The Woman Who Knew Everything

by Debbie Viggiano

  Slipping off her coat, Chrissie hung it on a peg in the hall. She headed off to the kitchen to make a brew, passing the bathroom en-route. She took three paces back and peered through the open door at the chaos within. The tub had a thick scummy line around it. The tide mark was three inches from the top. Andrew must have been enjoying a very deep and leisurely soak. Judging from the state of the room, he must have overrun on time and leapt out of the water in a big hurry. It looked like a whirling tornado had visited the place, sucking items into its vortex before depositing them again willy-nilly. Two sopping wet towels had been dumped at either end, discarded underpants were dangling off the flush handle of the toilet cistern, two socks were draped over the soap dispenser, and the washbasin was full of Andrew’s whiskers and blobs of shaving foam. The ornate “bathroom tidy” that housed shampoo, conditioner, deodorant and other toiletry paraphernalia was virtually empty. Instead bottles lay on their sides, scattered in all directions across the floor. The lid hadn’t been properly replaced on the bubble bath, and a stream of blue goo had puddled across the lino. The scent of Andrew’s aftershave hung faintly in the air.

  Sighing to herself, Chrissie moved off to the kitchen again. She needed a good strong cuppa after Madam Rosa’s earlier homily. Once fortified, she’d straighten up the bathroom, then telephone Andrew to let him know she was home. Perhaps they could share a takeaway this evening. Chrissie had been looking forward to the curry night with Amber and Dee, and her taste buds were letting her know they still wanted to savour spice, rice and all things nice.

  She was just wondering why Andrew had felt the need to groom and perfume himself if he was spending his Saturday doing electrical jobs, when Madam Rosa’s words came back with a vengeance. Chrissie jerked as if she’d been tasered.

  Your relationship is coming to an end.

  Chrissie reached for the kettle and stuck it under the tap. As she waited for it to fill with water, she chewed her lip. The reason Andrew had dressed up and taken trouble over his appearance was because…because…her shoulders relaxed…of course…he’d be meeting up with the lads afterwards and not have time to come home and change. That was the obvious answer. Wasn’t it? Suddenly water cascaded everywhere as the kettle overfilled. Her concentration had been elsewhere. Chrissie tipped some of the excess water out, and plugged the kettle in. Dabbing at her damp top where water had sprayed, her mobile started to ring.

  ‘Darling!’

  ‘Mum, how lovely to hear from you!’ Chrissie’s heart gladdened at the sound of her mother’s voice. From the other end of the phone she could hear Pam Peterson taking a long drag on a cigarette. ‘Are you smoking? I thought you’d given up.’

  ‘I have – officially,’ Pam added. Chrissie could hear her mother sucking in another deep lungful of smoke. ‘Unofficially, I’m still smoking. But don’t tell your father.’

  ‘Won’t he know? He’ll smell it in the house.’

  ‘I’m ringing you from the garden shed. I’m on my mobile.’

  ‘At the very least Dad will smell it on your hair.’

  ‘No he won’t, because I’m going to walk around the garden afterwards.’

  Chrissie smiled. Her mother made it sound as though she had an acre of landscaped grounds to wander around in, rather than a patch of grass bordered by rose bushes.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Pam, ‘never mind me and my bad habit. How are you, darling? Dad and I haven’t seen you for ages.’

  ‘I know. Sorry, Mum.’ Chrissie felt awful. Her parents lived in the town of Swanley, only a dozen or so miles away. ‘What about you and Dad visit Andrew and me tomorrow? I’ll do Sunday lunch for us all.’ Chrissie did the mental maths of how much was left in her bank account until pay day, and whether it ran into buying a chicken with all the trimmings, plus a trifle and bottle of wine. Hopefully Andrew could hand over a bit of cash from his debt payment and make a small contribution. But Pam was already giving her trademark crackly laugh by way of response.

  ‘I don’t think that’s wise, darling, although it’s sweet of you to offer. Your father is very fond of his car. He wouldn’t be happy if it went missing while we were tucking into our roast.’

  ‘The estate isn’t that bad,’ Chrissie lied. John Peterson owned a ten-year-old Jaguar. It was his pride and joy. If by some miracle the car didn’t disappear while they were eating, then at the very least the tyres would. Never a day went by on the estate without spotting a car jacked up on bricks.

  ‘Why don’t you and Andrew come to us instead?’

  ‘That would be lovely. Andrew’s at work at the moment, so I can’t ask, but I’m sure it won’t be a problem.’

  ‘Excellent. Shall we say noon? You and I can have a nice glass of wine beforehand, and the boys can have their beer. It will be nice to have an overdue catch-up with my daughter.’

  ‘Yes,’ Chrissie agreed. Although she wouldn’t be able to chat in confidence to her mother while Andrew was there. ‘Er, Mum?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Tell me, have you ever seen a clairvoyant?’

  ‘I have actually. Years ago. I went with dotty June across the road. It was one of those spiritual events where you hope to get a message from a loved one.’

  ‘Oh, no, I don’t mean that sort of clairvoyant. More…the fortune teller type.’

  ‘Ah. In that case, no. Why?’

  Chrissie gave a nervous laugh. ‘Well, you’ll probably say I wasted my money–’

  ‘You’ll definitely have wasted your money,’ Pam gave another crackly laugh.

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘I don’t need a crystal ball to guess you’ve visited one.’

  ‘How–?’

  ‘It’s obvious, darling. You sound upset. Come on, tell your mother. What has the charlatan said?’

  Chrissie sighed with relief. It was so good to talk to somebody sane and sensible. Her mother would never have been taken in by the likes of Madam Rosa. Chrissie had allowed herself to be swept along by a series of unfortunate coincidences fuelled by the insecurities of herself, Dee and Amber. She took a deep breath and told her mother everything…well, almost everything…from the initial brief reading at Cougar Kate’s fortieth birthday, up to this morning’s tarot reading in an unassuming house in Vigo Village. She glossed over the bits she hadn’t like. ‘So, what do you think, Mum?’

  ‘I think,’ said Pam, pausing to light up another cigarette, ‘that you’re not being very truthful with me, Chrissie.’

  ‘What do you mean? I’ve told you everything that Madam Rosa told me.’

  ‘This woman has played upon an insecurity. Does Andrew have financial problems?’

  ‘No!’ Chrissie protested, crossing her fingers at the same time.

  ‘Are you sure? I mean, the pair of you have been living on that awful estate for so long now. You’re both working. Why don’t you rent something more decent, or even put a deposit down on something? There’s a lovely little house around the corner from us that’s gone on the market. I’m sure you could both afford it if you reined in extravagance.’

  Chrissie managed to halt the cynical laugh that had threatened to break loose. Loyalty to her boyfriend had always stopped her from ever telling her parents about his drain on finances. Her father would be unimpressed with Andrew if he discovered that the maisonette was regularly full of beer-swilling, pot smoking, drug dealing yobs. Nor would he appreciate knowing his daughter had been despatched to the all-night supermarket at silly o’clock, and left to walk by herself through a rough estate. Chrissie had never imparted how hard up she really was, or how Andrew had exhausted her salary month after month. Instead she pretended to go along with her mother’s idea of looking at a starter home.

  ‘Yes, you’re right. We’ve been saving hard. Andrew has been working all hours lately.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ Pam had sounded relieved. ‘I’ll point out the house to you both tomorrow. And don’t say I said so, but I’m quite sure Dad will agree to helping you and Andrew with a l
ittle extra for the deposit.’

  ‘Th-that’s…so kind b-but,’ Chrissie could feel herself choking up at her mother’s generosity. However, she wouldn’t dream of taking her parents’ hard-earned savings to help with a deposit on a house when Andrew had been so irresponsible – even if he was now making a belated effort to turn things around.

  ‘That’s what parents are for, darling,’ said Pam, ‘so don’t upset yourself. Right then. If all is sunshine and roses in my daughter’s relationship, you don’t need me to re-iterate that this fortune-teller is simply an opportunist and a fake.’

  ‘Y-yes,’ Chrissie stammered. Right now, she was glad her mother was at the other end of a telephone and not able to see the look on her daughter’s face. Pam Peterson would have known in a trice that Chrissie hadn’t been entirely truthful.

  ‘Damn, I can see your father on the patio looking for me. I’ll have to dispose of this ciggie and ring off. Meanwhile, you have a lovely night in with your smashing boyfriend, darling, and we’ll see you both tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Love you loads.’

  ‘Love you too.’

  Chrissie disconnected the call. Instead of feeling better for talking to her mother, she felt worse. She’d unloaded about Madam Rosa’s readings, but skipped over the suggestion of Andrew being unfaithful, and more or less made out their joint bank balance was healthier than one of the Brink’s-Mat robber’s. Chrissie reckoned that right now she was just as much a charlatan as Madam Rosa.

  Annoyed with herself, she set the kettle to re-boil. She still hadn’t made herself that brew. But Chrissie couldn’t concentrate. She felt upset and jittery again, just like she had after seeing Madam Rosa this morning. Nor was she sure Andrew would even bother coming home tonight. Why should he if he thought Chrissie would be out herself? She presumed he’d tarted himself up to go straight from work to see his mates – either at the pub or one of their houses. For all she knew, he might get bevvied up and crash out on a sofa. Oh dear, and she’d foolishly agreed to Sunday lunch with her parents when she didn’t even know what time her boyfriend would be home. Ignoring the boiling kettle yet again, she grabbed her mobile. She’d call Andrew right now, tell him she was home, and suggest a romantic night in complete with yummy takeaway. She dodged the sudden guilt of splurging on a curry when she’d told her mother she was never extravagant, and instead concentrated on tracking down Andrew so they could enjoy the rest of the weekend together. Chrissie started to tap out Andrew’s number when, by chance, she saw his mobile sitting on the kitchen table. Oh terrific. The silly fool had been in such a hurry to leave the maisonette he’d gone off without it. How was she meant to get hold of him now?

  As Chrissie stared at the phone in exasperation, it dinged with a text message. Curious, she picked up the mobile – and nearly dropped it again. Clutching it tightly, she grabbed the edge of the table with her free hand and steadied herself. Her eyes read the message for a second time. She gulped. This couldn’t be right. It must have been sent to Andrew in error. On the third read-through, she could feel herself starting to hyperventilate.

  Randy Mandy can’t wait to play with Andy’s candy xxxxxxxxxx

  At that moment her own mobile let out a shrill beep. So startled was she that this time she did drop Andrew’s phone. It landed with a clatter on the kitchen table. Chrissie didn’t know what was making the most noise – Andrew’s phone hitting Formica, her own mobile letting out another piercing dinnnnggggg, or her thudding heart which seemed to have morphed into a bass drum and relocated to her ears. With a shaking hand, she picked up the “Secs in the City” WhatsApp message from Dee.

  Girls. It’s true. Josh is having an affair.

  Chrissie’s legs started to buckle and she sank to the floor. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps as she tapped out a reply.

  So is Andrew.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Amber’s Saturday

  After saying good-bye to Chrissie and Dee earlier, Amber hadn’t gone home straightaway. Instead she’d diverted to nearby Longfield’s Waitrose and picked up some shopping for the week ahead. She’d also bought some fillet steaks and peppercorn sauce. In her mind, Amber had been plotting: kitchen table laid for two; candle centrepiece lit and flickering ambient light; soft music playing in the background. She’d decided to pull out all the stops and cook Matthew something nice. She’d also trolleyed off to Wines and Spirits and purchased a bottle of her boyfriend’s favourite red.

  When Amber arrived home and stepped into the hallway, she knew – as was always the case these days – that Matthew wasn’t in. Usually the empty house greeted her with calm silence, where even the dust motes lay sleeping and undisturbed. But this time the place felt different. It was enough to have her pausing. She stood stock still, shopping bags suspended from both arms, as an invisible antenna extended from her head. It shot up to the ceiling above her, and then grew a bit more until it was up under the eaves of the roof. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was. Her ears sought out clues, straining and sifting through the stillness. She frowned. She was experiencing something like…an electrical current. Whatever it was, “it” was unseen by the eye. “It” was soundless to the ear. But nonetheless “it” was being felt. Was there somebody in the house after all? A burglar? Silently, she put down the shopping and slipped off her coat and shoes.

  On red alert, she moved slowly and stealthily into the lounge. Nothing. She crept through to the kitchen. A frying pan and two cups were washed and upturned on the drainer. She paused. Two cups? Her eyes flitted around the room. The windows were shut. The back door locked. Her gaze returned to the two mugs. She didn’t remember drinking from either one. Amber decided that Matthew must have simply had two cups of tea, and taken a second clean cup instead of re-using the first. He was a man, and men did things like that. Despite no visible signs of disturbance downstairs, Amber remained uneasy. Quietly, she removed the frying pan from the drainer and crept back to the hallway.

  She paused once again, cocking an ear towards the staircase and the landing above. The electrical current seemed more vibrant here. More…buzzy. By the time she’d crept up the staircase, the frying pan was extended like a shield. She’d belt anybody who suddenly stepped out of thin air demanding cash, bank cards or jewellery. This house was her sanctuary. Nobody invaded it!

  The bathroom door was open and so was the window, albeit ajar. It was as if somebody had opened it to let out steam and dry the condensation that might have run off the walls. The only time that was ever called for was if a very deep, boiling hot bath had been run. In the old days, she and Matthew had shared such baths. The vapour had swirled like fog over their heads, sticking to the tiles, forming droplets of moisture like rain against a window pane. Had Matthew had a long soak earlier? The towels were hanging neatly over the rail. She touched them. They were damp. Both of them. Her brow knitted. Why had Matthew used her towel? Amber’s antenna was now swivelling left and right, left and right, assessing what she couldn’t yet put into proper words: two cups on the drainer but not left unwashed in the sink; two wet bath towels folded over the rail rather than dumped on the floor; the window considerately cracked open to let out condensation. Amber’s female intuition began to formulate a suspicion. Had another woman been in her house?

  As soon as the thought plopped into her brain, she disregarded it. It was that blasted Madam Rosa’s fault! She’d upset them all with her nonsense about affairs and love triangles. Matthew wouldn’t dream of bringing someone here. For goodness sake, she didn’t even know for sure he had another woman! It was simply speculation from a stranger who happened to have a black cat called Merlin, and pretended to know the meaning of tarot cards while making an easy living hosting parties for gullible women like Chrissie, Dee and herself.

  Amber tiptoed out of the bathroom. She moved towards the spare room where Matthew had currently taken up residence. Surprisingly, the bed was made and the curtains drawn. Sh
e moved slowly and carefully into the room, her nerves fraying slightly as a floorboard creaked. Her eyes fixed on the wardrobes. Both doors were firmly shut. If anybody was hiding in there, they’d need to leave the door on the crack so they could get out again. Carefully she lowered herself down to peer under the bed. Was somebody hiding underneath? Lifting the edge of the overhanging duvet, she came face to face with a pair of eyes that sent her blood pressure rocketing. Mr Tomkin blinked adoringly at her, as Amber waited for her heart rate to settle down.

  There was only one room left to check. Her bedroom. Amber immediately felt a sadness, so changed that thought to their bedroom. Just because Matthew hadn’t slept with her for the last week didn’t mean it was now only Amber’s bedroom. She moved cautiously into the larger of the two rooms, and the invisible antenna went berserk. She could almost mentally visualise it, like a cartoon aerial flashing on-and-off in fire-engine-red as a robotic voice screeched, “Warning, warning, you’re doomed.”

  Her eyes darted from left to right. The window was locked. Wardrobe doors closed. Bed made. Her eyes swept over the duvet. Amber was a neat and tidy person, but she hadn’t made her bed like this. The duvet was beautifully plumped, as if it had been lifted and shaken vigorously before floating back down over the double mattress. Likewise, the pillows. All four were perfectly banked, as if hands had beaten them into the sort of shape that befitted a bed shop’s showroom. Four colour co-ordinating decorative cushions had been placed with precision neatness in front of the pillows, but that wasn’t how Amber had left them. She always placed the plain ones to the rear and the two florals to the front. These were reversed. Somebody had remade her bed. Correction, their bed. Her brain conjured up a picture of Matthew crawling between the sheets after Amber had left the house earlier, because secretly he was missing her and starting to realise the past week’s ongoing silent row was simply pig-headedness on his part. Amber let her thoughts take her down the path of visualising Matthew wanting to lie where her own body had been, breathing in the faint flowery smell of Amber’s body moisturiser that always clung to the bedlinen. She could see Matthew inhaling deeply and murmuring, “Amber, babe, I love you, I miss you,” and then reaching out and pulling one of the decorative cushions towards him, stroking it like he used to stroke her hair. And then he would have felt rather foolish and leapt out of bed, taking extra care to pull it all back together again so that Amber wouldn’t have suspected he’d been between her sheets. She allowed herself a few more rose-tinted imaginings of Matthew arranging cushions, accidentally placing them the wrong way. However, the invisible antenna above her head wasn’t in agreement with this daydream.