Lipstick and Lies

by Viggiano, Debbie

  ‘Yes Cass,’ Selina hissed. ‘Over your dead body. And if you try that again, I will hurt you. Not enough to kill you – yet. But enough to make it look like an injury sustained in the crash. Do you understand?’

  I nodded mutely. Every fibre of my being was screaming silently for a way out of this situation. Seeing Selina holding the knife was like a small window of opportunity. If I could get hold of that knife, maybe I could hack through my seatbelt?

  ‘So,’ I exhaled shakily, ‘you seem to assume that even if you walk off into the sunset with my husband, my children will scamper after you. That won’t happen.’

  ‘Yes it will,’ Selina said dismissively. ‘Your children absolutely adore me. And little Eddie will grow up probably thinking I’m his real Mummy. And of course I’ll be having one or two little ones of my own,’ Selina smiled indulgently. ‘And Jamie will be so happy. He’ll look at me and think to himself, “Selina! Why was I so blind to the woman who was there all along? She’s so right for me – the perfect business colleague, the perfect mother for my children, the perfect wife!” And I will live happily ever after Cass, with my husband and children in beautiful Lilac Lodge. Forever and ever. Amen to all that.’

  The hand that was holding the knife came down hard on the steering wheel as Selina once again beeped the Mini in front of us. The driver was still obstinately refusing to move over.

  ‘You’re never going to get away with this,’ I quavered, mindful of the knife. It was about the size of something I’d peel the vegetables with. Nonetheless, I was acutely aware of the damage it could do. ‘The police are on to you. They know that you kidnapped Stevie.’

  ‘Oh the police,’ Selina scoffed. ‘I’ve already spoken with them. And most apologetic they were too. But they said they had to check out every lead, no matter how ridiculous. They explained two women gave the tip off that I’d abducted Mr Stephen Cherry. You don’t have to be Einstein to work out which two women gave that little gem of information to the police. The same two women who happened to snoop around my apartment block and tell a resident they were from the council. Thank heavens for neighbours like Gerald. Retired and with nothing better to do than sit on every committee and avail himself to the local council – a man who likes to make other people’s business his own. And then he managed to secure the registration number of your silly blonde friend – the one with a bust size bigger than her IQ.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I stared resolutely out the windscreen. The Mini was finally alive to the fact that Selina was almost touching its bumper. It edged into the middle lane. The Mazda leapt forward.

  ‘I used to be a policewoman Cass. I have contacts. It took only a second to check out that registration number and find a picture of the owner. And Jamie, innocent lamb, unwittingly confirmed that Morag Harding was your mate. That she used to be your boss when you worked at Hempel Braithwaite. And coincidentally went on to marry Matt Harding, who I met when I dated Jamie. Small world, eh?’

  ‘Leave Morag out of it. She’s nothing to do with this.’ I refrained from telling Selina that Morag wasn’t so silly to have photographed bottles of GHB in Selina’s apartment, and had filmed Selina removing the same from Stevie’s house.

  ‘If Mrs Harding stays out of my hair, then she’ll be safe. After all, it’s not her husband or life that I want.’

  ‘Do you mind telling me how Ethan fits into your grand plan?’

  ‘Well unfortunately he’s going to be a jilted fiancé.’ Selina shrugged. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘And I take it he was quite calm about you speaking with the police yesterday – seeing how you were being asked about a kidnap?’

  ‘Ethan knows nothing of it Cass!’ Selina hooted with laughter. ‘We’ve not been getting on too well lately. I’ve had things on my mind – obviously – which has unsettled Ethan. I’ve absented myself here and there at work. When I disappeared in the evening to talk to the police, Ethan just thought I was having one of my blue moods. So when I finally got back home – a little on the late side admittedly – I just did my dying swan act. And Ethan was all over me like a rash. Said he’d look after me. Wouldn’t go to the ball without me.’

  ‘You think you have it all worked out Selina, but you don’t.’

  ‘Shut up Cass. You’re starting to bore me.’

  ‘Do you mind me asking where Stevie is?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Selina said magnanimously. ‘He’s in a disused warehouse by the docks rented by my mate Charlie Phillips. When I was in the police force, I rubbed shoulders with a few naughty boys on the wrong side of the law. It’s easy to come to an arrangement with most of them. You know, “I’ll keep my gob shut Fred if you pay me a few grand,” or “I’ll turn a blind eye to your little project Bill, but it’s subject to you doing me a favour.”’

  ‘I see,’ I nodded. ‘So you were a corrupt police officer.’

  Selina shrugged. ‘Call it what you will. I prefer to call it a mutually agreeable arrangement. Charlie is the one who supplied the GHB to me. He also assisted in,’ she smiled maliciously, ‘persuading Stevie to write a suicide note.’

  ‘There is no reason on this earth for Stevie to commit suicide,’ I assured.

  ‘Ah, but then you don’t know about his little drug problem do you?’ Selina looked at me with wide eyes. ‘I planted a bottle of GHB in Stevie’s bathroom cabinet hoping the police would find it. They didn’t. What a pitiful shower they are! However, I had to borrow it back again because I was running low, and Charlie is awaiting a fresh supply via his own source. Anyway, Stevie has written all about his drug problem and that he can’t cope with it any more. And when the deed is done, Charlie will take care of posting the suicide note to Stevie’s ex-girlfriend, Charlotte. The note explains where Stevie can be found and–’

  A red Vauxhall Astravan suddenly shot into the outside lane, almost clipping the wing of the Mazda. Selina automatically hit the brakes and the pair of us lurched towards the dash and then back again. She sounded the horn long and loud. For a moment I thought she was going to lose her grip on the knife. The Astravan reacted furiously to the angry blasts by jamming his brakes on and off, so that we nearly ended up impacting into its rear bumper. I had a sudden flash of déjà vu. The same thing had happened when I’d been in the car with Morag recently, on our way to Fairview. And it had been a red Vauxhall Astravan! Oh my God. If this was the same van, I didn’t like to think how this bit of the journey was going to pan out.

  ‘What a fucking prat,’ Selina hissed. She drew back and let rip with the horn again. When the driver once more hit his brakes, she was prepared. ‘I can’t stand arseholes like this. Think they own the motorway. As if his tin pot van can keep up with this!’

  She floored the Mazda. The vehicle leapt forward and took the van on the inside. As we drew level, Selina suddenly buzzed her window down. We were travelling at over one hundred miles per hour. Air roared in through the open window whipping Selina’s hair around her face, and playing havoc with our eardrums.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I screeched over the wind noise.

  Selina had released her seatbelt. Instantly an alarm went off warning the driver to buckle up again. But Selina was now leaning out of the driver’s window. Her left hand was clamped on the steering wheel, her right arm stretched towards the van’s passenger window with the knife raised. As soon as the Mazda drew level, she brought the knife down hard. It smacked against the centre of the glass and instantly caved in. Cackling manically, she once again floored the Mazda. The vehicle whooshed forward. She had both hands back on the wheel, but the knife’s blade was now sticking up vertically in the air. The window remained down, and I thought my eardrums would surely burst. And then several things happened at once.

  I was aware of the Mazda being propelled forward, as if a small rocket had gone off behind us. I deduced that the van had deliberately shunted us. But peculiarly, despite registering the surge, everything slipped into slow motion. And something was hap
pening to sound, as if somebody had taken control of the volume and couldn’t decide whether to turn it up, or switch it off, or turn it back on again. I initially assumed my eardrums were in the process of perforating from the hurricane coming through Selina’s open window. Roaring engines, wind noise and metal upon metal were punctuated by fat full stops of silence. And then there was the most almighty bang. Suddenly the Mazda lifted off the M25 and spun gracefully towards the crash barrier. Vision was now frame by shocking frame. I could see vehicles on the opposite side of the carriageway hurtling towards us, and horrified expressions of drivers as the scene ahead of them registered in their eyes. Pupils widening. Mouths silently forming a perfect O. Arms stiffening on steering wheels and dashes as they braced themselves for impact – a middle-aged mother with a teenager plugged into an iPod...a young executive illegally talking into a mobile...a car full of young lads.

  Bit by bit I tore my eyes away from this endangered audience, and turned my attention to Selina. Her beautiful face wore an expression of surprise. Her dark hair flowed out like a Vogue model with a wind machine upon her. Without her seatbelt she was free-falling towards the steering wheel – and a sharp blade. The knife, still firmly in the grip of one white-knuckled hand, was sticking up and pointing towards her neck. Little by little I managed to squeeze my eyes shut, but not before witnessing the knife plunge into Selina’s throat, followed by the airbag inflating, and Selina’s body rising upwards and forwards so that her skull fractured against the windshield. I was aware of the Mazda landing with a jolt on the other side of the carriageway. And suddenly the air was filled with the screeching of tyres and the stink of rubber being left on tarmac.

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Six Months Later

  The bride stood framed in the church hallway. She looked absolutely stunning. But then all brides do. Her father looked very dapper, his face a mixture of both pride and anxiety – hardly surprising given the track record of the bridegroom.

  Charlotte smiled at her father reassuringly. Mr West’s eyes welled. A series of rapid blinks pushed tears back into ducts. The organ gave a succession of staccato notes before bursting into tune. And they were off! Charlotte glided down the aisle, a cloudy veil making her beauty almost ethereal. The silk of her ivory gown swish-swished as she passed by my pew. Mr West’s eyes brimmed again, but this time he lost the battle with emotions. Tears coursed silently down his cheeks. Behind Mr West and Charlotte came Livvy, self-conscious and sweet in her taffeta bridesmaid’s dress. She was clutching her posy as if her very life depended upon it. At the altar stood Stevie, handsome in morning suit. He turned to watch his bride’s progress, and looked blown away by the vision coming towards him. I hoped to goodness he’d look after Charlotte. Love and cherish her. Properly this time. I had a feeling he might well do so after his experience with Selina. There was nothing like a brush with death to make you appreciate everything, and grab life with both hands. Next to Stevie stood Toby, looking tremendously self-important in his role of best man.

  The organ swelled to a crescendo. It crashed out its final bars of music as Charlotte reached Stevie’s side. There was a brief pause. For a moment the only sounds were that of the Order of Service sheets, flapping backwards and forwards as members of the congregation fanned themselves on this warm June afternoon.

  Clive, the incredibly camp vicar, was dressed flamboyantly in a pink-hemmed cassock. He cleared his voice to address the congregation.

  ‘Good afternoon ladies and gentleman. We are here to witness the marriage of Charlotte and Stephen.’ Clive promptly launched into a little homily about love being patient and kind. When Clive went on to advise the congregation that love should not delight in evil, Stevie visibly flinched. As well he might. He’d had a close encounter with wickedness. Although Ethan preferred to call Selina’s spectacular meltdown into madness as issues.

  ‘She wasn’t well,’ he’d whispered, face pale, hands trembling as the police had broken the news of his fiancée’s road rage antics leading to her demise.

  The driver of the red Vauxhall Astravan had ended up in intensive care. It had transpired he had a record of reckless driving and had been on a driving ban at the time of the accident. Miraculously nobody else had been injured in an accident that had brought one side of the M25 to a standstill for the best part of two hours. Several drivers had tweeted just minutes after the crash to warn other road users that the carriageway looked like being closed for a long time. The police and ambulances had hurtled up the motorway hard shoulder, sirens blaring and lights flashing. The London Air Ambulance had also shown up, whisking the van driver off to hospital. Part of the central reservation had been cut away so the police could turn drivers around.

  And me? Thanks to the stranglehold of the tampered seat belt, I’d escaped with nothing more than bruising and a broken finger nail. I’d been taken to hospital and kept in overnight for observation after a doctor informed me I was pregnant.

  I gazed down at my whopping great bump, and smoothed the folds of my maternity dress. Jamie caught my hand and gave it a squeeze. He’d been beside himself after the accident, not to mention furious with himself for not heeding my misgivings about Selina way back when she’d first reappeared in our lives.

  ‘All right?’ he mouthed.

  I smiled and nodded back. He winked and gave my bump a pat. Being told I was pregnant had been a surprise. Being told we were expecting twins had been an all out shock. Jamie didn’t want to know the sex of the babies. But I knew. Two identical little boys.

  ‘Looking forward to getting your udders out again?’ Morag had quipped upon learning of my pregnancy.

  ‘Don’t,’ I’d groaned. ‘My boobs will rival Katie Price’s feeding two babies.

  ‘I don’t envy you Cass,’ Nell had declared.

  ‘I do,’ Morag had sighed. ‘I’m insane with jealousy.’

  Despite six months of visits to the stud farm, so far Morag had not achieved fulfilling her ambition of providing another sibling for Henry. Her attempts to get pregnant were not for wont of trying. Everywhere Morag went so did a supply of pregnancy tests, ovulations kits, graphs and plots. She’d been to her GP twice, and even forked out to see a private gynaecologist – the highly esteemed Mr Rafferty.

  ‘Patience, Mrs Harding,’ Mr Rafferty had sighed. Which wasn’t one of Morag’s virtues.

  Forty-five minutes later we filed out of the church. A handful of wedding guests peeled off from the main party to light up cigarettes. A photographer, resembling a harassed sheepdog, began rounding up family members for photographs. A videographer with an enormous camera and fluffy microphone proceeded to get under everybody’s feet. The new Mrs Cherry beamed adoringly at her husband of twenty minutes.

  Stevie had made all the national papers when the story broke of how Selina had periodically drugged him, bound him, raped him and kept him prisoner. Inevitably comparisons were made to a not dissimilar tabloid sensation three decades earlier. Selina had confiscated Stevie’s mobile, but on one occasion had unwittingly left it at the bottom of the bed to which he was tied. Using his toes he’d managed to operate the phone, but only succeeded in contacting the last caller – me. Stevie had begged me to help him, but seconds later Charlie Phillips had returned with his GBH stock-up and angrily disconnected the call.

  In due course PC Thomson and PC Smith had wrapped up the case. Stevie’s house keys had been found in Ethan’s apartment. On the key ring was the key to the warehouse where Stevie was held captive. I’d passed on Charlie Phillips’ name to Humpty and Olive. They’d put it through their database and duly picked him up. Charlie had promptly squealed like a pig and told the police where Stevie was.

  As for Stevie, the whole traumatic episode had left him a reformed rake. As far as he was concerned, he never wanted to flirt with another female again – other than Charlotte. And if that meant giving in to Charlotte’s desire to start a family, then so be it.

  The photographer clapped his hands for attention, callin
g friends to join the bride and groom for the obligatory group photograph. Jamie and I mingled with the crowd and stood next to Matt and Morag. Nell and Ben joined us. Our babies were all at home in the capable care of Joanie, Matt’s sweet daughter. Our other children were on the far side of the group, collectively disowning their parents, as kids of a certain age do.

  Edna and Arthur broke away from chatting to Ethan and joined the swelling crowd. Both of them were looking incredibly smart in their respective suits, which certainly made a change from the overalls they’d worn almost daily following the restoration of Lady Love. The boat was now moored at Medway Bridge Marina. But not for much longer. Edna and Arthur were chartering Lady Love for Stevie and Charlotte’s honeymoon, which would encompass the Solent and Isle of Wight.

  The photographer put out a final call for stragglers to join the group. Ethan stood uncertainly on the outskirts. Charlotte caught his eye and signalled for him to join everybody. He smiled in acknowledgement and took the hand of a thin bespectacled woman standing by his side. She looked up at Ethan adoringly. Her name was Stella. She was the PA to James Powell at the bank. It was early days yet, but romance was clearly blooming.

  ‘Look this way please,’ shouted the photographer, his voice almost drowned out by the peel of church bells. ‘The gentleman at the end! Take a couple of steps to your right please. Perfect. Everybody smile!’

  With the last group shot in the can, the crowd disbursed. Some drifted off to the car park weaving through gravestones, heels pegging in soft grass. Others, including myself and Edna, followed Stevie and Charlotte’s progress through the lychgate to the awaiting Rolls Royce. The bride and groom paused briefly to have confetti thrown over them. An upward breeze lifted the colourful whirling flakes where they split and fire-worked outwards, raining down on the newlyweds and covering the dark shoulders of nearby morning suits. A uniformed chauffeur materialised and opened one door to the vintage Roller. Charlotte stooped to climb into the car, but then hesitated.