‘Who cares,’ said Daisy cheerfully. ‘As long as we’re on each other’s, nothing else matters.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Back home, I hastily set about dollying up for the ball, but every time the house squeaked or creaked I jumped like a kangaroo on energy drinks such was my worry about Marcus unexpectedly returning.
Stepping into the steaming shower, the emersion heater had noisily clanked, causing me to rocket out of the cubicle trailing water and wet footprints in order to lock the bathroom door. My ears strained and analysed every little sound as I wound my hair into a towel-turban and set about quickly applying make-up to my flushed face. I was too scared to use the hair dryer in case the whoosh of hot air drowned out my husband kicking down the front door and materialising in front of me, spitting venom as he launched his own flowery weapon at me – probably something considerably heftier than mine. One of the patio pots came to mind.
Whimpering slightly, I left my hair to dry naturally. It began to kink and curl into a mass of unruly waves. I slid into an old red evening dress I’d bought not long after Marcus and I were first married. I’d last worn it to a dinner dance hosted by his employer. The silky material gathered under the bust, flaring out nicely over my rounding tummy. Grabbing my sequined evening bag, I popped a lipstick inside its velvety depths then rammed my feet into a sparkly pair of stilettoes.
I made my way downstairs. After checking the back door was locked and bolted, I let myself out of the front door but then paused. I hadn’t left any lights on. If Marcus did return, the last thing I wanted was him appearing out of the shadows and scaring me half to death. I went back inside and strode around the house flipping lights on in every single room. Locking up, I stepped back and surveyed the house. It was lit up like Buckingham Palace. Good. Feeling more reassured, I gathered up my skirts and walked over to Daisy’s house.
Tom greeted me at the front door. His eyes gave me the once over.
‘Good evening, Florrie. If I may say so, you look both beautiful and desirable. I can see exactly why my wife is having an affair with you.’ His lips twitched with amusement. ‘But if you could refrain from eloping with Daisy, I’d be much obliged.’
I scowled. ‘Is that what the rumour mill is now spewing?’
‘Actually, no. I made up the bit about eloping. Trying to be funny,’ Tom said with a smile and gave a little shrug.
‘Ha ha,’ I said mirthlessly.
‘In fact, it would seem the grapevine has taken a massive U-turn,’ Tom whispered conspiratorially. ‘If you can believe this, Mrs Thompson is apparently running a brothel over the corner shop. I’m not sure who started that little gem, but the place is crawling with reporters.’
‘How bizarre,’ I said innocently.
‘Seemingly Martin Murray-Wells was there earlier, repeatedly asking for sherbet dabs and a Daily Mail, much to both Mrs Thompson’s puzzlement and Harriet Montgomery’s fury. The reporters were having a field day. I’ve heard that Harriet had to physically drag Martin out of the shop and she has told the security team handling tonight’s event that if Annabelle Farquhar-Jones shows up, she’s barred.’
‘I don’t think there’s any chance of that happening,’ I grimaced.
‘Me neither,’ Tom smiled sympathetically. ‘I gather Annabelle has done a disappearing act with your husband.’
‘Yup,’ I said carelessly, ‘and she’s welcome to him.’
‘Brave words, Florrie.’
‘And every single one true,’ I assured.
‘Attagirl,’ said Tom with approval. ‘Chin up.’
‘Oh it is, Tom,’ I nodded. ‘Look.’ I jutted my jaw out. ‘Not a wobble in sight.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Daisy appearing by Tom’s side. ‘I’m wobbling all over the place. It’s a wonder I managed to squeeze myself into this dress,’ she lamented. ‘It’s awfully snug over my tummy. What do you think?’
She gave us both a twirl. She looked like a particularly porky sausage in the grip of a very tight bandage, but even a few too many chocolate bars whilst overdosing on Jeremy Kyle couldn’t spoil her pretty face.
‘You look beautiful,’ I said truthfully.
‘A vision,’ said Tom leaning forward to kiss his wife full on the mouth.
‘Don’t smudge my lipstick,’ Daisy protested and immediately batted Tom away. ‘However, if you play your cards right, it’ll be rumpy-pumpy when I’m home.’
‘Is that so?’ Tom raised his eyebrows. ‘In that case, I shall wait up.’
‘It’s a shame you’re not coming to the ball, Tom,’ I said.
‘On the contrary, I’m very relieved to be staying at home. I don’t mind telling you,’ he blew out his cheeks, ‘I’ve been absolutely flabbergasted by recent events, not to mention the awful tittle-tattle and downright lies whizzing around the village.’
‘Even though some of it is true?’ I pointed out.
Tom immediately looked mortified.
‘I do apologise, Florrie. Me and my big mouth. I quite forgot about you and the baby and Luca Ser–’
‘Tom,’ Daisy interrupted, ‘stop now before the hole you are digging gets any deeper.’
‘Yes, darling,’ said Tom dutifully. ‘No offence, Florrie.’
‘None taken,’ I assured before turning to Daisy. ‘Come on. Your carriage awaits.’ I jingled my car keys at her. I was the driver tonight on account of being pregnant and abstaining from alcohol.
‘See you later.’ Daisy bobbed forward to lightly peck her husband on the cheek.
‘I’ll be keeping the bed warm,’ Tom winked at her. ‘Have a lovely time, girls.’
‘We will,’ said Daisy, just as her eldest wandered into the hall.
‘You look beautiful, Mummy!’
‘Thank you, sweetie,’ Daisy smiled nervously. Her body language had shifted and she was suddenly full of anxiety. ‘Be good for Daddy.’ She turned and pushed past me. ‘Quick, Florrie,’ she muttered, ‘before the kids realise I’m going out.’
‘Where are you going?’ the eldest wailed. ‘Dadd-eee! Where’s Mummy going?’
The other two children suddenly appeared in the hallway, stricken that their mother was going out without them. A monumental din immediately broke out.
‘Mumm-eee, don’t leave us,’ said the middle child.
‘Come back, Mumm-eee!’ cried the youngest and promptly burst into tears.
‘Go!’ said Tom pushing us firmly out into the night.
The front door slammed shut behind us. From the other side of the wood panels it began to sound like Kim Jong-un had shown up and was launching a number of nuclear missiles.
‘Dear God in heaven,’ Daisy sighed. ‘You have all this to come,’ she nodded at my little bump.
‘Bring it on,’ I grinned as we hitched up our hems and tottered over to my car.
‘Where’s Alison?’ asked Daisy.
‘She’s already there,’ I replied, pressing the button on the key fob and releasing the car’s locking mechanism. ‘She and Henry went earlier. I think she’s staying just long enough to oversee the raffle and do a bit of plugging for Darwin Prep before she and Henry make their excuses.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Daisy sounding grateful, ‘having a mild-mannered unexciting hubby like my Tom is an absolute blessing.’ She settled herself in the front passenger seat and reached for the seatbelt. ‘I don’t know where everybody gets their energy from in order to carry on with all these extra-marital affairs.’ She caught my expression as I reversed the car off the drive. ‘Present company excluded,’ she hastily added.
‘Daisy, truly I’m not offended.’
‘Good.’
‘But you’re right,’ I nodded. ‘It is exhausting. And mentally draining too. Marcus was always tripping over his lies as he tried and failed to keep track of all his illicit bonks.’
‘Do you reckon he and Annabelle will make their relationship work?’
‘Honestly?’ I paused to shift the gears into first. ‘I really do
n’t know. I think they are both as devious as each other so it could be a match made in heaven.’
Turning the wheel, I swung the car out of The Cul-de-Sac. The night was only just beginning, but already I couldn’t wait for it to be over.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Burly security guards waved Daisy and I into the Montgomery-Murray-Wells’ mansion grounds. We were both momentarily brought up short by the stunning vista before us. Alison had certainly delivered a five star job organising the event. The marquee looked regal enough to welcome royalty – which Harriet probably thought herself to be. Vast chandeliers glittered and winked like upside-down snow domes suspended from a ceiling of billowing silken folds. A string quartet was seated in one corner; three men in matching tuxes were melodically scraping bows across violins whilst a woman in a ball gown straddled a huge cello. The musicians’ eyes were closed, their faces serene as they savoured the notes of Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings in E Major. The music floated up into the air, mixing with the excited chatter of guests greeting one another, men shaking hands and giving hearty back claps whilst the women noisily air kissed and exclaimed at each other’s evening dresses. Lavish flower arrangements, which wouldn’t have looked misplaced at St Paul’s Cathedral, were in abundance everywhere, their fragrance mixing with the heady scents of a hundred different perfumes and aftershaves. A champagne bar was set up opposite the quartet. Crystal glasses twinkled under golden light. At the far end of the marquee uniformed staff were busily overseeing the catering which would be served in another hour or so.
‘Not bad,’ said Daisy nodding her approval. She immediately appropriated two champagne flutes from a passing waiter.
‘Not for me,’ I reminded her.
‘No,’ she grinned, ‘but definitely for me.’ She drained the first flute in seconds and smacked her lips appreciatively. ‘Nice plonk.’
‘I think Alison would have a fit if she heard you being derogatory about her carefully chosen bubbly.’
‘Oooh, look,’ Daisy pointed. ‘I can see the telly crew through that bit of open flap. Come on. Let’s go and have a nosey and see who they’re filming.’
We worked our way through the crowd and slid out into the main grounds, instantly espying Harriet talking to camera. She looked every inch the movie star, from her flawlessly made up face to her figure-hugging evening gown and sexy Louboutins. We moved closer to hear what she was saying.
‘Despite this event being hosted on my estate, it is very much the local people’s event.’
Harriet said the words “local people” with the same inflection as one might say “dog pooh”.
‘Just because I’m a famous film star, it doesn’t mean I’m not a normal person.’
Daisy elbowed me in the ribs. ‘Normal my arse,’ she chuntered, before tugging on her second flute of champers.
‘I’m a firm believer in mixing with everybody, from the milkman and window cleaner–’
‘What a patronising cow,’ grumbled Daisy.
‘–to Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, whose next film I’m starring in. And incidentally there is absolutely no truth in me having an affair with Brad or a row with Angie. Despite their marital situation, it’s business as usual for the Jolie-Pitts.’
‘Pick up those names dah-ling,’ said Daisy, a little too loudly.
‘I’d also like to thank my team of gardeners for doing a splendid job on the grounds. The topiaries are particularly stunning.’
Daisy nudged me again. ‘Just think. That’s about a dozen men who can truthfully say they’ve all had a go at trimming Harriet Montgomery’s bush.’
‘Ssh!’ said a voice in the shadows.
‘Is that you, Ali?’ I whispered.
‘Yes,’ said our neighbour stepping forward. ‘I shall be talking to camera in a moment saying a few words on behalf of Darwin Prep and, of course, Harriet and Martin.’
‘What happened to that earlier interview fiasco outside our houses?’ I asked.
‘All sorted thanks to Martin’s legal team.’
‘Oh,’ Daisy pouted, ‘I was looking forward to watching a new soap on the telly.’
‘Ah, that’s still going ahead,’ Ali grimaced, ‘but under a different name and in another location. At least we can save our blushes. I, for one, am very grateful.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Daisy airily as she grabbed two more flutes from a second passing waiter, ‘I was quite looking forward to seeing Eleanor Coveney playing the part of Florrie.
‘She still is,’ Ali whispered. ‘But Florrie’s husband is now not just a wife beater and womaniser, but also a pimp.’
‘Well that’s not far from the truth,’ Daisy sniffed. ‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ she patted my arm, ‘I don’t mean to be rude about Marcus, but I always thought the guy was smoother than a bar of wet soap. All that snogging and pretending to grope you every morning when you were seeing him off to work. What was he trying to prove?’ she tutted, tossing more champagne down her neck.
‘That he was a macho man,’ I sighed. ‘And take it easy on the drink, Daisy. That’s your third on an empty stomach.’
‘Yes, Mum,’ Daisy giggled.
‘Actually, Florrie,’ said Alison turning to me, ‘as you’re here we might as well have the painting unveiled and get that bit out of the way. Then Harriet can have the piece safely stowed away.’
‘Before I scribble on it,’ Daisy sniggered.
‘Er, been there and done that,’ Alison muttered. She signalled to one of the TV crew who caught on and nodded. ‘Come on, Florrie.’ Alison gave me a little prod. ‘Follow me.’
‘Wait, I’m coming too,’ said Daisy tripping over her too-long hem and slopping bubbly over her ample cleavage. ‘Ooh, look at my boobies. They’re all wet. Better not let Mrs Thompson see. She might expect you to lick it all off, Florrie.’
‘Do pipe down, Daisy,’ said Alison in exasperation.
Stepping over thick black cable winding across the grass like a monster snake from a cheap horror movie, Harriet caught sight of me standing to one side. She nodded imperceptibly at a crew member and, without missing a beat, moved seamlessly into talking about the painting commission for her wedding anniversary gift to her darling husband Martin.
‘Which brings me to mega-talented local artist Florrie Milligan, recently discovered by yours truly–’
‘The lying bitch,’ Daisy huffed.
‘Ssh,’ both Alison and a member of the crew hissed at the same time.
‘–and immediately snapped up by me of which this is the result.’
With a flourish Harriet whipped off the purple velvet drape that had been concealing her portrait on a nearby easel. There were dutiful gasps from a hand-picked group chosen precisely to do just that. A member of the telly crew led me forward to a ripple of polite applause.
‘I give you…Florrie Milligan,’ said Harriet graciously.
‘Over here, Florrie,’ said an anchorman.
I was relieved to see it wasn’t the same man who’d been at The Cul-de-Sac earlier.
‘This is a particularly splendid piece, Florrie,’ said my interviewer. ‘How did it feel to be painting such a huge celebrity on your very first commission?’
I smiled and opened my mouth to speak but for some strange reason a completely different voice came out.
‘She’s done a smashing job,’ gushed Daisy, ‘but I want to set the record straight – as Florrie’s agent – she was first commissioned to paint a series of Florentine landscapes which I personally secured on her behalf for the very charming Mr Luca Serafino, proprietor extraordinaire of Serafino’s Cucino in Sevenoaks. Which reminds me, Harriet,’ Daisy waggled a finger playfully, ‘my twenty-per-cent commission still hasn’t been paid, but I am willing for you to forego paying me and instead write your cheque out to St Mildred’s Primary School of which my beloved husband, Tom Mitchell, is headmaster and toils tirelessly on behalf of his pupils to achieve the best Ofsted report in the area.’
‘Oh God,’
Alison paled. ‘This is meant to be a fund raising and trumpet blowing event for Darwin Prep.’
The anchorman looked confused and turned to Harriet.
‘Does your daughter Piper attend St Mildred’s?’
‘No,’ said Harriet glaring at Daisy but then turning back to camera with a big smile, ‘but it is absolutely true that St Mildred’s is a first-class primary school and Piper has many playmates from the school. Thank you, gentlemen, and I shall look forward to talking to you again later.’
‘I suggest,’ hissed Alison in my ear, ‘that you get Daisy out of Harriet’s way tout de suite.’
‘Consider it done,’ I muttered.
Grabbing Daisy’s hand I tugged her back inside the marquee, where we promptly cannoned into my parents.
‘Florrie, darling,’ said Dad beaming in delight.
‘Dad!’ I exclaimed with pleasure as he squashed me into his barrel chest.
He looked both ill at ease and out of place in his too-tight tuxedo standing like a lonely island amongst Mum’s rambling friends, none of whom seemed to have brought their husbands along.
‘You look smashing, sweetheart.’ He squeezed me hard before greeting Daisy. ‘Hello, love,’ he kissed my neighbour on both cheeks. ‘You’re looking fabulous too.’
‘You mean flab-ulous,’ Daisy grinned ruefully.
Mum immediately removed herself from Beryl’s side and glided over to properly greet the two of us.
‘Hello, girls. I hope you’re not flirting, Bill,’ Mum chastised Dad, her mouth pinching into a pencil line of disapproval as she clocked Daisy’s billowing décolletage.
‘I only have eyes for you, Pumpkin,’ said Dad dutifully.
‘You look nice, Mum,’ I said leaning forward to kiss her on one heavily rouged cheek. ‘You remember my neighbour, Daisy?’
‘Of course,’ Mum smiled thinly. ‘And I must say, dear, it’s so nice to see you dressed for a change.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Daisy airily, helping herself to yet another glass of champagne as a smiley waiter stopped by. ‘I think wearing clothes is very over-rated. Later on, when the dancing begins, I might strip off and demand Florrie paint me forthwith. It can be called “Daisy’s Delights”.’ She sipped her champagne thoughtfully. ‘In fact, my hubby’s got a birthday coming up. Consider it your next booking, Florrie.’
The Corner Shop of Whispers Page 19