by Lynda Renham
‘I’m looking for Rita,’ said Henry, changing to a friendlier tone. ‘Does she still live here?’
‘She did yesterday,’ said Billy, giving Henry the once over.
I don’t like you, thought Henry, but I’m certainly delighted you can see me.
‘She’s at work,’ added Billy before Henry could ask.
‘I’ll try later,’ said Henry, his eyes fixed on the hand that hovered over Billy’s jacket pocket.
‘You do that,’ said Billy.
Henry turned and walked back to the bus stop, relieved to be putting some distance between him and Billy. It was overcast but to Henry everything seemed brighter than it ever had; the brightness of a new page. If this was his new reality then Henry was very happy with it. He had a chance to put everything right and that’s exactly what he would do. He just had enough time to grab a sandwich from Pansies. Henry felt buoyant. So much so that his hand went into his pocket as he approached the tramp. He handed a pound coin to the man and felt supremely righteous. All Henry had to do was avoid boats and rivers on Saturday. He was in control of his destiny. He was back behind the wheel and he wasn’t going to crash.
*
Rita opened her lunch box and groaned. The orange juice bottle had leaked all over her ham sandwich. The bread had been fresh too. A white seeded loaf. Rita had been looking forward to it. Now it wasn’t even decent to feed to the ducks. She’d have to get something inferior from the store and wrinkled her nose at the thought. The sandwiches there always had copious amounts of mayonnaise inside and Rita disliked mayonnaise. Instead she decided to spoil herself for once and get something from Pansies. It’s not like she did it often, she reasoned. It would also give her a chance to go around Bodgin’s department store that was close by. She had an hour and it would be silly not to make the most of it. Rita liked the department store. She stopped and watched a woman having a make-over, fascinated by the vast array of cosmetics.
‘Would you like to try our new range?’ the assistant asked.
‘I only have forty minutes,’ said Rita timidly. ‘It’s my lunch break.’
I’m like a little mouse, she thought.
‘Plenty of time,’ smiled the assistant, pulling out a stool.
‘Well …’ hesitated Rita. ‘I shouldn’t really go back with too much make-up on,’ she said sounding like a runaway nun. She reminded herself to leave enough time to get to Pansies.
‘Fifteen minutes at the most,’ said the assistant, gently easing Rita into the stool.
Rita positioned herself in front of the mirror and waited for the transformation. Several people stopped to watch her being made over and for a few minutes Rita felt like a celebrity.
‘Do you work nearby?’ the assistant asked as she applied a light foundation.
Rita thought she had a lovely voice. It was soft with a slight huskiness to it. She smelt of vanilla and tobacco. She probably smokes too much, thought Rita, that’s why her voice is so husky.
‘Fresco’s supermarket,’ said Rita, blushing. ‘Today is usually my afternoon off but we’re short of staff and the extra money will help.’
It sounded so limp compared to being a make-up artist.
‘Trouble with that is you don’t see the money until the following month,’ said the girl who obviously knew all about overtime.
‘Yes,’ agreed Rita.
‘Great cheekbones,’ gushed the assistant as she stroked blusher across them. It gave Rita a peachy glow. Black kohl was drawn across her eyelid making them seem much brighter.
‘There,’ said the assistant, after applying mascara. ‘The colours suit you. Let me show you what I used.’
She then spent ten minutes trying to coax Rita into buying the cosmetics. They were far too expensive for Rita, but she didn’t want to tell the assistant that. She was also beginning to panic that there would be little time left to get her sandwich. Finally, she agreed to purchase the peach blusher and the assistant seemed satisfied and Rita was free to go. She now only had fifteen minutes and had to abandon her plan of browsing the clothes. She calculated she’d need all her time, especially if there was a queue at Pansies. As it happened there wasn’t, and Rita had an extra five minutes. Her plan to order a smoked salmon sandwich was scuppered by the array of choice on the menu and instead she chose a turkey and stuffing ciabatta roll and a blueberry muffin. It was placed in a small brown paper bag and Rita left with her mouth watering in anticipation. She’d only gone a few steps along the road when she heard her name being called. She turned to see a man hurrying towards her, waving his arms.
‘Rita, wait.’
She watched, mesmerised for a moment as he weaved his way through the busy shoppers.
‘Rita,’ he said breathlessly on reaching her. ‘I thought that was you. I was having lunch in the café.’
It was Henry one of the customers from the store. Rita rather liked Henry. He always had a chat with her. He was intelligent, more so than the other customers. It was always funny when you saw people outside of the store. He looked strangely different, thought Rita. His skin was darker, she noticed. The store lights did strange things to people’s faces. It was so much easier talking to them when she was behind her samples. Rita always looked forward to Henry’s visits. She thought he liked her too. But Henry was married, and married men were a forbidden entity. All the same they had become friendly. Henry had told her about his holiday in the Isle of Wight and Rita had looked it up on Google.
He had some kind of stomach problem, she remembered.
‘Oh, hello,’ said Rita. ‘How are you?’
‘I’ve never been better,’ said Henry excitedly, his eyes bright and wide. They’re almost manic, thought Rita.
She fingered her necklace nervously. The thing is you never really know people.
‘I’m late back to work,’ she said turning. If she didn’t get back soon there wouldn’t be time to have her turkey stuffed roll.
Henry grabbed her arm and Rita felt a little surge of fear run through her like a tiny electric shock. Her scalp prickled and her body became suddenly hot.
‘Rita, don’t you remember that I came to you last night and we talked about the psychic?’
Rita pulled her arm away and said shakily,
‘I don’t know anything about psychics. I’ve never been to one. I think you’re mixing me up with someone else.’
‘I’m not dead,’ said Henry, leaning towards her.
What a strange thing to say, thought Rita. She tried to remember if someone had said that Henry had died. She didn’t think so.
She became aware of people looking at them. Henry was frightening her. Why was he saying he wasn’t dead? She looked pleadingly at passers-by who quickly looked away and hastened their pace. She gave Henry a tight smile and with false bravado said, ‘I’m so pleased.’ While being unsure of what she was pleased about. She flinched as a motorist sounded his horn. She hadn’t realised she’d stepped into the road. She wanted to run but what if he chased her?
‘Everyone can see me now, not just you,’ said Henry, his eyes staring into hers.
‘That’s great,’ said Rita.
People jostled past them and Rita felt her brown paper bag slip from her fingers. Henry bent to retrieve it and Rita took the opportunity to make a run for it. She heard him calling her name but didn’t dare to look back. She didn’t stop running until she reached the supermarket. Her ribs heaved up and down as she tried to get her breath. Her legs were as heavy as bags of potatoes. She looked fearfully behind her. There was no sign of Henry. Why had he spoken to her in that strange fashion? She didn’t like it when people talked about psychics. Why did Henry think she knew about them? He’d always seemed perfectly normal when he’d popped into the store. Rita had rather liked chatting to him. He was a bit odd with his constant talk of illness but apart from that he’d seemed alright. But he’s crazy, she thought. What will she do if he comes into the store again? I’ll be safe, she assured herself. He wouldn’t act like tha
t in the store. Perhaps he is just unwell today. She mourned her turkey stuffing roll and blueberry muffin. Perhaps she’ll walk home with Daphne tonight. She often left the same time as Rita. She’ll pop to the meat counter and ask her to wait. Rita didn’t fancy walking home alone.
*
Henry looked at the abandoned turkey ciabatta and resisted the urge to squash it between his fingers. It’s not fair, he wanted to yell. Why doesn’t she remember? He couldn’t bear for it not to have been real. Those moments they’d shared had been precious. He could smell her bluebell perfume. It soothed his soul like nothing else could. He couldn’t lose Rita for so many reasons. She’d shared so much with him. They’d gone to his funeral together. How could she not remember? Perhaps it was too soon. He’d wait until Saturday. He’d died Saturday afternoon. He’ll visit Rita Saturday evening. Everything would have balanced itself out by then. Rita would be in her little bedsit and it would be like it always had been. He’d hurry to the department store and buy the perfume Rita liked. He’d give it to her on Saturday as a thank you gift. He and Imogen would sort things out. He’d forgive her, of course. What else was there to do? One couldn’t consider divorce. Far too much at stake with his retirement scheme, yes, that would be very complicated. He was partly at fault. But murder …
Henry checked his watch. He would be late. He threw the brown bag into a waste bin and strode quickly back to work.
Chapter Forty-One
Later that evening, Henry walked slowly along Mayberry Terrace. Prolonging that moment when his house would come into view. So far the day had been perfect. There had been no sign of five o’clock shadow Matt. Helen had even bidden him goodnight. All he needed now was to see the warm amber glow lighting up his living room window, to know that life was normal again. It was chilly. The stars were hidden by a wall of foreboding cloud. Henry shivered and remembered Rita’s warm little bedsit. He was sorry summer was over. He liked those nights when only a thin summer duvet was needed. Soon, he would see the house. He closed his eyes, took another step and then opened them. There it was, the warm amber glow. The lights were on. Imogen was home. The aromatic smell of Cajun chicken roasting in the oven greeted him as he opened the door. It was warm in the house, reminding Henry that he needed to look at the central heating. He threw his briefcase onto the hall chair. The kitchen door opened, and the delicious aroma wafted into the hallway.
‘Henry, is that you?’
‘Why, are you expecting someone else?’ he wanted to retort, but he didn’t. He hung his coat neatly in the hall cupboard and went into the kitchen.
‘Something smells good,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound normal. It was an effort. Henry wasn’t good at faking his feelings.
Imogen turned from the sink where she had been preparing runner beans.
‘It won’t be long,’ she said. There was a hint of accusation in her voice as though she were annoyed he’d arrived home a few minutes early.
Henry thought that if a stranger walked into their house now, what a picture of contentment they would see. They’d see Imogen, the epitome of domesticity in her pink gingham apron, smell the roasting chicken, eye up the perfectly laid table and think what a harmonious marriage they had. Henry should kiss his wife, that’s what the stranger would expect. Marital bliss, they’d think. That’s what this couple have. Imogen looked at Henry curiously. She’d sensed his hesitation. He’d always kissed her the moment he came in but tonight he couldn’t bring himself to. Imogen Frazer was an adulteress. Imogen Frazer had a deceptive heart. Imogen Frazer did not deserve to be kissed.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?’ she said as though reading his mind.
Brazen too, thought Henry. He wondered what the stranger would make of all this.
‘Is your stomach playing up?’ she asked with a small sigh.
It irritates her, my dyspepsia, thought Henry. Not like Rita who couldn’t do enough for him.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, making himself lean towards her. Her cheek was cold to his lips. She squeezed his hand. Hers were warm. Warm hands, cold heart, thought Henry. It wasn’t the right saying but it was what Henry felt.
‘I’ll dish up,’ she said, reaching for the oven gloves.
He needed to confront her. Have it out about Jim.
‘There’s some wine in the fridge,’ she said.
The oven door was opened and the smell that travelled out of it made his stomach rumble. He wondered what Rita was having for dinner. One of her luscious pies, no doubt.
‘Do you remember our wedding?’ he said.
The words flew out of his mouth. It was a stupid thing to say. Who wouldn’t remember his or her wedding? But he wanted her to feel guilty. He’d planted a seed. She’d visualise the day. Remember their vows and guilt would consume her.
There was a silence as if someone had rung a bell or thumped on a table for everyone to pay attention. But Henry hadn’t rung a bell or thumped on the table. He’d simply asked a question. The only sound now was the sizzling of the Cajun chicken. One second passed. Two seconds passed. Was the guilt eating away at her?
‘Of course,’ she said, finally, slamming the oven door shut with her knee. ‘Turn off those beans, would you?’
She balanced the dish of chicken and hurriedly took it to the table. It sizzled and spat at her like a rebellious child. Henry drained the beans and watched the water race through the holes. Like my life, he thought, racing away from me and disappearing down the plug hole. Henry opened the wine and they sat at the table in silence, clattering cutlery like musical instruments until Imogen said,
‘Why did you ask if I remembered our wedding?’
Henry knew as he swallowed a piece of chicken that there would be no more to enjoy that evening. He savoured the delicious flavour and then put down his fork. His timing had been terrible. But even the aromatic tender flesh of the chicken could do nothing to seal the crack in his heart. He took a small sip of the Merlot. Really far too good a wine to have over an argument, he thought depressingly.
‘I know about Jim.’ There, he’d said it. No beating about the bush.
Imogen blinked.
‘Jim? What do you know about Jim?’
‘I know you and Jim are having an affair.’
Imogen’s face turned bright pink and her eyes dropped from his. She struggled to swallow, and Henry wondered for one frightening moment if she had a chicken bone stuck in her throat.
‘I was stupid,’ she said finally, laying down her knife but it missed the table and fell to the floor with a clatter. Henry looked down at her fingernails as it was easier than looking into her eyes and seeing the betrayal there. They were painted bright red. Just like Rita’s lips, thought Henry. But he shouldn’t think about Rita, especially her lips.
‘I was flattered. It was stupid.’
‘Stupid?’ repeated Henry. Just stupid? Not ‘I was wrong.’ Not ‘I betrayed us?’
‘I don’t know what came over me.’
Henry was silent. Jim was what came all over you he thought and then felt quite nauseous.
‘Say something,’ Imogen demanded, her voice now angry, like it was somehow his fault. For a moment he was confused. Had it been his fault?
‘What do you want me to say?’ he asked, rolling up his sleeves as though preparing for battle. She stood up abruptly and grabbed the dish of chicken, splashing hot fat onto the table. He saw her wince as the heat of the dish scolded her hand.
‘That was a waste of my time,’ she said angrily.
‘You’ve got fat on the table,’ he said flatly.
He cleared away the plates and wiped the table with a teacloth before following her into the kitchen where she was slamming dishes onto the kitchen counter.
‘How far did it go?’ he asked calmly.
‘It didn’t go anywhere, not really,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘For a short time he made me feel special.’
‘A short time?’ repeated Henry.
Imogen downed
the rest of her wine and fell into a kitchen chair. She seemed exhausted, worn down.
‘I told him I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t Henry. I really couldn’t. It was only cuddles and …’
Henry held up his hand.
‘That’s enough,’ he snapped. ‘I don’t want to hear it.’
He felt the nausea rise up in his stomach. He should have eaten more and most certainly shouldn’t have drunk alcohol. It would only irritate his stomach.
‘Henry,’ she said pleadingly, putting down her glass and beseeching him with her eyes. ‘I was just so needy. I feel so alone sometimes. If only we’d had …’
‘Children?’ he broke in.
His eyes were cold and hard. How dare she blame him for this?
‘I wasn’t enough for you?’
She shook her head emphatically.
‘No, Henry, of course you were … are. I … felt taken over. It was like I’d lost myself. It seemed like my life was an extension of yours. The thing with Jim was mine somehow. If we’d had children it might …’
Henry laughed cynically.
‘You’re trying to put the guilt on me for things you claimed never to want. It’s supposedly my fault because you couldn’t tell me the truth. Marrying me, misleading me, making me think we wanted the same things. As time went on didn’t it occur to you to ask if I wanted a child?’
‘But you were so certain about it,’ she said surprised. ‘So determined and so happy to be child free.’
‘So is Jim going to give you the baby you so desperately want?’ he asked childishly.
Her eyes widened and then her features creased, and it wasn’t her face at all. It was like watching a photo being screwed up. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘How can you say something like that? It’s disgusting. I’ve not done anything like that with Jim. He wanted to but I wouldn’t. I’ve told him it’s all over. He keeps contacting me, but I swear I haven’t seen him.’
‘What about Saturday?’ he said scornfully. ‘Seeing him then are you?’