The Perfect Marriage

by Debbie Viggiano

  The Perfect Marriage

  By

  Debbie Viggiano

  The Perfect Marriage © Debbie Viggiano 2014

  Kindle Edition published worldwide 2014 © Debbie Viggiano

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the Internet, photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author.

  The moral right of Debbie Viggiano as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  www.debbieviggiano.com

  http://debbieviggiano.blogspot.com/

  Cover by Robert Coveney

  Kindle formatting by Rebecca Emin

  Foreword

  This novel took a bit longer to write than usual, primarily because of health interruptions. So, before I go any further, I want to say a massive thank you to Dr Kamat and Dr Lalita Banerjee and their team at Darent Valley Hospital for all help and encouragement in getting me better again so I can carry on doing what I love – writing.

  My website headlines ‘Addictive Madcap Romance’. After briefly stepping out of my comfort zone with The Ex Factor, I would like to assure those readers who prefer ‘chick lit’ that The Perfect Marriage is most definitely within this genre.

  The Perfect Marriage features some rather black humour. This is not meant to be disrespectful to the dead, or people mourning the dead. The funeral scene within this novel has been written tongue-in-cheek. However, the fact remains that whilst it was written for a fictitious character, every single ‘disaster’ actually did happen at a number of real funerals all over the land. For the purposes of this novel, they have been amalgamated for the one funeral within these pages. Some folk who helped in my quest for black humour have, for sensitive reasons, asked to remain anonymous. Others are happy to go public saying the deceased would have had a good chuckle! So another big thank you to those who shall remain unnamed and to those who don’t mind being mentioned: Charlie Jones, Sarah Wilson, Melanie Mullan, Hugh Jones, Julie Dove, and Tony Bryant. And thank you to my fictitious character’s make-up artiste extraordinaire, Marie Coulter. She really does exist!

  I would also like to thank the fabulous Rebecca Emin who has once again done a superb job converting The Perfect Marriage to both Kindle and paperback, the lovely Maureen Vincent-Northam for her professional proof reading services, and my wonderful son, Robert Coveney, for doing the necessary with the cover.

  Lastly, I would like to thank you, my reader, for reading this novel. I hope you enjoy!

  This one is for my husband, Joe Viggiano

  You are my perfect marriage

  Chapter One

  Rosie was having a sensational dream. She was in bed with an utterly gorgeous guy. In sleep, she smiled. Fingers were trailing across her hip. Now they were circling her left buttock. Stroking. Ahhh, nice! Arousing. In Rosie’s dream, her hand burrowed under the duvet and crossed the short distance between bodies. She touched a toned chest and soft hair. Sexy! Dave, her husband, had a hairless chest. Like his head. Her brow furrowed. She didn’t want to think of Dave. Not yet. She wanted her thoughts to be of nothing but this Adonis. But…nooo! A part of her was swimming to the surface of wakefulness. Desperately, Rosie tried to hold the dream. Her mind back-peddled frantically. Oh, thank goodness! Sighing contentedly, she sank back to groggy depths. Lovely feelings were returning. Her hand moved across the hunk’s body. It felt so good. Greedily, she began to explore. Down. Down a bit more. Rosie paused. Something wasn’t right. Why would she dream about a man having a piercing? And there of all places? Rosie’s eyes pinged open. Grey gloom. The early hours were always like that. Rosie blinked rapidly and tried to focus on the features of the silhouette by her side.

  ‘Why have you stopped?’ asked an unfamiliar voice.

  Rosie instantly released the piercing and the body part it was attached to.

  ‘Dave?’ she quavered.

  There was a pause followed by the clicking of a bedside switch. The room flooded with lamplight. Rosie stared, bug-eyed, at the stranger beside her. He had hazel eyes and his tousled hair was the colour of dark chocolate. He looked exactly like the guy in her dream.

  ‘I’m not Dave,’ he said.

  ‘Christ Almighty!’ Rosie sat up, snatching the duvet to her chest.

  ‘I’m not Him either.’ The man sounded amused. He propped himself up on one elbow.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Rosie squeaked. Her heart was pounding. Head hammering. How had she ended up in bed with somebody she didn’t know? She thought she might vomit.

  ‘My name’s Matt. Matt Palmer. And you?’

  ‘Never mind who I am,’ Rosie spluttered. ‘Get out of my bed. Go on. Clear off.’

  ‘Well I would,’ Matt scratched his head thoughtfully, ‘except you’re actually in my bed.’

  Rosie stared around the room. Her jaw dropped as she took in stark white walls and chic, minimalist furniture. The bed was vast. About an acre of tan leather headboard reared up to the ceiling, and the expensively understated duvet clutched to her thumping heart was definitely not from Primark. This place screamed Sexy Bachelor Pad. It was everything Rosie’s bedroom wasn’t. No dressing table covered in messy female stuff. No chair propped against the wall bearing a tottering pagoda of Dave’s clothes. No untidy piles of shoes due to Dave still not assembling the flat pack cupboard to shove everything into. Her eyes scanned the varnished floorboards. Not a festering pair of underpants in sight. Tell a lie. Her eye snagged on a scrap of lace languishing by the door. Female pants. Dear God. Surely they weren’t hers? Carefully, she inched some duvet away from her body and peeked downwards. She was totally starkers. Clasping the duvet back to her, she freed up a hand to clutch her throbbing head. A hangover. Possibly from hell. Or perhaps she’d died and gone to Hell? And suddenly memory began to flood back.

  She’d been out with the girls. Lucy’s hen night. Lucy, who Rosie had known forever, was getting married next month. And Lucy had been determined to have a hen night they’d all remember. Or not quite remember, in Rosie’s case. Her last recollection had been dancing with the girls. Lucy had been shrieking with laughter. Egging everybody on. They’d all worn flashing pink Stetsons and been behaving outrageously. Rosie had shipped enough champagne to christen several cruise ships. Booze anaesthetised you. Made you forget about being trapped in a loveless marriage with a surly unemployed husband and exhausting toddler. And watching Lucy recently – excited, happy, apparently so-in-lurve – had reminded Rosie that her own marriage was a sham. But she had only herself to blame. And her widowed mother.

  ‘You’re the wrong side of thirty, my girl,’ Hester had exhorted. That had been true. At the time Rosie had been thirty-three. She’d also been nursing a shattered heart. Her previous long-term boyfriend, who she’d been crazy about, had cheated on her with an ex-friend. ‘Dave is a man with prospects,’ Hester’s voice had been relentless, like a dripping tap. ‘You could do a lot worse. He has an engineering degree! And he’s loyal.’

  Loyal. That was the word that had finally persuaded Rosie to walk up the aisle four months later and stand before a congregation of two hundred guests to marry Dave Perfect. It was only when she was signing the register that she questioned whether she was truly in love.

  Two years later, she definitely wasn’t
in love. Dave had changed from a kind but boring bridegroom to a bad-tempered out-of-work husband who drank the housekeeping.

  ‘Drink up, Rosie!’ Lucy had roared over the music. Glittering lights had glanced off the champagne glasses as they’d toasted the future bride. Rosie had welcomed the high jinks and hilarity. Hell, it had been fun – something she’d not had for such a long time. Certainly not since marrying Dave and drowning in a sea of domestic drudgery, child rearing and financial hardship.

  Rosie’s mind stumbled back to the present situation. Where were her clothes?

  ‘Er,’ Rosie gulped, ‘Mr Palmer. Could I trouble you to lean out of bed please and,’ Rosie put a hand on the mattress to steady herself, ‘pass me those pants. Over there.’ She pointed at the scrap of lace.

  ‘Sure,’ said Matt. He tossed his bit of duvet to one side and stood up.

  ‘No!’ Rosie screeched.

  ‘No?’ Matt swung round. Rosie instantly averted her eyes. She stared at the overhead light fitting. ‘I thought you wanted your pants?’

  ‘I do.’ There was a small cobweb on the light’s shade. Rosie concentrated hard on the silvery thread. ‘I just didn’t want to see you–’

  ‘Ah. Naked.’ Matt bent down and retrieved a hidden pair of boxers. ‘You can look now. I’m decent.’ He gathered up Rosie’s pants and chucked them at her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She snatched them up. A quick inspection of the floor didn’t reveal any further garments. ‘Where are the rest of my clothes?’

  ‘In the hallway,’ said Matt.

  ‘In the hall–?’

  ‘Yep. You couldn’t wait to get them off,’ Matt informed her. ‘Insisted on stripping as soon as your feet touched my Welcome mat.’

  Rosie clapped a hand over her mouth. Please God don’t let her be sick. Not yet. Let her get out of here, wherever here was, and get home. Preferably with a damn good excuse for Dave. He’d not been happy about her going out, or being left with the son and heir.

  ‘Isn’t your mother looking after Luke?’ he’d asked, aghast.

  Her mother? Hardly! Hester had made it very plain that she didn’t ‘do’ babies. On the one occasion Rosie had asked her mother to babysit so she could visit the hairdressers, Hester had vehemently shaken her head.

  ‘Oh no, Rosie. Been there, done that. And never again.’ Which was why Rosie had no siblings. ‘I look forward to bonding with Luke when he’s ready to go to school.’ Hester did occasionally visit her grandson, but always on an arm’s length basis. She would descend without warning – usually with several blue-rinsed cronies in tow – and expect Rosie to scamper about providing endless cups of tea and cake for them all.

  Something landed on Rosie’s head.

  ‘Yours I think.’ Matt Palmer had retrieved her Little Black Dress. Little being the word. It barely covered her backside. The dress belonged to Lucy. Rosie couldn’t afford dresses like this one. These days she shopped at Oxfam or jumble sales, although she made sure she and Luke were always well turned out. Their clothes were always freshly laundered and pressed. Lucy worked in Media and earned a fortune. The contents of her wardrobe were expensive and, like their owner, spent a lot of time in the fast lane.

  ‘Could you–?’ Rosie gestured to the bedroom door.

  ‘Sure. I’ll leave you to get dressed. I’ll put some coffee on.’

  Rosie had no intention of getting cosy with Matt Palmer over coffee. The moment he’d left the room, she rocketed out of bed. Shimmying into the dress, Rosie retrieved Lucy’s clutch bag from the bedside table, jammed her feet into Lucy’s six inch stilettos (how had she danced the night away in these?) and tottered into the hallway. A clock on the wall displayed the time of a little after six in the morning. Dave would go into orbit.

  Stealthily, Rosie crept past an open door. The kitchen. Matt Palmer was peering into a vast American fridge. Reaching the front door, Rosie carefully eased back the bolts. So far, so good. The door cracked open. Instantly a cacophony of noise erupted. Rosie shrieked and clutched her heart. Matt Palmer shot into the hallway. He punched some numbers into a wall panel and the noise instantly ceased. Rosie’s hearing continued to ring like a tinnitus victim.

  ‘Off already?’ asked Matt.

  ‘Well, yes. Obviously.’ Rosie leant weakly against the wall, waiting for her heart rate to steady.

  ‘How are you getting home?’

  ‘Tube.’

  ‘This is Penshurst. There are no tubes.’

  Rosie rubbed her eyes wearily. Another missing piece of memory slotted into place. Lucy’s hen ‘do’ had been at The Cavendish Club. This was a hot nightclub out in the sticks and frequented by footballers, rock stars, playboys and City millionaires. Thanks to Lucy’s contacts in the media industry, there had been VIP passes. The after-party plan had been to bed down at Goldhill Grange, a sumptuous luxury hotel and spa. However, Rosie had made it quite clear to Lucy that at midnight her pre-booked limo would be collecting her. In reality the limo was a battered Mondeo driven by Karen, Rosie’s kind neighbour. Karen had agreed to be taxi in exchange for Rosie doing some cleaning for her. Rosie was going to have a lot of apologising to do for wasting Karen’s time and petrol.

  ‘Okay, I’ll catch a bus,’ said Rosie.

  ‘The bus stop is over a mile away. It’s pretty rural here.’

  ‘Then I’ll walk,’ Rosie said in exasperation. She edged the door open. A bucolic scene of endless fields interspersed with formal gardens greeted her eyes. This apartment was some place. It appeared to be part of a vast country house conversion and set in private grounds that stretched as far as the eye could see. Despite briefly admiring the scenery, Rosie’s tired mind registered April showers in full pelt. She had no coat, nor sensible footwear. Stupid, stupid woman. She was meant to be a responsible person. She was a wife…a mother no less. She should have made her excuses to Lucy and stayed at home with Luke. A sudden vision of her infant son crying for Mummy brought hot tears to her eyes.

  ‘Look,’ said Matt, ‘you’re clearly in a pickle. Let me get some caffeine into my veins and then I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘I live in North London,’ Rosie sniffed. ‘It’s not exactly around the corner.’

  ‘It’s not the other end of the country either,’ said Matt.

  ‘Okay.’ Rosie nodded. She was aware she didn’t sound very grateful. ‘Thanks,’ she added. ‘Um, do you have a bathroom I could use?’

  ‘To your left,’ said Matt, ‘or there’s an en-suite in my bedroom. Take your pick. I’ll go and pour the coffee.’

  Rosie pushed her way into the main bathroom and gasped. What she’d give for a bathroom like this. It was the size of her lounge. A vast tub was centrepiece. To her right was a double shower. To her left a low fitting toilet jutted out of the stonework. The loo was so contemporary it looked more like a giant fishbowl than a toilet. Everything was marble, porcelain and chrome. A bank of fluffy towels lay in fat rolls on an overhead shelf. The colours were cool and understated. The entirety of one wall was mirrored. For a moment Rosie failed to recognise the stricken blonde that stared back at her. Chalk white face. Black shadows under troubled grey eyes. She had a feeling those eyes would look a good deal more troubled before the day was done.

  Chapter Two

  Dave was awoken by two things. His ears heard Luke’s wails a split second before his nose registered the smell of Luke’s nappy. Dave rubbed his eyes and groaned. Crikey, what had happened to the mattress? It felt as hard as a floor. His sat up and blinked. Instead of an expanse of duvet, he was greeted by brown Axminster. Good heavens. He really was lying on the floor, and in Luke’s bedroom of all places! He sat up stiffly. Immediately his head began to thump. A wine bottle rolled away from him. Empty of course. He’d have to dispose of that before Rosie saw it. The wine had been a very robust red. Rocket fuel. He shouldn’t have drunk it all. Especially after drinking an entire bottle of rosé beforehand. These days he seemed to be drinking more and more. How many times did he open a bottle and tel
l himself, ‘Just the one glass, David. It’s good for the digestion.’ A mental picture of his protesting liver flashed before him. Irritably, Dave pushed the thought away. Luke, seeing his Daddy awake, stepped up the racket.

  ‘There, there. Hush, hush,’ Dave mumbled.

  It was possibly the longest sentence he’d ever spoken to his son. Dave didn’t understand babies. Certainly he’d never planned to become a father. Luke had been an accident. A honeymoon baby. This was quite a feat considering he’d spent more time in the bar than in bed with his new wife. There wouldn’t be any more babies. Dave couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt passionate about Rosie. These days his love affair was booze. Not that Rosie complained about the lack of sex, which was just as well because Dave’s todger wasn’t up for it. In every sense. He’d read about alcohol affecting libido. He was absolutely determined to stop drinking – just as soon as he found another job. As yet, he wasn’t sure when that would be. Getting a glowing reference from his last employer wasn’t on the cards. Especially after that bit of trouble involving Health and Safety, and an awful lot of cider consumed in the lunch hour.

  Dave hauled himself to his feet. The room briefly spun. He stumbled forward and crashed into Luke’s cot. The relentless grizzling instantly became ear-splitting howls.

  ‘Sorry! There, there, hush!’ Dave attempted to placate his baby son. The stench of Luke’s nappy made him heave. Sour wine hit the back of his throat. He couldn’t cope with this. ‘ROSIE!’ he bawled. As his headache revved up, he immediately regretted yelling. Where was his wife? And then Dave remembered Rosie had gone out last night. She’d promised to be home by half past midnight. Luke had been crying for her at that point, which was why Dave had given up drinking his wine in the lounge and taken both bottle and glass upstairs to Luke’s nursery. Luke had been so surprised to see a man-person leaning against the Peter Rabbit wallpaper, he’d shut up. Thinking that Luke might just want company, Dave had sat down on the carpet, poured himself another glass and waited for his wife. At some point he’d finished the wine, curled into the foetal position and gone to that safe dark place. The place where money didn’t matter, unemployment was irrelevant and you could drink as much as you liked without a wife nagging.