The Corner Shop of Whispers

by Viggiano, Debbie

  ‘I’ve already told you that I’m painting and currently earning very well.’

  ‘Not everybody can afford to waste their hard-earned wages on an unknown artist, Florrie. Don’t think for one minute you’ll make a regular living out of slapping a bit of paint on a canvas.’

  ‘Thank you for the vote of confidence,’ I muttered.

  ‘Stop mumbling, child.’ Mum undid her seat belt. ‘I’d now like to change the subject.’ She put up a hand to Beryl and yodelled a greeting through the driver’s glass. My mother’s meeting-and-greeting smile was now firmly in place on her carefully made up face. Out of the entire group only my mother was in full make-up. She’d rather die than be caught climbing over stiles without wearing her fuchsia-pink lippy. Mum pulled on the driver’s door handle and slid out of the car.

  ‘Morning, ladies,’ she trilled. ‘Lovely weather for today’s walk. I hope you don’t mind, but my daughter has come along too.’

  I clambered out of the passenger side and raised a hand in greeting. ‘Hi, everyone.’ I smiled at the group of women. There were about a dozen of us in all.

  ‘Morning,’ Beryl briskly responded. I wasn’t quite sure where Mum fitted in with the pack’s pecking order, but was fairly sure it couldn’t be too far from the top.

  ‘Florrie, isn’t it?’ asked a sweet-looking grey-haired lady who was hovering on the outskirts of the group.

  ‘It is,’ I nodded gratefully.

  ‘I’m June.’ She sidled over to my side as, without further preamble, the group headed off at a cracking pace.

  Our footsteps fell rhythmically into time as we strode, like a miniature army on parade, across the road and through a gap in a hedge and into a field full of sheep. Our walking shoes thumpity-thumped against soft rugged turf as we began ascending a steep North Downs hill set against a backdrop of skylark blue.

  ‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ said June keeping up with me. From my peripheral vision I saw Mum flash me a warning look. June matched me pace for pace as we veered towards a track that ominously looked like it would become a vertical ascent. ‘You’re an artist, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I nodded, puffing a bit now.

  Blimey, these ladies might be retired but they could certainly shift. Clearly their leg muscles were in better shape than mine. Things were getting steeper by the moment. I had an overwhelming urge to drop on all floors and scramble, monkey-like, up the gradient. I briefly dared to look over my shoulder. Far below the bucolic scene of a tiny village complete with church and spire momentarily had me wishing I could set up an easel and paint, but then vertigo got the better of me and I was forced to concentrate on the incline ahead.

  ‘Actually, I’ve seen some of your work,’ said June cosily.

  ‘Really?’ I gasped. Sweat had started to bead across my brow.

  ‘Me and my hubby were in that new Italian restaurant on the other side of town,’ she nodded happily, ‘and there were three incredibly striking landscapes on the walls. Your name was underneath. My husband was so impressed, he wanted to buy one. But the proprietor said none of them were for sale. He was a charming man, but very firm about not making a sale. He said my husband would have to get in touch with the artist directly.’

  My heart picked up a bit of speed, which was nothing to do with the ridge of chalk trails we were now negotiating.

  ‘What’s that, June?’ My mother dropped back to walk by our sides.

  ‘I was just saying to your daughter, her paintings are absolutely stunning. Florrie has three landscapes in Serafino’s restaurant.’

  ‘O-oh, yes, yes,’ my mother nodded her head vigorously, as if she knew all about it – which of course she didn’t. ‘Florrie’s in huge demand. I’m sure she’s going to be quite famous one day,’ Mum boasted. I inwardly cringed.

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ June agreed. ‘After all, you’ve just done a portrait for Harriet Montgomery, haven’t you?’

  ‘How did you know that?’ I asked incredulously.

  ‘One of my daughters told me,’ June replied. ‘In fact, you might even know her.’

  I tensed. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Annabelle,’ June beamed. ‘Annabelle Farquhar-Jones.’

  I took a moment before replying, concentrating hard on the abundance of bright yellow buttercups carpeting the rolling hills to our left and right.

  ‘No,’ I said lightly. ‘I don’t think I’ve met her.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said June looking crestfallen. ‘I’m sure you and she would have so much in common.’

  Well we certainly had two men in common.

  ‘Yes,’ I gave a tight smile and tried to be gracious. It wasn’t June’s fault her daughter had tried to poach my husband and then stolen my lover. Correction. Ex-lover.

  ‘Harriet Montgomery?’ Mum butted in with a squawk. Her eyes were as round as the late April sun beating down on us. ‘You never told me about this, darling.’ The last word was said through gritted teeth.

  ‘It’s not meant to be common knowledge,’ I replied. ‘Harriet is keeping everything under wraps, literally, until the May Ball this Saturday. That’s when she’ll do a proper unveiling with the press in attendance. There might even be a television crew.’

  ‘Are you going to this May Ball?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Yes. Not that I particularly want to be there,’ I added. ‘But Marcus and I are meant to be supporting our neighbour more than anything. You remember Alison? She’s put a lot of time and effort into the preparations so that Harriet can just get on and play gracious host on the night.’ I didn’t add that half the time Ali had probably been screwing Martin Murray-Wells on a chaise-longue in Harriet’s mansion. I suddenly felt impotent fury at Alison’s coercion, and all her tears over her husband’s fling when in fact she was no better than Henry with all her lies and deceit.

  Careful, Florrie. Careful. No judging. After all, you’re no different to Alison yourself now, remember?

  ‘Well,’ said Mum quickly recovering her aplomb, ‘I had no idea you were such good friends with a movie star of all people. You know, I think I’d like to go to your village’s May Ball. It sounds fun.’

  I groaned. My mother didn’t do “fun”. What my mother did like to do was socially climb. And what better way than to say she was on shoulder-rubbing terms with a celebrity?

  ‘Yes,’ Mum nodded her head vigorously, mind now made up. ‘You can introduce me to Harriet Montgomery and get her autograph for me too.’

  I sighed. ‘She’s not very approachable like that.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Barbara,’ said June smugly. ‘My daughter will get you an autograph. Annabelle is great mates with Harriet.’

  Mum looked thoroughly put out. In her eyes, someone right at the bottom of the group’s pecking order had almost escalated to Top Dog. But nobody was knocking Beryl off her Number One spot. Within seconds the lady in question had fallen into stride with the three of us.

  ‘I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation,’ said Beryl. ‘I think I can speak for everybody here, Florrie. We’d all like to go to Lower Amblegate’s May Ball, meet your friend Harriet Montgomery and see your splendid painting of her.’

  ‘Excellent idea, Beryl,’ said Mum, clawing herself back into deputy position. ‘I was going to suggest the very same thing. Meanwhile,’ Mum turned to me, ‘your friend Alison will be chuffed to bits that you’ve sold so many extra tickets.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘That’s just absolutely…marvellous.’

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘Bill?’ my mother shrieked.

  We’d barely finished our ramble and said good-bye to Beryl and her gang when Mum had roared home, practically bundling me through the front door in her haste to share “news” with Dad. She stationed herself at the bottom of the stairs and fog-horned in the direction of the landing above.

  ‘Bill! Are you up there?’

  ‘I’ve only just got myself settled
,’ Dad’s muffled voice floated towards us. He was clearly enthroned in the smallest room.

  ‘Get yourself down here,’ Mum ordered.

  ‘Oh for…’ There was the sound of muttered oaths followed by the toilet flushing.

  ‘And don’t forget to wash your hands,’ said Mum bossily.

  ‘I’m not a child, Barbara,’ replied Dad with annoyance.

  ‘That’s debatable at times,’ Mum muttered under her breath. ‘Come on, Florrie. Get those grubby trainers off and let’s get the kettle on.’

  She hastened off to the kitchen leaving me trailing reluctantly behind. I’d never seen my mother so fired up, and all over a wretched fund-raising ball hosted by an ex-movie star with an ego bigger than the Dartford Tunnel.

  My father wandered into the kitchen.

  ‘My goodness, Florrie!’ he smiled with pleasure. ‘That walk must have done you the power of good. You have some smashing roses in your cheeks.’

  The “roses” were nothing to do with a brisk walk through the North Kent countryside or gulping in lungfuls of clean fragrant air, but rather everything to do with Mum’s rambling group thinking I was Harriet Montgomery’s bestie and wanting a slice of whatever action they perceived to be on offer at the May Ball. I felt decidedly annoyed.

  Mum plugged the kettle in then turned to face Dad.

  ‘Get your tux out of mothballs, Bill. We’re going to a ball.’

  Dad stared at my mother as if she’d lost the plot.

  ‘What ball? And don’t be daft, Barbara. I’ve not worn my tux in ten years. Back then I was three stone lighter.’

  He reached past Mum for the biscuit barrel languishing next to the kettle. Like a police barrier, Mum’s arm shot out instantly barring access.

  ‘You have twenty-four hours to lose the weight.’

  Dad looked thoroughly put out. ‘I only wanted a couple of custard creams.’

  ‘You’re not listening to me,’ said Mum shrilly. ‘We’re going to a posh black-tie event in Lower Amblegate. You need to fit into that tux.’

  ‘Mum,’ I sighed. ‘It’s just a village “do” organised by some of the mothers whose kids go to Darwin Prep.’

  Dad looked horrified. ‘I’m not going to some country bumpkin bash.’ He slapped away Mum’s arm and grabbed the biscuit barrel, hurriedly foraging inside for the forbidden biscuits before she snatched the tin off him. ‘I hate those types of occasions. It will be curled-up sandwiches and warm cheap wine. Apart from anything else,’ he added, ‘I won’t know anybody.’

  ‘Actually, Dad, it will most definitely be a champagne-and-lobster affair.’

  ‘Who’s side are you on?’ he grumbled, but I could tell he’d perked up knowing his favourite food was on the menu.

  ‘Nobody’s,’ I assured. ‘But you’ll know me. I’m going.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dad reluctantly, looking a smidgen happier.

  ‘And Marcus,’ I added.

  ‘Well he’d better stay away from me,’ Dad growled, his eyes suddenly flashing with anger, ‘or I’ll be telling him his fortune again.’

  ‘What Florrie hasn’t told us,’ said Mum importantly, ‘is that she was recently commissioned by Harriet Montgomery to do a portrait.’

  My mother was almost beside herself with happiness. She could dine out on this story with her rambling and bridge friends for a long time to come.

  ‘Harriet Montgomery?’ Dad blinked. ‘Didn’t she used to act?’

  ‘She still does,’ Mum replied, her eyes glowing with an inner light. ‘I watched her on breakfast telly the other day. She’s going to be in Angelina Jolie’s new movie!’ Dad looked none the wiser. ‘So you’d better sort out that tux, Bill, because we’re going to that ball even if your belly pops every single button on your frilly shirt.’ Mum turned back to the boiling kettle and busied herself making a pot of tea. ‘Apparently,’ she said over her shoulder, ‘Harriet Montgomery paid our Florrie eight thousand pounds for painting her in the buff.’

  ‘Harriet’s painted our Florrie in the nude?’

  ‘Really, Bill, do try and keep up,’ Mum snapped. ‘Harriet Montgomery was the one who was starkers, not our daughter.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ Dad muttered.

  Mum swung round, her eyes doing a fair impression of a one-armed bandit machine registering jackpot dollar signs.

  ‘Eight thousand pounds!’ She thumped the porcelain teapot on the kitchen table by way of emphasis. ‘It no longer matters that you’re a husbandless pregnant woman, Florrie. Not one tiny jot. In fact, it will probably assist your career as an artist. People expect creative types to be a bit...,’ she paused and wrinkled her brow whilst thinking of an appropriate description, ‘you know, odd.’

  ‘Gee, thanks, Mum. I’m so glad I finally have your seal of approval,’ I said drily as I poured myself a cup of tea.

  ‘Take no notice of your mother, love,’ said Dad. ‘She’s always did have ridiculous airs and graces. I don’t know where she gets them from. Bottom line is, I will be delighted to go to this ball, but only because my brilliant and talented daughter is going to be there getting some long overdue recognition as an artist. Well done, our Florrie.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ I smiled gratefully. ‘And when I’ve finished this cuppa, I’m going to get my stuff together and go home.’

  It had been a lovely break, but it was time to return to Lower Amblegate and face the marital music.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I returned home to find a very subdued Marcus in the lounge watching the telly. He was munching his way through a plate of toast. It was clear from his expression that he was feeling neglected at having to fend for himself in the culinary department these last few days. When he saw me coming through the front door, he immediately abandoned his make-shift meal. Reaching for the remote control, he switched the television off and stood up.

  ‘Ah, you’re home. Have a good break?’ he asked tersely, stepping into the hallway.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ I answered politely.

  He came towards me. ‘You have a nice tan,’ he observed. ‘Weather good?’

  I put down my holdall and kicked off my shoes.

  ‘I haven’t been to Spain, Marcus. I’ve been six miles away. The weather at my parents’ house was exactly the same as here.’

  ‘Ah, yes. How are Barbara and Bill? I gather your father is no longer a fan of mine, despite his daughter being knocked up by another man.’ His tone was suddenly bitter. ‘Rather double standards if you ask me.’

  ‘Well I haven’t asked you, so let’s just drop the subject, eh?’

  Leaving my bag in the hallway, I walked into the kitchen. Marcus trailed me. Ignoring him, I spotted a small pile of mail addressed to Mrs Florence Milligan. The envelopes were stacked neatly on the worktop. Picking them up, I rifled through them.

  ‘I take it they do know you’re knocked up by another man?’ my husband persisted.

  ‘Marcus, I’d rather you didn’t talk like that. Yes, my parents are aware of the situation. No, they don’t know who the baby’s father is. And I don’t particularly want them knowing either.’

  ‘Well I’m hardly likely to be the one to tell them who the daddy is,’ Marcus said scornfully. ‘After all, I don’t suppose I shall be seeing them any time soon or at all for that matter. The days of dropping in on my father-in-law and inviting him out for a pint to have respite from your mother’s sharp tongue are well and truly over.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong.’

  I paused over a large formal brown envelope with the words “Franklin & May Solicitors” stamped in red ink at the top left-hand corner. Marcus had been busy whilst I’d been away.

  ‘You’ve forgotten about the May Ball. You’ll be seeing my parents there, at the event, tomorrow evening.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ Marcus quickly replied.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ I said with a shrug.

  I didn’t care whether Marcus attended with me or not. I paused over another e
nvelope. This one was franked by a local estate agent. I ripped it open.

  Dear Mr and Mrs Milligan,

  Thank you for allowing us to value your property. We would be delighted to market Number 2 The Cul-de-Sac. As discussed, our fees are one per-cent for sole agency and…

  I put the letter down and glanced up at Marcus.

  ‘Can I remind you this house is jointly owned? I’d be much obliged if you’d consult me in future before getting estate agents in for valuations behind my back.’

  ‘Too bad,’ he said, suddenly bolshie. ‘You weren’t here. I was.’

  But I didn’t answer. My hand had paused over another envelope, this one hand-written and addressed solely to me. Out of my peripheral vision I could see Marcus watching me closely.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open that one too, Florrie?’

  There was a sneer in his voice. I tore my eyes away from the handwriting and looked at Marcus. His mouth was twisted into a caricature of a smile.

  ‘Not right now,’ I said lightly. I placed the letter on top of the other correspondence.

  ‘Oh but you should,’ Marcus insisted.

  I regarded my husband steadily. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s from Lover Boy,’ he said coldly. ‘I had him on the doorstep at the start of the week demanding to know where you were.’

  ‘And did you tell him?’

  ‘Yes, I told him all right. I told him to bloody sod off or I’d punch his lights out, and I also put him straight about being a marriage wrecker.’

  ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Ridiculous, eh? I don’t think so, Florrie. You might as well know I’ve filed for divorce. I’m the Petitioner and I’ve cited Luca Serafino as Co-Respondent. After all, I’m not the one who’s gone out and impregnated another man’s wife.’