The Corner Shop of Whispers

by Viggiano, Debbie

  Dear Lord. Was Alison having an affair with my husband? But…but…no, surely not. She wouldn’t do that to me. Would she?

  ‘Florrie? Can I read it, please?’

  Overcome with uncertainty and rage, I tried to throw the letter at Marcus.

  ‘Be my guest,’ I snarled. But whilst the written words weighed heavily, the notepaper was as light as a feather. It left my hand with a flipping noise, barely flying out six inches before fluttering down to the floor. Bending down, Marcus retrieved it. Even though I couldn’t properly see his face, I knew in an instant he’d recognised the handwriting. His forehead shifted in such a way that indicated eyes widening in horror. He straightened up, reading the note at the same time. I planted my feet wide, hands on hips. An expression of defiance and challenge.

  ‘So,’ I sneered. ‘Do please enlighten me. Who is this so-called “friend” who wishes me well?’

  Slowly, Marcus raised his eyes from the letter to look at me. His body language had changed. Suddenly he seemed contrite. His expression was one of regret.

  ‘It’s true I had a fling with another woman. But there haven’t been quite as many as you think. And whatever is written within this note, I promise I was never going to leave you for her. There’s no comparison.’

  ‘Spare me the pretty words.’ My lip curled like an angry Rottweiler. ‘You still haven’t told me who she is.’ My heart was painfully thudding away. ‘Is it Alison?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  My mouth went dry. What sort of ridiculous question was that? Didn’t an unfaithful man ever realise that a wronged wife was hungry for information about a mistress? I wanted to know everything about this person, right down to her shoe size. My eyes blazed with fury.

  ‘Yes, I really want to know who she is.’ But nothing could quite prepare me for my husband’s answer.

  ‘Very well. The author of this letter is Annabelle Farquhar-Jones.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Anna–?’

  Her name died on my lips. A part of me was hugely relieved Marcus hadn’t bedded my neighbour Alison, whilst another part was ashamed I’d even fleetingly entertained the idea of my friend betraying me. But even so. Annabelle Farquhar-Jones of all people! I stared at my husband, literally gobsmacked. My mind flipped back to the recent coffee morning at Alison’s house with both Annabelle and Harriet in attendance. Upon learning of my baby news, Annabelle had looked furious. It had been Harriet who had made a comment about me not being able to have children. So clearly Marcus had told Annabelle about my infertility problems and it had been Annabelle who had repeated the same to Harriet. Alison hadn’t been gossiping about me after all. I felt another pang of guilt for challenging Alison when I’d followed her out to her kitchen. This was what infidelity did. It made you paranoid – suspicious about everyone and questioning everything.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marcus said in a small voice. ‘And please don’t believe a word about me dumping Annabelle for somebody else. That’s just spite on her part.’

  ‘Where were you last night?’ I croaked.

  ‘Truthfully? I checked into a cheap B&B for…’ he was choosing his words carefully, ‘…space. To reflect.’ His face was a picture of shame. ‘And before you ask, yes, I was on my own.’

  I stared at my husband, still unable to find the words for the sheer volume of thought processes spinning at high speed through my brain. Whatever had he seen in a shallow woman like Annabelle? As Daisy had once said, “Annabelle Farquhar-Jones is so up herself she can probably see what she had for breakfast.” But then again, the woman was attractive and oh-so-very-available. A divorcée, with a daughter at Darwin Prep, Alison had whispered that Annabelle had the reputation of being a man-eater. It was a well-known fact she was husband hunting. But when had she set her sights on Marcus?

  ‘How did you both meet?’ I blurted.

  Marcus shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I want to know!’

  Marcus blew out his cheeks. ‘She had a planning application for a roof extension. I was the surveyor sent to her house.’

  ‘I see.’ I didn’t really see at all. ‘So after you’d checked out her upstairs, you whipped out your tape measure and offered to sort out her basement?’

  ‘Florrie, please–’

  ‘So when did it start?’

  ‘Well, planning applications take a little while so–’

  ‘I’M TALKING ABOUT THE AFFAIR, MARCUS.’

  My husband visibly jumped as my vocal cords suddenly boomed back into life. I was pretty sure not only the other two houses in The Cul-de-Sac had heard my roar, but possibly Mrs Thompson at the corner shop. Give it an hour and the village would be whirring with whispers. “Thanks to Annabelle Farquhar-Jones getting her tits out, the Milligans’ marriage has gone tits-up.”

  I glared at Marcus. ‘I’ll ask you again. When did it start?’

  ‘Well, it was sort of, you know, kind of,’ he put his arms out in a helpless gesture, ‘like, ah, pretty much, erm…’ he trailed off.

  I stared at him incredulously. ‘Immediately?’

  Marcus dropped his eyes to the floor and gazed at a spot somewhere in front of him. He put out his foot and scuffed his shoe gently backwards and forwards. An evasive gesture.

  ‘You had an appointment to see a client, went to her house, and by the time you’d left you’d had a shag?’

  Marcus winced at my vulgar turn of words. ‘Yes,’ he murmured.

  I shook my head in bewilderment. ‘Is that what you’ve always done? Gone to see a client and, if they’re female, pretty and available, you have a quickie?’

  My husband bowed his head. ‘Sometimes,’ he mumbled. ‘Florrie, I’m not proud of myself.’

  ‘Oh, I see, that’s good,’ I nodded. ‘So because you’re not proud of that behaviour, it makes everything okay, eh?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Right, glad you realise that.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Florrie, these things…they just happened,’ Marcus suddenly sounded irritable. ‘It wasn’t pre-meditated. I didn’t get up in the morning and rub my hands together with glee and say, “Well, well, well, Marcus old chap, you’re seeing Annabelle Farquhar-Jones this morning. Let’s see if you can get to first base with her, or even second or third.” The woman practically launched herself at me.’

  ‘As did all the others?’

  Marcus remained defiant. ‘Pretty much, yes. I don’t mean to big myself up, but I think I’m an all right looking guy. Women want me. They bat their eyelids.’

  ‘Well funnily enough, Marcus,’ I ranted, ‘you had the option of saying no. After all,’ I parroted, ‘I think I’m an all right looking woman. Men like me! They bat their eyelids! But the difference between you and me is…I DON’T JUMP INTO BED WITH THEM ALL.’

  Dear Lord. Mrs Thompson was going to have a field day with that grapevine.

  Marcus’s attitude changed in a nanosecond. ‘Don’t you?’ he hissed.

  For a moment my mind was a blank. I looked at Marcus in puzzlement. ‘What are you talking about? Don’t I what?’

  My husband took a step towards me. His eyes narrowed and his mouth disappeared into a thin line.

  ‘Whatever I am, Florrie, and whatever I’ve been, I’ve never put you in the invidious situation of knowing that another woman is bearing my child.’

  I stared at him in bewilderment. And then the penny dropped. Marcus was talking about my pregnancy.

  ‘You see, I know, Florrie. I know that the child you’re carrying isn’t mine.’

  I gulped. Suddenly the tables had been turned. I was as bad as my husband. Maybe I hadn’t slept with umpteen other partners, like him, but adultery was adultery. I’d betrayed my husband. Even worse, I’d doubly betrayed him by conceiving another man’s child.

  ‘You’re no saint.’

  His face twisted with both fury and pain as he took another step towards me. The action was quite menacing. Alarmed, I found myself matching
him step for step but retreating in the opposite direction. He glared at me.

  ‘I know exactly when I last made love to you, Florrie. Quite apart from the fact that I’m pretty much firing blanks, please do explain,’ he nodded at my stomach, ‘why you’re not three months’ pregnant. Or are you going to try and bluff this pregnancy as the next Immaculate Conception?’

  My mouth was suddenly devoid of moisture. I tried to swallow but ended up coughing. I shook my head from side to side, forcing my vocal cords to work. They refused to oblige. I stared at my husband helplessly as he continued to come towards me. I came to a sudden full stop. My spine was against the kitchen wall. Marcus had backed me into a corner, both literally and figuratively. Marcus tilted his head on one side and this time it was his lip that curled.

  ‘You see, Florrie, unlike me, you weren’t so discreet.’

  I continued to stare at him fearfully.

  ‘There I was, parked in a dark side street opposite a very popular restaurant waiting for a certain little waitress to finish work. And lo! In the living quarters above the restaurant, framed clearly in a lamp-lit window, I was amazed to see my wife.’

  Understanding began to seep into my numb brain. My expression changed to one of horror.

  Marcus nodded. ‘It’s coming back to you now, is it? Jolly good,’ he spat. ‘And instead of painting – as you’d led me to believe – you were being embraced by another man. That embrace turned into a passionate kiss. It went on and on and on. I’m surprised neither of you suffocated each other. I watched, mesmerised, as the two of you came up for air and then began ripping each other’s clothes off before slowly sinking out of sight. So you see, my dear Florrie, you’re not such a goody-two-shoes after all, are you? And when you told me you were pregnant, for a moment I allowed myself to truly believe I was going to be a daddy.’

  His voice caught suddenly, and despite everything my heart squeezed for his feelings.

  ‘You see, there was a small part of me that desperately hoped it just might be possible,’ he gulped, ‘and that somehow a miracle really had occurred.’ His chest was starting to go up and down. He was struggling with his emotions. Seeing the visible depths of his despair made me feel both helpless and ashamed. My husband heaved a sigh that audibly reflected his pain.

  ‘So no more accusations between the two of us, Florrie, because I know who is really the father of the baby you’re carrying. My congratulations to you and Luca Serafino.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Marcus stared at me as I shrank back against the kitchen wall. I was trapped.

  ‘Don’t look so scared, Florrie. I’m not going to hit you.’

  I burst into tears. His arms were around me in a trice. I began to shake violently, no doubt from both our mutual confrontation and the shock of so many home truths spilling out. My legs were trembling like an invalid without crutches. If Marcus hadn’t been holding me, I’d have probably slid down the wall and sprawled across the floor.

  ‘Please don’t cry, Florrie.’ His voice was suddenly tender.

  My face was squashed into his shirt which was taking the brunt of both tears and snot. He buried his face in my hair and held me tight.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ he murmured.

  The question was little more than a sigh. For a moment I wasn’t even sure I’d heard him correctly. I pulled back. My bloodshot eyes met his own, which were full of pain.

  ‘Do?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes. Do.’ He raked one hand through his hair. ‘Look, let’s sit down.’

  He led me over to the kitchen table and pulled out two chairs, shifting them so they faced each other. I sat down heavily. Marcus did likewise, shuffling the chair forward so that he was sitting right in front of me. He took my hands in his.

  ‘Florrie, you’re my wife. Despite our marriage being reduced to splinters, I truly believe we might still be able to fix things.’

  I gaped at my husband. ‘You want to stay married to me?’

  Marcus gave me an appraising look. For a moment neither of us spoke.

  ‘Yes,’ he eventually said.

  ‘Marcus, I’m not aborting this baby.’ The words tumbled out of my mouth in a rush.

  ‘I’m not asking you to.’ He looked down at my hands in his and rubbed the ball of his thumb over my wedding band. ‘For better or worse, Florrie.’ He looked up at me under his eyelashes. ‘That’s what we said to each other when we stood at the church altar. I stand by those words. I can’t give you a baby. You have your own fertility issues, so your pregnancy is nothing short of a miracle. So,’ he took a deep breath, ‘I’m going to suggest…,’ he trailed off, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, as if blocking out anguish. When he next spoke the words came out in a hurry, as if the faster he uttered them the more likely they would stick. ‘I’m going to suggest we carry on being married, and that I raise your baby as my child too.’

  I gasped. My husband had just presented me with an incredible solution to the quandary I’d been in ever since Tuesday morning when he’d seen the blue lines on the pregnancy test and danced me around the kitchen in delight. How many men would be prepared, knowing the bitter truth, to do that? Not many. For a moment I was so overwhelmed at his offer, I couldn’t speak.

  ‘That’s…that’s very…magnanimous of you.’

  Marcus nodded. For a moment he looked like a little boy, full of doubt, unsure about carrying out what he’d suggested but refusing to retract the offer because of marriage vows. How very virtuous. I gazed at his fingers now intertwined with mine. His offer, if that’s what you could call it, might well be generous but it was also flawed.

  ‘You mentioned our marriage vows,’ I said hesitantly. ‘For better or worse.’ He nodded morosely. I stumbled on, not sure how to collate the thoughts in my head. ‘The thing is…we also made vows to love and to cherish.’

  Marcus’s expression changed to one of bafflement. ‘Yes, I know that. What point are you making?’

  ‘The point I’m making is you’ve never worried too much about the vow of “love and cherish”, so why do you feel you have to honour the bit about “for better or worse”?’

  He looked thrown. ‘What do you mean? Of course I’ve loved and cherished you!’

  ‘I don’t agree. I know I’ve now broken that vow too, but…,’ I shrugged, not wishing to sound churlish about who had done what first or how many times. This wasn’t a case of point scoring. Nonetheless it was an integral part of what was going on here. ‘From the moment you discovered the truth about your infertility, you were off chasing anything in a skirt.’ I stared at him, willing him to understand. ‘That’s not loving and cherishing me,’ I reasoned. ‘Don’t you understand, Marcus, that when I ended up in the arms of another man, it was out of deep unhappiness.’

  He inhaled sharply. ‘I was unhappy too, Florrie.’

  ‘Yes, unhappy about your psychological hang-ups of manliness and not being able to father a child!’ I cried. ‘Not unhappy because I was an awful wife!’

  ‘Are you saying I’ve been an awful husband?’ He looked affronted.

  ‘Yes!’ I cried. ‘Have you any idea how it felt, Marcus, knowing for weeks at a time you were making love to another woman. My arms were always open for you…to comfort you…to share the hand that life had dealt the two of us. But you instead chose to walk into the arms of others. You completely rejected me. Time and time again. I always knew when someone else was on the scene because your interest in me immediately became non-existent.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he said vehemently.

  ‘Oh yes it is,’ I countered. ‘And you know what, Marcus? I don’t believe for one moment you were by yourself in a B&B last night.’

  ‘I was in a B&B,’ he said emphatically.

  ‘Sure,’ I nodded. ‘But not alone, eh?’ His eyes slithered away from me. ‘You haven’t laid a finger on me for three, if not four, months. That is how I know you’re seeing another woman right now.’

  My husband remov
ed his hands from mine and silently stared up at the ceiling. When I next spoke, my voice was low.

  ‘Marcus, continuing this marriage would be disastrous. I think you’ve only suggested staying with me because, by letting others believe you’re the baby’s father, you think you’d fulfil some emotional void. But you would know the truth. It would only be a matter of time before you’d resent raising a child you knew wasn’t biologically yours. You’d still be looking to prove yourself elsewhere. Even now, when we’re meant to be baring our souls to each other, confessing the truth with a view to starting afresh, you cannot be honest. Who is she, this latest squeeze?’

  He waved a hand dismissively. ‘It’s irrelevant.’

  I inhaled sharply. No denial this time. Of course there was another woman on the scene. There always would be.

  Marcus met my eyes again. ‘I hear what you’re saying, Florrie. And…and I guess you’re right. Starting again is almost guaranteed to fall at the first hurdle. I’m not sure I could dance for joy watching my wife give birth to another man’s baby. You’re right.’

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise at his sudden acknowledgement.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘I also think there’s another reason our marriage wouldn’t work, and it’s got nothing to do with fidelity or fulfilling emotional needs.’

  I gazed at him, knowing what he was leading up to before he’d even uttered the words.

  ‘You see, Florrie, there’s a fundamental difference between you, me and our respective betrayals. I’ve never loved any of the women I’ve had an affair with, but I’ve always loved you. You talk of honesty. Indeed, you’re demanding it. But I put it to you now to confess you’re not being fully truthful with me.’ He paused to give me a frank look. ‘If you can’t admit it, then I’ll say it for you.’

  I waited to hear the words that I’d been terrified of admitting to myself.

  ‘I know the real reason our marriage would fail. It’s because you’re in love. But not,’ he concluded sadly, ‘with me. Am I right?’

  I bit my lip and turned away.