The Corner Shop of Whispers

by Viggiano, Debbie

  I lost my temper.

  ‘Not for want of trying,’ I screamed. ‘Don’t you dare try and play dirty with me, Marcus, or I’ll be presenting a letter to the Court written by one Annabelle Farquhar-Jones and citing her as one of your conquests before you can say “hypocrite”.’

  ‘Leave Annabelle out of this.’ Marcus’s eyes narrowed. ‘She’s got nothing to do with you.’

  ‘Defending her, are we?’ My eyes blazed. ‘Well don’t bother. She’s not interested in you. She’s moved on. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to unpack my bag, and I’d like to be left alone.’

  I scooped up my mail and stomped back to the hallway. Grabbing my holdall, I thumped up the stairs to the spare room and slammed the door after me. The house walls momentarily reverberated. Flopping down on the bed, I tore open the A4 envelope from Franklin & May Solicitors. As Marcus had forewarned, it was a stapled court document, a petition for divorce.

  My eyes flitted across the typed text…the marriage has irretrievably broken down…on the basis of adultery…blah blah…I flipped over the page…my client is seeking…the marriage to be dissolved…Mrs Florence Milligan to pay the costs.

  My mouth pursed. Bloody cheek. Fuming, I tossed the Petition to one side and instead turned to another envelope. It was cream manila, the paper stiff under my trembling fingers. Marcus had wanted me to open it in front of him. I recognised the handwriting immediately. Luca’s. Carefully I peeled back the glued-down seal. Inside was a note and cheque.

  Darling Florrie

  Why did you not meet with me Sunday evening as arranged? I have been calling your mobile without success. Forgive me, but I was so concerned I came to your house in an attempt to see you and make sure all was well. Your husband would not tell me your whereabouts, or explain your sudden disappearance. Please, cara, you must realise I am worried. If you have had a change of heart about me then I promise I will respect that decision, but at least let me know you are okay. I miss you, cara. Meanwhile, here is your payment for the last painting commission.

  Please call me, Florrie. Please.

  I love you.

  Luca

  I stared at the letter. It didn’t read like the words of a duplicitous man who was embroiled in a torrid affair with another woman. But then again, Marcus had always carried on uttering sweet words of crap to me whilst out shagging his numerous conquests.

  Reaching into my handbag, my fingers curled around my mobile phone. I pulled it from the folds and switched it on. It immediately flashed up with a number of voicemails, texts and missed calls. Some were from Daisy and Alison. One was from Harriet. Over one hundred were from Luca. I was astonished that Annabelle hadn’t intercepted them and deleted my number from his mobile. I heaved a sigh and tapped out a message to Luca.

  Thank you for the cheque. I am fine. Do not worry.

  My finger paused over the on-screen keyboard. There was so much I wanted to say. And so much I couldn’t. What I really wanted to do was pour my heart out to him in one great gushing splurge…to say how much I loved him…how much I needed him. I also wanted to call him several rude names for being such a smooth, silver-tongued, lying bastard.

  Mentally I shook my head. No. I would not engage in texting words of vitriol. I was better than that. I gave my brief text message a final glance and then, feeling utterly miserable, pressed “send”. I chucked the phone down on the bed and slumped back against the pillows until I was staring up at the ceiling. It was white, like a blank canvas. Tomorrow was Saturday. A new day and a new month. The first of May. Tomorrow evening was the May Ball. I wondered what both would bring.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The following morning I was awoken by the doorbell ringing. It rang in staccato bursts invading the dark and safe womb of sleep. I turned over, shifting my backside off the lumpy bit of mattress that was the spare room’s bed. With eyes still tightly shut, I groped for the duvet’s edge and pulled it up and over my head, determined to ignore this rude wake-up call. It was probably the postman. Marcus could answer the door. But seconds later the ringing became frenzied. Where the heck was my husband? The racket was inducing a headache. There was the sound of the letterbox clattering followed by a familiar fog-horning voice.

  ‘Florrie? I know you’re in there. Open up! If you don’t come to the door right now I’ll keep my finger on the button so the noise drives you totally nuts.’

  Huffing in annoyance, I pushed back the covers just as the doorbell began to sound like a fire drill.

  ‘Argh!’ I yelped and clapped my hands to my head. ‘Stop it.’

  But the person on the other side of the door either couldn’t hear me or was hell-bent on giving me tinnitus. Sticking my fingers in my ears, I scampered out to the landing and hastened downstairs to the front door. Releasing the catch, I hauled the perpetrator into the house.

  ‘Ouch,’ Daisy protested, ‘you’re hurting me.’

  I released my neighbour’s wrists and massaged my throbbing temples.

  ‘I was in bed!’

  Daisy looked astonished. ‘But it’s nearly noon. You never sleep until this time of day. What’s wrong with you? Are you ill? And where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you, and Marcus wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone. He was quite weird actually. Very un-Marcus-like. No flirting. No smooth talking. Just tight-lipped and rude. He told me to go away and mind my own business. And then Alison turned up also asking after you, and he told her to sod off. Can you imagine? Marcus was bloody lucky Ali didn’t clobber him with her Mulberry handbag.’

  My neighbour rattled to a stop and peered at me, her kind face full of concern.

  ‘Florrie, if you don’t mind my saying, underneath that lovely honey tan you look like something my cat dragged in.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I gave my temples a final rub and let my arms drop limply to my sides.

  ‘I’m going to make a cup of tea.’ I wandered towards the kitchen. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Daisy trotted after me. ‘Tom’s taken the kids to swimming club, so I don’t have to rush back.’ She pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table and sat down. ‘I spotted Marcus when I was waving Tom and the kids off. He told me you were back, but wouldn’t be drawn into any conversation. Florrie, what’s going on?’ Daisy regarded me beadily. ‘Mrs Thompson at the corner shop is gleefully spreading all sorts of tittle-tattle. It would seem that Mrs Thompson is great pals with Harriet Montgomery’s housekeeper. Together the pair of them are having a field day telling anyone who cares to listen exactly what’s going on at The Cul-de-Sac and up at Harriet’s mansion.’

  ‘Ah.’ I paused to pour boiling water into cups and dunk teabags. There was no ritualistic porcelain teapot in this house. ‘So do tell. What news is buzzing on the village grapevine?’

  I placed the mugs on the table, and then foraged in the larder for biscuits. The only thing available was an out-of-date packet of Jaffa cakes.

  Daisy puffed out her cheeks. ‘Well, according to rumour, all sorts of wife-swapping is going on. Mrs Thompson is telling anyone who cares to listen that Alison is having an affair with Martin Murray-Wells, and Harriet is having an affair with Henry. I mean, honestly, what a load of tosh,’ Daisy scoffed. She paused to slurp noisily at her tea. ‘I know Ali likes older men, but Harriet’s hubby practically has one foot in the grave.’

  ‘He’s seventy-seven,’ I protested, ‘not one-hundred-and-seven.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Daisy flapped a hand dismissively. ‘All I know is I wouldn’t bonk either Henry or Martin. Not even for a million quid.’ Daisy reached for a Jaffa cake.

  ‘As it happens,’ I began, but then hesitated.

  Daisy pounced. ‘What?’ She stuffed the entire Jaffa cake into her mouth. ‘C’mon,’ she said spitting crumbs across the table top, ‘tell me!’

  Ah, so what. As my mother liked to say, “The truth will always out.” I dunked my own Jaffa cake in my tea and then regarded Daisy levelly.

&n
bsp; ‘Those rumours are true.’

  Her eyes bulged and she began to choke on her biscuit.

  ‘You what?’ she gasped, struggling for breath.

  I got up and patted her on the back until she’d properly recovered.

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘How the hell do you know that?’ Daisy’s face was a picture of incredulity, but her expression rapidly turned to one of annoyance. ‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t think anybody else even knew,’ I protested. ‘And regarding Alison, I was desperately hoping it was just a one-off.’

  ‘But how did you know?’

  ‘I saw them.’

  Wh-a-a-a-t?’ Daisy looked like she was in danger of choking again.

  ‘It was in the attic rooms. Harriet had turned part of it into a makeshift studio for me. I was up there painting when Martin and Alison burst in. They were welded together at the mouth, half undressed, and far too absorbed with each other to even spot me gaping at them in horror. I didn’t know what to do…whether to embarrass them both by making my presence known, or hide and keep schtum. In the end I did the latter.’

  ‘Just a flippin’ moment,’ said Daisy slapping the table top with one palm. ‘Where was Harriet when all this was going on? Surely she had plenty to say about it!’

  ‘She wasn’t there. I was working on the painting without her.’

  Daisy looked astounded. ‘So…so,’ she frowned, ‘what about Henry and Harriet? How do you know that’s true?’

  ‘Because, on another occasion, I was driving away from Harriet’s place and spotted Henry. He was in his car, zooming up Harriet’s drive. He didn’t even register me passing him in the opposite direction. I’ll never forget the expression on his face. He looked like a little boy who’d had all his Christmases come at once.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Daisy said, slack-jawed. ‘So if Mrs Thompson was right about the four of them, is the rest of her gossip true?’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Depends what else you’ve been hearing.’

  ‘Well, apparently you’ve been having threesomes with Alison and Martin Murray-Wells. The housekeeper said the three of you enjoyed an afternoon bonking in the attic rooms.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘Not true.’

  ‘And apparently you’re also having a threesome with Henry and Harriet.’

  I snorted. ‘Again, not true.’

  ‘And you’re also having a threesome with Marcus and Annabelle Farquhar-Jones.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘You tell me!’

  ‘Rest assured, Daisy, if I ever felt so inclined to try a “ménage à trois”, the last person I’d invite to the party would be Annabelle Farquhar-Jones. I cannot stand the woman.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly,’ Daisy agreed. ‘I was most indignant on your behalf. I told Mrs Thompson you’d only ever do things like that with me, because I was your bestie.’

  ‘Oh my God, you didn’t?’ I said in horror and dropped my head into my hands. ‘You’ve just inadvertently started a fresh rumour circulating. Everyone will be whispering behind their hands that the two of us are a pair of bi-sexual swingers.’

  ‘I’m not finished yet, there’s other chit-chat.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Yup. Apparently Marcus isn’t the father of your baby, and both Henry and Martin Murray-Wells are insisting on taking paternity tests after the birth.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’

  ‘Oh the best is yet to come,’ Daisy grinned. ‘Finally, Annabelle Farquhar-Jones told me herself that the story involving her having a threesome with you and Marcus was absolute drivel because the only person she’s snuggling up to at night is Luca Serafino!’

  I straightened up. ‘You spoke to Annabelle?’

  ‘Yes. I gate-crashed a coffee morning at Alison’s while you were away. Both Harriet and Annabelle were there. Annabelle gave me a smug smile, like a cat that had been after a budgie then landed a pheasant. She said to be sure to tell you Luca was her man.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And I retorted you weren’t remotely interested in Luca, or anybody else for that matter, because you were happily married to Marcus. Right?’

  ‘Er–’

  ‘And then she laughed in my face and announced you and Marcus were getting divorced.’

  ‘Ah–’

  ‘So I jumped up and called her a lying two-faced bitch and flung my coffee at her.’

  Now it was my turn to have wide eyes. ‘You didn’t.’

  Daisy looked sheepish. ‘Unfortunately my aim was off.’ She gave a bark of laughter. ‘Even in the school playground I couldn’t throw a ball to save my life. All these years later it turns out I can’t throw coffee in a straight line either. It ended up going all over Harriet.’

  I gasped. ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. She was absolutely livid. Told me she couldn’t afford to be burnt or scarred for life, especially as she was now starring in Angelina Jolie’s new film.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Stupid pretentious cow. And then Ali chucked me out. Actually, she was horrible to me. She told me to never darken her doorstep again, and that I was no longer welcome at the May Ball.’

  I shook my head. ‘What a kerfuffle. Listen to me,’ I said, reaching across the table and giving Daisy’s hand a quick squeeze as my expression became serious. ‘It was very sweet of you to stick up for me. You are one of my dearest friends, and I know you meant well. But regrettably, what Annabelle said is …well…it’s actually true.’

  Daisy froze. For a moment she simply gawped. When she finally spoke, her voice was little more than a murmur.

  ‘You can’t possibly mean that.’

  I sighed and helped myself to another Jaffa cake.

  ‘I’m sorry to confirm that Marcus and I are indeed divorcing. Throughout our entire marriage he’s been having affairs. It transpires one of his mistresses was Annabelle. Some time ago she wrote to me anonymously. It was an act of whistle blowing. She wanted revenge on Marcus. Firstly, he’d failed to leave me for her. Secondly, she claimed he’d dumped her for somebody else – although Marcus denied that last bit.’

  Daisy looked aghast. ‘This is ridiculous. Please tell me you’re winding me up.’

  ‘I wish I were. And the reason Annabelle wanted you to tell me Luca was her man is because–’ I broke off. ‘This isn’t easy for me to say, Daisy…’

  My neighbour stared at me, her thought processes visibly whirring as she worked out where the conversation was heading.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Daisy hissed, ‘because I think I know the answer. Annabelle was warning you off because…you and Luca have had a walk-out.’ Suddenly she clapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes widened. ‘Oh my goodness,’ she said in a muffled tone, and then dropped her hand back down. ‘Is Luca the father of your baby?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Daisy sucked on her teeth, for a moment too shocked to speak. Then she rallied.

  ‘Why didn’t you confide in me?’ she wailed, clearly stricken. ‘You’ve obviously been having a terrible time.’

  She jumped up and stumbled towards me, knocking the table in the process so our teas slopped. Stooping, she flung her arms around my shoulders. Suddenly I was enveloped in the sort of hug my mother should have given me. I hugged her back, hard.

  ‘Darling Daisy,’ my eyes brimmed at my neighbour’s affection and concern. ‘I had to put my own house in order before I could confide in you. I’ve only just told my parents what’s been going on.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Daisy released me and flopped back down on her chair. ‘How on earth did Barbara take the news? I bet she’s been having the vapours worrying about what everybody will think of her married daughter having another man’s baby.’

  ‘Spot on. However, she was a smidgen more accepting when she found out I’d painted Harriet in the noddy and been handsomely rewarded for doing so. For Mum, social climbing is all. In her mind celebrity status is only one rung below ro
yalty. Incidentally, Mum will be at the ball this evening. She’s dragging Dad and her rambling cronies along too.’

  Daisy leant back in her chair, still struggling to make sense of everything.

  ‘Then there’s only one thing for it,’ she declared. ‘If you and your folks are all attending tonight, so am I. Stuff Alison and her warning me off.’ She rubbed her hands together gleefully and gave a mischievous grin. ‘I suspect any fireworks going off at this ball tonight will be nothing to do with Harriet’s pyrotechnics team. And I, for one, am not missing it for the world.’

  Chapter Thirty

  When Marcus returned home I was in the lounge “doing a Daisy” and still in my pyjamas. Jeremy Kyle’s face filled the television screen. I could see exactly why my neighbour liked dossing about in her nightwear watching car-crash telly all day long. My problems faded to insignificance as I listened to a thirty-five-year-old mother tell Jeremy all about her useless husband drinking the dole money so she couldn’t feed their seven kids. Worry was etched on her face and she looked two decades older than her years.

  As my husband came through the front door, the atmosphere in the house immediately dropped several degrees. Marcus was exuding hostility. Like an invisible cape, it swirled around him, polluting any previous ambience.

  Ignoring me, he went straight upstairs to the master bedroom. Above me came the sounds of wardrobe doors and drawers opening and closing. Minutes later Marcus was back in the hallway, a weekender bag at his feet. He cleared his throat. Reluctantly, I tore my eyes away from Jeremy’s distressed guest who was now dealing with a toothless mother-in-law threatening to punch her lights out. Looking up at Marcus, I inwardly flinched. His face was full of loathing.

  ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ he announced. His voice was clipped, the tone cold. ‘I’ve phoned my boss to let him know I won’t be in the office next week. I’m taking some annual leave. While I’m gone I’d appreciate you signing the estate agent’s paperwork so this house can be sold as soon as possible. And, if it’s not too much trouble,’ sarcasm began to creep into his voice, ‘please could you get yourself a solicitor first thing Monday morning and reply to my Petition.’