The kitchen door flew open and Perdita appeared like an avenging angel, just as I’d found the keys and thrown myself into the driving seat. My mind spun and my tyres too, spraying up gravel as I took off, desperate to escape. As I shot off out of the drive I glanced up and saw the bedroom curtains twitch. Timmie’s terrified face appeared for a split second, then disappeared again. Probably scrambling into his boxer shorts; probably hopping round the room on one leg as he struggled into his trousers, buttoning his shirt up wrong and grabbing his shoes, desperate to rush off home. Either that or leave the country.
Perdita was striding across the driveway now, brown legs flashing, dressing-gown flying. I gave an apologetic little wave and mouthed, ‘Sorry!’ out of the window, but she flicked two furious fingers back. Right. I swallowed. Might keep out of her way for a bit. Might go to Tescos rather than Waitrose from now on.
I drove off down the lanes, wiping a bead of sweat from my nose, my mind in turmoil. I was horribly, horribly confused. Because if Marcus wasn’t there, where was he? Was he shagging Perdita on some kind of timeshare basis, I wondered wildly? Bagging Tuesdays and Thursdays while Timmie got Mondays and Wednesdays? I floated the idea for a moment, then dismissed it. No. Quite apart from it being a monstrous idea it was inconceivable that Perdita would even consider Marcus after …well. I swallowed. Not that Marcus was under-endowed, you understand, but he certainly couldn’t compete with – with that. I roared on.
But if he wasn’t having a ding-dong with Perdita, who was he having one with? My mind roved around the village, trawling through all the single women’s houses. Was it Emma Tilding, perhaps, whose husband had left her and gone off with his secretary? Or Amanda Lewis, whose husband had come out of the closet – literally – wearing her nightie and suspenders? Or, and this really shook me, really floored me, was he not having an affair at all? At this point I nearly lost control of the car, only hauling it clear of the hedge at the last moment. But – no. No, nonsense, of course he was, there was definitely something going on, I could smell it, but – damn. I gripped the steering-wheel hard. I’d been so sure it was Perdita. So sure. But why? I wracked my brains as I swung the car round the final bend and into our pot-holed drive. Why had I been so convinced?
Unfortunately there was no time to get to the bottom of this conundrum, because as I bounced along the track, wrecking the suspension but past caring, I realized, with a jolt, that there was something of a reception committee awaiting me at the other end.
The house was lit up like Crystal Palace. All the lights were on, upstairs and down, and none of the curtains had been drawn. The outside lights were blazing too, and in the gravel sweep that graced the front of the house sat a police car, lights flashing, driver’s door flung wide. Beside it was Marcus’s Range Rover looking equally temporary, and Marcus was standing between the two cars looking white-faced and worried as he talked to a policeman. My heart stopped for a moment. Oh Lord, I thought in horror. What now? Was it one of the children?
Parking erratically in a spray of gravel and forgetting in my panic that Marcus and I were barely on speaking terms, I rushed across.
‘What is it? What’s happened?’ I gasped.
Marcus turned and regarded me coldly. If he was surprised to see me, he managed to hide it. I recognized the burly, ginger-haired policeman beside him as our local bobby.
‘We’ve been burgled,’ he said curtly. ‘Or at least, broken into. I haven’t established yet whether anything’s been taken.’
I followed his eyes around to the side of the house: to the huge, gaping hole in the back door.
‘Oh! Oh no. That was me.’
He frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, I came back about half an hour ago. Got in a bit of a bait about something and accidentally slammed the back door. The glass fell out. Sorry.’
He looked at me for a long moment, as if he wasn’t quite sure which hole I’d crawled out of. At length, he turned back to his companion. ‘Sorry, Ray,’ he said quietly.
‘It seems I’ve got you out on a wild-goose chase. My wife has been relieving her stress by indulging in some energetic door-slamming.’
Ray chuckled and put his notebook away. ‘’S’all right. My wife indulges in much the same, normally followed by a frying pan aimed at the back of my head. I thought it was a tidy burglar though. Couldn’t see much glass.’
‘Yes. No. I swept it up,’ I gabbled. ‘Sorry, Ray. Sorry to have dragged you out.’
‘No problem.’ He grinned, then took his cap off and scratched his head. Frowned. ‘Have to make a note of something in my book though, I’m afraid. Won’t put down burglary, of course. How about domestic dispute?’
Marcus smiled thinly. ‘Why not?’
I swallowed. ‘Um, yes. Fine, Ray.’
He grinned and gave Marcus a knowing look as he got back in his car. Then, with a cheery salute he turned around and drove off. When his police car was safely bumping over the horizon in a cloud of dust, Marcus turned to me.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he enquired coldly.
‘This is still my house, Marcus,’ I said defiantly. Although not so defiantly perhaps, as I might have done had I just caught him in a compromising position.
‘Yes, well next time you forget your key and decide to just break in, leave me a note to that effect, would you?’ He stalked off towards the back door.
‘I didn’t break in.’ I scurried after him. ‘I told you, I slammed it too hard. Bill was annoying me. He –’
‘Where is Bill?’ He stopped abruptly and looked around. ‘I tried to find him earlier, see if he knew what was going on when I saw the door, but he’s not here. He’s not in his cottage, either.’
‘Er, pass,’ I said nervously, hovering on the doorstep while Marcus strode in ahead of me and began clearing the kitchen table. He threw what looked like the remains of his breakfast toast in the bin and chucked the plate in the dishwasher. Not so tidy now, I thought, glancing around. Sunday’s newspapers were still in a heap on the table. Cereal packets, too.
‘Linda not been coming in?’ I ventured, still on the doorstep. Odd, to feel like a visitor in your own home.
‘She’s ill,’ he said shortly. ‘Well, come in, damn you. Stop dithering.’
‘Thanks,’ I muttered meekly, stepping inside. Yes, meek. Conciliatory. Much better under the circumstances, Henny.
‘I suppose you’ve come for more clothes, have you?’ he said irritably, turning the taps on full blast, splashing some greasy pans in the sink. ‘Help yourself.’ He jerked his head upstairs. ‘Meanwhile I’m going to get my supper if you don’t mind. I was about to have some in the pub when Jack Portwin came in. Said he’d been walking his dog past our house and spotted a hole the size of a crater in the back door.’
‘Oh! Is that where you’ve been then? The pub?’
‘Of course it’s where I’ve been. It’s where I’ve been every bloody night, and I have to tell you, it’s wearing a little thin. Their menu is limited.’ He retrieved a wet pan from the sink, gave it a cursory wipe with a tea-towel and banged it down on the hob. ‘I’m sick of chilli-bleedingcon-carne night after night, they need to ring the changes. I must speak to Vi.’
I perched gingerly on a kitchen stool. ‘Every night? I mean on your own?’
He took some rather ancient-looking sausages from the fridge and tossed them in the pan. ‘Every night except tonight, not that it’s any of your business. Tonight I had some company, until Jack walked in and spoiled my evening. Is that all right by you?’ He turned to me, eyebrows raised enquiringly. ‘While you’re playing the field in London? All right if I have a drink with someone?’
‘I’m not playing the field, Marcus,’ I said quietly.
‘Ha!’ he snorted derisively. He turned back and shook the sausages boisterously in the pan. ‘That’s your story.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Who were you having a drink with?’
‘Pippa Hall, as it happens. Timmie’s away on bu
siness, and she came in for some cigarettes. I invited her to have supper with me.’
‘Oh!’ I inhaled sharply. ‘Oh no, Timmie’s not away on business. He’s at Perdita’s house. In the bedroom, in fact. I’ve just been there. Caught them at it.’
He glanced at me over his shoulder. ‘Timmie Hall? With Perdita Fennel?’ He took the pan off the heat and turned. ‘Good Lord.’
I watched him closely, gauging his reaction.
‘Surprised?’ I asked keenly.
‘Well – of course,’ he blustered. ‘Timmie Hall, with Perdita …Christ, the old dog. Who would have thought he had it in him.’
‘Oh, he’s definitely got it in him. I had a bird’s-eye view. Jealous?’
He frowned. ‘Sorry?’
‘Are you jealous, Marcus? That it’s him and not you?’
He looked at me blankly. ‘Why should I be jealous? That a shrinking violet like Timmie is getting his leg over on a regular basis and I’m not – sure, absolutely green, but it stops there. What are you on about, Henny?’
Was he bluffing? I couldn’t tell. I felt a bit unsure of my ground. ‘Because that’s where I assumed you were, Marcus. At Perdita’s. That’s why I went there.’
He folded his arms. Squinted incredulously at me. ‘You thought I was there?’
‘Yes.’
‘What …in her bed?’
‘Yes!’ I could feel myself going pink.
He gazed at me, stupefied for a moment. Then suddenly, he threw back his head and roared with laughter. He hooted up to the ceiling, bellowing into the rafters. Then he clutched his sides, and turned and gripped the Aga rail, wheezing. Finally he had to sit down, he was laughing so much.
‘Oh, so it’s funny, is it?’ I stormed. I got up and flew to my bag, hanging on the back of a chair. ‘So what about this?’ I took the email she’d sent him from my purse and slapped it down on the table in front of him, fuming as I stood over him. ‘Explain this away and keep laughing, Marcus!’
He wiped his eyes and contained his mirth enough to pick up the piece of paper.
‘ “Why shouldn’t I be the mistress?” ’ I quoted, my voice shrill with fury. ‘ “I anticipate some action!” ’ I screeched. ‘ “Why shouldn’t we meet at your place!” ’ I stabbed my finger at the words. ‘See? It’s all there in black and white!’
He stopped laughing. Blinked. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘I found it in the pocket of your briefcase. Carefully stashed away, eh Marcus!’
He was clearly bemused. I folded my arms, triumphant.
‘I wondered what I’d done with it,’ he murmured. ‘I needed her email address the other day to give to someone who wanted to pay a hunt subscription. Couldn’t find it.’
‘Aha! Well, I found it.’ I nodded grimly.
He cleared his throat. ‘Yes, it’s the email she sent me after I wrote to her –’
‘Well, clearly, Marcus! You’ve clearly already written to her, this is a reply to some sort of romantic missive from you!’
‘After I wrote to her,’ he repeated carefully, ‘and congratulated her on becoming Master.’
I frowned. ‘What?’
‘On becoming Master. Of the hunt. MFH. I quipped that in these emancipated times, perhaps she should be called Mistress.’
I stared at him. Lowered my bottom slowly onto a convenient chair. ‘Oh.’
‘I also expressed a hope that with her at the helm, we’d have some sport. She’s known to enjoy a gallop, and she agreed, predicting there would indeed be some action.’ He glanced down at the email again. ‘She also suggests that since I’ve lifted the ban the Pipers put on our land, we have a meet here. On the front lawn. You know, like a scene from Horse and Hound, with you handing round the port and the sausage rolls. Doing the Lady of the Manor bit, like you’ve always wanted.’
‘Oh.’ It appeared to be all I could say. I sat there staring at him blankly. He returned my gaze. At length I licked my lips. ‘But, hang on. Laura said that after the Hunt Ball, which you went to on your own, Marcus, Perdita took someone back to her cottage. Someone’s husband …’
‘Pippa’s, clearly. And everyone’s terrified of her, so they kept schtum. Oh no, if it had been your husband it would have been all round the village in no time. No one’s frightened of you.’
‘So …’ I got up slowly. Walked carefully round the table, trailing my fingers on the wood, my mind racing. ‘No, wait.’ I stopped suddenly. ‘There was something else. Oh yes – in your diary.’ I swung round accusingly. ‘Out with P, it kept saying. Out with Perdita!’
‘Yes, because she’s my riding instructor, for God’s sake, and I’ve been out hacking with her. Going up to the cross-country course at Westgate. You know that, Henny.’
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. I shut it. ‘So you’re not having an affair with her?’
‘Jesus, woman. You’ve just seen Timmie Hall in her bed. What d’you think she is, insatiable or something?’
‘And …you’re not having an affair with anyone else?’
‘Oh right, let’s cast around, shall we? Who did you have in mind?’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ I blustered. ‘Someone at work, someone in the village –’
‘Someone I picked up on the train? Someone I found in Tescos as I was buying my Lasagne For One?’
‘Well …’
‘Someone I pulled in the village shop perhaps, when I got really desperate? Old Mrs Hawkins with the moustache? Or Miss Piper, with two fingers on one hand, the rest having been caught in the bacon-slicing machine?’
‘Well, I –’
‘No, Henny. Sorry to disappoint, but no, I’m not having an affair with anyone.’
He got up from the table and moved slowly around it. I gazed at him, stupefied and, I have to say, a mite put out.
‘So. That’s me then, isn’t it,’ he said, his eyes trained steadily on mine like a panther’s. He came to a halt opposite. ‘That’s me in the clear.’ He rested the heels of his hands on the table and leaned across it, his face darkening. ‘How about you though, Henny? What have you been up to recently, hm? Who have you been having an affair with?’
Chapter Thirty
His dark eyes glittered as they bored into mine.
‘N-no one!’ I yelped, snatching up his cigarette packet from the table. ‘No one. Of course not!’
I lit one with a shaky hand and nearly choked to death. I hadn’t smoked for ages. He took it from me as I spluttered and wheezed. Took a drag himself as he watched me, then blew the smoke out in a thin blue line.
‘Really? No adultery to speak of?’
‘No!’ I gasped. ‘Of course not, Marcus.’
‘No sport? No …action? No clandestine meetings? No back to his place? No walks in parks at lunchtime?’
I stared at him, aghast. Felt my whole body flush. Oh God. What did he know?
‘Marcus, I swear,’ I whispered. ‘There was nothing serious. I mean, we – I didn’t – you know.’
‘Sleep with him?’
‘No!’
‘Rip his kit off?’
‘No!’
‘Bonk his brains out?’
‘No! No!’ I was horrified. Scared, too.
‘It was just that kiss?’
My mind whirled. Kiss? Oh God, which kiss? Which particular kiss had he seen? One in the park? Or had he been at the window of the Albany flat as I’d lain there, naked but for a come-hither smile? Had he been posing as a window-cleaner, perhaps? Buffing the glass?
‘Which kiss?’ I croaked, ready to sign the decree nisi right now, ready to totter to my grave.
‘The one I saw, Henny. With my own eyes. When I surprised you in the flat.’
I stared, utterly lost. Then it dawned. ‘Oh – that kiss!’
‘Yes, that kiss. Which one did you think I meant?’
‘The one with Laurie!’
‘Well, of course the one with Laurie. Christ, who else would I mean?’
‘Oh, no
one.’
I shook my head furiously, got up quickly and went to the Aga. Began frantically rearranging the tea-towels hanging over the rail. My hands were trembling and my heart was beating fast.
‘No, you’re right.’ I gulped. ‘That was …the only kiss. With Laurie, Marcus.’
‘And you were very drunk.’
‘Very drunk,’ I repeated numbly. ‘Drugged, too,’ I muttered bleakly, remembering.
He nodded. ‘I know.’ He scratched his head. Looked sheepish. ‘And I feel, in retrospect, that …well. That I might have over-reacted.’
My heart, still hammering away in my ribcage at my narrow escape, slowed suddenly. What? Marcus had over-reacted? Marcus was …wrong? This was ground-breaking stuff. Revolutionary. Next thing you know, he’d be apologizing.
‘And I’m sorry.’ He hung his head.
I swooned and reached back to clutch the work surface. Suddenly I felt awful.
‘Oh no, Marcus. It wasn’t your fault!’
‘Well, maybe not,’ he agreed quickly, clearly unused to such unfamiliar apologetic waters.
Heady with relief at not having my other, more heinous crimes discovered, I swam to meet him.
‘You were upset,’ I said supportively.
‘Of course I was upset. My wife was in bed with a strange man!’
‘On bed.’
‘Sorry?’
‘On, not in.’
‘OK,’ he agreed. ‘On.’
‘And non compos mentis,’ I reminded him.
‘Exactly,’ he conceded. ‘Which is why, on mature reflection …’ He hesitated. ‘If that’s really all it was …’
‘Of course that’s all it was!’
‘And you haven’t seen him since?’
Not That Kind of Girl Page 40