Another Woman’s Husband

by Gill Paul

  When the couple left to get into the car that would whisk them away from the reception, everyone showered them in white rose petals. Wallis turned her back and tossed her bouquet over her head in Mary’s direction. It was a good throw and all Mary had to do was raise her hands to catch it.

  She sniffed the heady scent of the lilies of the valley and smiled her gratitude.

  Wallis blew her a kiss and called, ‘You next,’ before climbing into the car, making sure her long train was completely inside before Win slammed the door.

  That was it; she was gone. Wallis had moved on, leaving her old life behind, and Mary felt bereft.

  Chapter 8

  Brighton, 1 September 1997

  RACHEL OWNED A SHOP CALLED FORGOTTEN DREAMS in Brighton’s North Laines, just fifteen minutes’ walk from her flat. It sold antique clothes dating from the 1900s through to the 1950s, alongside shoes, handbags, hats, belts, a selection of old jewellery and a few trinkets. She was passionate about the artistry of these decades and always dressed in period style, so she was a walking advert for her own wares. Old clothes were her passion. Sometimes she felt she could sense ghosts in the fabric that gave a hint of lives lived long ago, and she enjoyed speculating about previous owners, inventing back stories for them: ‘the jilted bride’, ‘the scarlet woman’, ‘the grumpy spinster’.

  In the shop’s early days, customers used to complain about the prices she charged for what they deemed ‘second-hand’, but now they had accepted that she was selling wearable antiques rather than jumble. Forgotten Dreams had been open for almost ten years and it had been touch and go at first, with hefty bank loans and scary credit-card debt, but for the last few years she had been running in profit. She’d had to be a workaholic, controlling every aspect of the business, to get where she was, and only recently had she hired a part-time member of staff, an artist friend called Nicola. It was a mixed blessing: Nicola was a bit scatty and too generous with discounts, but it was only thanks to her presence that Rachel had been able to take the weekend off to go to Paris with Alex.

  As she walked to the shop on the Monday morning after the crash, dressed in a tight pencil skirt and a short-sleeved blouse with a polka-dot pattern, her mind was still full of images of the wrecked car. She couldn’t help wondering what Diana had been thinking as she lay trapped inside. Did she have any idea she was dying? She must have been able to hear the photographers, must have known exactly what those dazzling flashes and loud explosions meant. It was awful to think these were the last sounds she heard.

  Rachel rounded the corner into the North Laines, and even from afar she could see that something looked amiss in her shop window. The Lucien Lelong halter-neck dress in pale lilac satin that had been hanging to one side was missing, as was the Edwardian hand-painted parasol, while the rest of the display simply looked messy. Had Nicola left it like that? She quickened her pace. When she reached the shop she could see that everything in the window was upturned, lying in a jumbled heap, and the cream backcloth had been torn down.

  Heart pounding, she took out her key and turned it in the lock then pushed on the door: it opened an inch, then stuck. Peering through the gap, Rachel saw that the chain was fastened on the inside.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called, hammering on the door. ‘Nicola, is that you?’

  There was no answer. Rachel tried to slip her hand through the gap to dislodge the chain but it was designed precisely to prevent that happening and all she did was scrape her knuckles. Inside, she could see clothes strewn all over the floor and that was when she realised there had been a break-in.

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ she shouted, and pulled her mobile phone from her handbag. Her voice was shaky as she dictated the address and told the operator, ‘I think they must still be inside because the chain is on the door and there’s no other way out.’ But as she spoke, she remembered the bathroom window that gave onto an alley at the back.

  The police operator told her to wait until a squad car arrived, but Rachel couldn’t bear the suspense. She hurried round into the alley and saw that, as she had guessed, the bathroom window was wide open. It was ten feet above the ground but the intruder had pulled across one of the industrial bins that lined the alley and must have climbed on that.

  Rachel hitched up her pencil skirt, took off her stiletto heels and hauled herself with difficulty onto the bin. It stank of waste that had fermented in the weekend heat: a sour, stale, cloying smell. The window was made of security glass but someone had managed to drill through it – she could see drill holes – and remove a section just big enough to slip a hand through and unfasten the locks inside. The burglar had come prepared; it seemed to be a professional job.

  Rachel knew she should wait, but she was desperate to inspect the damage. ‘The police will be here any moment,’ she called, just in case there was anyone inside. After giving them time to escape out the front, she clambered through the window, a shard of glass embedding itself in her left shin. When she bent to pull it out, blood trickled down her leg. She had been carrying her shoes in one hand but now she put them back on, adjusted her skirt and crept into the shop, heart thumping in her chest.

  At first it was unrecognisable. Nothing was where it had been when she left on Friday afternoon. Clothing rails were overturned and garments scattered. Display cabinets were smashed, their shelves empty. A favourite art deco lamp was broken, the sylph-like girl in her flapper dress detached from the stand and lying on her side. Rachel was about to pick her up when she remembered she wasn’t supposed to touch anything.

  For several minutes she tiptoed round, breathing hard, just looking. It was clear that all the jewellery had gone, along with the more expensive evening coats and gowns. The burglar did not seem to have been interested in the embroidered cardigans, lace blouses and fifties patterned skirts. He had left behind the glass perfume bottles and chain-mail evening bags, and most of the leather gloves and high-heeled slingback shoes.

  It was the wanton destruction that upset Rachel most. She had worked hard to create an atmospheric interior, with mood lighting, strings of beads and fans hanging on the walls, shawls and feather boas draped around a coat-stand, but they had all been ripped down. A silver-framed art nouveau mirror had been smashed: seven years’ bad luck. Her precious lair had been violated. She knew it couldn’t be personal but she felt as though it was.

  She dialled Alex’s mobile, hoping for some words of sympathy, but it went straight to answer machine; he had gone to London for a meeting and must still be there. It wasn’t news she wanted to leave in a message so she hung up, and at that moment a police car rolled up outside. Rachel made her way to the door, trying not to tread on anything, and unfastened the chain to let the two officers in.

  ‘Are you insured?’ the policewoman asked, notebook at the ready. She didn’t seem old enough to be qualified; her plump, pretty face could have been that of a sixteen-year-old school-leaver, but her expression was compassionate.

  Rachel nodded. She had generous insurance cover.

  ‘That’s good,’ the policewoman said. ‘At least you can make a claim. It’s still upsetting, though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Did the alarm go off?’ the older male officer asked, peering around.

  Rachel suddenly realised she hadn’t seen the light flashing outside the way it normally did when the alarm was tripped. She went to the unit and frowned when she saw a green light.

  ‘Doesn’t look as though it was switched on,’ the policeman concluded. ‘Were you the last person here?’

  Her throat tightened. ‘My employee, Nicola, was here on Saturday.’

  ‘Any cash on the premises?’

  ‘No, we always bank it at the end of the day.’ Her bank, just two blocks away, had a drop box.

  ‘We’ll need to speak to Nicola.’ The policeman was businesslike. For him, it was just another job.

  Rachel dialled Nicola’s number and could tell from the sleep-slurred voice that she had wakened her. ‘We’ve had a
break-in at the shop,’ she said, trying to keep her tone calm, ‘and the police want to talk to you. Any chance you can pop over?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Nicola screeched, sounding near-hysterical.

  ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Rachel soothed. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘Oh God, you’re going to kill me,’ Nicola cried. ‘I was running late when I closed up on Saturday and didn’t have time to get the takings to the bank. There was over two grand in the cash register.’

  Rachel rushed to the counter and looked in the register. It was empty. The money was gone.

  Nicola couldn’t stop crying as she spoke to the officers, her words almost incomprehensible through her sobs. ‘I’m sorry, I thought I had set the alarm but, looking back, I can’t remember if it made that ticking noise. Normally you’ve only got two minutes to leave after activating it. I was in a mad rush to get out.’

  The officers glanced at one another. ‘Could you show us how you set it?’ the policeman asked.

  Nicola demonstrated and the alarm worked perfectly, the ticking starting straight away and continuing until Rachel keyed in the code to stop it.

  She couldn’t bring herself to meet Nicola’s eye. The wording of her insurance policy was crystal clear: the alarm had to be activated when the shop was empty.

  ‘Could the burglars have disabled the alarm?’ she asked the officers.

  ‘No wires are cut,’ the policeman said, ‘so they could only disable it if they knew your code. You don’t leave the number written down anywhere, do you?’

  Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t suppose . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘Listen, I’m only a small business and I don’t know if . . .’ She hesitated, wondering if she dared ask them to falsify the evidence. ‘Is there anything else that could have happened to the alarm? Any way you can cut me some slack here?’

  The policeman frowned, about to reprimand her, but the young female officer spoke first. ‘I completely understand. It’s a very distressing experience, but I suggest you are honest with your insurers and hope they are supportive. If you’ve paid your premiums on time, you might be fine.’

  They asked her to go through the stock, work out exactly what had been taken then get the full list to them as soon as she could.

  Nicola’s face was shiny with tears, her eyes pleading for forgiveness. ‘Let me help,’ she pleaded. ‘It’s my fault after all.’

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ Rachel replied, trying to keep her tone light and non-accusatory. ‘I can’t do anything till the shop’s been dusted for prints, then I’d rather clear up on my own.’ Applying herself to the absorbing but mindless task of a stock-take would stop her from crying. She needed to stay focused.

  While the fingerprint expert covered every surface in dark-grey dust, she checked the fine print of her insurance policy and found she had been right: they would probably not pay up. Her stomach twisted. Now she just had to work out how much she had lost.

  Rachel was glad when the fingerprint woman left so she could sort through the remaining stock. She arranged it into piles – undamaged, needing a clean, broken but fixable, broken beyond repair – and checked it off on a list. It wasn’t long before she realised that all her most valuable stock had been taken: the designer-name dresses for which she could charge over a hundred pounds each; the ball gowns and wedding dresses, the full-length coats – all gone. There wasn’t a scrap of jewellery left either; most of it had been costume jewellery but it was good quality. The burglar had known what he – or she – was doing. All in all, she reckoned she had lost over seventeen thousand pounds’ worth of goods, on top of the two thousand cash. And the problem with her business was that she couldn’t just go to a wholesaler and restock. It had taken years of painstaking hunting in a wide range of outlets to build the kind of collection she’d had. It couldn’t be re-created overnight.

  Mid afternoon, she looked up as the shop door opened and was overjoyed to see Alex, his briefcase in one hand, his brow creased in a frown of sympathy. She leapt up and ran to throw her arms around him.

  ‘How did you . . .?’

  ‘Nicola rang to tell me and I caught the first train. You poor thing.’ He kissed her forehead, stroked her hair. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s pretty bad.’ She had a lump in her throat as she spoke. ‘I’ve lost all my best stuff.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Nicola’s in pieces. Seems to think it’s all her fault.’

  ‘Actually, it was all her fault.’ Rachel clung to him, the familiar shape, the scent making her feel a little calmer.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on her. Everyone makes mistakes,’ he said, head on one side. He had known Nicola much longer than she had: they’d been at art college together, had even shared a flat for a while; Rachel and Alex had met each other at her birthday party eighteen months earlier. ‘Will you be all right though?’ he continued.

  ‘The insurance won’t pay out because the alarm wasn’t on. It’s going to be tight.’ There was an iron band of worry circling her chest.

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he soothed. ‘You’re a brilliant businesswoman.’ He looked around. ‘Let me help you clear up. Do you have a brush and shovel?’

  He got to work sweeping the tiny shards of broken glass from the floor and wiping the dark-grey fingerprint dust from surfaces. While he was busy, Rachel totted up the figures, her stomach doing somersaults. The rent would have come out of her account that day and she had VAT to pay by the 14th while it looked as though she would lose at least a week’s takings, possibly more. On that basis she didn’t know how she was going to stay afloat. Everything she had worked for over the last ten years could be lost because of Nicola’s one careless moment.

  Alex spotted her expression and asked, with concern in his eyes: ‘Do you need some money to tide you over? I can help.’

  She shook her head and turned away so he wouldn’t see the tears welling. It was her business, her problem. It didn’t seem right to take his money, even though they were going to be married. She had always valued her financial independence and didn’t want to rely on a man for money.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Just let me know.’ He noticed something on her leg and pointed: ‘Darling, you’re injured.’ She looked down and saw a trickle of dried blood, like a worm, on her calf.

  Alex crouched to examine it, his touch gentle. ‘It’s not deep,’ he pronounced. ‘I’ll give it a clean.’

  She closed her eyes as he dabbed at the cut – more of a scratch, really – with a paper towel soaked in warm water.

  ‘Have you heard the Diana news today?’ he asked. ‘They’re saying the driver Henri Paul was drunk. He had three times the legal alcohol limit in his blood.’

  Rachel was surprised. ‘Why did they allow a drunk man to drive her? Surely her security people should have stopped it?’

  ‘Get this,’ Alex continued. ‘American website Executive Intelligence Review thinks the crash wasn’t an accident. They’re saying she was killed deliberately, possibly by secret services.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense. Why would they?’

  Alex seemed energised, his eyes lit up. ‘Because she knew something they didn’t want to be revealed? I’m not sure yet, but I’m going to try and get a commission to make a documentary about the crash. Who better than me, since I was actually there?’

  Rachel was alarmed. ‘Don’t you think you should keep a low profile? They might identify you as the person who picked up that platinum heart.’

  ‘Nah,’ he blustered. ‘CCTV won’t be clear enough. All they’ll make out is that I bent over. If they ask, I was fastening my shoelace.’

  ‘Is it not too tabloidy for you?’ she persisted. Alex had a reputation for making high-quality arts and historical documentaries.

  He threw the paper towel into a rubbish bag and stood up. ‘This story is going to run and run, in the broadsheets as well as the tabloids. Tony Blair tapped into the mood when he called Diana “the People’s Princess�
��. I know it’s cheesy, but there’s a story to be told and I want to be the first to break it.’

  Rachel felt uneasy. It seemed exploitative and she opened her mouth to tell him so, but stopped. This was his career. He didn’t interfere in the way she ran her business, so maybe she should leave him to it.

  By late afternoon, the shop was clean and tidy again but it looked bare, like a warehouse. Empty hangers swung from rails, and there was nothing to put in the glass-less display cabinets. She would have to redesign the decor since so many items that hung on the walls had been lost, and she would need more stock before she could reopen for business. Before leaving, she set the alarm, but it was like closing the stable door after the horse had bolted. Alex put an arm round her, as if sensing what she was thinking.

  As they walked back to the flat together, Rachel tried to force herself into a positive mindset. She had built the business from scratch before and she could do it again. It would mean hard graft, penny-pinching and determination but she would manage. Having her own clothes shop had been a childhood dream and she was not about to let it go without a fight.

  Chapter 9

  London, 2 September 1997

  FIRST THING NEXT MORNING, RACHEL STARTED telephoning her usual suppliers to try and replenish her stock. She bought from a mixture of auction houses, antique markets and private individuals and relied on word-of-mouth tip-offs about forthcoming sales, so it made sense to get the news out that she was on a buying spree. The feedback was disheartening: there were several sales coming up in a few months’ time, but she needed stock long before then or she wouldn’t survive.

  As she worked down her contacts list, she came upon the name Susie Hargreaves. At the beginning of the year Susie had inherited her family estate near Chichester, which had room after room of wardrobes, cupboards and chests full of period clothing. She had approached Rachel at an auction and invited her to the house to look through it and select items she thought she could sell. They agreed to split the proceeds fifty/fifty and the first batch of a dozen garments had sold quickly. From Susie’s excitement on being handed an envelope containing five hundred pounds, Rachel realised that money was tight.