‘Do not move,’ she instructed.
She stood up and, as she did so, the doorbell exploded into life. I jumped, slopping brandy everywhere.
‘That’ll be the cops,’ I bleated. ‘Daisy, help me. I don’t want to go to jail and be somebody’s bitch.’
From the other side of the door came a voice of authority.
‘Open up!’
‘That’s no police officer,’ Daisy grimaced. ‘It’s Alison.’ There was a series of raps on the door punctuated by doorbell rings. ‘Just a flippin’ moment,’ Daisy yelled.
She gave one final reassuring pat on my hand, checked her towel was firmly in place, and padded off to the front door. Moments later Alison was in the front room, berating the pair of us.
‘Thanks to you, Florrie, the television crew that should be setting up at Harriet’s place are now hanging around outside your house.’
I paled. ‘Oh God. Have they come to film me being arrested?’
Alison frowned. ‘Arrested? Why? What have you done?’
I gulped. I wasn’t sure who was more terrifying. A police officer bearing handcuffs, or Alison. I’d just have to spit it out and tell her straight.
‘I’ve killed Marcus.’
Alison tipped her head to one side and regarded me as if I were educationally sub-normal.
‘What on earth are you burbling on about?’
I took a deep breath. ‘My husband is dead.’ I was starting to feel oddly calm. Either the brandy was kicking in or I was now in such deep shock I was no longer feeling emotion. Now it was my turn to address Alison in the sort of patronising and enunciated tones she favoured.
‘Marcus has departed this world. Passed away. Passed over. Passed on.’
‘Passed out, you mean,’ Alison tutted. ‘Really, Florrie. I know you artistic types can be a bit theatrical, but don’t overdo it.’
I glared at her. ‘I can quite categorically state that I’ve killed him. Ah, that’s got your attention, hasn’t it! I can see it now, you and your bitchy friends discussing me for weeks on end at your exclusive coffee mornings. “Oh yes, she was a murderer, you know. Who would guess something as innocent as a china vase could put somebody in the morgue faster than you can say coffin. He died in the front room. Nobody wants to buy Number 2 because of its sordid history. And it’s all Florrie Milligan’s fault that house prices in The Cul-de-Sac have crashed.”’
Alison stuck her hands on her hips and looked extremely put out.
‘Well it’s nice to know what you truly think of me and my other friends, Florrie.’
‘Don’t look so pained,’ I growled, warming to my task. ‘Only half-an-hour ago you were berating me for wearing my pyjamas in the afternoon and having a fling with Daisy.’
‘Eh?’ Daisy was looking as stumped as a co-guest on a Jeremy Kyle show.
‘Ah, that’s what I came over about,’ said Alison suddenly looking shamefaced. ‘To apologise. If the pair of you want to be partners, then it’s not for me to put you both down. I expect you’ll both make a splendid couple. Although I’m not so sure your Tom will be thrilled to bits, Daisy.’
‘For Gawd’s sake, Ali,’ Daisy huffed. ‘Florrie and I aren’t lesbos, so will you put a bleedin’ sock in it and stop listening to village gossip. Quite frankly I’ve a good mind to borrow what’s left of Florrie’s vase and go and visit Mrs Thompson at her corner shop and knock her flamin’ brains out.’
I perked up slightly. ‘Then we can go to prison together.’
‘Florrie, do stop twittering on about being locked up,’ Alison said in annoyance. ‘I’ve not long since seen Marcus. He staggered out of your front door holding an ice-pack in one hand and clutching a small suitcase in the other. He gave me your house keys, and when I asked what on earth was going on, he told me to keep my aristocratic nose out of his business and to fuck off.’ Alison looked suitably outraged as she handed me the house keys. ‘So I can promise you Marcus is still a member of the human race and walking amongst us.’
I stared at Alison, not quite daring to believe what I’d heard.
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Really, really?’
‘Really, really, really,’ she assured.
The relief was so immense I burst into tears.
‘Sorry,’ I blubbered, ‘but you just don’t know how awful it was in there. I’m going to have to move out.’ I wiped a hand across my face. ‘I’ll have to go and live with my parents until the house is sold.’ I glanced at Alison, aware she probably wasn’t up to speed on my new marital status. ‘We’re not together any more. That’s one piece of village gossip you might have heard and, if so, it’s true.’
She nodded, her face sad.
‘Yes, I had heard. And I’m quite sure the two of you are aware of the gossip circulating about me and Henry, and also Harriet and Martin.’
Daisy and I both arranged our features into suitably innocent expressions.
‘No,’ we both said together.
Alison looked surprised, and then pleased.
‘Well if you do hear anything, as far as I’m concerned absolutely none of it is true,’ she said firmly, ‘and I’d be much obliged if you would emphasise that to all the gossips who say otherwise. Sometimes marriages go through a stale patch and need a little shake-up.’
‘So all your worries about Henry having a fling with someone are groundless?’ asked Daisy.
Alison’s face turned peony pink. She wasn’t a good liar.
‘Not entirely.’ She studied her fingernails for a moment. ‘Henry did pursue somebody else, and he did buy a bracelet engraved with a gushing message.’
‘Oh, Ali,’ said Daisy, her voice full of sympathy.
Alison looked up from her nail inspection.
‘It’s all fine now,’ she assured, ‘and let’s just say the lady in question has had revenge exacted, whether she’s aware of it or not.’ Her eyes snagged on mine as she added, ‘And I’m not talking about tampered portraits.’
‘Your secret is safe with us,’ I assured.
‘Good,’ she nodded. ‘I’ll be at the May Ball tonight with Henry by my side. It’s a fund-raising event and I’ve worked my socks off ensuring all goes to plan on behalf of Darwin Prep. And I’m sorry I banned you from attending, Daisy. It goes without saying that I want you there to support me. Both of you. And preferably dressed,’ she eyeballed Daisy’s towelling attire and my pyjamas, ‘and ideally in sparkling frocks and full make-up.’
‘We’ll be there, and we won’t disappoint you, eh, Florrie?’ grinned Daisy.
‘Definitely,’ I replied, cranking up a weak smile.
I was still trying to come to terms with Marcus’s resurrection. Right now I felt like somebody who’d been on Death Row for the last hour suddenly receiving a pardon.
‘Right, that’s settled then,’ said Alison briskly. ‘In which case all I need you to do now, Florrie, is meet and greet the television crew stationed outside your house, and tell them you’re an eccentric artist who spends all day in her pyjamas for creative inspiration and that you’d be delighted to see them at Harriet’s a little later for the unveiling of her anniversary portrait to Martin.’
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. I definitely wasn’t a murderer. My soon-to-be-ex-husband was unquestionably alive. I wasn’t going to prison. And if I played my cards right, I was just about to have my career as an artist well and truly launched. I stood up like Bambi testing out his limbs for the first time. My legs were still wobbly from spent adrenalin and drama. Carefully I made my way to Daisy’s front door.
‘Oh, and Florrie?’
Alison called me back. I paused. Turned around.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m very sorry to say that Annabelle Farquhar-Jones and Marcus are an item.’
I smiled sadly. ‘That’s one bit of village tittle-tattle that’s definitely wrong. Annabelle is seeing Luca Serafino.’
Alison shook her head. ‘She was never seeing Luca, Florrie. It’s your husband she’s been af
ter all along. She only said she was after Luca to make Marcus jealous when he briefly switched his affections,’ she paused, ‘elsewhere.’
‘What? What!’ my voice was like a cracked whip in a tart’s boudoir. ‘B-but Marcus was playing away with Harriet.’
‘Oh, you knew about that, did you?’
‘I only found out this afternoon. How on earth did you know?’
‘I walked in on them in the attic rooms,’ Alison gave me a knowing look. ‘Ironic, isn’t it? I’d gone up there to…um…see how the portrait was progressing.’
Alison couldn’t quite meet my eye. In that moment it was obvious she’d previously sought to spoil Harriet’s precious painting prior to eventually defacing it when I was hiding under the chaise-longue.
‘I walked in to find the two of them at it. They were rolling around on that pretentious lounger in the back room. I crept away before either of them spotted me. Your husband was only ever a distraction for Harriet. She’s actually a very insecure woman who just needs to be adored.’
‘You don’t say,’ I retorted sarcastically.
‘The main thing is that Annabelle isn’t with Luca. And never was. And if village chatter is to be further believed, you mean much more to Luca Serafino than somebody who paints Florentine landscapes for his restaurant.’
Alison’s words were like marbles rattling through a run. As they quick-fired into my brain, it took a second to process their meaning. My God! Luca hadn’t had a fling with Annabelle! I had no idea why she’d answered his phone that night when I’d been due to meet him, but the main thing for now was grasping that Luca was a free agent.
Feeling my battered heart soaring quicker than a Victoria sponge in a microwave, I tottered outside to greet the television crew.
Chapter Thirty-Three
‘There she is!’ said a man with a battery pack clipped to the back of his trouser belt. He hastened towards me with one arm extended and thrust a large fluffy microphone at my face. ‘Florrie Milligan?’
‘Yes?’ I smiled nervously as another man, a huge camera hoisted upon one shoulder and trailing thick black flex, began filming.
‘Good afternoon. I understand you’re the artist chosen exclusively by film star Harriet Montgomery. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Florrie.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How does it feel knowing your portrait is going to be unveiled this evening at the annual May Ball in front of an audience of thousands watching television at home?’
‘Amazing and somewhat overwhelming,’ I smiled into camera, adopting an expression more sincere than Hughie Green’s. ‘I can honestly say being commissioned by Ms Montgomery was an eye-opening experience, and I’m really looking forward to attending the May Ball this evening.’ In my peripheral vision I could now see that Alison was standing outside Daisy’s house and hastily swiping a lipstick across her mouth. ‘In fact,’ I smiled at the camera lens, ‘here is one of the key organisers.’
I turned and waved to Alison who instantly feigned surprise before hurriedly dropping the lipstick back into her handbag. She smiled graciously and, giving her best Miss World walk, sashayed over to the anchorman.
‘A very good afternoon to you,’ she beamed. ‘I’m Alison Fairweather, project manager for Lower Amblegate’s exclusive annual May Ball which is a fund-raiser for worthy causes, predominantly Darwin Preparatory – intake from age three but, parents, please get baby’s name on the waiting list as soon as he or she is born.’
Alison was well and truly in her element and glowing brighter than a set of neon highlighter pens. No doubt she was privately thinking some telly exposure might add another ten grand to house prices in The Cul-de-Sac.
‘How did you feel, Alison,’ asked the anchorman, his smile not wavering for one second, ‘when you discovered your husband was having an affair with Miss Montgomery?’
‘W-What?’ Alison’s glow instantly dimmed.
‘According to our source, Lower Amblegate is a hotbed of sex and scandal, so much so that it’s attracted the attention of scriptwriters. They’re looking at making a spin-off of our favourite soap, but more upmarket. Indeed, I believe it’s provisionally being called “The Cul-de-Sac”.
Alison appeared to have suddenly lost the power of speech. The anchorman turned to me.
‘You, Florrie, are to be played by up-and-coming actress Eleanor Coveney.’
‘M-Me?’ I stuttered. ‘Why would scriptwriters be interested in me?’
‘Because you are a high-drama individual. Eleanor isn’t remotely fazed by portraying you as the victim of a wife beater.’
I blanched. ‘My husband doesn’t beat me!’
‘That’s what all victims of domestic violence say. How do you explain staggering out of your house earlier looking visibly distressed? We captured everything on film. Is it true you sought revenge by trying to murder Mr Milligan?’
I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. Instead Daisy materialised by my side, still dressed in her towels with the remainder of her face pack clinging by thin powdery threads. She looked like an escaped extra from The Curse of the Mummy.
‘Now you listen to me,’ she said furiously to the anchorman. ‘I’m personally telling you and your crew to chuff off right now, or I’ll snatch that fluffy microphone and shove it right up your–’
‘Ah, you must be Daisy?’ The anchorman’s smile was as fixed as a horse in a bent race. ‘I’ve heard so much about you. A big fan of both Jeremy Kyle and Primark pyjamas, is it true you and Mrs Milligan have been having a secret romance?’
‘Bog off!’ Daisy screeched.
‘That’s a yes then,’ said the anchorman smugly.
‘I have kids, you know,’ Daisy raged, ‘and I’m not having some smarmy little twerp upsetting my family.’
‘But I do believe you and Mrs Milligan are starting your own family,’ said the anchorman ignoring her. ‘In fact, I have it on good authority that you, Florrie,’ he turned his attention back to me, ‘visited a sperm donor who operates privately from a restaurant in nearby Sevenoaks. A Mr Luca…’ he paused to listen to his earpiece, ‘Serafino. It is rumoured that Mr Serafino charges two thousand pounds a time for impregnation services.’
‘This is utterly preposterous,’ said Alison, regaining her voice. ‘Luca is a delightful restaurateur who was, and still is, a client of Florrie’s.’
‘Surely you mean Florrie is a client of Mr Serafino’s? I must say, girls,’ the anchorman swivelled back to Daisy and myself and nodded at our attire, ‘I absolutely love the outfits. Later on, will you be attending the May Ball dressed like this?’
‘I’ve had enough of your nonsense,’ Daisy huffed, ‘and I think it’s about time you heard the real story of what’s been going on around here.’
‘Please don’t,’ Alison murmured, ‘I’ve only just got my marriage back on track.’
Daisy ignored her and rattled on like a high-speed train with no brakes.
‘The person truly responsible for Lower Amblegate being a hotbed of sex and scandal is a woman by the name of Mrs Thompson. That’s Thompson with a “p”,’ Daisy enunciated to camera. ‘She runs the village corner shop which is actually a front for a high-class brothel providing sexual favours and escort services.’
Alison looked like she was going to faint. She flapped a hand at Daisy and made a strangled noise. I just managed to catch the last two words. House prices.
‘Mrs Thompson?’ asked the anchorman looking puzzled. ‘But she was our source for what’s been going on in The Cul-de-Sac.’
‘Smoke and mirrors,’ said Daisy smugly. ‘Mrs Thompson is a Madame.’
‘But she’s got to be about sixty years old,’ said the anchorman looking perplexed.
‘Don’t be fooled by the corrugated perm and apple-pie-smile,’ Daisy narrowed her eyes. ‘This is a woman who, in her heyday, would take a customer behind the counter, happily show off her pear drops and demonstrate the real meaning of a gobstopper. Behind the façade of newspapers
and sweets, upstairs there is a boudoir decorated in black-and-silver flocked wallpaper. Trust me, if you ask for a sherbet dab and a Daily Mail, what you’re secretly signalling for is an afternoon romp with the village siren, Annabelle Farquhar-Jones…’
‘Oh God,’ Alison murmured.
‘…whereas a barley twist is the discreet code for Marcus Milligan who, incidentally, is Florrie’s soon-to-be-ex-husband because he’s serviced so many women he’s used up all his wild oats and is firing more blanks than Wayne Rooney attempting goals for Manchester United.’
‘Are the script writers aware of all this?’ said the anchorman turning round to the crew.
‘Be sure to tell them,’ said Daisy, ‘because it will be pure television gold.’
The anchorman pulled out his earpiece and signalled the cameraman to stop filming.
‘Let’s get over to the corner shop, chaps, and interview Mrs Thompson. Get a runner to hunt down both Marcus Milligan and Annabelle Farquhar-Jones. I want their stories too.’
‘Do give them all my love,’ Daisy called after the departing crew, ‘particularly Annabelle who will do anything for a toffee crisp.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ said Alison sounding like Victor Meldrew as she clutched hold of my arm for support. ‘I just can’t believe you spouted all that rubbish, Daisy. Although I do think Mrs Thompson is well overdue her come-uppance. And Annabelle deserves all she gets too.’
‘I thought she was your good friend,’ said Daisy slyly.
‘Not anymore,’ Alison shook her head vehemently. ‘My true friends,’ her voice suddenly caught with emotion, ‘are right here, standing by my side.’
‘Aw, Ali,’ Daisy smiled, ‘that’s very decent of you.’
Alison inclined her head graciously. ‘True friends don’t judge each other. Instead they judge other people. Together.’
‘Only you could say something like that,’ I grinned, ‘and totally get away with it.’
‘C’mon girls,’ said Alison. ‘Let’s get ready for this wretched May Ball. I have a feeling that after tonight I won’t be on Harriet Montgomery’s Christmas card list.’
The Corner Shop of Whispers Page 18