‘What, that they were friends?’
‘Yes! God, everyone seemed to know except me.’
He shrugged. ‘Same reason Mum didn’t, I suspect. Wasn’t sure how you’d feel about it.’ He closed his Financial Times, folded it carefully and gave me a sideways look. ‘How do you feel about it?’ he enquired lightly.
I put my coffee cup down. ‘Fine. I mean …’ I hesitated. ‘No, fine. Definitely pleased for Mum. Pleased she’s got something of a life at last, and actually …pleased it’s him. He’s a nice chap.’
‘That’s exactly what he is,’ Benji grinned. He stood up and tucked his paper under his arm, clicking his heels sharply to attention. ‘A nice, old-fashioned, thoroughly decent chap, who buys his marmalade at Fortnum’s and his titfers at Locke’s. Sir!’ He saluted smartly. Then he wagged his paper at me. ‘And you don’t get many of those to the pound these days.’
‘And it’s not as if Rupert leads a conventional family life,’ I mused, gazing past him abstractedly, thinking aloud. ‘I mean, I don’t suppose I’ll have to see him, just because of Andrew.’
‘What, you mean you don’t suppose you’ll be basting the turkey with Marcus this Christmas and look up to see Mum, Andrew and Rupert, sailing through the back door bearing gifts?’ Benji grinned wickedly.
I dropped my coffee cup with a clatter. Went cold. ‘Don’t,’ I whispered, horrified. ‘Benji, don’t!’
Yes, it was strange, I thought an hour or so later, as I walked up the stairs to my office in Covent Garden, how permanently horrified I was at the moment. How terribly, terribly, aghast, after the event. How the thought of Rupert made me drop my coffee cup, quicken my step in alarm up these stairs, clutch my handbag to my chest. Was recoil really so close to passion, I wondered guiltily? Perhaps it was. After all, passions did cool, didn’t they? It was well documented in countless romantic novels, and after they’d cooled – did they go stone cold? Congeal? Perhaps they did. And perhaps they cooled quicker, I thought uncomfortably, if, as Benji had commented, they’d been masquerading as something else all along. Something more basic. I bowed my head and scuttled to my room.
The day passed all too quickly. Laurie was out at meetings for most of it, just ringing in occasionally to rattle off a few instructions, and in no time at all, it seemed to me, it was five o’clock, and I was going back down that familiar staircase again. Going home. To face my husband. Face the music.
I took deep breaths as I tottered along to the station, horribly nervous now. Despite what Benji had said about unleashing my terrier instincts and chasing Perdita off down the lane, I’d had nasty visions all day of her unleashing her own Rottweiler ones. Of turning tail and sinking her perfect white teeth into my bottom as she saw me off, with Marcus urging her on behind. In fact that, coupled with the less violent but equally nightmarish vision of her and Marcus glancing up from their M&S lasagnes as I walked through the back door in an hour or so’s time – forks frozen, cosy chat halted – almost had me coming to a standstill as I approached Charing Cross.
But …perhaps he’d be alone, I thought hopefully, as I bought my ticket. And perhaps he’d be delighted to see me? Perhaps he’d jump up from the table, from his Evening Standard and his lonely jar of pickled onions, knock over his solitary glass of wine in his haste to get to me and take me in his arms? I had a little trouble imagining that last scenario, so I plunged quickly down the platform – keen, for once, to lose both mind and body in the scrum of humanity; to join the perpetual struggle to get home.
The train was delayed – signals, apparently – and I had to wait ages for it to leave the platform. As I sat in the stationary carriage, it occurred to me that I might see him. Marcus, I mean. I glanced about nervously. This was pretty much his normal train, surely? But unless he was hiding behind a newspaper, there was no sign.
By the time I’d got to the little station in Kent, after a stop en route for some troublesome autumn leaves, it was getting late. Naturally, it took Simon twenty minutes to accomplish what any other taxi driver could do in five, by which time, night had well and truly fallen. I stood, really quite terrified now, at the end of the pot-holed drive, gazing at my house. All was dark, all was quiet. I could hear a muntjac calling to its mate in the beechwood behind. A moment later, the call was returned. A good omen, surely? I gulped and set off down the drive. As I got to the end of it and began cautiously crossing the gravel, the outside light came on, making me jump. From nowhere – but actually from behind the chickenhouse – Bill appeared. Bill. Bloody Bill, I thought, clutching my heart and breathing again. He gave me his toothless grin as he measured out the Layers Pellets for the evening feed, his face yellow in the halogen light.
‘Bin away?’ he called, scattering the grain and still grinning foolishly.
‘That’s right, Bill. On business,’ I muttered, quickening my pace.
‘Ah. Business. That’ll be with the tall feller with the red jumper then, will it?’
I stopped. Stared straight ahead. I’d forgotten he’d seen Rupert come to the house. Seen him spirit me away. I could never quite work out whether Bill was devious or just plain stupid.
‘That’s it,’ I said evenly, walking on. I rooted in my bag for my keys. ‘My boss.’
‘Oh aye.’
There was no sign of Marcus’s car in the drive, and the house was in darkness. Presumably I’d beaten him back. Well, that was a relief.
‘’E ’as bin back,’ Bill informed me, not leaning on the gate as usual, but rather worryingly opening it and coming through. ‘But ’e’s gone out now.’
‘Has he,’ I said tersely, still rummaging for my keys. God, where were they? That would be typical, wouldn’t it, if I couldn’t bloody find them and had to ask bloody Bill to let me in.
‘Yes, ’e’s bin doin’ that a lot lately,’ Bill observed, slowly advancing towards me, hands in pockets, jingling change.
‘What with you bein’ away an’ that. Comin’ in, then goin’ out again, like. Reckon ’e’s bin goin’ elsewhere.’ He stopped, quite close to me now. Grinned.
‘Obviously,’ I snapped, knowing exactly what he was trying to tell me. I felt panicky, suddenly, backed up against the door like this. I didn’t like being so close to Bill at the best of times: why couldn’t he sod off? Ah, here were the keys. Thank God.
‘Yeah. ’E has a shower like – always has a shower – and then changes. Very dapper ’e looks in ’is smart clothes. An’ then ’e’s off out.’
I let myself in quickly. ‘Thank you, Bill,’ I seethed.
‘Like as not ’e’s bin at the aftershave too. Smells like the dog’s bollocks.’
I spun round furiously from the relative safety of the doormat. ‘I said thank you, Bill. I do not require any information about my husband’s whereabouts, I know exactly where he’s been going night after night and what he’s been doing, so you don’t need to fill in the gaps. Now kindly attend to my poultry which is what you’re employed to do here and keep your nose out of my private life.’ I made to go in, then turned. ‘And, incidentally, your hands out of my knicker drawer!’
He stared at me. Frowned. ‘Knicker drawer?’
‘Oh, don’t come the innocent yokel with me,’ I spat. ‘I know all about your nasty little fetish. In fact, if I explored the forensic evidence I’m convinced I’d find traces of chicken poo in my underwear. Unfortunately that route is not open to me, but rest assured, I will get to the bottom of this. I will have your guts for fingering my garters!’
And with that I slammed the door in his face. Unfortunately, I did it just a bit too hard, and after an ominous rattle, the pane of glass shattered – and fell to the floor.
Bill and I stared at each other through the fresh air.
‘Shit!’ I squeaked, fists clenched. I turned on my heel, flicked on the light, and strode to the broom cupboard, seizing the dustpan and brush.
Damn. Damn. All I bloody needed, I fumed as I swept up with shaky hands. I was still in my coat, and my handbag wa
s swinging off my shoulder and getting mixed up in all the bits of glass. I tossed it angrily aside. Fine home-coming this was turning out to be.
When I’d cleared up, I raised my head warily. Bill had gone. Disappeared into the darkness. Well, that had seen him off, I thought, slightly guiltily. I straightened up and regarded the gaping hole bleakly. Clingfilm? I plucked it doubtfully from the kitchen drawer. No, probably not. What would Marcus do about it? Ask Bill to knock something up until he got the glazier out, probably. And then give me a withering look and a piece of his mind for slamming a glass door. Oh would he, I thought, fury mounting. What, all dressed up with clean underpants on and smelling like the dog’s bollocks – would he indeed. And how long had I been washing those bloody underpants for? How many years? And all during his affair too, for what – six months? Nine months? Ironing them carefully just so Perdita could peel them off with her French polished nails or her bleached teeth? And then he had the nerve to stride back in here, fresh from her designer sheets, complaining like some bloody domestic tyrant that no one ever changed a light bulb or replenished the bog rolls! Ooh. We’d soon see about that!
Grabbing my keys and bag, I marched smartly out of the back door again. Poor Dilly was going berserk in the bootroom at hearing and smelling me but not being let out, although she’d gone a bit quiet, I’d noticed, when the glass had shattered – fine guard dog she’d turned out to be – but she’d just have to stay there a bit longer. Right now, I had an errant husband to recover. A few bleached teeth to knock out. I strode outside.
My choice of transport was limited and I was reduced to taking the MG, so I nipped back inside for a plastic bag to cover the seat. I didn’t want a soggy backside and old-ladies’-undies smell to scupper my dignity. I also applied lashings of lipstick and mascara as I drove madly down the winding lanes. Didn’t want the woman-scorned-through-lack-of-skincare-regime look either, oh no. I must not appear like the old-bag-traded-in-for-younger-model. Although I probably was, I thought with a lurch, nearly driving into a ditch. How old was Perdita, I wondered nervously. Thirty-something, like me? Or still late twenties?
Although I’d beetled furiously down the lanes, I turned very carefully into the riding stables, very quietly. I didn’t go right into her drive either, but came to a halt a good distance from the little flint cottage, all the while looking out for Marcus’s car. It wasn’t in the drive, but then he was hardly likely to leave it lying around for all to see, was he? No, he’d probably popped it in there, I thought, spotting a little timbered barn. I got out, and shutting my car door softly so as not to alert them, stole on tiptoe across the gravel. I tried the handle. Locked. Well, of course it was. Marcus locked everything. I could hardly get out of the house sometimes he was so bloody safety-conscious. And no doubt he had keys to this house too, so he could just let himself in and out when he felt like it. Just as if it were his own home.
My courage momentarily deserted me as I thought of him strolling in as if he lived here, dumping his briefcase on a chair – ‘Hi, darling!’ Kissing her, just as he’d peck me on the cheek as I stood at the Aga, only she wouldn’t be dressed in a filthy old dressing-gown and Wellingtons, but a skimpy cardi and tight jeans. Encircling her waist from behind, nuzzling her ear …getting eau de parfum rather than unwashed hair, and then a tongue in his mouth, rather than a flea in his ear about being late. Helping himself to a beer from the fridge, looking over her shoulder to see what was for supper – which wouldn’t be Sunday’s cold lamb and a defiant baked potato, but something she’d lovingly prepared earlier: a tender chicken leg in a creamy sauce perhaps? Or a fillet steak wrapped in puff pastry. She’d take it from the oven and put it on the table, then light the candles, her eyes meeting his seductively over the flame. He’d pour her a glass of red wine, and then before she sat down, she’d murmur something about how hot she was from the oven and slip off her cardi, to reveal, not a dirty bra, but a pretty camisole top. Pretending not to notice that Marcus could hardly hold his wine glass he was quivering so much, she’d seat herself opposite him, soft music wafting atmospherically from the sitting room, where no doubt they’d retire later: by the fire with their brandies …before legging it upstairs.
My heart began to race now and my breathing was unsteady. Great gusts of air seemed to be shuddering furiously up and down my nostrils. I went quietly towards the downstairs window of the cottage, picking my way across the flowerbed, snagging my coat on a climbing rose, and peered in. The curtains were drawn and I was limited to a tiny carrot of light at the top, but if I stretched on tiptoes …No. Still couldn’t see. Had they legged it upstairs already, I wondered? Skipped the first course – chicken leg in the kitchen – and moved on to the main course – leg-over in the master bedroom? Or were they at it even now, on the rug in front of the fire? I pressed my ear to the glass and listened. I certainly couldn’t hear any signs of life downstairs …no saucepans clattering, no cutlery clanking on plates, no muffled chatter or music, but what I could hear, distinctly I thought, stepping back abruptly into a clump of alchemilla mollis, was movement from upstairs.
Standing stock still, I listened intently in the darkness, the chilly night air sharp and crisp around me. Yes, there were definitely sounds coming from up there. Sounds of … what were those noises? Those regular tapping sounds, like a woodpecker …getting louder and more urgent, with – yes, a bouncing noise too. Like a children’s trampoline. Springs going. And the tapping noise was banging now, against a wall, accompanied by groans and moans of –
‘Yes. YES! Yes, THERE. Oh GOD!’
I froze, horrified, in the mud. Christ! They were at it. Right above me. Only yards, probably feet away from my head!
The shrieks intensified. ‘Yes. YES. Oh, you bastard. YOU BEAUTIFUL BEAUTIFUL BASTARD!’
Bug-eyed with shock, I stood rooted to the spot in the alchemilla mollis. Then I came to. The blood washed hotly up through my body like chip oil surging to the boil, and in a trice I’d hastened round to the back door. It was a stable door, unfortunately, and I nearly knocked myself out on the top half as I only opened the bottom. For a moment I saw stars, then clutching my head and swearing violently I flung it aside and bowled on through to the kitchen. Sure enough, it was empty, aside from some yapping terriers in their basket, and sure enough, there were signs of a half-finished meal on the table. Two chicken breasts sat cooling in a creamy sauce, mashed potatoes and courgettes lay forgotten in their tureens, a bottle of claret was half-empty. A kitchen chair had been knocked over, no doubt in a hasty scuffle for the stairs. Or perhaps they’d attempted some sexual gymnastics on it? Some erotic tussle? But whatever ecstatic heights they’d reached down here, it was nothing to the dizzy summit they were reaching upstairs, judging by the shouts of pleasure and pain coming from above.
‘Christ, you …Ahh. AHH! AHHH! Oh my God. Oh my GOD!’
Ignoring Perdita’s yappy terriers who were barking frenziedly at my heels – keen to join in, no doubt, probably as frisky as their mistress – I strode through the kitchen and found the stairs. I took them two at a time. How dare she, I fumed. How dare she ravage my husband? And how dare he! How dare he bonk the living daylights out of one of our neighbours – a shrieker, no less – for all the village to hear. I was surprised I hadn’t heard them from the car. From my own farmhouse!
She was howling like a dog now, like one of those hunting dogs on the scent. ‘ARROOO! ARROOOO!’
Christ alive.
I flew across the landing and kicked open the door to the salle d’amour, like Clint entering the OK Corral. The room was dimly lit and in chaos: clothes were strewn everywhere and coils of winding bedlinen lay all over the floor. But there, sure enough, on the creaking brass bed, naked and on all fours and facing away from me, was Perdita, in what is probably known in the horsy world as ‘the hound position’. Behind her was a familiar bare bottom, rising-trot muscles clenched, thrusting away furiously.
‘MARCUS, HOW DARE YOU!’ I screeched at the top of my voice, fists
balled, face puce with fury.
The action stopped instantly. Perdita’s head whipped around, her pink face startled, blonde hair mussed. It was followed, only a split second later, by the bare bottom’s head, which was equally flushed and astonished, but clearly did not belong to the bottom. For it was not my husband.
‘Oh!’ I gasped.
My hand shot to my mouth. Timid Timmie and I gazed at one another in abject horror.
‘Oh! I’m so sorry. I thought you were my husband!’
Chapter Twenty-nine
The pair of them de-coupled in a flash, and Timmie swung around, monstrously priapic. My eyes popped. Heavens. He didn’t look so timid now, did he? Positively plucky. In fact, my eyes fairly watered at the magnitude of his pluck.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ shrieked Perdita. She grabbed the duvet and dived under it. Timmie hastily pogo-sticked to join her.
‘So sorry. Looking for my husband. Not here,’ I breathed, transfixed it seemed, with disbelief, to the spot.
‘P-piss off!’ spluttered Timmie, his eyes wide with horror. His hands clutched the duvet, right up at his chin. ‘Go on, p-piss off!’
My wits returned smartly. ‘Right. Will do.’
I shut the door quickly. Gazed at it incredulously a moment, before movement from inside – someone leaping off the bed and diving into a dressing-gown, perhaps – galvanized me.
‘I do apologize!’ I yelped, backing away.
‘I’ll have the police on you!’ Perdita roared. ‘How dare you just barge into my house?’
‘I – I did knock,’ I lied. ‘But – there was no answer. Sorry!’ At which point, sensibly, I turned and fled downstairs.
‘It’s outrageous!’ she stormed, flinging open the door and appearing, a furious vision in white towelling, at the top of the stairs.
‘Sorry!’ I shrilled again over my shoulder, but by this stage, I was well and truly at the bottom: well and truly nipping through the kitchen, athletically side-stepping the fallen chair and the yapping terriers, and out of the back door. As I ran across the drive to the stables, my hands fluttering about in my bag for my keys, eyes still like saucers, I caught my breath. Lordy, as Benji would say. Lordy! Not Marcus at all. Not my husband at all, somebody else’s husband – Perfect Pippa’s, to be precise. Timid Timmie of all people and – good gracious. I gulped as I scrambled around frantically in my bag. Now we knew what Pippa saw in him. Perdita too, clearly!
Not That Kind of Girl Page 39