The Perfect Marriage

by Debbie Viggiano

  Matt overtook a lorry and cruised onwards. A sudden image of Rosie’s face filled his mind. How had a bloke like Dave Perfect landed a looker like her? Even with her troubled eyes and harassed expression, there was no denying that Rosie Perfect was a beauty. At the time of leaving the tatty Victorian terrace, Rosie had changed into clothing that looked like something you donated to third world countries. Judging by the way Rosie had neatly folded last night’s outfit into a bag and left it by the front door, Matt had deduced the shimmery dress, matching clutch and fuck me heels belonged to a pal. Whoever the girlfriend was, she must be loaded because everything had been Designer.

  Karen had cleared up all the broken glass by the front door, and Matt had insisted Rosie take two hundred pounds in cash to cover the repair.

  ‘That’s far too much,’ she’d protested.

  ‘So keep the change and spend it on this little fella,’ Matt had smiled at Luke sitting on Rosie’s hip. The curly-haired tot had grinned gummily back at him. Matt had held up a hand to fend off Rosie’s further protests and let himself out of the house. As he’d walked down the path with its broken tiles and weeds poking through huge cracks, he’d felt strangely disconsolate.

  Matt jumped as the Bluetooth connected with his mobile phone and shattered his thoughts. A shrill ring reverberated around the BMW’s cabin. The display announced that the calling number belonged to Terry, a reprobate friend and the stag no less of whom he should have been with last night after saying goodnight to Gregory Tibor. Matt’s thumb pushed the button on the steering wheel.

  ‘Terry, you old dog! Isn’t it a bit early for you to be up and about?’

  ‘I haven’t been to bed yet,’ Terry laughed. ‘I think I’ve drunk myself sober. Christ but that was one hell of a do. But before I crash out, I want to know what happened to you. Since when did Matt Palmer fail to show up for a mate’s stag night?’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Terry. I had every intention of joining you after I’d said good-bye to my client, but unfortunately this girl turned up and–’

  ‘I knew it!’ Terry crowed. ‘I said to the lads, “I bet Matt’s attention has been diverted by some leggy blonde. Or brunette. Or redhead.” You never could say no! Well I hope she was worth it. It’s a bloody good thing I’m the forgiving kind. But then that’s why you’re one of my ushers and not the best man – I can’t risk you getting distracted and leaving me standing on my Jack Jones at the altar.’

  ‘Honestly, Terry, it wasn’t quite like that. It was true damsel-in-distress stuff.’

  ‘Right, say no more – wink wink, nudge nudge. Well I hope to goodness you’re going to be available next Saturday afternoon for our house party. You still haven’t met my fiancée, and she’s absolutely insisting our mutual friends and family get together for a little soirée.’

  ‘A soirée? That’s a rather posh word for you, Terry.’

  Laughter filled the car. ‘Yeah, but then I’m marrying a posh bird, aren’t I!’

  Matt joined in with Terry’s guffaws. ‘Okay. Count me in. And I shall look forward to finally meeting your other half next weekend.’

  ‘And if last night’s shag is still on the scene, you’re welcome to bring her along.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind, although it will probably just be me.’

  Terry chuckled again. ‘Typical Matt Palmer. Love ’em and leave ’em. Listen, matey, I’ve got to go. I have a bit of business to tend to before I crash out. Catch you later.’

  ‘You will indeed.’ Matt smiled and hung up. Hearing Terry talk about pillows and sleep suddenly had him yawning hugely. He might have a kip himself when he arrived home, just for a couple of hours. Thanks to Rosie Perfect being in his bed last night, sleep had been sorely lacking.

  Chapter Six

  Terry hung up the phone. For a moment he stood in the hallway of his beautiful mansion and simply soaked up the silence. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d listened to...nothing. Certainly not at work. As a City trader the place was a constantly seething mass of motion and emotion. Millions could be made or lost in seconds. But Terry had mostly made millions and he’d taken the huge bonuses to prove it.

  He stared around the entrance hall to his home. It was the size of most people’s front rooms, if not bigger. A staircase was centrepiece and split off into two different directions. It was a feature of the house and always a talking point. In a minute he’d go upstairs, but for now he just wanted to mull over last night.

  He and his buddies – all of them colleagues apart from Matt – had had a rollicking good time. And although things had naturally turned rowdy, it had to be said he’d behaved impeccably. The other lads were all either hitched or, like him, in the process of getting wed, but that wasn’t to say that one or two of them hadn’t been naughty boys and drifted off for a one-night stand. But not Terry. Why would he do that? He already had a great woman in his life. And in a month’s time he would be marrying her. Roll on the month of May! And Terry was no snitch on the boys. What happened in Vegas stayed in Vegas, and all that jazz. Except they hadn’t been in Vegas. They’d been in London’s West End. The boys had trawled through pubs and clubs from dusk until dawn downing champagne, shots and God knows what. At one point things had got a little fuzzy. But as the sun had poked fingers of light through a skyline of office buildings, shops and chimney rooftops, Terry had felt himself sobering up and thinking about the other love in his life. Tracey. So secret that not even the boys knew of her. God forbid they should ever find out either. His street cred would be totally down the pan if the boys ever got a whiff of who Tracey really was. And as for his fiancée knowing – Terry shuddered at the mere thought.

  *****

  Tracey checked her reflection in the mirror and, for once, was pleased with what she saw. She’d taken great care with her make-up and was chuffed to bits with the new mascara from Superdrug. Her meagre eyelashes were now visible. For a second she’d been tempted by some super-dooper false eyelashes on special offer, but had shied away at the last moment. She didn’t want to look like a drag queen.

  Tracey stood back from the mirror for the overall effect. A tall, angular woman gazed back. She had a strong jaw, big feet and matching hands. Surely God had been having a joke when He created her. But Tracey had put her heart and soul into looking her best for Terry. Soft smoky eye-shadow had been blended over the lids of her eyes. A rosy blusher softened the prominent cheekbones, and today she wore her hair long to promote her feminism. Dark waves tumbled over her shoulders and down the back of her frilly blouse. Okay, frills were a little old-fashioned these days, but Tracey loved them. And she loved the fabric too! Chiffon. It was so soft. Such textiles were somehow calming, and who didn’t want a bit of calm in their lives? Especially when life was so challenging, juggling so many balls, and trying to be so many things for so many people. At least she didn’t have to pretend with Terry. Terry accepted Tracey totally for what she was. He never questioned her motives, her actions, the way she dressed or spoke, who or what she was.

  Tracey knew she was Terry’s secret and that he didn’t talk about her to his friends or family. Not even that fiancée of his. A part of Tracey was incredibly sad about this, but in her heart of hearts she respected Terry’s wishes to keep the secret. It was understandable. Well, to her it was understandable. But to others...no, they wouldn’t understand. Not one little bit. What if Terry’s friends found out, like that Matt Palmer for example? She’d seen Matt – not that he was aware of it. But he looked like a no-nonsense guy. A toughie. Somebody who only saw black and white, and never the shades of grey. Given the job Matt did, perhaps that was only fitting. Heaven only knew what Terry’s parents and sister would say if they knew about her. The parents would probably think Terry had lost his marbles, and the sister would be aghast. Tracey’s eyes momentarily watered. It was a shame she was such a pariah. But at least Terry didn’t think so. At the end of the day he was the only person who mattered. He loved her unconditionally. Tracey’s eyes watered a
gain. Damn, there went a tear down her cheek, taking a stain of mascara with it. Just when she’d applied her foundation so beautifully! Carefully, Tracey patted the black line from her skin. Gone. Thank goodness. Sniffing a little, she blew her nose daintily and then squared up to her reflection.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ she told herself, ‘and highly desirable.’

  Tracey continued staring at her reflection. A plain woman stared back. Deep down Tracey knew she wasn’t desired by other men. Thankfully Terry knew about her lack of self-esteem. He’d bought her the most gorgeous frothy floor-length nightgown. Later, Tracey would sleep in it and, when sleep came, her dreams would be full of her and Terry.

  Chapter Seven

  Fending off Dave’s questions about her whereabouts last night had been easier than Rosie had dared to hope. Karen had come to the rescue with a pack of lies about picking Rosie up from the club, and how they’d gone back to her place for a super-quick coffee.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Karen had told Dave, ‘before Rosie could cross the short distance between our respective houses, she’d flaked out on my sofa.’

  ‘So why didn’t you come round and tell me?’ Dave had whined to Karen.

  ‘It was late, Dave. I thought you’d be asleep. And I most certainly didn’t want to disturb Luke by ringing the doorbell or telephone.’

  ‘You should have woken Rosie up!’ Dave had been belligerent.

  ‘She was worn out, and I thought she could use a well-deserved rest.’

  ‘A child should have its parent,’ Dave had fumed. ‘You deprived my son.’

  ‘You are a parent too,’ Karen had reminded Dave, ‘and it’s about time you took some responsibility!’

  ‘How dare you speak to me like this?’ Dave had glared at his neighbour. ‘I never did like you, Karen. I don’t know what Mike sees in you. You’ve a tongue like a harpy.’

  ‘You leave my husband out of this,’ Karen had narrowed her eyes, ‘and thank you very much but he loves what I do with my tongue.’

  Rosie had stuck her hand up at that point to stop the pair of them going on to a full-scale row. ‘Enough! I have the headache from hell and don’t need you two bickering.’

  ‘Well you shouldn’t have been out on the town all night drinking for England,’ Dave had sniped.

  ‘My headache is due to smacking my head against Luke’s bedroom wall, no thanks to you leaving an empty bottle for me to trip over.’

  ‘Yes,’ Karen had butted in, ‘so don’t you dare patronise Rosie about drinking all night. Pot, kettle, black.’

  ‘Oh bugger off back next door,’ Dave had waved a hand at Karen, ‘I’m going out.’

  ‘Where to?’ Rosie had asked.

  ‘Somewhere with peace and quiet.’

  He’d stomped off, banging the front door so hard it was lucky the one remaining glass pane hadn’t fallen out.

  And now, while Rosie waited in for a glazier to repair the front door, she wondered where Dave was. Indeed, exactly where did her husband go every day? He said he was looking for work, but today was Sunday. Apart from anything else, he no longer dressed as if attending interviews. In the beginning he’d put on a suit and tie. But as the weeks had progressed, the tie had been omitted in favour for an open-necked shirt. At some point the suit jacket had been replaced with a fleece, and finally the trousers had been exchanged for scruffy jeans. When Dave returned, he was invariably stroppy and on the defensive. Apart from anything else, Rosie didn’t have the energy or inclination to question him. They were two people inhabiting two separate worlds. They just happened to live under the same roof.

  The sound of the telephone ringing interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Oh good, you’re in,’ said a plummy voice.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ Rosie’s heart sank.

  ‘I’m with Catherine. You remember Catherine. She shares the flower rota at church with me. Charming gel.’ Catherine was eighty-two. ‘We’ve had a wonderful morning listening to the new vicar’s sermon.’

  ‘Jolly good.’

  ‘Usually we stay behind for refreshments, but unfortunately Gertrude – who was on tea and biscuits this week – had one of her forgetful moments and thought she was taking care of the collection. So everybody’s parched.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rosie knew what was coming.

  ‘So I thought we’d come over to you.’

  ‘It’s not actually a good moment, Mum,’ Rosie wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder and shifted Luke to her other hip. ‘Earlier on I broke one of the window panes in the front door. I’m currently waiting for a glazier.’

  ‘Honestly, Rosie, you are so accident-prone. How did I raise such a clumsy child?’

  Rosie gritted her teeth. ‘Perhaps we can do a rain check and I’ll look forward to seeing Catherine and Gertrude another time.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Hester protested, ‘we’re already on our way. Catherine has a car with one of those new-fangled Toothy things – incidentally it’s Catherine’s mobile phone connection that I’m talking to you on – so we’ll see you very soon.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Rosie grimaced.

  It seemed as though Rosie had barely hung up the phone before Hester was sweeping through the front door, for all the world as if Rosie’s dingy hallway were the entrance to the Savoy. Two elderly ladies followed in Hester’s wake.

  ‘What a dear little boy,’ said the woman Rosie knew as Catherine. She deduced the tiny pensioner bringing up the rear to be Gertrude.

  Hester’s chest visibly swelled. ‘My handsome grandson. He gets his looks from me. Rosie, put Baby in his playpen so you can make us all a cup of tea.’

  ‘Mum, his name is Luke.’

  ‘And actually we’re all rather peckish,’ Hester ignored Rosie’s correction, ‘so we’ll have sandwiches rather than biscuits.’

  ‘Can you avoid putting anything chewy in mine?’ Gertrude lisped. ‘Only I can’t get on with my dentures at the moment and I’m giving my gums a rest.’

  ‘Right,’ said Rosie faintly. ‘Do go into the lounge and make yourselves comfortable. I’ll try not to be too long.’

  As Rosie headed off to the kitchen, Hester’s words floated down the hallway. ‘I do apologise for the lack of curtains in here, but Rosie’s husband is in the process of doing the place up. Marvellous man. Very clever. He has a degree in Engineering.’

  Rosie shut the kitchen door on their chatter. She didn’t understand why her mother spoke so highly of Dave. Perhaps it was because she felt guilt at pushing Rosie to marry him and consequently saddling her daughter with a useless prat, although Rosie knew Hester would never admit to that. Sighing, she popped Luke into his playpen and set about making ham sandwiches and mashing up boiled eggs for Gertrude’s sore gums. By the time she’d finished, Luke had fallen asleep whilst playing with his mobile. Rosie gently laid a crib blanket over him before loading up a huge tray and heading off down the hallway.

  ‘At last,’ Hester sighed. ‘Whatever took you so long? I was just telling the gels that you always used to come last in your school races. Your teacher used to call you Rosie Slowcoach.’

  Rosie set the tray down. ‘Well I’m here now.’ She began pouring the tea. ‘One lump or two, Gertrude?’

  ‘Two please,’ Gertrude lisped. ‘Mmm. These egg sandwiches are lovely. Thank you, dear.’

  ‘I’m so pleased my dentures don’t give me problems,’ Catherine said.

  ‘Fortunately, I still have all my own teeth,’ said Hester smiling smugly.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Gertrude, ‘I have some more of those Brazil nuts that you like.’ Gertrude put her sandwich down and reached inside a vast handbag at her feet. She pulled out a large paper bag and handed them to Hester.

  ‘Ooh, lovely!’ Hester said with delight. ‘I ate the last bag you gave me while I was watching Coronation Street. I’ll enjoy these tomorrow. But honestly, Gertrude, I can’t understand why your daughter keeps buying them for you if you don’t like them. Tell her
to buy you chocolate instead.’

  ‘She does. She buys me chocolate Brazil nuts. I enjoy sucking all the chocolate off and then I put the nuts back in the bag for you.’

  There was a stunned silence broken by the interruption of the doorbell.

  Rosie hastily excused herself, not daring to look at her mother. ‘That will be my glazier.’

  However, despite a man from Class Glass standing on her doorstep, the repair did not go ahead.

  ‘You have to show me the colour of your money first, love,’ said the man.

  ‘No problem. I’ll just get my bag.’

  But when Rosie opened her purse, the two hundred pounds Matt Palmer had given her to pay for the repair was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter Eight

  Matt stirred. He’d dozed off in front of the television. Yawning, he checked his wristwatch. Half past seven. His stomach gave a noisy gurgle, grumbling about its lack of food. Standing up he stretched lazily, arms pushing up above his head, before taking the heels of his hands to his gritty eyes for a good rub. Instantly he winced. The black eye was sore as hell. Matt’s stomach gave another gurgle of complaint. Grub. Now.

  Matt dropped his arms back to his sides and wandered off to the kitchen. After a rummage around in the fridge, he slotted bread into the toaster and cracked a couple of eggs into a pan. Turning the gas flame to low, he then returned to the fridge for butter and milk. In a minute he’d go over some paperwork regarding Tibor’s Tasty Titbits in readiness for tomorrow’s visit to the factory. Matt yawned again. He needed to be more alert. Right now coffee was not so much a requirement as a necessity. Flicking the kettle switch on, his thoughts wandered back to Rosie Perfect. Her coffee cup from this morning was upside down on the rack in the dishwasher. He wondered if her front door’s glass pane was now fixed. A mental image of the baby boy sitting on her hip floated through his brain. What a sweet little lad. He wouldn’t mind having a kid like that himself one day – if he ever found Mrs Right. So far she’d eluded him, despite having Mrs Perfect in his bed last night.