Twinkle Twinkle Little Lie
by Geraldine Fonteroy © 2012
Published by Furrow Imprint 2012
All rights reserved worldwide. No copying or reproduction or lending of any kind in any medium unless authorised in writing by the legal copyright owner/author.
CHAPTER ONE
HETTIE BROWN WAS A BORING middle-aged woman without a plan and as it would soon transpire, without a clue. Julia Parmier decided she was a loser the moment the frumpy forty-something struggled through the swinging doors of the hardware store, and promptly dropped her purse onto the grubby wood floor. Its contents spilled out in all directions, and taking pity on the outdated, misplaced individual, Julia bent down to pick up a couple of lipsticks and, God help her, a sanitary pad, and popped them back in the open handbag. The bag appeared to be Prada, but as the owner was clearly more at home in the Pound Store, Julia reasoned it was a fake.
‘You’ll want to pick that bag up. This might be South Kensington but it’s also a hardware store,’ Julia told her. ‘All sorts of unsavoury footwear about, and I imagine the kind of cheap plastic on that bag isn’t easy to clean.’
‘Oh, yes, thanks, sorry.’ But despite a pressing need for her to clear the doorway, the woman couldn’t seem to get her act into gear. Nearby, brusque men in builders’ overalls and self-satisfied expressions began to openly comment on the state of the poor thing as three more sanitary napkins (extra super size) went flying. Julia might be a snob, but there was nothing she hated more than a group of men assuming they could intimidate a woman. Even one of such pathetically large proportions.
Of her own appearance, there was nothing to mock. Julia was certain that she could pass for thirty-five, thirty in a darkened room. With her smooth, auburn extensions, smooth forehead thanks to the careful application of regular Botox injections, and minute waist measurements, it was easy to maintain confidence. But for the poor sod clutching supersized pads, well . . .
‘I find men with the smallest penises are most likely to taunt innocent women, don’t you?’ Julia announced loudly, addressing the girl behind the counter. Embarrassed, the young Asian turned her head away, although Julia thought there was a whisper of a smile on the pretty girl’s lips. The builders, now looking uncomfortable, suddenly decided there were some terribly interesting spanners towards the rear of the store and slunk away.
‘Works every time,’ Julia remarked, to whoever might have been listening, which seemed to be no one, as the shop girl was now on the phone. Julia tapped the sorry excuse for a woman on the shoulder.
‘You look like you need a drink, and I was just about to have a sneaky afternoon tipple myself. Why don’t we pop across to The Lion and treat ourselves?’
The wide, pock-marked face remained blank.
‘Did you hear me? A drink?’ Julia put her hands on her hips, unused to being ignored.
‘Oh, what, sorry? I don’t think I can, I have a million things to do and . . .’
‘Excuse me if I seem forward, but you can’t seem to manage the most simple of tasks.’
Then, as if she sensed that Julia hated violent displays of emotion in public, the stupid individual burst into noisy tears. Christ, thought Julia in disgust, there was something actually dripping from the wailing woman’s nose. So much for trying to help a lost soul out. They ought to put gates on all the roads around South Kensington and keep the riff raff out. Plenty of places to shop in nearby Earls Court, if need be.
‘Is your mate alright?’ The shop girl asked.
‘I’m fine,’ the woman blubbered.
‘Maybe you could take her somewhere else? She’s scaring off the customers?’
Charming. ‘Come on, let’s go, shall we?’ Casting a turgid glance at the sniggering builders, Julia Parmier shoved the snivelling woman into the street, and determinedly put up a hand to stop the traffic on Gloucester Road so that they could pass into The Lion without further delay.
A few minutes later, a bottle of superior Chianti and two glasses were plonked down in front of them. ‘Mrs Parmier,’ the young blond waiter said, nodded to Julia’s recently enhanced bust. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘Thank you Sven.’ Julia loved to flirt with the waiters in The Lion. Of course, she wouldn’t do anything more than that. Never. Even the fantasy of screwing around on her husband was restricted for men of consequence and power. Still, this particular boy had a body that screamed to be toyed with. Perhaps in another life, Julia thought, idly. One where I didn’t have to worry about my reputation.
‘He likes you.’
Julia shrugged. ‘It’s amazing what a little boob job can do for you. You should try it. Julia looked with disapproval at the denim shirt and peach cardigan. A matching denim skirt completed the outfit. It was difficult to tell whether the woman had a bust at all, in that get-up – God help her if that lump by her waist was actually her tits.
‘In fact, you should try dressing a little better if you’re planning to hang around this neck of the woods. Are you new to the Royal Borough?’
‘Hah?’
‘The Royal Borough?’
‘Oh, you mean the council?’
Christ. Obviously, the woman had no idea she was currently contained within one of the most exclusive areas in the world.
‘Have you just moved in around here?’ Julia spoke slowly, in case there was a comprehension problem. Perhaps she was an escapee from one of those hospice places they had in the poorer suburbs? Such as Fulham.
‘No. No. I, um, just came to visit someone. I live in Harrow.’ She held out a hand that had never known a good manicure. ‘Hettie Brown.’
Julia introduced herself and replied, with a grimace: ‘Dear, that name sounds as if you plucked it from some horrible series about one of the plagues on the Beeb.’
‘My real name is Harriet, but that’s even worse.’
‘Marginally, I suppose. So what exactly happened to get you in such a state?’
Tears reappeared in the corners of the shrunken eyes. ‘My husband left me.’
Huge surprise, thought Julia. ‘Really, how sad,’ she said aloud, with mock concern.
‘Left me for someone who lives around here. That’s what he said. South Kennington. That’s what I was doing in the hardware store. Thought I could get a lock or something, and pretend to be a locksmith, and go and see her. You know, check out the competition.’
What for? To end up humiliated and ridiculed?
‘That sounds like a radically pathetic plan,’ Julia said, pouring a second glass of wine for them both. ‘Particularly as this is Kensington, not Kennington.’
‘No. I’ve got the wrong suburb? Where is Kennington then?’
‘Somewhere horrible, I am sure.’
‘I can’t do anything right, can I? No wonder he left me.’ The wailing was causing some of the less drunk patrons to look up.
Julia tapped Hettie’s wine. ‘Come on, dear. Drink up. I don’t want to drink by myself this early in the day, do I?’
‘I probably wouldn’t have the nerve to actually knock on her door, anyway. I am sure she is beautiful. Kevin could have any woman he wants. His mother said that of the whole family, he was the winner in the looks department.’
Probably means the man had extra toes or something. Julia poured even more wine into Hettie’s glass to stop further revelations. Julia was prone to bad dreams.
The woman swigged a large gulp of wine and frowned. ‘The last time I had red wine I was in Mallorca with my Kevin.’ She pronounced it Mal-orca.
‘Course you were. That’s where all your sort go, isn’t it?’
‘Well, our Helen prefers Ibiza.’ She pronounced that with the ‘Z’.
‘Of
course she does.’ Julia looked pointedly at the Rolex on her slim wrist. This was exactly why she didn’t do good deeds. The people who needed them were irretrievably pathetic and boring.
‘It was our tenth anniversary only three months ago. And now he says he is dating this bird from Kennington and wants a divorce so they can buy a place together around here.’
‘It sounds like old Kev’ might find it hard to raise the readies to live around here. Kennington might be more up his street. Where did you say you live now?’
‘Harrow.’
‘On the Hill.’
‘No, in an end-of-terrace by the mainline station – lots of noise but handy for getting about.’
‘How nice,’ Julia said insincerely. ‘But selling a string of terraces is unlikely to give your husband enough cash to buy here.’
Another slug of wine. A little dripped down Hettie’s chin, on which Julia spied a long hair. Lovely.
‘Oh, he’s got the money alright. We’ve never cared much about material things, Kev and I. At least I thought we didn’t. But now he says I can have the house and the bank account and he will take the rest. And,’ she raised her glass defiantly, ‘that isn’t going to happen. I deserve half of everything we have. And I told him so.’
Ah, assets. Finally a subject Julia could warm too. ‘And what, exactly, is the rest?’
‘The businesses. Well, the main business, really.’
‘Which are, or is?’ Julia fully expected Hettie to say a chain of kebab shops or some other putrid establishments.
‘Just some mine business.’
‘Mine?’
‘Yeah, his granddad started it, and Kevin inherited it when he died. Hasn’t been to check it out, but it’s his. Now, what is it called? Oh yeah – copper mine.’
Julia nearly choked on a sliver of olive. ‘A copper mine? I know someone with a copper mine. He has a knighthood and a castle. Why the hell do you live in Harrow then?’
Julia didn’t cope well with surprises, particularly when they entailed the smashing of her much-adhered-to social stereotypes. A copper mine meant money, and anyone who could afford to shop somewhere decent didn’t end up with denim doublets in her wardrobe. This Hettie was an enigma; a strange and rather ghastly one.
‘We live there because we like it. At least, I do.’ The tears began again. Christ. ‘What am I going to do without him? He was my life? How could he leave our lovely little semi for a cold flat in a place like this?’ She cast a stout hand that betrayed a penchant for pan scrubbing in the air.
‘I doubt Kennington is like this. And you’re going to do what any other self-respecting woman in your situation would do,’ Julia told her firmly.
‘What’s that?’
‘Get half his money, get liposuction, a boob job, a chemical peel, some hair extensions and find someone better and younger to make him jealous. And finally, move the hell away from the train station.’
‘But I don’t want to do all of that.’
‘Yes,’ Julia said, determinedly. ‘You do. You just don’t know it yet.’
Hettie Brown stared down at the denim ensemble miserably. ‘But where do I start?’
Placing a French-tipped finger under one of the three chins, Julia lifted up Hettie’s face. ‘A divorce lawyer. Preferably one who has no scruples.’
‘Really? But how will I find one of those?’
Julia Parmier patted the frumpy woman’s hand. She was hardly ever altruistic, but at least four excellent lawyers came to mind – each one known to her via friends who had recently been left for a ‘younger model’. It seemed like a miniscule offer to call them and ask for a phone number. Besides, there was one in particular, one of the Henry-Jones boys, who Julia had always had a thing for. A quick phone call would make for fond memories to use when she was shagging her well-worn husband.
‘Leave it to me, Hettie. Leave it to me.’
A pitiful gaze. ‘Really? You’ll help me find a lawyer.’
‘I can if you have the funds for one. They aren’t cheap, you know?’
Hettie’s sad eyes filled up again. ‘Kevin left me the bank account, remember. There’s plenty in there. Enough to live on for three years, he said. Not that I care.’
‘Yes, you do. Listen, as long as you have the cash, you can be helped,’ Julia advised poor cheerless Hettie matter-of-factly. ‘Now, give me your mobile number, and I’ll call you with the details as soon as I have them.’
Having finally ditched the depressing and image-damaging Hettie by pointing her in the direction of Gloucester Road tube, Julia caught a cab back the half mile to her darling four-story Victorian home, not far from Kensington Gardens. Rover, her husband of fifteen years, had purchased it when they were first married. Having just received his first bonus, it was more than they could afford then, although it was all paid for now. Rover was awfully clever and not content to be just a trader, had opened up his own firm ten years ago and the business had inexplicably exploded with success. Since then, Julia hadn’t concerned herself with money at all. Except, of course, when it came to spending it.
As she entered the code to the security gate and walked up the path, the usual chorus of inane comments burst forth from the building site across the way. Bloody builders. You’d think that whoever paid, as the rumour went, a cool ten million pounds for the dilapidated but huge property would be able to pay a little extra for workers who knew how to walk on two legs and not salivate at the sight of every female who happened to pass.
‘Do shut up, will you,’ she called. A litany of abuse, and substantial mocking of her accent, followed.
Connie, their less-than-accommodating Indonesian maid of three years, was waiting in the hall when Julia burst in. A slight figure, in her mid-thirties but seemingly much younger, Connie had a sweet face and enormous doe-like eyes. And she was a constant source of consternation for Julia.
‘Christ! Why are you standing there like that, Connie? It’s creepy? ’
‘A delivery from the Waitrose, he should be here soon.’
‘Not he, they. And can’t you just walk down to the store itself? It’s not that far.’
‘Drinks. You know. That mineral waters you like.’
‘Water. Singular.’
‘Okay, Mrs Palmie.’
How many times had she told the girl not to call her that!
‘And have you called the council about those moronic workers across the road?’
‘Hah?’
‘Those missing links with shovels and hip flasks?’
The giant eyes opened wide. ‘Links? You missing some links? Like cufflinks?’
Groaning, Julia gave up. There was no point attempting to help the maid anyway, she wasn’t quite right in the head. Why else would you stand to attention in the hallway like that? Had she developed some strange affliction that made her nervy? Wouldn’t be a huge surprise. It infuriated Julia, but Connie had (briefly) been Rover’s grandma’s maid before theirs, so there was no question of getting rid of her. The reason why had never been made clear – the woman’s cooking and cleaning left a lot to be desired. Maybe she was the family sex toy or something. You never know, do you? Rover’s family were rather strange.
‘Well, when you’ve dealt with the supermarket, could you get me my telephone book from upstairs and bring it to me in the pool? I need to do a few laps.’
Connie nodded without turning to Julia, her gaze concentrated on a slit in the curtains.
Heading down to the basement, which had been converted at huge cost into a sumptuous heated pool and sauna complex a couple of years back, Julia shed her clothes at the door. Next she picked up the lovely, flowery cap that sat on the seat of the premier cane furniture she’d purchased from Harrods only last summer. Bloody Connie, the cap should have been put back in the small shower room next to the sauna. If it wasn’t for Rover, she’d sack the stupid woman and get someone from the Philippines. Intelligent cleaners, or so her friends at Pilates told her.
Testing the water,
she found it perfect – at least 28 degrees Celsius – and slid in naked, cap carefully protecting her recently extended multi-tonal highlighted hair.
Picking up the phone that was conveniently located near the shallow end of the tiny body of water, Julia tried her husband. As usual, he was in a meeting. His bimbo of a secretary asked if she had a message. Yes. They were due at the Noristras’ around the corner for cocktails at eight – he’d better be home.
Slamming the phone down, Julia pondered the tone of the nasty little assistant. So what if the girl had an Oxbridge degree? – she was about two foot tall and wore those hideous Dr Martens. Plus, she had one of those pale, ghostly faces that never saw the sun for more than a minute. Julia shivered at the thought, but reminded herself that she didn’t want Rover hanging about with some beautiful, aristocratic sort when he wasn’t with her. The white dwarf was probably the best she could hope for, under the circumstances.
Slowly breathstroking her way down the pool, Julia marvelled at her husband and the complete catch he had turned out to be.
Rover’s real name was Peter, as was his father’s before him. When the repugnant Sir Parmier had died – expectedly, at ninety (he’d had Rover at fifty five) – his son decided being Peter Parnier the Second was not for him. So, with his parents dead and his only sister beyond caring, he changed his name to the most offensive he could think of – that of the family dog. Julia appreciated the irony, and enjoyed Rover’s animated tales of his abhorrent father’s probable reaction from the grave at his son’s new moniker. Deep down, however, she wished her husband wasn’t so laid back about his past. Somewhere, she was sure, there was a link to royalty, if he cared to find it. Which he didn’t – and worse, refused to allow her to try and discover it either.
Well, for now, she was happy to be Mrs Rover Parmier – wife of the renowned wealthy banker and company director.
Connie appeared, a clutch of plastic bags bearing the green and white logo of the supermarket in one hand, the other tucked into her apron.
Why did she bring the shopping down here? Imbecile.
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