by Caron Allan
We ran out of conversation after asking after everyone’s health and talking about the weather, the new baby, the imminent trip to Scotland. I also skirted very carefully around Mavis’s recent good fortune in losing her ex-husband. They were both still ecstatic, Henrietta said.
At quarter past nine, the hotel door swung open once again, and I registered that two people were coming out before realising it was our two people. Together. I slumped down in my seat and nudged the sleeping Henrietta to do the same. Up to this point I’d still cherished a forlorn hope that somehow we’d find an innocent explanation for all of this, but he cupped the cheeks of her bum and pressed himself against her in such a way that even I couldn’t see a way to wave it aside. Then I remembered my phone and managed to take two not-very-good photos of them having a last quick snog before they got into their cars and drove off, mercifully without appearing to see us, and then I snapped both cars in one shot as they waited to pull out of the parking area onto the main road. I was quite proud of that one.
Job done. I let them get a little ahead before pulling out of the car park. We stopped at the first Chinese restaurant I spotted and went in for a meal, I was famished!
We sat outside my house for a few minutes, not really talking just sort of exclaiming over what we had discovered – or confirmed. I was feeling a bit shell-shocked, I really hadn’t believed it was true until I’d seen them with my own eyes. Then it occurred to me that it was a bit daft to just sit there virtually on my doorstep and that we ought to go inside for a night cap. It was only twenty to eleven anyway, not quite burning the midnight oil.
We found Matt sitting in the kitchen at the table nursing a tired and grumpy Billy. He looked pretty tired and grumpy himself. When he looked up and saw me standing there, his reaction was one that all fathers of young children everywhere would recognise and relate to.
“Thank God you’re back.” He said. “Here.” And getting to his feet he thrust Billy into my arms. Billy hugged my neck, breaking out into overwrought sobbing, her hot skin and fluffy hair sticking to me.
“What’s the matter?” I asked my Lord and Master, rubbing her back and making soothing noises. He shook his head, raking fingers through his hair.
“Not a clue. All night she’s been sobbing for you to read something to her. I don’t know what story it is. I’ve been through all their books, and she doesn’t want any of them. I’m at my wits end.”
I looked from his face to hers. “What is it, Poppet? What story do you want?”
“She keeps saying something. It’s a bit like frog, but the Happy Green Frog story isn’t any good. Is there another frog one I haven’t seen?” He was trying not to get cross, I could tell, but the poor man had had enough. But a little figurative light had gone on in my head.
“Oh.” I nodded sagely. Billy was gazing at me, her teary eyes alight with hope.
“Vwog.” She whispered to me. I kissed her cheek. Message received and understood.
“Oh yes, I know the one she means,” I said to Matt, Henrietta and the room at large. How nice to be the clever one for a change! “It’s all right Darling, off you pop and relax for a bit while us girls get settled down here. I’m making cocoa if you want it?”
He said something I hoped Billy didn’t hear, indicating that cocoa would not be his first choice. He slammed off out of the room and I heard him stumping up the stairs.
“Cwoss.” Said Billy, unplugging her finger to comment. She doesn’t know many words but the ones she does know present a worrying snapshot of her short life. Thank God there was no social worker on hand to witness all this.
“Hmm, he is a bit cross. What a grumpy Daddy.” I said. And plopped her down on one of the kitchen chairs. Billy and Henrietta watched each other curiously. I made cocoa for three and sat down with Billy on her chair, bringing with me my secret weapon. Billy’s eyes lit up with wonder and she pointed a damp forefinger in the direction of the magazine.
“Vwog!” She said excitedly. I corrected her carefully.
“Vogue, Darling. Can you say Vogue for Mummy?”
“Vwogue.” Said my perfect little girl. I beamed at her. Young talent must be encouraged.
“Perfect, Darling. Clever girl! Now, where did we get to last night?”
I caught Henrietta’s eye and I could see she was trying not to laugh. “I won’t be long,” I told her, “she never makes it beyond the first two or three pages. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not. But what will she read when she’s older?”
I gaped at her. What was Henrietta on about? Surely the answer was clear?
“Well, obviously she’ll never grow out of Vogue, one doesn’t, but if she ever does fancy a change, there’ll always be a copy of Harper’s knocking about somewhere.”
Billy’s eyes were riveted on the beloved cover. So I opened the fairy story book of dreams and we began with Autumn Footwear and by the time we had investigated the options thoroughly, then made good headway on Today I’m Wearing, Billy’s nutmeg-coloured eyes were drooping heavily and her head was tilting back towards my shoulder, her finger had come unplugged from her mouth. I scooped her up and began to take her upstairs, belatedly remembering the magazine I was still holding. I slipped it back into my bag – must keep one’s secrets safe, after all - and ran up with her, slipping her in under the covers and kissing her goodnight – she didn’t notice, she was already sound asleep. Paddy was asleep in the other little bed. I watched them both for a few seconds, but had to cut it short, remembering my guest downstairs, waiting to hold a post-mortem of the evening’s events. I kissed Paddy’s hair, tidied his covers and retrieved a dinosaur before tiptoeing out of the room, leaving the door a little ajar.
When I got back to the kitchen, Henrietta said, “you’ll have to get her a subscription of her own before long.”
“Yes, probably by the time she’s four, she so advanced for her age. Little poppet. Right,” I said, in my getting-down-to-business voice. “So what the hell are we going to do about Sacha and Vanessa?” And I grabbed my mug of cocoa and took a long draught of its rich sweetness. If only we had marshmallows and squirty cream, then everything in my world would be lovely.
“Well we can’t tell anyone, can we?” Henrietta said. I studied my drink. The softest of sounds from the hall told me someone was approaching and I looked up to see Matt entering the room.
“What can’t you tell anyone?” He asked. He looked around. “No Billy? I can’t believe you got her down so quickly. What was the problem?”
He looked terrible, still sexy, obviously, but gaunt, and absolutely shattered. I had wanted to keep my little secret but then I felt awful for what he had suffered whilst I was out. I leaned over to hoik the magazine out of my bag then waved it at him. He took it, and stared at it, still uncomprehending. Then he saw the name across the top and I could see it all began to make sense.
“Vogue?” He said. He looked at me as if I had been guilty of a heinous crime. Socrates and I – corrupters of the innocent. Though obviously in slightly different ways. “Vogue!”
I shrugged my shoulders. Did a what-can-you-do expression. “Vogue.” I admitted.
“I can’t believe it.” Then he smiled. Dropped a kiss on my hair in much the same way as I had done to Billy and Paddy. “So what is it you can’t tell anyone?”
“Sacha and Vanessa met up in a sleazy hotel for illicit nookie.” I said. He looked dumbfounded. “I know,” I said, “We couldn’t believe it either. That’s why we had to follow her. I really thought it would turn out to be something dreary like flower-arranging. Village life is just an endless round of astonishment, isn’t it? And the worst thing is, she’s signing into the fleabag hotel using my name!”
And I told him everything, beginning with Madison’s visit and what she had said to me and thought about me. Then something occurred to me. I rummaged in my bag for my phone to check the photos I had taken. I flicked through them. Henrietta was itching to see, I could tell, so I handed h
er the phone then had to lean over her to press the button to go through the successive frames. She let out a whistle.
“Golly! I had no idea they would be this clear with a phone camera. Damning evidence indeed. There’s no way these can be simply explained away.”
Matt took a look too. We all looked at each other. And feeling a bit like a Liverpudlian vulture, I said, “so what we gonna do?”
Wednesday 6 August – 8.10pm
The last few days have been grim. Woke up the day after our tracking exploits to find we all had colds and sore throats, Lill was the only one well enough to get out of bed for two days and although the children and I bounced back quite quickly by day three, the two men were poorly for another two days. FYI, I have discovered I don’t much like dealing with snotty noses, don’t know if it’s just because I’m pregnant, but it makes me feel icky. So Lill had to do all the wiping of Paddy and Billy’s noses.
But. Now it really is time to start laying plans for the trip to Scotland, before it’s too late. I have that same old horrid feeling of time running out again, of everything being out of control – not unlike last year when I felt the need to get away due to feeling that Monica was haunting me (even though she was still very much alive and kicking at that point) and it almost seems as though nothing has changed – I still feel haunted, still feel stressed and I still feel – damn her – that she is after all very much alive and kicking. Only now I’ve not only got even more to lose, with the two children and my bump too, but I also, finally, know what she is really capable of. I will never again underestimate her. But I sincerely hope she does underestimate me, I need all the help I can get, whether from the Fates or where ever else. I feel almost like performing some kind of ritual to improve my chances of success.
Tried to tell Matt about my concerns but he just didn’t get it – and he wouldn’t, would he? He wasn’t here this time last year, he doesn’t know what was happening. He hasn’t lived through the whole story and found himself turning blind corner after blind corner and finding her there already, waiting for him. That’s how I feel. That’s what I can’t allow to happen again.
“Stop stressing,” he says, “you don’t even know if she’s still alive. You’re probably worrying over nothing. No one would go to those kind of lengths. She’s dead and you’re just working yourself up for no reason.”
See? Not a clue.
He just says, between coughing fits, that I’m just tired and need a holiday. He tells me to plan some nice treats for myself and to go shopping.
But that isn’t going to satisfy me. So once again, I’m taking to the road. Tonight, as soon as the children are in bed, I’m going to drive to Monica’s house and see if anyone is there – I’m not going to do anything stupid like bang on the door or break in or – at least, I don’t think so. I probably won’t even step out of the car, but I just need to go there and SEE. Though she could be alive but just not at her house. There’s no telling, I suppose. She might be giving the place a wide berth, just in case I do actually manage to put two and two together. But I’ve got to start somewhere and this seems the best place. If she’s not there, I might try Nadina and Jeremy’s.
But leaving all that on one side, we are taking the children up to Scotland with us, leaving Sid and Lill all alone for a few days R&R, which I’m certain they will be glad of. So I do need to get out with Lill and buy more bits and pieces for the children and get on with their packing, as well as packing for myself. I’m assuming (perhaps somewhat naively) that Matt can do his own packing. And I need to order some roses to collect the day we leave, to take up with us to put on the ground where Thomas’ ashes were scattered. Things to do, things to do.
I feel a bit overwhelmed with it all. Hope I don’t forget anything crucial. I feel a bit like one of those plate jugglers on the stage of an old-time music-hall, frantically running from one pole to the next giving each one a quick jiggle just before the spinning plate loses its momentum, wobbles and smashes to the floor. Just hope it’s not me headed for a smash.
Thursday 7 August – 12.15pm
So it is all true. Everything I have come to suspect, I now know it is all true.
I drove through the darkness. There was a fine rain falling on the windscreen of my car like a lover’s soft fingertips. Too much rain to have no wipers, not enough to have them on even the slowest setting. And as I drove my mind was a whirl of thoughts. What was I going to find when I reached Monica’s house? How stupid I would feel – and yet how relieved – if I got there to find the place in darkness, abandoned. But what if she was there?
And also plaguing my peace of mind, what should I do about Vanessa and Sacha? Should I keep their nasty little secret (I’ve never approved of infidelity. I mean, with marriage, either you’re in or you’re out, you shouldn’t be able to faff about having your cake and eating it too!), but if I didn’t keep quiet, if I told Rev Steve and Madison what I knew, what a terrible impact it would have on their lives, and I would feel (unfairly) to blame for breaking up their marriages, if in fact they did break up. I suppose it’s always possible for reconciliations to take place, but what about trust, what about a return to total trust and commitment? Would Rev Steve turn the other Christian cheek, or would he feel his honour, not to mention his manly pride, had been too-far trammelled, especially in such a small village, where presumably everyone knew what was going on – Henrietta had said Sacha was notorious for his affairs. In fact, is it possible he already knows? If so, how does he feel about it, what is he planning on doing? Why hadn’t he done anything already?
But - leaving all that for one moment - I wasn’t prepared to allow Madison to continue to have suspicions about myself and her slimy creep of a husband. I mean, why would I get involved with Sacha (yuck!) when I’ve got a gorgeous hunk like Matt at home? Poor Madison. If I was in her situation, I would prefer to know. Wouldn’t I? Surely nothing could be worse than finding out everyone knows your horrid secret except you? This all kept going round and round in my head and I was getting nowhere with it.
It was about ten thirty by the time I parked the car down the road from Monica’s house. Looking back between the front seat head-rests, I could see there were lights on inside.
“The lights are on and someone is home.” I said to myself. Not my wittiest line, I’d be the first to admit but I was nervous.
It felt odd, walking along the pavement of this very exclusive development, so neatly planned and tidily executed. It felt as if I shouldn’t be there. I hesitated in the drizzle. I looked back to my car then ahead to the house. I wavered. Should I just go home? Because obviously the presence of any light at all in the house signified someone was there. For just half a second I considered the possibility that the house had been sold and some perfectly oblivious and guilt-free family was now in residence.
But then I dismissed the idea. Because deep down I knew. I could already feel what the outcome was going to be … So if I knew, did I really need to go over and actually take a look? Emphatically, yes. I dithered for a few moments, trying to decide. In the end, I realised I had to see her, I had to see her with my own eyes because then I would have the proof of what she had done, I would finally know and be able to stop wondering. So on I went.
As I approached the house, I could distinguish the sound of a television murmuring behind rose-coloured curtains.
I crept closer, keeping to the shadows. I had not originally intended to come this close and now I was afraid I would get caught, and it was vital that no one saw me. I had told myself I would stay in the car, but was when I thought it would be enough just to see lights on in the house. Now I knew it wasn’t. I had to try, I had to see her face.
I prayed there would be no blinding blast of security lights, no barking dog, no alarm. I needed all the fates, the furies, whatever they were called, to be with me, on my side, furthering my ends. I needn’t have worried. I saw all I needed to see. I stood in the shadow of some bushes outside her kitchen window and peered in. The room w
as partially illuminated by light filtering through from her drawing-room. I waited. The sounds from the television seemed to increase as the programme went to the commercial break. And sure enough she used that as an opportunity to pop into the kitchen and make herself a cup of tea.
I watched her standing there. I stood six feet away her. Through the glass I watched her as she made her drink, as she frowned at a pimple on her forehead, examining it with the little mirror she had hanging on the wall just by the door to the hall. I was careful not to breathe, move, even think as she stood there, absorbed in her life. I was afraid even my heartbeat would be too loud, that she would somehow detect my presence from the intensity of the loathing that flooded me and flowed through me as I stood there and watched her and hated her.
I wondered then about trying the handle of the back door. She was not always very good at remembering to lock the door, as I remembered from my previous visit. I could have gone straight in there right then and found something heavy and hit her with it again and again and again. Or, I could have brought some ethylene glycol with me – her housekeeper thought she was dead, so she obviously wouldn’t be working here anymore, this time my efforts may not be thrown out into the trash. Dammit, I never come properly prepared, do I? I could have killed her! It made me feel ill to think that I had come all this way and would simply have to turn tail and drive back home and leave her there, alive, behind me, safe, well, whole. I trembled with it. For a moment of pure, unreasoning rage, I was tempted to do it, to try anything. Just as long as I killed her, what else could possibly matter? But then I remembered Billy sitting on my lap, her sticky little fingers eagerly clutching the pages of Vogue. I thought of Matt ruffling Paddy’s hair and sprawling on the floor to play cars with him. I thought of my baby being born in prison and of him being taken away from me and me only seeing his childhood through a series of photos and a couple of wax-crayon drawings from nursery school. I thought of Lill, and Sid in his vest. And so I breathed in slowly and held it. Then I let out a long breath, and with it went the worst of my rage. I must do this carefully, I must plan it.