She readied her camera. It was only as the subject climaxed and the partner’s head jerked back that she was knocked off her stotter. Boys Own! she marvelled as she rattled off a few shots.
The glare bounced back at her off the window.
Christ! In the waning light Wilma hadn’t dared disable the flash.
The subject’s head swivelled.
From inside the caravan, there was an outraged roar.
Wilma legged it as two burly men tried to hurriedly dress themselves in a confined space.
Treats Shelf
‘It’s my fault,’ Ros confided, as she whisked the salad dressing. ‘I know I should give him time to clear his head, but when he walks through the door I just sort of jump on him.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ Fiona leaned against the sink. Fiona was the partner of Nic’s junior lecturer, and Ros’s best friend. She and Ros were enjoying a glass of wine in the kitchen, the boys demolishing a beer in the next door sitting room whilst they watched the end of a noisy football game on TV. ‘Isn’t he pleased to see you?’
‘I suppose.’ Ros beat the emulsion furiously. ‘But it makes him cross all the same.’
‘Cross? How?’
‘Snappy. Irritable.’ She set the salad dressing aside. ‘He’ll grab a drink from the fridge and a packet of crisps or something from his treats shelf and shut himself in the study till supper.’
‘Treats shelf?’ Fiona scoffed. She wondered what that was all about.
‘Loads of people do that.’ Ros rose to her husband’s defence. ‘Parents. Hide things from their kids. My mum used to keep cake under the bed.’
‘Cake?’
‘Walnut cake. With royal icing. Came from a shop called Fuller’s in Buchanan Street. Cost a bomb, probably.’
‘That I can understand,’ Fiona pulled a wry face. ‘But crisps. I mean…’ She took a sip of her wine, decided to leave it for now. ‘And when he does that, how do you feel?’
‘Small.’ Ros signalled with a finger and thumb. ‘Shut out. Angry.’
‘With Nic?’
‘With myself, for not having the wit to go about it the right way.’ She grimaced. ‘Fish the salad spoons out of that drawer, will you?’
Fiona rummaged in the cutlery drawer, extracted a pair of lime green plastic salad servers, handed them over. ‘You think there is a “right way”?’
‘Oh.’ Ros brushed a hand across her brow. ‘I don’t know. It’s like…you see in old movies how the little woman welcomes the guy home, all prettied up, hanging on his every word.’
‘A woman who’s been home all day,’ Fiona interrupted. ‘Not knocking her pan out with a class of manic seven-year-olds, then haring around the supermarket before she picks up a fractious baby from nursery.’
‘That’s what my friend Maggie says.’ Wry smile. ‘Just wait till you and Stuart have kids.’
Fiona grinned. ‘We’re in no hurry.’
Ros reached for her glass. ‘Maybe that’s where I went wrong.’ She eyed the contents contemplatively. ‘Had a rush of blood when I turned thirty. Saw my chances narrowing by the minute. Grabbed the first guy with prospects that came along. And Nic was…is…the blond Adonis, all blue eyes and boyish looks. Plus, he stood out.’ She twiddled with a strand of her hair. ‘Shone, is the best way I can describe it. It wasn’t swagger so much as innate self-confidence. As if he knew exactly where he was going. I envied him that, Fi, I must confess. I’ve always felt at a disadvantage.’
‘But you look so…together.’
‘I do my best. But for us Scots it’s difficult, don’t you think, to shake off all the stuff that’s been drummed into you: speak when you’re spoken to, don’t get above your station, all that. It was only much later, after we’d been living together for a while, that I realised how different our values were…’ Her voice trailed off. ‘The rest,’ she cast a rueful glance over the baby bowls and beakers lined up on the windowsill, ‘is history.’
‘Serves you right,’ Fiona countered, with a cheeky look. ‘Hooking up with anything from south of the border.’
Ros sprang to Nic’s defence. ‘Now you’re being racist.’
‘I’m not. All I’m saying is…talk of the devil!’ She clasped a hand to her mouth when Nic stuck his head through the door.
‘What are you two cooking up? Mayhem and sedition?’ He took a step forward.
Instinctively, Ros stiffened. She turned her head away. ‘Supper’s almost ready,’ she said with forced brightness. ‘You guys could help by opening the wine that’s through there on the table. And Fiona,’ her eyes flashed warning signs, ‘if you’d like to fill this water jug and dress the salad, we can eat in a few minutes.’
Fiona flapped her hands. ‘You heard her. Open the wine, then get back to your football. We’re having a private conversation.’
‘What about?’
‘None of your business.’ She challenged him with a hard stare. ‘It’s private. Didn’t you hear me?’
Nic threw her a look. ‘I heard you.’ He retreated into the living room.
‘What was I saying? Oh, yes. In addition to his obvious…’ Stage wink. ‘…attributes, your dear husband does embody some of the worse aspects of the south-east.’
‘Such as?’
‘His obsession with money. Look at the way he’s always hacking on about his father.’
‘He’s proud of his dad, that’s all.’
‘Is it?’ Thoughtful face. ‘Seems to me it’s a bit more than that. Bordering on the unhealthy, if you ask me.’
Ros crooked an eyebrow. ‘D’you think?’ She’d little doubt Nic’s character had been shaped by his father. But ‘unhealthy’? The thought had never crossed her mind.
Ros had only met the man on that single visit, in those heady days before she and Nic got engaged. Harold Prentice had been a taciturn sixty-something with a sharp turn of phrase. A self-made man, he’d sold his company and taken early retirement. There was an older brother in Australia. Nic’s mum, Jill, did her own thing. From what Ros had gleaned, she and Harold seemed barely to communicate.
‘You could be right. He didn’t even come to our wedding. Jill flew up on her own. Harold,’ her mouth twisted, ‘sent a cheque.’
‘Well,’ Fiona countered, ‘at least he made a contribution.’
‘You’re wrong there. My folks stumped up for every last thing.’
‘But, I thought you said…’
‘Harold sent Nic a cheque. I wouldn’t have known, except I was there when he opened it. Went straight into his bank account. Weird, now I look back on it. But I was so caught up in the wedding preparations,’ she pulled a face. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I do have a hazy recollection,’ Fiona chuckled. ‘Heavily fuelled by alcohol.’ She took a slurp of her wine. ‘But didn’t you ask his folks to contribute? I mean, it’s standard practice, isn’t it, these days?’
‘I didn’t have the nerve. I’d only met them once, you see. And they were so different. Even their house was different – a great red brick pile on the outskirts of a village. I sort of went into blushing bride mode.’
‘What about your folks? Didn’t they bring it up?’
‘No. Mum and Dad, bless their hearts, scrupulously avoided comment. Still…’ She changed the subject. ‘I know I should give Nic space when he comes in from work. He’ll have had a full day too, shoe-horning in lectures and meetings and research and whatever. Plus…’ Apologetic look. ‘Anything I have to say could easily wait until supper time. It’s just, there’s precious little opportunity in our staffroom to talk about anything but schoolwork, and by the time it gets to four o’clock I’m screaming for adult conversation.’
‘You and me both,’ Fiona chuckled. ‘The chitchat in my office is pretty inconsequential. But at least I don’t go home to a round of feeds and trainer pants.’
‘And this?’ Ros waved an arm around the cramped kitchen. Their rented nineteenth-century cottage in College Bounds was charming, but tight for space. ‘I envy you your big kitchen-diner.’
‘Minimalist living is all very well,’ Fiona quipped, ‘but where would you hide the toys?’
‘I know. And this place is handy for Max’s nursery. For Seaton, too, so I shouldn’t complain.’
‘Getting back to Nic,’ Fiona’s face took on a serious expression. ‘Have you told him how you feel?’
Shocked voice. ‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It would only make things worse.’
‘I can understand that, if you brought it up when he’d just got in. But couldn’t you wait till you’ve put the baby to bed? Or you’ve gone to bed yourselves. That way, you’ll have all his attention. Speaking of which…’ She reached out a hand. ‘Don’t say if you don’t want to, but are things alright in that department?’
‘Fine.’ Ros brightened. ‘That’s the one thing that hasn’t suffered. At least only for a short while after the baby…’ She broke off. ‘We’re back to normal, now. The only thing is…’ She pulled a face. ‘As in everything else, Nic does like to call the shots.’
Fiona grinned. ‘Don’t they all? But, as I was saying, try to have it out with him, the other thing. But hold off till he’s more relaxed.’
‘You know him well enough by now,’ Ros let out a long sigh. ‘Nic doesn’t do “relaxed”.’
Peace of Mind
‘We met through the internet,’ the woman seated across the table from Maggie confided. ‘Ralph…’ Coy smile. ‘He was my fourth match.’
‘Mmm,’ Maggie murmured, non-committal. They’d agreed to meet in a hotel lounge on Great Western Road. It wasn’t far from Maggie to walk and, besides, she’d had a bellyful of Patisserie Valerie.
The case – a prenuptial background vetting check – had come to Harcus & Laird by way of Sheena Struthers. The client was an acquaintance of Sheena’s, one of a coterie of middle-class ladies who lunched and played bridge together. Maggie had accepted Helen Cruickshank’s business with alacrity. Verification in these sorts of cases was a growing, and lucrative, field. And easy money, an internet search often all that was required to achieve a satisfactory outcome. More important, Maggie hoped the extra income would go some way towards thawing her strained relations with her friend and colleague.
By rights, the case had fallen to Wilma, who had already run a background check. But this particular evening, big-hearted Wilma was doing emergency sickness cover at her Torry pub and had asked Maggie to present the agency’s report.
I’ve done all the work. You only have to wind things up, Wilma insisted. Piece of cake!
Maggie had been reluctant, but in the circumstances felt she could hardly refuse. Still, she said a silent prayer that Helen Cruickshank wasn’t going to turn out to be another Sheena Struthers.
‘I’d been a bit depressed,’ the client volunteered. ‘After Christmas, when the family went home and the decorations came down…’ She leaned forward. ‘You know how it is.’
Maggie knew only too well. Bad enough she’d to go on living without George, day by day, week by week. But the holiday period had hammered home that not only was she without a husband, her parents had become strangers, her children increasingly out of reach.
‘I was drinking too much,’ Mrs Cruickshank went on. ‘A gin and tonic on the dot of six – gave me an instant lift – then I’d tipple away till bedtime. If I’d still had company…’ Apologetic look. ‘I’d have stuck to wine. Good wine at that. Tony prided himself on his cellar. But there’s no point in opening a bottle, is there, to drink on my own?’
Doesn’t stop Wilma, Maggie thought wryly. Me neither, not these days. Since she’d teamed up with Wilma Harcus, Maggie’s tastes – in all manner of things – had undergone a rapid re-jig.
‘Quite so,’ she murmured. She took a squint at the woman sitting opposite. Dissolute or not, Helen Cruickshank looked like a forties movie star, all smokey eyes and serious lipstick. Maggie made a mental note to ask Kirsty for make-up advice next time she was home.
‘And besides,’ her companion ran on, ‘spirits are cleaner, sharper. Don’t dehydrate you. I told myself once the cold weather eased I’d cut down, but then…’
‘You were going to tell me about Ralph.’ Gently, Maggie interrupted the torrent of words. She’d come across this many times: a client happy to talk about anything but the reason for their meeting.
‘Oh.’ Mrs Cruickshank twisted an embroidered hankie between her hands. ‘So I was. My first match…’
Dammit! Maggie wished she hadn’t put the question. She already knew the answer, so there was no need to pick through the sordid details. All the same, the knowledge she gained she could put to good use in future cases.
Cynical bitch! You’re getting as bad as Wilma.
‘Bit touchy-feely.’ Sideways look. ‘If you know what I mean.’
Maggie gave a small nod.
‘Number two was in sales. I couldn’t get a word in.’
Nor me! Maggie kept her counsel.
‘Match number three was an academic. Decent enough, but on the nervy side. Problem was, I couldn’t help but compare those men with Tony. He’s been dead three years now.’ There was a wobble in her voice. ‘And they didn’t measure up.’
‘What about Ralph?’ Maggie steered the conversation back.
‘Took me by storm. Like my late husband, he’s a public schoolboy. And dishy with it. Presented himself for our first dinner date impeccably groomed. And bearing a nosegay of snowdrops, would you believe? I’ve no idea how he knew I love snowdrops.’
Classic, Maggie thought. From her research, she’d learned that sociopaths tend to target lonely women, use the information they post online to tell them what they want to hear.
‘I was charmed, my dear,’ Mrs Cruickshank rattled on. ‘My Tony, for all his virtues, was a sloppy dresser, happiest in old cords and a shapeless sweater,’ she grimaced. ‘Invariably with a trail of spills down the front.’
‘And Ralph? What happened next?’
‘Took me home. Said his farewells at the front door. Then…’
Maggie sneaked a quick peek at her phone. When she’d posed the question, she’d meant how had the relationship developed. She prayed she wasn’t in for a blow-by-blow account of heavy sex.
‘I’ve had such a lovely time these past few weeks,’ her companion offered. ‘Dinner, theatre, country drives…’ She broke off.
Maggie waited for the ‘but’. There was always a ‘but’. It never came.
‘You must be very happy then,’ she prompted.
‘Oh, yes.’ Fond smile. ‘But, as I told you on the telephone, the children aren’t. At least, not since Ralph asked me to marry him.’
‘Why is that?’ Maggie dissembled.
‘They’re worried about my well-being. That and…’ Strained smile. ‘…their inheritance. We were well set up, you see, before Tony’s sudden death. The sale of the business, well, it brought the fruits of thirty years of hard work, something we’d been looking to enjoy before…’ Her voice hitched. ‘I was left on my own. And there are other investments. If I were to marry…’ She battled to regain her composure. ‘Anyhow, they tell me it’s standard practice, these days, to run a check like I asked you to.’
‘Yes,’ Maggie concurred. ‘The internet is a minefield these days. Better,’ she hesitated, ‘to have peace of mind.’
Peace of mind! She felt like a snake-oil salesman as she uttered the words. She was about to ruin this lonely woman’s day. Plus, she’d long since accepted that it would be years yet – if ever – before she herself achieved a state of mental equilibrium.
She composed herself. It was high time she broke the news.
‘My report,’ she slid a slim
folder across the table.
Helen Cruickshank brightened. ‘So soon? Your firm is very efficient, Mrs Laird.’
And thorough!
Wilma’s internet trawl had thrown up the subject’s registration on multiple dating sites. Ralph’s real name was Mark Rowland. Maggie hadn’t had the nerve to ask Wilma how she’d found out. Nor had he attended public school. He’d claimed to be a widower, his wife having died of ovarian cancer. Not only was the wife very much alive, but ‘Ralph’ was still married with four dependent children.
Bastard!
Maggie watched as Helen Cruickshank opened the folder and started to read, as the colour drained from her face.
Time of the Month
Through the thin fabric of her nightie she can feel the movement.
His cock bobs up. Like one of those fairground skittles. Comic, really. Well, it would be, only she’s not in the mood.
‘Mmm.’ He nuzzles her neck.
She shrugs one shoulder, sending a signal. Or so she hopes. She’s been feeling lousy all day: flu-ish, headache-y. Told herself, as she struggled through the motions, it would pass. It hasn’t, stomach cramps stopping her mid-chore. Goes with the territory when it’s that time of the month. You’d think, by now, she’d be used to them, those sharp muscle-clenching pains. But, no, they invariably catch her unawares. This time they’ve been more painful, violent almost, the blood darker when she goes to the bathroom. She wonders what’s going on…
His penis is rod-hard, now, poking into the small of her back.
She tries to ignore it, but it persists, nagging like a toothache. Or period pain, come to that.
With a wry smile, she reaches a hand between her legs, checks the tampon is still in place. Between her fingers, the string tail is dripping wet. Dammit! She snatches her hand away. She’d better get up before…
He likes to fuck her when she’s bleeding. Seems to turn him on: her look of distaste as he penetrates, his cock dripping scarlet when he withdraws, the tang of iron on his fingers. Once, she’d even caught him at the laundry basket, his nose buried in a pair of soiled knickers.
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