The Corner Shop of Whispers

by Viggiano, Debbie

  ‘I-I’m so sorry,’ I stuttered, genuinely taken aback at this unforeseen outpouring.

  ‘That’s okay. Take your time.’

  Dr Baily glanced at a clock on the wall. Outside there was a waiting room full of patients. The doctor had been behind schedule before I’d even stepped over the threshold of her consulting room. Perhaps everybody was having a bad day and breaking down the moment they sat down with Dr Baily.

  ‘I’m s-sorry. J-just a bit…emotional.’

  ‘No worries.’ Another glance at the clock.

  For goodness sake, Florrie. Just tell it how it is, and hurry up.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  ‘Th-thanks. It’s come as a bit of a shock. You see, I was told I had endometriosis and having my own children would be unlikely.’

  ‘Double congratulations!’

  ‘And also my husband pretty much fires blanks.’

  Dr Baily was starting to look flabbergasted, but did her best to hide bemusement.

  ‘So triple congratulations, Mrs Milligan. I always say if a baby is meant to be it WILL be!’

  ‘Y-yes.’ I glanced down at my shoes for a moment. ‘Anyway, I have no idea how pregnant I am. Well, maybe a bit of an idea.’ I clasped my hands together, fingers interlacing. A nervous gesture. ‘But then again I might be totally wrong.’ I unlaced my fingers and foraged up my sleeve for a tissue. Dabbing my eyes, I gave Dr Baily a frank look. ‘My jeans are really tight. I can’t do up the stud button anymore.’

  ‘First of all, don’t worry about your tears,’ Dr Baily smiled kindly. ‘Heightened emotions are perfectly normal. So, you’ve taken a pregnancy test?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Dr Baily peered at her computer screen and began tapping out notes on her keyboard. ‘Date of last period?’

  ‘I had a really odd one about six weeks ago. It lasted just one day. But to be honest my body has always been a law unto itself where that’s concerned. I can’t really remember the last time I had a “normal” period as such – possibly four months ago.’

  ‘Okay.’ Dr Baily did a bit more tapping. ‘We’ll do background history in a moment. I’ll also book you in for a dating ultrasound which is very helpful for pinpointing the expected date of delivery.’ She stood up and indicated I do likewise. ‘Over there, please. Hop on the couch and I’ll examine you. I can give you a rough idea how many weeks you are.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ I said uncertainly. I kicked off my shoes and pulled down my jeans. Lying down on the hard couch, I gave an involuntary shiver while Dr Baily got to work.

  ‘Well, Mrs Milligan, I’m delighted to confirm your pregnancy.’ She beamed at me. ‘I would say you’re about eight weeks.’

  I gulped. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Like I said, the ultrasound will give a more accurate result.’

  ‘Right. So…so the ultrasound might say I’m as much as twelve weeks? Or sixteen?’ My brain struggled to remember exactly when Marcus and I had last been intimate.

  Dr Baily smiled and shook her head. ‘I can tell you’re a first time mum-to-be.’ She spoke in a humouring tone of voice. ‘You are definitely not twelve weeks or even sixteen weeks gone. As such, it’s very early days.’

  ‘But my jeans are throttling my midriff,’ I protested.

  ‘That’s mainly fluid retention. Get dressed and we’ll go through your medical background.’

  As I hauled up my jeans, I chewed my bottom lip. I’d suspected it all along, but knowing for sure was a massive reality check. Marcus was not the father of my unborn baby.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Throughout the drive home from Dr Baily’s surgery, I felt horribly nauseous. Letting myself into the house, I charged upstairs to the bathroom. Sinking to my knees, I leant over the toilet bowl and threw up and up and up. Was this the dreaded morning sickness – albeit afternoon sickness in my case? Or just a bad reaction at having shocking news confirmed? I reached for some toilet paper and wiped my mouth. Standing up shakily, I flushed the chain, then washed my hands and cleaned my teeth.

  Oh, Florrie. What have you done? I went into the master bedroom and sat down heavily on the end of the bed. Leaning forward, I rubbed the heels of my hands into my eyes. Things were a mess. So, what to do? There were a few options.

  Firstly, lie. I could tell my husband Dr Baily had estimated the pregnancy to be further along, approximately twelve weeks. I could then omit telling him about the dating ultrasound and, with an awful lot of luck and downright blagging, get through the pregnancy without any doctor telling my husband the real due date. I’d then pretend to give birth to a premature baby. As Marcus had been a very bonny baby boy weighing in at ten pounds, and I’d been not far behind him at a robust nine pounds, I’d have to hope my premature baby wasn’t the size of a Christmas turkey. My conscience immediately scattered this train of thought. You mean to say, Florrie, that you’re totally comfortable with the idea of Marcus raising a child that isn’t his? That you have no qualms about him bonding with a baby fathered by another man? Shame on you! I sighed heavily. Some women did just that, but I wasn’t one of them.

  A second option was to have a secret abortion and pretend I’d had a miscarriage. My brain had barely processed this thought when every particle of my being recoiled. What, get rid of this miracle baby? After five years of trying to get pregnant? After goodness-knows how many failed IVF attempts? No way. Automatically my hands moved over my abdomen, almost cradling the soft swell, instinctively wanting to protect. Abortion was absolutely unthinkable.

  Option three was to talk to the real father-to-be. The fact that he was clueless about my predicament and I had no idea how he’d react was pretty monumental stuff. We’d only had one brief encounter for heaven’s sake! But then again, didn’t he have a right to know? Wasn’t it deceitful not to tell him? Certainly it was deceitful to let Marcus believe this baby was his. Dear Lord, Jeremy Kyle would have a field day with me. I had a sudden vision of him thrusting a microphone into my face.

  “You’ve taken the lie detector test, Florrie Milligan. And I can reveal to everybody here in this studio along with our audience watching at home…YOU ARE A LIAR!” And everybody would give a collective gasp and agree as Jeremy turned to camera and declared, “Florrie Milligan is a horrible manipulative woman.” Then the camera would pan across a booing audience before settling on me, sitting in a studio chair on stage, hanging my head in shame. Alison would never talk to me again, whereas Daisy would probably text me asking I get Jeremy’s autograph. I shuddered.

  The final possibility was to simply confess all to Marcus then embark on motherhood as a single parent. I gulped at the thought of sitting Marcus down to stutter out the truth. I didn’t want to hurt him, despite the fact that he’d hurt me so many times in the past. The fact was I’d found solace, briefly, in the arms of another man. It had been totally unpremeditated. I squeezed my eyes shut as a memory was evoked, rushing to the surface of my mind like an air bubble pinging to the surface of a pond. Everything about that illicit encounter had felt so right, despite the circumstances being so very wrong. However, unlike me, Marcus had deliberately started affairs time and time again. Indeed, my husband had his own outstanding explanations waiting to be heard. Some of the evidence was right here, in this very room.

  I pushed myself up from the bed and went to the wardrobe. Opening one door, I rummaged within until I’d located the correct shoebox. Tugging at it, I lifted the lid. My hands scrabbled within, making contact with the hidden letter. Crouching down, I extracted the notepaper, smoothing it out against the carpet with one hand. The damning message was written in blue ink. The handwriting was almost defiant in its boldness.

  Dear Florrie

  You and I have somebody in common. Your husband. Some time ago Marcus and I had an affair. I appreciate this revelation is going to come as a huge shock. Can I invite you to now stop reading and sit down before I continue?

  We have mutual friends,
and that is how I met Marcus. His charm was deadly, and I fell madly in love with him. He told me he loved me too. In snatched moments together, we made plans. Marcus was going to leave you. He promised to move in with me. He vowed we would live the coveted Happy Ever After. Except, unbeknown to me, Marcus had embarked on another affair. It was quite by chance I found out. Thank God Marcus hadn’t moved in with me. After all, I have a child to think about. The last thing I would ever want is another failed relationship impacting upon my daughter.

  My love rival (sorry, I appreciate that must sound ironic when I’ve been your love rival) is, by appalling coincidence, also an acquaintance. She has no idea I know about their fling. I can’t tackle her about it because, apart from the fact that we move in the same social circle, I don’t want to risk confrontation which, again, could impact upon my daughter in the long run.

  So, Florrie, the reason I’m telling you all this, at the risk of sounding like a woman scorned, is I think you should be aware what sort of man you are married to. Marcus is a serial philanderer. Truly, it is not my wish to hurt you. However, I can’t deny that I want to hurt Marcus. Badly. He swept me off my feet, but the moment something better came along I was discarded like an empty sweet wrapper. So, Florrie, I suggest you start double-checking your husband’s movements. When Marcus next tells you he’s away on overnight business in London, question it. He’s actually not far away. You would be shocked if you knew just how close he is.

  With your best interests at heart,

  A friend

  I rocked back on my heels and puffed out my cheeks. I had absolutely no idea who the author of the letter was. The only clue was that she had a daughter. Nor was I any the wiser about who Marcus was currently having an affair with other than that this second woman apparently lived close by. One thing I did know was that my husband was indeed a serial philanderer. And I knew the reason why. Ever since he’d been told his sperm count was virtually non-existent, Marcus had almost immediately gone on the prowl. I suspected that bedding one woman after another made him feel manly.

  At first I’d tried to ignore it. I’d told myself things would settle down. Marcus would come to terms with our situation, and the love we had for each other would see us through. Which is all well and good until, after another year of intermittently sobbing into my pillow in a frequently empty marital bed, I’d started to question exactly how deeply in love I was with my husband and whether, in fact, I’d started to thoroughly dislike him. Continuing to live with a man behaving in this way had finally eroded all love. I’d eventually realised that, and come to terms with it. I definitely no longer loved my husband. I’d wept at the full realisation of this, shed tears for all my marriage could have been and now never would be, for I’d already mentally made the decision that I would be leaving. It was simply a case of picking the right moment. Things had to be done properly. Solicitors needed to be appointed. The house would have to go on the market. I also needed to brace up to approaching the subject of divorce with Marcus. He would be furious. This was a man who for years had, as the saying goes, “Had his cake and eaten it”. So far, the bracing up on my part had eluded me. And then, deeply unhappy and quite by chance, I’d suddenly and unexpectedly found comfort elsewhere. But, as my mother would have said if she’d known my circumstances, “look before you leap”. But I hadn’t looked. I’d just leapt blindly. And now I was stumbling around in the dark.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Saturday morning dawned I was up bright and early. After loading the car with my artist’s paraphernalia, I went back to the house to make a quick sandwich and fill a flask with tea. I wasn’t sure how accommodating Harriet might be with refreshment, and thought a packed lunch might be wise. I was just slapping a lid on a plastic container when Marcus came up behind me, catching me unawares.

  ‘How did you get on at the doctor’s yesterday?’

  I froze. I hadn’t told Marcus I’d been to the surgery. ‘F-fine.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have taken some time off work and gone with you.’

  I gulped. I hadn’t reckoned on Marcus wanting to play the supportive husband. After all, half the time he was either not around or locked away in the study “answering emails”, but in reality texting his latest mistress.

  ‘I…well I didn’t see the point really. Not at this stage. It’s very early days, isn’t it?’

  Marcus moved to my side so he could look at me properly.

  ‘Is it really early days?’ he arched an eyebrow. The air in the kitchen was suddenly very still. He gazed at me speculatively. ‘By my reckoning you must be, what, about three months’ pregnant?’ He looked at my tummy. ‘Isn’t it about time we rang our respective parents and told them the happy news?’

  ‘How did you know I’d been to the doctor?’ When cornered, answer a question with another question.

  ‘I went into the corner shop for a newspaper and Mrs Thompson told me she’d seen you in the surgery waiting room while she was waiting to be seen about her sore big toe.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Thompson,’ I nodded. ‘The fount of all village gossip.’

  ‘Indeed. But then again she does rather have her finger on the pulse of the village, doesn’t she? It’s the only place for miles where you can buy a paper and a pint of milk if you’ve run out. In the space of a week she must serve the entire population of Lower Amblegate. Anyway, Mrs Thompson asked after you. She said she was concerned. Apparently you were slumped on a waiting room chair looking as though the weight of the world was on your shoulders whilst gazing into space.’

  I made a tutting noise. ‘I was simply preoccupied.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Marcus said under his breath.

  I inhaled sharply. ‘What’s that remark supposed to mean?’

  ‘You tell me, Florrie. Apparently you’re the one with the weight of the world on her shoulders.’

  ‘If you really must know, at the time I’d been thinking about Alison.’

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,’ said Marcus sarcastically. ‘And what’s wrong in Alison’s perfect world this time? Did Tiffany come home from prep school with an A minus instead of an A star in her latest language assignment? Or is Ali no longer having Christmas in the Caribbean because old Henry can only afford a festive weekend in Benidorm? Or has a major catastrophe occurred whereby Annabelle Farquhar-Jones dared to omit Alison from a coffee morning invitation?’

  I pursed my lips. ‘Regrettably I don’t have time to pursue this line of conversation. Harriet Montgomery is expecting me at nine on the dot.’

  I picked up the lunchbox and made to move but Marcus put a hand out to stop me.

  ‘Actually I’m not interested in talking about Alison, Florrie. I’m more interested in what Dr Baily said.’

  Ah. We’d gone full circle. Back to the same question.

  ‘She simply went over my background medical history,’ I said truthfully whilst neatly leaving out the rest of what had been discussed. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, Marcus, I really do have to go.’ I busied myself gathering up the tea flask and my handbag, carefully avoiding any further eye contact with my husband. ‘See you later.’

  ‘No, you probably won’t.’

  Startled, I swung round to face him. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I thought I’d pop in on my parents later. I gathered you’d probably be painting at the Montgomery-Murray-Wells house until late, so thought I’d catch up with my folks. I might even stay the night if Dad insists I share one of his homemade bottles of wine. You know what that stuff is like. Rocket fuel. Absolutely lethal.’

  ‘Sure,’ I nodded. ‘Give them my love.’

  I turned on my heel and walked smartly out of the house. A mixture of guilt and deceit had me eager to put distance between us.

  Needless to say, when I arrived at Harriet’s, she kept me waiting for nearly three hours. I’d sat, in the make-shift studio, on a chaise-longue somebody had placed by the Juliet balcony. Bored, and suddenly ravenously hungry, I’d devoured my sandwi
ch within the first hour. The housekeeper, a dead ringer for Les Dawson in drag, had brought me up a coffee and a slice of cake in the second hour. I’d been tremendously grateful for that as the hunger pangs had been returning by that point. My appetite seemed to be revving up. Presumably this was the “eating for two” thing. At this rate I’d be piling on the pounds. The housekeeper had stayed and chatted for five minutes. Long enough for me to ascertain that Harriet Montgomery was enjoying a leisurely bubble bath, her daughter Piper was on a sleepover for the weekend, and Martin Murray-Wells was out of the country on business. I was in the middle of texting Daisy when Harriet finally wafted into the studio on a cloud of perfume.

  ‘Florrie.’ She inclined her head by way of acknowledgement.

  ‘Afternoon, Harriet.’ I stood up, rather like one would if a headmistress had walked into a classroom. There was no doubting who had the upper hand here. She was wearing a full-length kimono-style dressing gown which made a swishing noise as she walked over to the chaise-longue. She paused, waiting for me to position myself at the easel.

  ‘Shall we begin?’

  I gritted my teeth. I’d been ready to begin hours ago. ‘Yes, of course.’

  She pulled at the kimono’s tie-belt. The garment slid off her frame and dropped to the floor in a rustle of silk. I tried not to gasp at the sight of her. Loose hair tumbled over creamy shoulders. She had full, pert breasts. Not one ounce of fat clung to her perfect curves. Her legs were long and, it had to be said, seemingly free from cellulite. Harriet draped herself across the chaise-longue and assumed a day-dreaming pose. No wonder Henry was putty in her hands. Poor Alison didn’t stand a chance. I grimaced.

  ‘Are you all right, Florrie?’

  ‘Yes,’ I assured. ‘Just a bit of…indigestion,’ I finished lamely.

  ‘Well don’t go breaking wind in here,’ said Harriet bossily. ‘I’m very sensitive to smells.’