by Kitty Wilson
‘Marion, love…’
‘Don’t you dare.’
‘Marion.’ Richard drew himself up. ‘I am here because I was worried about you. I have left the Japanese and come here to find you. I stopped at our college on the way down, spoke to all our old friends to see if they knew anything and then I drove down here to find you and yes, I have to drive back. I may get the sack for leaving and I very definitely will if I’m not back in the office at eight sharp tomorrow with cap in hand and penitent smile on and all I’m getting is the screaming madness of a woman who is making no coherent sense. If you’re not having an affair or a nervous breakdown then I don’t know what is going on. I just want to help you but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me rationally. Look at you – you have lost all composure and I’m not sure who this woman screaming like a vixen and standing in my living room is.’
His living room? Did he carefully choose the exact shade of blue on these walls, did he scour the land looking for the perfect sofa, the just right accents that made it feel both stylish and homely? Did he feature in those articles for Cornish Living? Did he arrange for half the PTA to give up their spare time to paint this house so beautifully when that useless firm of decorators cocked up their diary? His living room? Was it, hell!
He took another step towards her, his face still the picture of confusion. Under any other circumstances it would have her grabbing him by the hand and racing up the stairs, or at the very least her heart swelling with love as she swore to protect this man from the cruel realities of life that he had always been so cushioned from with his cotton-wool privileged upbringing.
No longer.
No longer would she be fooled by outward appearances; that was her mother all along – as long as her suitors had a plethora of hair gel and honeyed words, no attention was paid to character. Well, Marion was not her mum and she was not prepared to be fooled for a second. Her whole life she had tended to this man, and look where it had got her. Being treated like a fool, and then being accused of insanity. No more. He could sod off with his plaintive looks, puppy-dog eyes and perfected air of confusion. Richard Marksharp was an astute businessman, he was pin-sharp in financial markets; she would not go along with his I’m-not-madly-emotionally-intelligent-but-I-am-madly-in-love-with-you bollocks any more. She looked at his hand, outstretched again, obviously thinking he could win this.
‘Marion… love, maybe, maybe this does make sense after all.’
‘Oh finally, does it. I’m glad. So, Richard, tell me now, tell me here and now what you think the matter is?’ Her heart sped up, feeling like it could burst through her chest any moment. If he could just admit his wrong, if he had the respect for her to be honest now then they could forge ahead, put the needs of the boys first and work out the best plan of action. She didn’t want to do battle; she just wanted a bit of respect and acknowledgement of all she had done and how badly he had betrayed her. Her breath caught in her throat. Was this going to be it? Could they find a way to be adult about this?
‘I can’t believe I didn’t see it before but, Marion, you mustn’t be frightened; we can see this through together – obviously me saying you were… um, well, struggling was wrong. And of course I don’t think you’ve slept with Hector, not if I really think about it. But, Marion, if we’re both just strong and firm in our love for each other we can see this through. After all it happens to every woman, to every relationship…’
Marion started to snarl; where was he going with this? This did not sound like the heartfelt abjectly remorseful apology she needed.
‘Marion, it’s only nature after all; every woman eventually hits the menopause.’
Chapter Six
Richard stood out in the street rubbing his head where Marion had broken her favourite vase over it. He wondered if he had a concussion. It was quite possible. He had always known his wife was a volatile woman; you only had to spend the night with her – or morning or afternoon – to know that. A rueful smile crossed his face; volatile was different to raging and aggressive and today she was very definitely the latter.
It had come from nowhere.
Normally she valued every item in the house far too much to destroy it; it was her overly emotional attachment to things that was one of the traits he found so endearing, an indication of her hidden vulnerabilities. But the wife he’d faced today, she hadn’t seemed particularly vulnerable, and what’s more, she had the aim of Eric Bristow.
He knew other people found Marion difficult at times, sharp, rude, overbearing, but he had always respected her. There was so much more to her than met the eye. But violent? She had never been violent before. That was never acceptable. If she was cross she drew up an action plan and exacted revenge in a way that benefitted her. She wasn’t a shelf-sweeper, or a plate thrower. None of this made any sense at all.
He had felt dreadful cancelling their anniversary plans at the last minute, but Marion knew him, knew how much he loved her, appreciated the way she kept their home running whilst he was away. The plan was to earn enough money to enable him to retire early and spend the rest of his life with Marion, their boys and the dog doing exactly as they wished. He was so nearly there and had thought they agreed about this, that she had understood. He certainly didn’t want to be doing a weekly commute to London from Cornwall; it was hideous. Exhausting. He would have been happy in a job earning less with more time spent at home. If, after retirement, he never had to step foot on a train or see a motorway again he would be very happy indeed.
But for Marion he was willing to do anything and if this was what it took for them to have their perfect life then so be it.
He knew she felt isolated on her own during the week; that was why she kept herself and the boys so busy. He had even bought her a puppy because he didn’t want her to feel unsupported, left all on her own through the week. A puppy she could cuddle into in the evenings and see it as a daily reminder of how much he wished he could be at home.
His colleague Claudia had recommended the Weimaraner, promising him that they were the last word in dogs at the moment, the absolutely number one fashion for all in-the-know families. It had sounded like exactly the sort of dog Marion would want, even though he thought it looked as if it would grow rather large and dribbly. Mind you, far be it from him to understand what women wanted when it came to things like this. He had learnt a long time ago to just do as he was told. His mother had been very like Marion, a force to be reckoned with, although nowhere near as loving. She had been cold whereas Marion’s devotion to her boys, her family, shone through.
But something had changed recently, shifted. Their happy balance was suddenly off-kilter. Marion had become noticeably discontent with things. It had started off in small increments; instead of being as encouraging as she could be when they chatted in the evenings, she had started to lose her normal sangfroid, became upset, almost – she was very wary of letting her mask slip, even to him – when he had to cancel visits home. Then she had dashed off and spent all summer at Hector’s house in Morocco, barely waiting for the boys to be finished in school before she had them on a plane and out of there.
Hector was a good friend; they had been to school together and then on to university and he trusted him with his life.
Just not his wife.
Hector had a mad crush on Marion when they were younger, when she had long blonde hair down to her bottom and the shortest shorts man had ever seen, which, combined with her nothing-can-touch-me attitude, was like catnip to a gaggle of privately educated boys from a single-sex school. But it was he, Richard, who had caught Marion’s attention, though Hector had had a hankering ever since.
He rubbed his head again; there could well be a bump there the size of an ostrich egg by morning. Knowing that he had to hotfoot it back to London again and face his boss’s wrath at him for skipping out on the weekend, there was a high chance the bump may soon become one of a matching pair.
Chapter Seven
What a day! Richard stood i
n the lift to his apartment really quite grateful to be there, ready to fall into bed after an epic journey back to London. He may not have solved the problem of his wife but at least he knew she was alive and safe, thus he could relax a little before tomorrow’s big telling off, which would no doubt be accompanied by his P45. Then he could drive back down the motorway and try and resolve what needed to be resolved with Marion. As soon as he worked it out.
Tonight at least, what was left of it, was a comfy bed and no confusing messy emotions. He had never been sure how to respond to such things; it seemed in situations like these that whatever he said or did only made things worse. Although right now, he wasn’t sure what could possibly be worse. He had spent the best part of twenty-four hours driving up and down motorways only to have the woman he loved more than anything else in the world bosh him on the head with a vase so expensive that the price alone would be enough to make most people’s eyes water, let alone the impact.
As the lift came to a halt he couldn’t help but think how lovely it was going to be having the flat to himself for a bit. His colleague, Claudia, had been there for ages and treated the apartment as her own, wafting around in negligees and silky dressing gowns with no apparent thought of Richard’s presence at all as she sprawled across the furniture in the unseemliest positions.
Originally, he had let her stay when she had told him she had the decorators in and was planning to crash at a hotel for a few days whilst they were there. But after she had tearfully confided that she was having a bit of a cashflow problem he felt morally obliged to offer her a place to stay; that’s what Marion would do. She was always the first to look after those in Penmenna, jumping in at all times to try and improve the lot of others. Claudia certainly seemed overjoyed that he had, so he had been pleased that he had called this right.
Then after the decorators she said it made sense to get the fumigators in, although she had never actually specified what she was trying to get rid of. She certainly didn’t look like someone that lived somewhere with hard-to-beat infestations, but presumably that was the point of fumigators. That had been four days ago so he figured she would be home now, he would have the flat to himself and grab a few hours’ sleep, a few hours where he wasn’t plagued by women, either the one he had married or the one he worked with.
Sweet blessed relief.
The lift door opened and he walked into the hallway.
Eh? What on earth were these… were they rose petals?
What on earth were rose petals doing in his hallway? He followed the trail that was leading to his bedroom and his heart sped up. Could this be Marion’s way of apologizing? Was she here to say sorry for being wildly unreasonable for no apparent motive? Reason kicked in to kill his momentary hope. No, not unless she had somehow chartered a helicopter. Had she chartered…? Of course not, and judging by the look on her face this evening she wouldn’t be making an apology any time soon. There was bound to be an explanation of some sort. He just had to turn the handle and find it.
He placed his hand on the door, took a deep breath and pushed it open.
‘Oh my good God! What do you think you’re doing?’
There on the bed was Claudia, Claudia from work wearing very little, very little indeed. This would not do.
‘Oh my goodness.’ It occurred to Richard that he sounded like a frightened Miss Marple, only he figured Miss Marple may have a better idea of how to respond.
‘Hello,’ Claudia purred; it really did sound like a purr but one he imagined a lioness may make as she eyes up dinner. He shut his eyes.
‘I think you should get out now,’ he said in his politest voice. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing or who you’re waiting for but I really do need to… um… go to sleep.’
‘Oh, Richard, I’m waiting for you, you silly boy. Always so proper; open your eyes and come over here. I promise I know a way or two that will help you sleep like a baby – it’s just that I am rather stuck, you see.’ He heard the rattle of metal upon metal and half opened an eye, his head cocked to one side. Oh my goodness, she had cuffed one of her hands to his bedstead. If Marion ever found out about this! His heart felt like it would burst through his chest any minute. What if Marion had chased him up the motorway to make amends after all? What if she walked in on this? He had to get Claudia out.
She sat there smiling like a cat eyeing a mouse, stretched one long leg out and dangled the key in her unbound hand. Aha, the key. That had to be the first stage. He had to get the key. Warily he opened his other eye and gave himself a pep talk; he had survived cross country at school – he could very definitely survive this.
‘Um… I don’t think I’m going to do that, can you… um… can you… oh dear, I don’t think you’re going to be able to angle yourself… oh dear.’ He realized there was no way she was going to be able to undo the lock on her own and it occurred to him from the look in her eye she had no intention of untying herself and quietly leaving. Waiting for you, she had said. How on earth had he got himself into this situation? ‘Um perhaps you could… um, throw me the key?’
‘Well, perhaps I could.’ She smiled. And then she dropped the key into her cleavage and winked. ‘But then I’ve never been very good at doing what I’m told. In fact, I’m a very bad girl, very bad indeed. I need someone to punish me.’
Richard gulped. He suspected she may well be right. He also knew that he was not the man for the job. Neither was he brave enough to go over there and fish the key out of her bra. Truth was he suspected she may well overpower him and do goodness knows what. He had heard about women like this; they had been the fodder for many an adolescent dream. He just hadn’t realized he wouldn’t be so keen as an adult.
He’d have to think quick. What could he do? Perhaps he should ring Marion and ask her; she always knew what to do. No, no, that was a stupid idea, of course he couldn’t do that. Um… um… arghhhh.
How could he have been so stupid? Of course! This was why his life had suddenly been tipped on its head. He opened his eyes wider as the realization dawned on him. Claudia must have been planning this all along. He wasn’t sure why; he had spent hours after her last break-up reassuring her that not all men were pigs and that he himself was devoted to Marion, how it suited him to have a wife he adored, that he could look after every day for the rest of her life. She must have said something to Marion when she came in the flat the other day. Must have.
That was something he could sort out easily enough. If this was why Marion was so cross, he could rectify it. He had never even as much as looked at another woman; he would just have to explain that Claudia was lying and, looking at the scene playing out in his bedroom, clearly completely bonkers.
His attention focused in upon the woman responsible for the stress of the weekend, currently writhing her bottom half across the covers as if she had ants in her pants, not that they would fit, and making the oddest moaning noises.
‘Claudia…’ he said tentatively. He thought he ought to check that she wasn’t in any real pain, that the noises were just an effect she was trying to create rather than an actual medical condition.
‘Yes, Richard,’ she breathily replied.
‘Claudia, I don’t know what is going on here.’ He made his tone firm as if he were disciplining one of his boys. It was discipline she had asked for – that he could do, just not the kind she wanted. ‘Claudia, I am going to leave and find myself a hotel room for the night. I suggest you phone a friend’ – he nodded to her mobile left out on the bedside table and within easy reach – ‘and get them to come and unlock you. I will not be coming any nearer. And then I suggest you take all your stuff and go back to your apartment at once. I will see you at work tomorrow and we can pretend this never happened. However, should you ever, ever try this sort of thing again then I will not tolerate it. I shall… I shall take it to HR.’ And with that bold and threatening speech made, he turned his heel on the woman currently dressed in not much more than a shoelace’s worth of purple silk and for the sec
ond time in one weekend a member of the Marksharp family flounced out of the flat, temper high, into the waiting elevator.
Chapter Eight
Marion huffed out of the village towards Rosy’s house the minute Richard had gone, channelling her fury to get her up the hill, not pausing to stop and look at the fields around her as the early signs of spring were appearing. Not for her the time to dally at the sight of the very first lambs out in the fields, standing close to their mothers, nor the early buds on the trees and the hint of hope, of birth, of new beginnings in the skies. Oh no, today may be Sunday – and a jam-packed one at that – but for the new reborn Marion, today was a day of business.
She grabbed a breath as she opened the little gate to the path up to Rosy Winter’s cottage. Rosy was the headteacher at Penmenna School, where Marion’s two youngest boys went and that Marion herself had been, up until this weekend, very actively involved in. Marion had never thought that much of Rosy – she seemed a little young for such a responsible post and a little too apple-pie. Marion never fully trusted anyone who looked as if butter wouldn’t melt. But the battle to save the primary school from forced enclosure had arisen and at that point Miss Winter had showed her mettle and fought a jolly good fight, and they had gone from comrades-in-arms to sort-of-friends.
As they had been saving the school, Rosy had fallen in love with the very eligible Matt Masters, TV gardener and all-round good egg. Of course, Marion knew that when Matt had moved to the village he couldn’t help but take a shine to Marion herself – he was a man with very good taste and Marion was such good friends with his sister, whom Matt had raised from when she was eight years old. But with Marion clearly devoted to Richard then Rosy Winter made a very good second best.