The Corner Shop of Whispers

by Viggiano, Debbie

  ‘I’m so glad you didn’t move from The Cul-de-Sac after the divorce,’ said Daisy. ‘Who else would I have had to turn to when Lily’s colic became unbearable or the last sleepless night reduced me to a blubbering mess?’

  Alison eyeballed Daisy’s grubby PJs covered in Lily’s dribble and this morning’s baby porridge.

  ‘Speaking of which,’ said Ali, ‘those pyjamas, Daisy, are an utter disgrace.’

  ‘It’s called being a mum,’ said Daisy placidly.

  ‘I’m a mum,’ said Alison, looking hurt.

  Daisy waved a hand dismissively. ‘But not a normal mum. I mean, you never have a hair out of place. I don’t know how you and the Darwin Prep mums always manage to look so immaculate. It’s not natural. Or normal,’ Daisy added, helping herself to a biscuit from the plate in the centre of the table. She dunked it in her coffee.

  ‘It’s called “grooming”,’ said Alison, her tone becoming a little frosty as she added, ‘along with having some pride in one’s appearance.’

  ‘Oooh, ouch,’ said Daisy, pretending to duck flying arrows. ‘Don’t get your tweed skirt in a twist.’

  Tweed was Alison’s latest favourite attire, ever since Harriet Montgomery and Martin Murray-Wells had sold up and moved out of their mansion, and an eccentric young designer by the name of Jolly Jones had moved in along with her equally eccentric family. Jolly had been an almost overnight hit in the fashion world with her tweed signature designs. She’d recently extended into soft furnishings too. The fabric was no longer seen as a boring garment just for pensioners or crusty school teachers, but instead had become a style sensation. Certainly all the yummy mummies at Darwin Prep didn’t entertain you on their coffee rota if you didn’t at the very least have a Jolly Jones tweed tote bag hanging off one shoulder whilst on the school run.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Alison ignoring Daisy and turning her attention to me, ‘I, too, am glad you didn’t leave The Cul-de-Sac. Apart from anything else, Jolly wants me to introduce you to her. She’s after a family portrait.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I purred.

  My painting had gone from strength to strength over the last two years and was so easy to flex around little Milo.

  ‘So does Luca have any regrets about buying out Marcus’s share of the house?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘None at all,’ I shook my head.

  ‘Most men would want a fresh start,’ Alison pointed out.

  ‘True,’ said Daisy giving her biscuit another dunk and then looking dismayed as it went into soggy overload and sank to the bottom of her mug.

  ‘We kind of feel there has been a fresh start. After all, Luca and I gave the whole house an internal face lift,’ I pointed out.

  ‘And fabulous it looks too,’ Daisy nodded approvingly. She shifted in her seat. A regrouping gesture. ‘What do you think about Mrs Thompson’s latest bit of gossip?’

  Alison and I turned to stare at Daisy. ‘What gossip?’ we chorused.

  ‘That Jolly Jones is planning on hosting this year’s May Ball.’

  Alison fidgeted in her seat. Daisy and I looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Is it true?’ I asked with wide eyes.

  ‘News certainly travels fast in this village,’ said Alison wryly. Then she smiled at us both. ‘Yes, it’s true. And moi is helping to organise it.’

  ‘Blimey,’ Daisy sucked on her teeth. ‘I’d have thought, after how it all ended at the last May Ball, you’d have been put off for life from organising another event. After all, nobody even wanted a May Ball last year.’

  ‘Actually that’s not strictly true,’ said Alison. ‘It was more to do with the fact that Harriet and Martin had moved out the previous Spring and Jolly was still getting sorted out with settling in and…’ Alison paused, choosing her words carefully, ‘…was busy turning the whole place into a home that...um…reflected her taste.’

  Daisy pulled a face. ‘Mrs Thompson said she knows Jolly’s new housekeeper, and that the inside of the mansion is one big tweed nightmare.’

  ‘I’ve seen it actually,’ said Alison looking smug.

  ‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Go on, spill the style beans. I can see you’re dying to.’

  ‘Essentially it’s not too bad,’ Alison smiled. ‘I love her huge tweed sofas and they work really well with the matching drapes that she’s splashed through with a bright red fabric paint.’

  ‘Sounds bloody awful,’ Daisy said. ‘Like somebody’s been murdered and their blood has been sprayed everywhere.’

  ‘Y-e-s,’ said Alison nodding, ‘there is that too.’

  ‘Well I for one hope there is a May Ball,’ I said warmly and squeezed Alison’s hand. ‘I’m sure you’ll do a splendid job assisting. Count me and Daisy in. We’ll make sure our husbands look after the kiddies and go together, like the last time.’

  ‘Just don’t start Mrs Thompson’s tongue wagging about the two of you again,’ said Alison with a sigh. ‘And you’d better keep Daisy away from the champers,’ she warned. ‘That episode in the toilets was a bit embarrassing for Harriet, not forgetting how the whole thing ended.’

  For a moment we fell silent, sipping our drinks and munching on biscuits as pages of memory flipped backwards to Daisy staggering up the steps of the very swish hired portaloos. Not realising that one of the three toilets was occupied, she’d caught sight of her reflection in the long mirror and, champagne goggles firmly in place, had proceeded to loudly tell her reflection just how hot she looked and anyone could give her a sherbet dab any day of the week, whereupon Martin Murray-Wells had lurched up the steps and tried to steer Daisy into one of the cubicles just as Harriet had emerged from another suitably outraged and breathing fire.

  ‘He was a bit of a goer, that husband of Harriet’s,’ said Daisy in hushed tones. ‘He’d got it out you know,’ she stage-whispered, ‘and it was this big.’ She held up her hands by way of indicating size. ‘No wonder you were sold on him, Ali.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ said Alison inspecting her fingernails.

  ‘Someone’s got amnesia,’ said Daisy winking at me.

  ‘Well I don’t think any of the villagers have forgotten how the ball ended,’ Alison raised her eyebrows at Daisy who had the grace to look embarrassed.

  ‘I’ve told you a million times I’m sorry for making the marquee collapse.’

  ‘Mm,’ said Alison. ‘And please remember that next time, no matter how much champagne you guzzle, there must be no more drunken attempts to dance erotically around the marquee’s main support pole. Harriet Montgomery had a massive panic attack. She thought Angelina Jolie had succumbed to believing rumours about her and Brad Pitt having a fling and sent someone to assassinate her.’

  ‘I think some things we need to forget,’ I pointed out diplomatically.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Alison, ‘did you know that Marcus is single again? It transpires Annabelle Farquhar-Jones has upped and left him.’

  ‘Has she?’ Daisy looked astonished.

  ‘Who told you that?’ I asked curiously.

  ‘Ah,’ said Alison, suddenly looking shifty. ‘I’m not sure I remember.’

  ‘How convenient,’ said Daisy mockingly.

  At that moment there was a knock on Daisy’s front door.

  ‘I wonder who that can be,’ Daisy frowned.

  ‘Probably Trevor, the postman,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’ I scraped my chair back. ‘You put the kettle on, Daisy. I’m ready for a refill.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Daisy grinning. ‘But make sure you behave yourself. No flirting and asking about his big envelopes filling your letterbox, remember?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I giggled. ‘I’m totally impervious to Trevor’s parcels and packets.’

  I made my way into Daisy’s hallway. But upon yanking the door open, it wasn’t Trevor the postman on the doorstep but instead a young woman. She was eccentrically dressed in a torn t-shirt teamed with oversized tweed trousers. Her tiny waist was cinched with a fuchsia-pink belt bea
ring the initials JJ.

  ‘Hello,’ she said and gave a toothy grin. ‘I was looking for Alison. Is this her house?’

  I stared at her. I’d never met her before but there was something about the shape of her face, the slant of her eyes and the tilt of her perfect nose that smacked of familiarity.

  ‘Wrong house,’ I said, smiling back, ‘but you’re in luck. Alison is here. We’re both having coffee with our mutual neighbour. Would you like to come in and join us?’

  ‘Thanks,’ the woman stepped over the threshold. ‘I’m Jolly Jones by the way.’ She extended a hand and I immediately shook it.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said pleasantly.

  Alison suddenly materialised in the hallway looking disconcerted.

  ‘Jolly,’ she said. I could tell Alison was flustered. ‘How lovely to see you, but what are you doing here?’

  ‘Sorry to gate crash your coffee morning,’ said Jolly throwing up her hands in a gesture of apology, ‘but I’ve been sitting at home having the most godawful time deliberating about which marquee company should be used for dove-tailing the May Ball with one of my fashion shows.’ She looked at me by way of explanation. ‘I’m a designer and thought it might be rather good fun to get some of the Darwin Prep mums to model.’ She looked at me hopefully. ‘Are you a DP mum?’

  ‘Er, Florrie is neither a model nor one of us,’ said Ali, instantly isolating me from the cliquey group of yummy-mummies at the posh private school.

  I rolled my eyes at Alison and turned to Jolly. ‘However, I am a mum so if you’re looking for models with post-baby waists and a challenged bust line then I am happy to volunteer.’

  Before Jolly could reply, Daisy appeared in the hallway. ‘Hello,’ she cooed, holding out a hand which Jolly instantly shook. ‘I’m Daisy. Why are we all having a mothers’ meeting in my hallway? Come in and have a coffee with us.’

  ‘But,’ Alison protested, distress apparent, ‘you’re not dressed, Daisy, and I’m sure Jolly doesn’t want to be held up.’

  Alison gave Daisy a beseeching look, her eyes flicking over Daisy’s grubby bedtime attire. Our neighbour’s look said it all. “Please, Daisy, this is very embarrassing for me. You’re neither dressed nor groomed.”

  ‘Oh, honestly, don’t mind me,’ Jolly laughed. ‘I’m only dressed myself because I had to come out and find you, Alison. You see, I stupidly forgot to program your mobile phone number into mine,’ she explained, ‘so had to hunt you down.’

  ‘Come on through,’ said Daisy.

  Jolly followed Daisy into the lounge leaving me and a very twitchy Alison to bring up the rear.

  ‘Oooh, Jeremy Kyle!’ Jolly exclaimed. ‘I love his shows.’

  Daisy grinned in delight and linked arms with Jolly.

  ‘I think you’re about to be my third bestest friend,’ she said as she led Jolly to the table. ‘How do you like your coffee?’

  ‘Black, please,’ Jolly smiled and pulled out a chair to sit down.

  ‘I must say,’ said Daisy as she busied herself getting fresh cups and opening cupboard doors in the hunt for more biscuits, ‘there’s something about you that seems awfully familiar.’

  ‘Really?’ said Jolly looking puzzled.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ I said, sliding into a seat beside Jolly.

  The television was playing Jeremy Kyle’s signature tune which was starting to reach a crescendo. In the studios something dramatic was about to happen.

  ‘It might be,’ said Jolly innocently, ‘that I seem familiar to you both because you possibly know my older sister? She lives in Lower Amblegate too. Heavens, just think, you could even be really good friends with her,’ she clapped her hands together happily, ‘how brilliant would that be! Then we can all have coffee mornings together!’

  Alison was looking more and more agitated with every passing second.

  ‘Who’s your sister?’ Daisy and I asked together.

  ‘Annabelle Farquhar-Jones. Does the name ring any bells?’

  Daisy almost dropped the kettle and I nearly fell off my chair. In the background Jeremy Kyle was now addressing his audience.

  ‘Today we have someone in the studio who wants to slap a woman who keeps invading her life and causing trouble.’

  Jolly glanced at Daisy and then me, oblivious to both our horrified faces and stunned silence.

  ‘You know what?’ she beamed happily, ‘I’ve got a feeling we’re all going to get on just famously.’

  THE END

  ALSO BY DEBBIE VIGGIANO

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