Affronted, I chose not to reply and instead got to work. An hour later, Harriet was bored stiff. She’d turned the heating up twice, and the make-shift studio was stifling hot. Now she was fiddling with her mobile phone, clearly texting somebody. After five minutes, her mobile rang. Whoever it was, her face lit up when she saw the caller ID.
‘Dah-ling,’ she purred.
I pretended not to be listening and carried on sweeping strokes of paint across the canvas. Harriet had kept still long enough for me to outline her silhouette and put in basic features.
‘I feel like I haven’t seen you for ages. Yes, me too. Of course I miss you. You’re my sooper-dooper growly-wowly coochy-coo teddy bear,’ she said playfully. ‘Or should I say beddy-bear,’ she threw back her head and treated her coochy-coo caller to her irritating tinkling laugh.
Annoyed, I gripped my paintbrush and fought the urge to march over to the chaise-longue and give her a good slap. Preferably on her perfectly formed buttocks. Harriet had paused to listen to her caller but when she next spoke she was very animated. Excited even.
‘Yes, yes, that could work quite well. I see. Okay, hunny-bunny. Yes, I’ll meet you there. Give me half an hour.’ She ended the call and looked up at me. ‘That was my husband. He wants to take me to lunch.’ Harriet clearly wasn’t au-fait with my conversation with the housekeeper and Martin Murray-Wells being out of the country. ‘Apparently something’s come up.’ Visions of Henry’s third leg filled my mind. ‘For now you’ll have to carry on without me.’
‘Sure.’ I paused mid-stroke and regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Before you go–’
‘Yes?’ Harriet was already up and off the chaise-longue, reaching for her kimono.
‘I wondered if you’d give me some impartial advice.’
As she shrugged herself into her wrap, Harriet looked momentarily surprised. ‘Yes, what is it?’
I cleared my throat. ‘I have a very dear friend whose husband is having an affair.’
Harriet regarded me coolly. ‘And?’
‘I don’t know whether to tell my friend what her husband is up to and, more importantly, who he’s having the affair with.’
Suddenly I was feeling very fired-up and feisty. To hell with jeopardising a four-thousand-pound commission – Alison’s marriage was under threat! I gave the overconfident egotistical woman standing before me a challenging glare.
‘Really, Florrie,’ Harriet tutted, ‘you’re asking me?’
‘Yes,’ I said with steely determination. ‘I am indeed asking you.’
Harriet gave another tinkle of laughter. The sound lacked any humour. ‘I suggest you ask yourself that very question, Florrie. After all, a little bird told me you’ve had your own secret dalliance whilst being a married woman.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I gasped.
She smirked and nodded at the canvas. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’ And then Harriet turned and strode off through the attic rooms, kimono swishing, leaving me mouthing like one of Jeremy Kyle’s cornered guests.
Chapter Fifteen
After Harriet had left without a backward glance, I must have stood at the canvas for a full five minutes. Not one stroke of the paintbrush was made. Instead I stared into space, my mind looping over and over. How did she know about my extra-marital liaison? Had she somehow seen me? If so, where? It surely wasn’t possible for her to know I’d been unfaithful to Marcus.
Disconcerted, I refocused on the painting. Harriet’s face needed defining but the features were loosely there. Her eyes, currently pale and ghostly, looked up at me from the canvas, seemingly straight into my soul. I waggled the paintbrush at her image and frowned.
‘You know nothing, Ms Montgomery. You were simply playing a clever mind game with me. A bit of reverse psychology. You barely know me, never mind the ins and outs of my private life. All you can be sure of is that I live in Lower Amblegate in a small cul-de-sac next door to Alison and Henry. I, on the other hand, know quite a bit about you! I’ve discovered you’re having an affair, who you’re having an affair with, and that you’re with him right now, you treacherous cow!’
Satisfied that Harriet had simply given me some bitchy riposte, I vowed to get on with her painting as swiftly as possible, take the fee and – when the May Ball was over – never see or talk to Harriet Montgomery again. Unfortunately my hunger pangs chose that precise moment to come back with such a vengeance I was forced to leave the easel and go home for sustenance. I needed food. And immediately.
I’d barely walked through the front door when my mobile shrilled into life. Hurrying into the hallway, I dumped my handbag on the floor. Rummaging within, I tried to locate the elusive gadget. Muttering oaths, I tipped the handbag upside down, scattering contents everywhere, and grabbed the chirruping mobile just before it switched to voicemail.
‘Hello?’
My mother-in-law’s gin-soaked voice crackled across cyberspace. ‘Florrie, darling!’ I could picture Margaret sitting in her wing chair, afternoon tipple in one hand, phone in the other. ‘I was just saying to Phil, we haven’t seen you and Marcus for ages.’
‘Hello, Margaret.’ I smiled into the handset. I absolutely adored my in-laws. They were both charming and lovely. I knew, deep down, part of my procrastination about divorcing Marcus had been because I didn’t want my relationship to change with Philip and Margaret. Although now I was up the duff with another man’s baby, it might be them giving give me the sack instead. ‘It’s lovely to hear from you. How are you both?’
‘Oh, we flourish, we flourish,’ Margaret laughed. ‘Since we retired, there’s been little else to do but eat, drink, and be merry.’
My parents-in-law had been filled with grand retirement plans – travelling the world, taking up ballroom dancing, improving their golf handicaps. The reality had turned out to be watching Lonely Planet and Strictly Come Dancing and selling their golf clubs on eBay. They’d settled down to an easier life of watching the world from their armchairs, or Phil pottering in the garden while Margaret knocked up mouth-watering dinners and puddings. Together they were embracing ever increasing waistlines.
‘And you, Florrie? How are you, darling?’
‘Oh, I’m fine. Er, flourishing too.’ It was definitely time to exchange these jeans for something more comfortable and with an elasticated waist.
‘Excellent! Listen, darling. I was chatting to Phil and he says it’s simply been too long. You and Marcus must come to dinner. What about joining us for Sunday lunch tomorrow?’
I grimaced. Even though I’d guessed my husband wasn’t really visiting his parents and staying the night at their house, it was still a small blow to the solar plexus to have it confirmed.
‘That would be lovely, but unfortunately Marcus is out tonight and won’t be home until tomorrow. I’m not sure what time.’
‘Not a problem, darling. Tell you what, I’ll give him a ring on his mobile and put the idea to him. I’ll get back to you in five minutes.’
‘Okay, Margaret, do that and I’ll speak to you shortly.’
I hung up and, bending down, began gathering up the strewn contents of my handbag. My mind wandered to Marcus. I tried to picture his face paling when his mother revealed she’d spoken to me, and that I’d now know he wasn’t spending time with my in-laws. Distracted, I didn’t bother looking at the caller display when my mobile rang again.
‘That was quick!’ I laughed. ‘What did he say?’
There was a pause, and then a male voice quietly spoke my name.
‘Florrie.’
All of a sudden my knees began to shake. I sank down to the hall floor, legs splayed out. This man had always had the most devastating effect on me. My hand gripped the mobile tightly.
‘H-hello,’ I croaked. ‘How are you?’
His voice, when he next spoke, was serious and more urgent.
‘I really think we need to talk.’
Chapter Sixteen
On Sunday morning I awoke in an empty marital bed. I hadn
’t slept well. Yesterday’s conversation with my caller had rocked me. I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling as my mind replayed the conversation.
‘Talk about what?’ I’d asked. My voice had sounded calm, totally at odds to the turmoil raging within.
‘Tongues are wagging, Florrie.’
I’d hesitated. ‘What idle gossip have you heard?’
‘Mrs Thompson doesn’t consider herself to be a blabbermouth. Instead she prefers to be the bearer of “news”.’
I’d grimaced. ‘I see. And what “news” have you heard?’
‘That you’re expecting a baby.’
I’d gasped. How swiftly did word of mouth spread around a village like mine? And how long before the likes of Mrs Thompson ended up telling both Marcus’s parents and mine this “news” which was basically a bombshell? Even worse, how long before Mrs Thompson got wind of the true state of affairs. I could imagine my own mother’s reaction.
“I only went into the corner shop for a pint of milk, and that awful Annabelle Farquhar-Jones was chatting to Mrs Thompson and – in front of a huge queue of customers – they asked how I felt about not only becoming a nanna, but being a grandma to a baby that isn’t even my son-in-law’s child. What have you been up to, Florrie? I hope this doesn’t upset Daddy’s angina. I’ll never be able to hold my head up at the WI again.”
To say my mother was a narrow-minded snob was an understatement. And what of my mother-in-law? Margaret would be devastated.
“Florrie, darling. Is it true? I saw that frightful Harriet Montgomery coming out of the corner shop. She took great delight in telling me you have a bun in the oven and that Marcus isn’t the baker. Don’t worry I gave her a good slap.”
‘Florrie?’
At the sound of his voice, I’d come back to the present.
‘I think you’re right.’
‘Sorry?’
‘We do need to talk.’
At the other end of the line there had been a pause, an indication that unspoken information was being processed.
‘Can I see you tomorrow?’
I’d gulped. ‘Yes.’ The last few days had passed with me cowardly impersonating an ostrich with its head buried in the sand. It was time to be brave and face up to the consequences, which included telling the man in question. After all, I hadn’t got into this predicament all by myself. ‘I’ll pop over about half seven.’
Margaret had eventually called me back about the Sunday lunch invitation.
‘I’ve not been able to get hold of Marcus,’ she’d lamented. ‘My phone calls keep going to voicemail.’
‘Don’t worry,’ I’d soothed. ‘His battery has probably died.’ The reality was he’d probably switched off his phone to avoid having his secret rendezvous rudely interrupted. ‘Shall we do a rain check?’
‘Yes, okay, and tell Marcus not to leave it too long. Cheerio, darling!’
And now, on this early Sunday morning, I wiggled my toes under the duvet luxuriating in its gentle warmth and savouring the moments of calm before the day got underway. I wondered how things might be come Sunday evening. Meanwhile, there was an unfinished painting awaiting my attention. I hauled myself out of bed.
With the duvet no longer plumped around me, the cool air in the bedroom rushed around my bare flesh like a winter breath. Shivering, I reached for my dressing gown. It made a rustling sound as I slipped it on. Something was in the pocket. I touched it. Ah, yes. The anonymous letter. I’d stuffed it into the pocket after reading it again last night.
Downstairs, I was halfway through my breakfast when, from outside, came the sound of a familiar car engine. Marcus was home. A minute later the front door clicked shut and my husband wandered through to the kitchen. He looked animated and was clearly in excellent spirits. Indeed, he exuded happiness. No, that was the wrong word. It was elation. He looked like a man who’d climbed Mount Everest and found a secret door to Heaven.
‘Hi,’ I gave a friendly smile and arranged my features into one of neutrality before spooning up some cereal.
‘Hey,’ he replied, dropping his keys on the worktop.
I munched in an oblivious fashion for a moment or two and then casually opened conversation. ‘Did you have a good time with your folks?’
Marcus visibly appeared to tone down his euphoria. ‘Oh, you know.’ He shrugged. ‘Duty visits are always a bit boring.’
‘How was your dad’s wine? It must have been good, you’re still glowing!’
Marcus looked shifty for a moment. ‘Ah, yes. The wine. Robust as ever. Actually, I have a bit of a hangover.’ He went towards the kettle. ‘I think a strong coffee is definitely overdue.’ He reached upwards and opened a kitchen cupboard, pulling out a mug before foraging in the larder for coffee. ‘Mum and dad send their love.’ He lifted the lid from the kettle to check the water level before flicking the switch. ‘They missed you.’
‘Really?’
There must have been something in my tone that caused Marcus to turn and look at me in surprise.
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Really.’ He considered me for a moment, and then frowned. ‘Are you in one of your funny moods, Florrie?’
I widened my eyes innocently. ‘No. Are you?’
Marcus’s brow puckered. ‘Am I what?’
‘In a “funny” mood?’
My husband tutted. ‘Okay, you are in a funny mood.’
‘I don’t think so. Am I laughing?’
‘And now you’re being ridiculous.’
Annoyed, he turned back to the kettle, busying himself with pouring boiling water and adding milk. I stared at his back. Shoulders set. He looked like he might be steeling himself. For what? To think up more lies? I glanced down at my bowl of cereal. The grains had absorbed all the milk. Everything looked bloated and disgusting. I pushed the bowl away.
‘Marcus?’ I asked softly, addressing my husband’s back. ‘Why don’t we just stop this nonsense?’ There was a measured silence as my husband added sugar to his coffee and began to stir. The only sound was that of the teaspoon clinking against china. My voice was unintentionally sharper when I next spoke. ‘Do you hear me?’
He swung round and his eyes immediately snagged on mine. ‘Oh, yes, Florrie. I hear you loud and clear. And what, my dear wife, is the “nonsense” you wish us both to stop?’
‘You know perfectly well,’ I said quietly, swallowing hard. There suddenly seemed to be a golf ball lodged in my larynx. ‘I’m talking about this…this sham of a marriage.’
There. I’d said it. The words hung in the air, like a detonated nuclear bomb, whooshing upwards and mushrooming outwards but with the fall-out yet to be experienced.
‘Excuse me?’ Marcus spat. He looked livid.
My stomach began to knot with anxiety. Too late to stop now. ‘I can’t stand it any longer.’ My voice sounded odd. Like it belonged to someone else. A part of me felt like the very essence of my being had divided into two. One part had stepped back to watch the kitchen sink drama unfolding at Number 2 The Cul-de-Sac, while the human bit of me pushed back the dining chair and stood up. ‘Let’s just stop all this…pretending.’
Marcus was suddenly very still. ‘Pretending? If there is any pretence, surely you are the guilty one!’
‘Me?’ My eyebrows shot upwards. ‘I don’t think so!’
My voice was rising. I was beginning to feel like I’d climbed up a steep hill. My breath was starting to come in ragged gasps, but the reality wasn’t anything like as solid as a hill. Instead, the truth was that in the last few minutes our lives together had morphed into a fragile house of cards. Marcus and I were teetering on the brink of everything collapsing…our marriage…our home together…our respective futures. For a moment neither of us knew who would be the first to tap one of the cards and send the whole pack tumbling down so that it was an unsalvageable mess. In the end it was me.
‘You haven’t been with your parents at all.’ My words were shrill and accusing. ‘Margaret was on the phone earlier, so
please don’t waste your breath lying. The lies have just gone on and on, haven’t they? Like pretending for years to be in love with me.’
‘I am in love with you.’
His words, delivered smoothly and convincingly, for a moment wrong-footed me. Was he in love with me? I’d assumed, because I’d fallen out of love with him that Marcus had fallen out of love with me too.
‘Florrie, I’m aware things aren’t right between us, but that doesn’t mean I’ve ever stopped loving you.’
‘Rubbish,’ I barked. ‘My definition of a man in love with his wife is one who is loyal and by her side. You’ve been bedding other women from the moment you knew the truth about your sperm count.’
‘Florrie–’
‘And now,’ I interrupted, foraging in the pocket of my dressing gown, ‘I have solid proof of your dalliances.’ I pulled out the letter. ‘Look. See for yourself. One of your mistresses deigned to put pen to paper and spill the infidelity beans.’ I shook the notepaper at my husband and watched his face pale. ‘You say you’re in love with me, Marcus, but apparently you were going to leave me and move in with…with…whoever this person is.’
My voice caught. For a moment tears threatened. Not, you understand, over feelings for Marcus, for I knew without a shred of doubt I hadn’t loved my husband for a long time. Instead the tears were sorrow at allowing our situation to have gone on – for never having been gutsy enough to broach the subject when the love had still been there, when the marriage could have possibly been rescued.
‘May I?’ He leant forward, one hand outstretched to take the letter. As he did so, I caught a whiff of stale perfume. It was somewhat masculine with its musky overtones. A memory stirred. I knew this scent. My heart began to beat erratically as realisation dawned. I’d smelt it before. On Alison. Suddenly some of the words within the letter floated to the surface of my mind.
He’s actually not far away. You would be shocked if you knew just how close he is.
The Corner Shop of Whispers Page 9