. ‘No photographs. I can’t risk any images falling into the wrong hands and then being splashed across the tabloids.’
I didn’t know whether to be affronted at the insinuation I’d stoop so low as to flog a photo to the press, or whether to laugh out loud. Harriet was carrying on like she was Madonna.
‘You will have to bring your paints and easel over here, Florrie. My privacy absolutely has to be respected.’
I blinked. Just think of the four thousand pounds she’s paying you. ‘Of course,’ I demurred.
‘Good,’ said Harriet giving me a stern look. ‘I’m glad we understand each other. I’d like you to start this Saturday, bright and early. Shall we say nine o’clock?’
‘Sure.’
That suited me fine. I had a legitimate excuse to be out of the house without Marcus around me or having to endure the strained atmosphere that had developed between us.
‘What’s more,’ Harriet continued, ‘I want it finished in time for the May Ball.’
I blanched. One week. Harriet noticed my hesitation.
‘Problem?’ she frowned.
‘No, not as such,’ I shook my head. ‘But if you want me to paint you as a still life – how available are you actually going to be? After all,’ I pointed out, ‘you’re a very busy lady.’
‘If I have to leave you mid-pose you will have to work from your muse…memory… or whatever else it is you artists lean upon when called to do so.’ I sensed that Harriet wanted to wind the meeting up. ‘Any questions?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Good. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll see you out. I’m expecting company in a little while and need to get out of these clothes and into something,’ a smile played around her lips, ‘more comfortable.’
As we made our way back to the entrance hall, I wondered what on earth she had to do other than change her outfit. She already looked immaculate. Harriet opened the door and I stepped out into the cool afternoon air.
‘Right,’ I turned back to smile at her. ‘See you on Sat–’
But I was talking to the door. Clearly ex-movie stars didn’t bother saying good-bye to the likes of people like me. I sighed and walked towards the car.
I’d barely driven a hundred yards down Harriet’s grand driveway when, from the opposite direction, a vehicle came hurtling towards me. It was driving far too fast for the likes of this driveway. My foot touched the brake. Surely the other driver was going to slow down, wasn’t he? Suddenly realising that this wasn’t going to happen, I swerved and frantically steered my car to the very edge of the driveway, tucking it under the branches of one of Harriet’s overhanging trees. As the sound of twigs scraped noisily against the length of my car scratching all the paintwork to shreds, I muttered a string of oaths. Furious, I glared at the approaching driver determined to mouth a few profanities his way. But my angry expression swiftly turned to one of surprise. I knew that car, just as surely as I knew the driver behind the wheel. He whooshed straight past my vehicle with barely a millimetre to spare, spinning tyres sending up a spray of shingle and dust as he retreated from sight in my rear view mirror. It was apparent the driver had been totally oblivious to both my car and me sitting within it. I watched, stunned, as the vehicle disappeared around a bend. The driver hadn’t so much as glanced at my astonished face. His eyes had been full of excitement, his face a picture of joy, no doubt from the anticipation of feasting his eyes on Harriet Montgomery’s change into something “more comfortable”. And what would that be, I wondered. A negligee? A French maid outfit? Her birthday suit? I blew out my cheeks and wondered what Alison would make of it all if she knew.
The driver had been her husband. Henry.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning I sat in my doctor’s surgery and, whilst waiting to be seen, tried to think of a perfectly innocent reason for Alison’s husband visiting Harriet yesterday. Unfortunately all legitimate possibilities evaded me other than the obvious. Henry and Harriet were having an affair. My mind tumbled back to Alison tearfully revealing Henry had bought a diamond bracelet for a mystery woman. The inscription had apparently read, “To the most beautiful woman in the world with all my love.” Well there was no doubting Harriet Montgomery was beautiful. On a scorecard of ten, she was an eleven.
Last night, over dinner, I’d nearly told Marcus about seeing Henry at Harriet’s, but swerved off at the last moment for fear of him accidentally letting it slip to Alison. The last thing I wanted was her being even more hurt. I could just imagine the possible future doorstep shenanigans:
“Oooh, Florrie, you’re driving me mad with desire…mwah, mwah, mwah…oh no, now look what’s happened…I seem to have grown a third leg. Ah, morning, Ali. I hear Henry’s having a touch of the same problem. According to my wife here, Henry’s third leg grew so big it was wedged on his car’s accelerator. Isn’t that right, darling? Florrie said Henry’s car was absolutely hurtling along Harriet’s driveway. Yes, that’s right. Harriet. Even her gardeners witnessed his excessive speeding. Their eyes were agog, especially when Henry got out of his car. The poor chap had to pogo up Harriet’s steps.”
Nor could I confide in Daisy. Much as I loved my scatty neighbour, she was a frightful gossip and might let something slip to Alison. Again, my imagination acted out a possible scenario:
“Morning, Ali. Remember when I offended you by saying Henry was over the hill? Well I was right! Henry is over the hill…at Harriet Montgomery’s place. Shall I ring Jeremy Kyle?”
I realised I was in a horrible situation. I knew something about my neighbour’s husband that she most certainly didn’t. Should I keep quiet? Or casually mention it? Or talk to Henry myself? Or just forget the whole thing and feign ignorance? I’d read about this sort of quandary on the problem pages of magazines. Many a time I’d settled down with a nice cup of tea only to read: “Should
I tell my friend her husband is having an affair?” Perhaps I should write a letter.
Dear Deirdre
I live in a very insular village in which also dwells an ex-movie star (who, incidentally, may or may not be on the verge of a massive comeback). I can’t say who she is, but if you want a clue I can reveal the said woman has a highly irritating laugh. Between you and me I’d like to give her a good slap. But the real problem, dear Deirdre, is that this high profile woman is having an affair with my lovely neighbour’s husband. What should I do? Tell my neighbour what her cheating hubby is up to? Risk jeopardising our friendship? Or confront her hubby? Maybe give HIM a good slap? Or say nothing? I’m finding the whole situation very distressing. It doesn’t help that I’m pregnant which isn’t without its own problems. What should I do?
It was a dilemma. I tried to predict an agony aunt’s response.
Dear Distressed Person
Every day I receive letters from people whose lives have been turned upside down by their partners having affairs. Affairs can definitely affect friendships, so first and foremost please seek out the ex-movie star and give her that good slap. This is a very difficult situation and your friend’s husband has put you in an invidious position. So yes, go ahead and give him a good slap too. It’s unforgiveable you should be burdened with this when you are pregnant and clearly having your own personal difficulties. Therefore I recommend you just give everybody, including your entire insular village, a really good slap. It will make you feel so much better. Good luck with the pregnancy.
‘Florence Milligan?’
Dr Baily was standing in her consulting room doorway. Startled, I leapt up and hastened into her room. The GP sat down in her chair and indicated I should do the same on the opposite side of her desk. She gave me a pleasant smile.
‘How can I help you?’
I opened my mouth to speak but was suddenly and without any warning ambushed by emotion. From nowhere a mish-mash of jumbled feelings rose up like a tsunami, hitting my tear ducts and switching on the waterworks.
The Corner Shop of Whispers Page 7