by Paula Byrne
‘That’s because every man you’ve ever met wants to marry you. That rarely happened to me. I had to go online to find a nice, safe husband who would provide. Look where that got me.’
‘A jolly nice divorce settlement is what it got you, which is why you can settle the bill.’
‘Of course, but I need the loo first. But I want to say one last thing to you. Have you ever really, properly considered that there are people out there who are very jealous of you? It’s a mistake to underestimate the power of the green-eyed monster.’
Freddie got up and headed towards the Ladies. There was a large square pane of glass on the wine-bar floor revealing the wine cellar beneath. Freddie started dancing alone on the square in her miniskirt. It was a slow, sexy dance, asserting her sexual freedom. What a treat for the barman below, Lisa thought. But she felt a sudden stab of pity for Freddie.
*
Blog: https://lisablaizesite.wordpress.com
Loub Time!
Hi Fans, Lisa, Fashion Mistress here, well, I know all about being a mistress … giggle, giggle, but Reader, I married him!
Now what shall I write about today for all you cheap plebs who have to shop on the High Street whilst I shop designer: Chanel and McQueen doncha know! LOL. Oh lovely me. I do so love being me. As Chanel once said: ‘Keep your heels, head and standards high’ – well I certainly keep my heels high – Christine Laboutin being my heel of choice. You plebs will never get your filthy feet in a pair of Loubs anytime soon, so dream on. Head and standards … hmmm not sure.
Remember plebs that Chanel also said ‘Elegance is being equally beautiful inside and outside’. So that’s me sorted … LOL.
Now, must dash. Off to another exciting ball in the Big Smoke. Tonight, I’ll be wearing Balmain in this season’s ice tones (dove grey and silver), and, of course, my trusty sapphires. But I won’t be wearing any lingerie: as Chanel said, ‘It is always better to be slightly underdressed!’
CHAPTER 28
A Shed of One’s Own
When she first came to Blagsford, Lisa felt trapped. She told Edward she had ‘princess in the tower syndrome’. Living in Headmaster’s House was like being in the middle of Piccadilly Circus. People came in and out, they never knocked on the door. Bianka’s Hoover was permanently droning … a classic trick of cleaners, she knew. Keep the hoover on, and it looks like you’re working. Edward’s useless PA called Lisa a dozen times a day on some slight pretext. ‘I’m not your bloody secretary, taking messages for you when you haven’t told your PA where you are,’ she told Edward. ‘Close your study door, and ignore them,’ he countered. He didn’t understand. She could never close her door. It was a function of being a mother. Never turn your back on small children.
The claustrophobia of living in the goldfish bowl had been one of the things that had driven her into Sean’s arms. If she wasn’t careful, the same thing would happen again. She had to find a place where she could escape from the school and the family, so that she could work on her book.
The puppy was adorable, but she was making the problem worse, either yapping at the hordes of people pouring through the doors, or gazing at her with doleful eyes, nose twitching, appealing for a walk around the grounds and lake.
Lisa’s ex-housekeeper Doris had a son called Lee who worked on the school’s maintenance team. He was skinny, with peroxide hair that he dyed himself, parts of it far too yellow, urine-like. There were rumours that he’d once been inside for GBH. Queenie hated him. Every time Lisa walked her dog around the playing fields, she would run up to the students, tail wagging, but if she saw Lee, she would bark ferociously. Lee never once looked at Queenie, or Lisa, for that matter. He just stared straight ahead. He made her skin crawl. There was violence in every sinew, coldness in those dead fish-like eyes.
Prying eyes, that was what she hated about Blagsford.
That’s it, Lisa thought as she walked Queenie around the grounds. I need a writer’s shed. Somewhere close enough to the house if the children need me, but with enough space and quiet to get the work done. A she-shed.
She knew that there would certainly be a staff member or parent or, most likely, an Old Blagger with some objection to any kind of permanent structure, so Lisa decided on a shepherd’s hut. It was on wheels, so planning permission was not required, and it could be wheeled away into the woods if anyone complained. She found one on eBay. A Cotswold green shepherd’s hut, with a woodburning stove, and room for a desk and an armchair. It would be delivered in a few weeks.
Marie Antoinette, they’ll all call me, she thought. Well, let them.
*
She and Edward had another row. They had never rowed before all the trolling and stalking business had started. The tormentor was doing more damage to the marriage than her affair had done.
‘How dare that fucking troll parody my real blog in City & County? It could cost me my commission. We’ve got to involve the police again.’
Edward remained adamant: ‘Don’t give him oxygen by engaging with him.’ Edward remained convinced that it was a man. Lisa was equally sure that the letters and blogs had all the hallmarks of a female hand. The detailed attention to her clothes, her body, her shoes. No, it was definitely a woman. Edward was wrong.
Perhaps Edward was right however, about the troll giving up if she just suffered in silence. She vowed to forget about the troll and forget about Sean. But she was so discomposed by the fake blog that she found herself unable to go on writing her real one for the City & County website.
Every morning, she went for a run, and then she took her laptop down to her brand-new shepherd’s hut. Queenie was thrilled and ran about the garden, chasing squirrels and crows. It was endlessly amusing to watch the little puppy stalking the birds, who seemed to taunt her, and then at the last-minute swoop majestically into the air leaving Queenie looking utterly bemused.
The hut was perfect. It was made of cedar wood, with a corrugated iron roof, which made the most delicious sound when the rain came. Edward had asked the builder to drive it to the edge of the lake, so she could see the swans and the heron, who was her particular favourite. She taught herself how to light the woodburner in the corner. The makers had thought of everything, even a wooden peg holder for her coat.
Lisa set about sourcing the soft furnishings. She bought two kilim rugs, and embroidered scatter cushions in soft greens and pink for the sofa. She filled the log basket with tiny logs, installed a battery hurricane lamp, and a Dickens bookcase. The last item remaining was a dog basket for Queenie. She had decided that she didn’t need electricity. She would do it the old-fashioned way, with the woodburner, and candles. She wouldn’t work there at night when it was dark, as she needed to be in the house with the children. It was her haven. She finally found a sense of peace that had eluded her since the move to Blagsford.
She longed to tell Sean, who had encouraged her to find a space to work. Writers need quiet and isolation, he had reminded her. You just need someone at the end of the working day to cook you delicious food and open the wine bottle. She missed his texts, his tweets terribly; his love and care, but she wanted to keep her promise to Edward. There would be no contact. Not on her part anyway.
With the summer sun blazing through its windows, the hut was so warm and cosy that Lisa dozed off, Queenie at her feet. In the days following her split with Sean, Lisa had found solace in the White Garden. It had helped heal her heartbreak. The roses were so fragrant, and so beautiful. She had asked the gardener to plant white lavender for ground cover, and in the hot summer days, she would fall asleep on a blanket on the grass, beneath the soporific lavender. Now she was preparing a winter haven.
Lisa was a sun-goddess and had always loathed the end of summer, but the shepherd’s hut seemed to bring her closer to nature. She watched the rippled water of the lake, as the wind whipped across its silvery surface, and she made her peace with the rain.
When the hut had first arrived, she couldn’t resist tweeting a photo of it. Sean would be pleased to know
that she had at last found a room of her own, even though it was only seven feet by twelve.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
My Petit Trianon. #MarieAntoinette.
*
Blog: https://lisablaizesite.wordpress.com
My Rusty Shed
Another fabulous day in the life of Lady C.
A sunny September day in lovely Blagsford, surrounded by my adoring fans. I so love an Indian summer. Wore my Indonesian sapphires to the New Staff Dinner for the beginning of the academic year. And a Chanel dress. How I love Chanel. So chic. While dressing, I danced to Freddie Mercury: Killer Queen … ‘She keeps her Moët et Chandon in a pretty cabinet, let them eat cake she says, just like Marie Antoinette.’
The next day, I trotted off to my beautiful rusty corrugated-iron caravan to write my next bestselling fashion history. The Rusty Shed is my haven. It’s decorated in such style, with lots of mirrors (just to bring in extra light, not to gaze at my reflection). I light my small, but perfectly formed (who does that remind you of? LOL), woodburning stove with the baby logs lovingly chopped by our wonderful (and sexy) School Gardener.
On my bookshelf I have several fashion books on Alexander McQueen and Coco Chanel. At my feet, as I write, lies my gorgeous Pomeranian puppy (called Queenie, obvs). Gosh it’s so warm and cosy in my Rusty Shed.
PART FOUR
Expiation
CHAPTER 29
Honeytrap
‘Well, that first year was certainly a baptism of fire,’ said Edward to Lisa as she poured him a glass of cold white wine at the end of the first day of the new academic year. ‘Let’s hope this one brings a fresh start all round.’
They agreed that they had coped remarkably well with everything that had happened – the drugs business, the chickens, the affair, the anonymous letters, the blogs. In the face of Lisa’s deceit, Edward had been admirable. He could not have fought better for the marriage. As a headmaster, he knew that there was always a reason for bad behaviour and that there were at least two sides to every story. He granted that he had made mistakes himself. In one of their rows during the summer, and of course there had been many, Lisa had said ‘You took a mistress – the new school. So I needed someone else too.’
There was more than a grain of truth in this. He had indeed put the school before his wife. Returning to a public school was a kind of homecoming for him. He had failed to see how difficult it must have been for her to be in such an unfamiliar environment. Besides, Lisa was so much younger than him. Hadn’t they often joked about him declining into the vale of years? And in those first months she had been friendless. Lessons had been learned on both sides.
He wasn’t even angry with Sean. ‘You’re very loveable, who could blame him?’ was all he would say. His policy was to downplay Sean. He wasn’t important. He was the presenting problem. Lisa was, as Nick had gently suggested, having an early onset mid-life crisis. That was all.
Then there was Queenie. She was their chance to start afresh. Edward disliked all animals, especially dogs, so Lisa knew that the purchase of the puppy, just at the moment when the relationship with Sean was about to go to the next level, was a sign that Edward had realized something was wrong and made a real effort to win her back to him and their life at Blagsford.
As for her persecutor – she couldn’t make up her mind as to whether the right term was stalker, troll, cyberbully, identity thief, pervert, or just plain nutter – the saving grace was that none of the letters or blogs revealed the slightest inkling that she had formed a deep connection with a married heart surgeon who had once treated her daughter. The persecutor clearly did not know what was really going on in her life. There was something rather delicious about being accused of everything apart from the one thing that she had genuine reason to feel guilty about.
*
Blog: https://lisablaizesite.wordpress.com
Yum Yum: Naughty Boys
Hi folks, it’s been a while since I blogged, so apologies. It’s all happening here at Blagsford. You may have seen in the press the news about Naughty Boys dealing drugs. So bad. Well, my devoted husband gave them short shrift. Especially the leader of the pack. Let’s call him … Boy A. Well, that’s such a shame because I’d been paying a few night-time visits to his room. He’s such a sweetie. And he likes sweets, chocolates, and biscuits. Need to give him that sugar high to keep him awake at night so that when I come to his room, and slowly undress …
*
Lisa slammed down the lid of her laptop. She debated whether or not to tell Edward that the blog was getting beyond a joke. Well, his one condition following the end of the affair was that there should be no more secrets. He was more relaxed than she had anticipated.
‘Ignore it. We’ve agreed that it’s most unlikely to be a staff member. And none of the boys would dare – they know that the IT manager could trace it back if it came off the school network. It’s just some crank sitting alone in his room. Forget about it. Social media is full of these nutters.’
‘But Edward, this person clearly knows about my history. That I once kissed a schoolboy, who was under my protection. This is really worrying. It’s someone who knows me.’
‘Darling, you’re being paranoid. There’s no mention of SJA. He’s clearly just googled the school and found the drugs story online. The scandal is not exactly new news, is it? That was last year’s story. Resorting to that is a sign of desperation, I’d say. I bet you a nice meal in town that this will be the last blog. Though you do need to stay offline for a while. Please.’
‘But I didn’t tweet about the drugs. My stalker usually gleans her info from Twitter.’
‘Not entirely. They must have read about the knighthood in an online newspaper. Just ignore it. Keep offline.’
‘I don’t want to keep offline. Why should my behaviour be controlled by this person? That means they’ve won. It’s not as if I have a blue tick. I’m a nobody.’
‘How many times do we have to have this conversation? Lisa, stop tweeting, just for a while. See what happens when there’s nothing to write about. Stop giving him ammunition. Or is it that you still want to communicate with someone else?’
‘Stop it, Edward. You know I don’t. That’s all over. You know that. But maybe my troll really is a staff member. After all, they all know about Bertie and the drugs bust. I can’t have gossip around the school which says I’ve abused a boy. That is libel. The only way I can respond to this nutter is to go on Twitter, because I know she’s all over my Twitter.’
‘You’re sounding hysterical.’
‘Even if I tweet at four a.m. she’s on it. Edward, you don’t understand. Twitter is so immediate … there are millions of tweets per second. This troll goes on to my Twitter and pores over it. Most of my followers would never dream of doing that. They just see the latest tweet, and that’s it. Someone else tweets, and it all moves on. I’m going to lay a trap.’
‘What kind of trap?’
‘Well. I’m going to tweet something – I don’t know what exactly. I’ll leave it up for a bit, and then I’ll delete it, but if it comes up in a blog or a letter, then I know that I’m being stalked on Twitter.’
‘But you know that already, which is why I want you to take a Twitter vacation. I think you should be careful. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. You tweet as though you are sending a private text, but it goes to the whole world.’
‘I know what I’m doing, Edward. You just don’t understand social media in the way that I do.’
That evening she waited until very late before tweeting. Most people (well in this part of the world, anyway) would be in bed. She would send a tweet, leave it for a minute, and then press delete. If the tweet appeared in a letter or a blog entry, that would give her proof that the letter writer was a Twitter troll, not someone she knew. Then she would quit Twitter. But what to tweet? It would have to be something very specific, but not too much so. No, maybe innocuous would be better. A quotation. An insult aimed at Internet t
rolls. No, too obvious. What about a photo? It could be a risqué photo, and then quickly deleted. Yes, that was it.
Lisa searched for a jersey, finding a soft, grey cashmere with silver piping. Then she fished out a pair of sheer black hold-up stockings. That will get them going, Lisa grinned. She decided to take a long shower first. The jet of water streamed over her body. She liked the water hot, almost unbearably hot. The bathroom door opened a fraction, and then Queenie padded in. Queenie followed Lisa everywhere. If Lisa left the house, Queenie became melancholic and would lie on the sofa in the hallway until her mistress returned. Edward called it ‘The Chaise of Expectation’. Queenie liked to lick the water from Lisa’s legs when she came out of the shower. She sat patiently waiting whilst Lisa soaped herself. God, that puppy was so cute.
She roughly towel-dried her long, dark hair, wrapped herself in a soft white bath sheet and headed to the bedroom, Queenie trotting alongside. There was a full-length ivory-framed mirror in the bedroom. Lisa loved that mirror. It was so damn flattering. She put on a black bra, pale pink silk panties, and the stockings, and then the knit. She sat in front of the mirror, with her legs curled to one side, but outstretched. Her legs looked long, muscular and sexy, with just a hint of bare flesh above the stockings. If you looked really closely, you could glimpse the pale pink panties between her thighs. Her hair was tousled messily around her shoulders, but pushed back from her face. You could make out the contours of her large breasts underneath the knit.
She lifted up her hot-pink phone and snapped away. Click, click, click. Yes, that was fantastic. Perfect. The right mix of coy and sexy. That would really irk her troll. Lisa uploaded the photo onto Twitter, with a beating heart. She wrote a caption: Birthday Jumper. She didn’t want anyone else to see it. How long should she leave it there? Five mins? Ten? It had to be up long enough for her troll to see it, but what if they were already in bed? What a waste of time. OK, then twenty minutes, she reasoned with herself. What if someone else saw it? The head teacher at the children’s primary school? Some old Blagger who might make a complaint to the school? OK then, fifteen minutes. She went down to the kitchen.
