by Caron Allan
“Bridg – I mean - Vanessa? Surely not – I mean, do you mean they actually are …?”
She leaned forward over her drink and dropped her voice. “Don’t know for sure, just suspect. She’s certainly the type he’d go for, all big knickers and girl guides. Dib dib dib.”
I wasn’t convinced. I sat back and huffed my fringe up into the air and felt it fall softly back into place. This new hairspray is working really well.
“Madison’s not exactly straight out of the gossip pages, all that chutney and what have you, and neat twin-sets. I mean I doubt she sets the men’s pulses racing. I’ve even seen her with curlers in her hair.”
“But compared to Vanessa … And it’s not as though there’s much competition in this place, apart from you, but you’re so far out of his league I doubt he’d even attempt it. And in any case you’re up the duff, and your young feller is twice the size of Sacha.”
“You’re twice the size of Sacha.” I pointed out. I preened a bit over the out-of-his-league bit, one is only human after all, then wondered if I should have denied that, but the moment was gone, and in any case, I know it’s true. I am way out of Sacha’s league. As is Lill. Even Tetley … “So who else might it be?”
She named a couple of women known for their low morals. She expanded on the theme, telling me everything she knew about them but I wasn’t convinced. I came back to Vanessa Monk.
“So if it is the vicar’s wife, when and where do you think they meet?”
“Well, Fridays Vanessa’s out to her ‘cooking class’. Then Tuesday night’s the Vicar’s chess night. He ‘goes’ to some old bloke down Spring Lane. Part of his pastoral care. There’re supposed to be about four or five of them that get together.”
“But you don’t think they do?”
“Oh there’s a chess club all right, I just don’t think vicar goes to it.”
“So what does he do?” I asked. She leaned forward again, voice very low this time. I had to lean forward to hear her. Nothing looks more suspicious in a pub, does it, than two old bats leaning forward in broad daylight to whisper to each other over a pint of rum and a schooner of hot chocolate with a couple of half-melted blobs of cream running down the side and making the glass and the saucer sticky? Fortunately no one ever seems to come into our pub, so it was unlikely we would be seen or heard.
“He comes in here.” She said. I looked at her, slightly disappointed. I didn’t get it.
“What? You mean he’s a drinker?”
“If you call a half of cider once a week drinking.”
“He doesn’t drink?” I was confused. She shook her head.
“Nope. Just comes in here for the company. Doesn’t join in much, just watches everyone having a good time. Poor old sod.” And by everyone, I knew she meant about the 4 or 5 people in total that come here in the evenings. “I think he just wants to get out of the house to get away from her nagging.”
“She nags? Surely not? She doesn’t seem the type. And in any case, he doesn’t strike me as the type to go down without a fight. I’d put him down as rather domineering once inside his own four walls.” I stirred my hot chocolate again. The cream had completely gone now, and the marshmallows. Once that happened the drink ceased to have any appeal. I wondered idly if it would be possible just to get a bowl of marshmallows and squirty cream. Obviously it would cost more than a hot chocolate ‘with everything’ but that wouldn’t be a problem. I wondered if I would be the size of a house or bigger if I gave way to these weak cravings. I wondered if I would care, I mean, there’d be no bikini for me this summer, and probably not next summer either (at this rate), so that basically gave me two years to stuff my face and then lose it and get back the stunning figure that reduces grown men to tears. (I wish). Where was I? Oh yes.
“And what does she do when she’s not at cooking class?”
“I’ve told you. Sacha.”
“But is there any proof? Or suspicion?”
Henrietta looked sad. “No. Just rumours.” She said.
Okay then.
“But she leaves for her class at 6.30 on Fridays evenings. Pick me up at 6 and we’ll sit outside in wait for her and follow her.” Henrietta said, and swigged back the last of her pint.
She got up to set off to meet Mavis at the church. She swayed rather noticeably. Good thing she didn’t slur her speech too. All this rum can’t be good for a woman of her advanced age. But it probably helps to keep the arthritis at bay. Or something.
Same day – later – 1.15am
OMG, I have only just realised that we are practically into AUGUST and there is so much to do and so little time to do it in!!!!! Why the hell have I wasted so much time? I mean, in 10 days we will be at Jess and Murdo’s – haven’t even rung them yet to check it’s okay to take the children – OMG OMG OMG can’t believe that has only just occurred to me! Why am I such a moron? Anyone would think I was a natural blonde!!!!!
And – I still have to persuade Matt to marry me. And I still have to get the whole wedding sorted out (and now to me it feels like indecent haste, barely a year after I lost my poor darling Thomas. People might think I have forgotten him already and moved on with my life far too soon. But, well I know I don’t talk about Thomas constantly or constantly rummage through my photos to find pics of him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t think of him, and here I can write it, knowing no one will ever see this apart from me, but I think about him constantly, always in the back of my mind I’m aware of him, as if he’s standing right beside me, or perhaps, standing a little behind me, so that I can’t actually see him but I know he’s there. I mean, I’m not saying he’s haunting me or anything daft like that, I just have a sense of him still in my life, and I like that feeling, so no, I haven’t forgotten him. And I can’t just exist on memories, can I?) – But time is running away with me, and I still have to persuade Matt to marry me and I still have to get everything planned and organised and that’s assuming he says yes – what if he says no??? Then what will I do? I can just imagine it, “fanks, darlin’ but no fanks, don’ fink it would work out.”
I do wish he could say a ‘th’ sound, but he takes after his parents in that, I suppose.
AND because it’s essentially August I now have less than a month to kill Desmond the Child Molester before he decamps and sets off for Mauritius.
OMG!! It’s all too much.
AND have just had another terrible thought, Paddy starts school in September, so obviously can’t then be swanning off here, there and everywhere when am a responsible parent providing education-supporting home-life and stability to a loved-starved child.
What the hell am I going to do??? I need a PA to help me get through all this! It’s not Lill who needs an understudy, it’s me!
Thought I was the only one up, sitting in the garden-room freaking out. But then Matt came in and found me having a panic attack and was all gentle and manly and held me firmly saying, “breathe Sweetheart, breathe. Slowly, calmly.”
Bless him! He sat and rubbed my back and said nice things and now I feel all calm again. Almost blurted out love declaration slash hasty marriage proposal but once again managed to hold it back in case this lovely moment was totally ruined by forcing him to decline my generous offer.
He gave me a couple of worried looks, as if he thought I’d gone off my trolley, as Sid is fond of saying. When I assured him three or four times ‘it was nothing’, he simply shrugged his sexy, manly shoulders and then he kissed the tip of my nose and took himself off up to bed. Must practice cleansing breathing, not so much for the labour pains in the future as for life-drama-related hysterics in the here and now.
I will have to think all this through properly after a good night’s sleep. After all, tomorrow is another day, as Scarlett says in Gone With the Wind. So long as Matt doesn’t say that frankly my dear, he doesn’t give a damn.
Oh God what if he says no, and being as nice as he is, he would apologise, then it will be awkward and miserable and what on earth will
I do then? Will be a single-parent family!
Breathe, the man said. Breathe, Cressida you idiot.
Friday 1 August – 1am so technically Saturday
I collected Henrietta at about five to six. She was as excited as a school kid going on a class trip - I almost threatened to turn the car around and take her back home if she didn’t settle down. She was clad in black from head to toe, and carrying a massive torch in her orange handbag. I did spare a few seconds to wonder if the woman needed a hobby. But then I remembered she’s in her eighties, so probably won’t live long enough to become really proficient in anything new. Best to just stick with what we know.
I was also wearing dark clothes – but nothing cat-burglar black, I mean, I just went for my usual Paul Smith black jeans and a grey t-shirt, with a gorgeous little black silk blazer, some plain but elegant silver earrings, little black leather pumps and my dark glasses. But I was most definitely not carrying a torch. (Although strictly entre nous, on my keyring I do have one of those tiny LED lights for finding the door of one’s car in the dark. But it’s not a torch per se.)
Obviously it was still gloriously sunny when we drew up just down the road a bit from the vicarage, so I had to park quite a distance away in case she spotted us. But if anything whatsoever happened we would still be guaranteed to see it. So long as she didn’t decide to throw us off her scent by nipping out back through the graveyard. She didn’t.
At exactly six twenty-five, she walked out the front door blowing kisses and waving to her vicar, the poor innocent, and she was in her little Smart car, buckled up and off in less than a minute. We followed. I didn’t see how we could hope to escape her notice, there’s not that much traffic in a little village.
“Did you see what she was wearing?” Henrietta asked.
“Um hmm.” I said. I slowed slightly to allow her to draw ahead. “Can you memorise the number-plate in case we lose her? I don’t want to end up following the wrong Smart car,” I said, “there seem to be dozens of them out here. That and four by fours.”
Henrietta scrabbled in her bag for an old envelope and a pen and scribbled the number down in huge loopy old-lady writing and I felt a little more relaxed. I eased the car back still further and then, with a nice big gap between us and Vanessa, I came back to Henrietta’s comment.
“Yes, floaty skirt, low-cut blouse and high heels are not your classic cooking class attire. Never seen her look less Vanessa-like. Unless it’s the teacher she’s having it off with? Oh God, poor Rev Steve! It looks as though she really might be cheating on him. Dammit, I had hoped it was all just talk. Poor Steve!”
“The Bible’s quite stern about that sort of thing. He might feel tempted to drag her out onto the village green and stone her.”
I smiled to myself that this was Henrietta’s definition of ‘quite stern’. We were out of the village and into open countryside. The danger here was in losing her, because the hedges were so high, if I let her get too far ahead we wouldn’t be able to find her again. On the other hand, the road tended to meander in narrow ribbons through the countryside for miles and opportunities to turn off were few and far between.
“Maybe she’s doing something else as a surprise for him – or having some kind of therapy or going to lectures for something high-brow and feels she needs to look very glamorous and not village-mousey,” I said, trying to find something, anything, to prove we were wrong. “Or. She could be going to an art gallery opening, or visiting a friend or even a parishioner in hospital. She could be doing the Lord’s work!” I said, glancing reproachfully at Henrietta. She simply gave a snort of derision.
“The Lord’s work my arse. She’s banging someone.”
Where do they pick up this coarse language?
We were finally reaching civilisation once more. Well, a budget-chain hotel anyway. As we approached the entrance I could see the Smart car inexpertly inching into a small parking space to the side of the hotel. There was no traffic around so I halted where I was and hoped she wouldn’t glance back towards the road. She didn’t. She locked the car and stepped briskly away, and headed into the hotel.
I drove into the parking area and snuggled my little runabout into a space a few down from Vanessa’s. I turned off the engine and turned to Henrietta.
“She might just be working as a chamber maid to help pay for the roof restoration?” I suggested, but my voice held that tinge of desperation that said even I knew it was a ridiculous suggestion. I shrugged. “Maybe not. Now what?”
“We wait.” She said. Our resident expert on stake-outs. As if she did this kind of thing all the time. “See if anyone else turns up.”
I looked around at the other cars. There were only about five or six.
“Do you recognise any of these?” But Henrietta shook her head.
“No, although I probably wouldn’t anyway. I’m not very good with cars. The trouble is, she could be meeting someone who is a stranger to us. So we’d be none the wiser unless we actually caught them at it.”
“Don’t even think of such a thing,” I said. “Eww!”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Look, I’ve got an idea. Have you got anything in your bag?”
“Like what?”
“Something I could use … let me see. Oh yes, this will do.”
‘This’ proved to be my handbag-sized spray bottle of Bond No. 9, one of Thomas’ many birthday presents to me last year. I began to protest but she was already out of the car. I stared after her like the one goat at the children’s zoo that didn’t manage to grab the bag of food.
She was back less than five minutes later. No perfume.
“Henrietta! That was my Bond No. 9!”
“Well, Lovey,” she said, “if you’ve got nine of them you can easily spare one! I think I’ve been very clever. Wait till you hear this. I went up to the reception counter – no sign of Vanessa by now obviously – and I said that my daughter had just arrived but that she’d left her perfume behind after a visit to me in the old folks’ home. I gave her a lot of guff about how it was an expensive one that was a gift and that I was worried someone at the home would steal it.”
‘ “Oh,” she said, “do you mean Mrs Barker-Powell?” ‘ So I said, yes, that is who I meant, and would she pass it on to her, and she said she would.”
This was wrong on so many levels I couldn’t think where to start. I started to bluster but she waved me down. She wasn’t finished.
“So then I said, had Mr Barker-Powell arrived yet, and she said no, but he was expected. So I suggest we sit tight and wait and see.”
Which we did. I was seething though, and mentally totting up a blackmail amount to demand. Not that I would ever blackmail anyone but I was so angry I had to count the cost of my hurts. I mean the perfume alone was £80 (well it is only a very little handbag-sized one, obviously I’ve got the proper one at home!) not to mention taking my name in vain. God, I thought, if this gets out, Madison will be convinced it really is me Sacha is involved with, and how could I possibly convince her otherwise? If it is Sacha, I mentally added.
It was.
About three minutes later his sleek Mercedes drew into the car park, and came to a gentle halt just two spaces from where we sat, frozen in our seats, watching him in horror, everything now confirmed in our minds. He leapt out and zapped the car locked over his shoulder, skipping up the steps and into the hotel with a spring in his step that spoke of anticipation of a pleasant evening. He hadn’t even noticed us.
I hit my head on the steering wheel, groaning. Henrietta just looked at me in mild astonishment.
“Whatever’s the matter, Sweetie-pie?” She asked. Because she’s my friend I made a conscious decision not to rip her head off or to resort to F-words. I explained my distress to her slowly and carefully. When I had finished, she did a little giggle and said, “Oh Cripes! I see what you mean.”
I mean, honestly! I bit my lip and shoved my hands into my jeans’ pockets. I said nothing. After a moment she said, “If
we had a camera, we could take a few photos, assuming they come out together, which they might not seeing as they arrived separately. Unfortunately I only thought of bringing a torch with me.”
Of course!
I pulled my phone out of my bag.
“Oh well done, Dear, of course, your mobile telephone probably has a built-in camera. I didn’t think of that.”
I managed to give her a little smile. Now all that we needed was for them to come out together. Which they might not.
“Erm, I don’t wish to be indelicate, but how long do you think it will be before they – erm – re-emerge?” Henrietta asked a moment later.
“I don’t know, sorry. Could be half an hour, an hour, two, three hours, could be all night.”
Henrietta shook her head decisively. “Ooh no, Dear, I don’t think he’ll be able to go all night, he’s in his forties now you know.” She said.
I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation. “I meant they might have something to eat, then sleep there for the night.” I explained.
She nodded, “oh I see, yes of course. Very true.”
And anyway what would she know about it, she was an octogenarian lesbian?
I put the radio on. We listened to all kinds of stuff on Radio 4 – I thought that would be most appropriate for a person of Henrietta’s vintage. We chatted about nothing in particular. My stomach rumbled and I wished I had some food. All I had in my handbag was half a pack of tic-tacs. Did we dare order a pizza? It was the most boring time of my entire life and dragged by at less than half the normal speed. Even suffocating Simon Meesham was more fun than this. Every time the door of the hotel opened I gripped the steering wheel, my heart in my mouth, only for my hopes to be dashed when someone who was definitely neither Sacha nor Vanessa came out. Twice it was the receptionist nipping out for a quick illicit ciggie.
Every time I glanced at my watch, the hands had barely moved. Twice I checked to make sure it hadn’t actually stopped, I couldn’t believe the time was the same as the last time I looked. I compared my watch to the time on my phone and again, memories of killing Simon Meesham came flooding back when I found watch and phone were very slightly out of sync.
