by Wendy Reakes
Yvonne went to the salon to be groomed three times a week. It was at the top of her list of priorities. Her hair, kept short, thanks to the ever-fashionable Princess of Wales, was highlighted with blonde streaks and brushed back behind her ears. Her hands and nails were tended every Friday morning and then, of course, her regular facial. Yvonne also has the added luxury of the salons manageress, Tricia, applying her make-up for functions, which had lately become a regular occurrence.
The salon belonged to Yvonne. She kept it on even after she married Frank Warner. He didn’t know, of course. It was her little secret. He’d simply assumed she’d sold it after they got wed. Now her involvement in the business was purely superficial. Tricia took care of that. But the flat upstairs…that was the reason Yvonne kept the salon running. She considered it to be her haven and as long as she had a breath in her body she’d never let it go. She always told Tricia, ‘they’ll have to drag me out.’
When her second husband, Gregory Spender had died, Yvonne had been devastated. Especially after she was told he’d left her nothing but the house and the clothes on her back. The rest…the fortune his father had left him…had been used to pay for Gregory’s heavy gambling debts. With little else to finance her love of couture and fine things, Yvonne had been left with little choice but to sell the house. With the proceeds she’d bought the salon (along with the flat above) in Didsbury High Street. She’d resided there for three-years, working hard and saving her money, while she, once again, planned a life that would help secure her future...And Ben’s.
Yvonne’s lifetime friend, Eva Long, had introduced her to Frank Warner fifteen-years ago. Eva had once lived two doors down from Yvonne’s parent’s house in Moss Side when they were still young. Eva was three-years older than Yvonne -known as Bette then- so she felt Eva was mature enough to confide in when she became pregnant with Benjamin. Eva had been amazingly supportive, helping her through some pretty rough times and they had remained good friends ever since, of course.
The night Yvonne met Frank, they’d all been to a gathering to celebrate Eva’s fortieth birthday at a hotel in London’s Shepherd's Bush. Eva ran a café for Frank. She had for years and Yvonne was never quite sure if Eva and Frank had been lovers or not. Eva never discussed it and Yvonne never asked. Besides, it wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing Yvonne was interested in was landing Frank Warner as a husband to provide her with the lifestyle she’d become accustomed to when she married Gregory; namely, financial security for life.
Frank Warner proposed to her within a fortnight of their meeting, after Yvonne, time and time again, refused to sleep with him. He was incorrigible, driving up to Manchester every chance he got and the more she refused to let him stay with her, the more determined he became. Frank, like most of the men she met, had been entranced by her generous bosom, or ‘tits’ as Frank crassly called them. She knew he desired her, desired them, so when she finally allowed him to fondle her, he proposed without any further hesitation.
They had just returned from a restaurant in the centre of Manchester and Frank had driven her back to her flat above the salon. She wore a white, off-the-shoulder gypsy blouse, ruffled at the top with a thin line of elastic, which gave little support to her ample breasts. As her bosom bulged and weighed the fabric downwards, the elastic stretched with them and the ruffled folds were pulled out of shape across her chest. Frank found the blouse immensely tantalising.
As he kissed her goodnight, drooling at the thought of what lie beneath, no longer patient, and before she could change her mind, Frank pulled the elastic and delved deep inside with one rough hand. Yvonne claimed she was too shy to let Frank ‘go all the way’ while Harry Bell was sitting in the front seat. “I’ll tell him to take a walk,” Frank had said in desperation, but Yvonne insisted it was much too cold a night for his driver to be walking around outside.
Taken with Yvonne’s innocent consideration for Harry Bell, Frank decided there and then she would make a very loyal wife. With his eyes on her décolletage, Frank fingered the criss-cross lace running down the middle of her bodice and popped the question. Yvonne was stunned, or so she claimed, but seeing as she cared so strongly for Frank and seeing as she wanted more than anything to support him as a devoted partner in his business empire, she accepted, allowing him to release her breasts from their confines and to fondle them once more before saying goodnight.
The engagement had lasted one week. Frank brought the wedding date forward, after Yvonne told him she was getting impatient. She wanted to feel him inside her, she said, and she’d simply burst if it didn’t happen soon. Concerned for Yvonne’s state of passion, Frank agreed to the nuptials in the local registry office in Didsbury and that’s where Bette Davis, alias Yvonne Corner Spender became Yvonne Warner.
As insurance, Yvonne kept her salon on, allowing it to be managed entirely by her manageress, Tricia, with just the flat above as a no-go area.
The flat was strictly out of bounds to all personnel, especially when she held an occasional private session with her masseur, Robin. He was a lot younger than her, so she often had to transfer funds to his ‘little current account’ when life got on top of him. Despite all of the ups and downs, he was there when she needed him…when she needed to alleviate some tension!
Apart from the bedroom, the rest of the rooms in the flat were used for storage. Yvonne had vowed very early in her marriage to Frank that she would never be left in the same position as her previous husband had left her. She realised the decision was a good one, when Frank asked her to sign a prenuptial agreement just before the wedding. She was shocked, horrified even, but since (at the time) she was portraying the compassionate and devoted wife, she was uncomfortable with putting up a fight five minutes before they said I do. It was a risk she wasn’t prepared to take, so instead, Yvonne took out some other insurance.
It began with an innocent purchase of a £650 Christian Dior clutch bag. She bought it to give to herself from Frank as a little gift for Christmas, something she could wrap on his behalf and put under the tree. He had forgotten to buy her anything on their first Christmas together, so on their second season of goodwill she’d taken no chances. Such was Yvonne’s luck that on Christmas Eve that year, Frank came home laden with gifts and the promise he would never forget Christmas again. Consequently, Yvonne’s Dior bag was never resurrected from its position at the bottom of her walk-in closet, remaining hidden away, boxed and still tagged.
By February, two months after she had purchased the little bag, Frank had made no reference to the £650 transaction on his credit card. Yvonne discovered -after a little delving- that despite his business acumen, Frank Warner never checked his statements, preferring to have all his personal bills sent directly to his accountant. As far as Yvonne was concerned, Frank’s ignorance became her life-line.
She spent the good part of a decade amassing purchases consisting of designer accessories; jewellery, handbags, shoes etc. all lovingly stored in her little haven above the salon, unused and with price tags attached waiting for a day when she might -god forbid- have to sell her collection to raise a little cash. The total value of her amassed treasure: eight-hundred and fifty-thousand pounds, all itemised with prices in a little red diary she kept on her at all times; a little red book she lovingly dubbed ‘This is my life!’
Finally, Yvonne kept the key to the flat on her at all times. The spare rested in a safety deposit box, along with her Will, deeds to the salon, insurance documents, her birth certificate, a letter addressed to her son Benjamin and an inventory of her belongings.
The key to the safety deposit box was kept in a sealed envelope, entrusted to her good friend and companion Eva Long.
Chapter 44
1993
Katherine Wasflabbergasted. “You actually want me to meet the in-laws!?” It was a Sunday morning and Ben had just been out for some fresh croissants and the Sunday papers. She was propped-up against the pillows, sifting through the newspapers he’d thrown on the bed only five-mi
nutes before. Outside it was drizzling fine rain, even though the sun shone through a patch of grey cloud, giving the room a glad-to-be-inside Sunday morning glow.
“No, they want to meet you. There’s a big difference.” He placd a tray on the middle of the bed. It was laden with still-warm pastries, freshly brewed coffee and a jar of Fortnum and Mason’s thick-cut marmalade. It was one of the things she loved about Ben; he always did everything in style, even lazy Sunday mornings.
“When?”
“Friday night.” He stripped off his favourite jogging shirt and pants and climbed in on the other side of the bed with the tray between them. “My mother wants us to stay the night, but we’re going to a hotel.”
She put down the paper and poureds the coffee. “Why?”
“Because I hate the house they live in and I hate my stepfather. I can’t make it any clearer than that.” Ben ripped off a piece of croissant and stuffed it into his mouth. A creature of habit, he did the same thing every Sunday morning. She knew that once he’d polished one off, he’d eat the second with the marmalade, slowly, revelling in an unhurried ritual.
“Well okay, but I think we should stay. It will look rude if we don’t.”
He rustled the papers. She didn’t look at him. She already knew he was glowering at her. “Rude! Katherine, didn’t you hear me when I told you about Frank Warner?”
She slammed her coffee cup into the saucer on the tray. She was sick of his putdowns. Really sick! “If you’re going to be condescending…” She threw the sheet back and put one leg over the side of the bed.
He took hold of her arm and pulled her back, laughing at her the whole time. “What a temper! Come on, get back into bed, I was only joking.”
She scowled and shrugged him off. She got back in. For one thing, she didn’t want to get up yet. “You go too far sometimes.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I know.” He leaned towards her until his face was next to hers. “Give us a kiss.”
“No.” She was only half-joking when she reached out her arm and pushed him away. Happy she’d given in to him, he moved back to his side of the bed.
His side of the bed! How comfortable each of them had become over the past two-years since they got married. During the week, they’d stay at their own places above their own restaurants, but at the weekend they came together to live side by side like a proper married couple, ‘living in each other’s pockets’.
She picked up her newspaper again and straightened her cup on the tray. The coffee had spilled into the saucer so she dragged the bottom of the cup over the brim and sipped the now lukewarm tea. Ben bloody Corner, he could get her so riled but she could never stay mad at him for long.
“It’s just my family. They wind me up.” He was sifting through the broadsheets. “The thought of spending an evening in their company makes me want to top myself.”
“Well, it’s about time I met them. We’ve been married for over two years. You didn’t even invite them to our wedding.”
She turned to look at his face. He was absorbed in a story on page six.
Just when she thought the conversation was over, he said, “When you meet them, you’ll understand why.”
Chapter 45
They drove up to Manchester on Friday morning. Ben had a lunch appointment with his step father, so Katherine planned to look in at the Coach, to see how the work was progressing. “Why are you seeing your stepfather for lunch if you’re seeing him tonight for dinner?” she asked before they parted.
“He requested it. He wants to see how I’m getting on and he doesn’t want my mother there.”
She thought it was odd that Ben had given her a straight answer. When it came to his stepfather, Ben’s sarcasm spilled o’er every time. She was positive he was hiding something; Ben would never be that keen to meet Frank Warner.
She arrived at the Coach thirty-minutes later. The refurbishment was progressing well. Already the old bar had been ripped out and the floor made good. The foundations for the extended kitchen were already laid and the toilets had been gutted down to the bare brick. Even the roofers were working on the roof that slants acutely to the front. “The electricians will be starting on Monday,” Nick White informed her. “And the toilets should be completed by next Friday.”
“I hope so!” She kicked an old tile away from the floor. They were opening in July, which was only four-weeks away. She felt a familiar knot in her stomach at the thought of opening her second restaurant. She often wondered if she was crazy or brave. She didn’t think she was brave. “How are you and Susan managing with all the dust and rubble everywhere, Nick?”
“It’s okay. We’re coping, although there’s one thing we’ve got a problem with.”
“Go on.” She was becoming accustomed to personnel problems. It was a part of the job she found easy to overcome. She felt very protective of the people who worked hard and who were loyal and now she had discovered a natural ability for motivating them. Who knew!
“It’s the stair carpet to our flat,” Nick said. “It’s really worn and filthy. We could do with getting it cleaned professionally. I’m just worried about Susan falling down them.”
“Order a new carpet, Nick. Give Alfred Brooks the bill.”
“Are you sure? The bills are coming in thick and fast. I don’t want to be responsible for breaking the bank,” he said.
She patted him on the shoulder. “If you’re happy, I’m happy and the customers will be too, so order your carpet. Let me worry about the money.”
The truth was she was very worried about the money. She had kept the other three pubs trading in their current state while she refurbished the Coach, but as soon as it was finished, she planned to turn around the other three straight away.
The Coach was going to be a financial benchmark for the others, so she needed to watch the expenditure very carefully. Her brief to Alfred was to use as many as the original features as possible, to save costs and to retain the essence of the place. Architectural features, like the old stone floor, she wanted restored to its former glory, bringing out the pinks and yellows of the stone, putting life back into them. It was also going to save her buying new materials. The kitchen had been their biggest expense. She’d taken a few pieces of unused equipment from Ben’s restaurant in Covent Garden and from Kathy’s, but apart from that, she had to fully equip it.
“There’s a call for you,” Nick White shouted through the din of a drill starting up somewhere in the other side of the building.
She took the call in the flat.
“Katherine. This is Marjorie. I’m looking for Benjamin. Is he with you?”
Marjorie Willington and Katherine had become good friends since the night she’d gone with Ben to their house two-years ago. Soon after that night, they’d met after Marjorie rang and invited her to lunch. “The next time you’re up our way,” she’d said. Marjorie more or less filled her in on the conversation her husband had had with Ben that night. “I hope you and I can be friends, Katherine,” she’d said.
The next time she came to Manchester they met again. Katherine drove her out to the Coach and then to one of her lunch meetings with Alfred Brooks. Marjorie offered some tips on the interior of the restaurant and for once Katherine felt she wasn’t completely on her own. As a housewife and mother, Marjorie was very supportive of her and her budding enterprise. In fact, she’d acted as a personal referee to the bank on Katherine’s behalf, saying they were family. It was another advantage to her application for the loan and she’d never forget Marjorie’s kindness.
Benjamin had never met his father or the rest of the family again after that first night. “I prefer to keep a wide berth,” he’d told her. She suspected he felt guilty for taking the fifty-thousand pounds from Lance but Ben was so complex, it really could have been anything.
Lance and Marjorie accepted Ben’s decision. “He is after all a grown man. It’s not like they’ve got a lifetime ahead of them anymore,” Marjorie said in his defence.
&nb
sp; Ben also rejected the suggestion of inviting them to London for their wedding. “Let’s not get sentimental over all of this, Katherine,” he’d said. “Besides, if I’m not inviting my mother, I can’t very well invite the old man.”
Now, concerned for Marjorie’s tone on the phone, Katherine spoke softly. “He’s not here, Marjorie. He’s having lunch with his father…I mean his stepfather.”
“When you see him, can you tell him to give Lance a call, Katherine dear?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll be seeing him in an hour or so. Marjorie, is everything all right?”
“Yes, dear. Well…I think it would be better for Lance to explain things to Benjamin.” She sounded as if she was going to cry. “This is going to change everything, Katherine,” she sobbed before she hung up.
Chapter 46
Ben Corner and Frank Warner sat across the table visibly despising each other. They were in a wine bar in Didsbury, preferring not to take lunch together, agreeing only on a couple of drinks. Ben sipped a vodka and tonic on ice and Frank stared at a full pint of Boddingtons untouched on the table in front of him.
“I understand you intercepted my wine shipment last week,” Frank began. “That wasn’t very nice of you.”
“You’re lucky it was me who intercepted it and not my wife.” They both leaned with their arms on the table, speaking quietly so that no one could overhear them. They both resented the closeness. “Let’s just cut to the chase, Frank,” Ben sniped. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Frank Warner smiled. “Just trying to recover some of my losses, son.”
Ben moved his glass around the table, not wanting to drink it...not wanting to drink with Frank Warner. “I’ve already stuck my neck out for you, so that you can recover your losses, as you put it. What more do you want?”
