Nicole didn’t gratify him with a reply. She merely snatched up her carrier bags and teetered upstairs to her dressing room on her red-soled Christian Louboutins.
Chapter 3
The Reverend Duckworth closed the vestry door behind him, leaving the two women in there as he went back into the church to ask the congregation to bear with them. In his forty years as a reverend, he had come across some bizarre things; but this was a first, even for him. He’d had ex-partners burst in on weddings intent on revenge, even a scrap at a christening over the potential paternity of a child, but never a double wife showdown at a funeral.
Inside the vestry, Carla could only think: ‘People will be waiting for the buffet.’ Her mind could deal with that sort of problem. It couldn’t deal with this woman standing in front of her with her big black buttoned-up swing coat and her enormous brimmed hat. She was older than Carla, she guessed, by about ten years, and her clothes would have cost Carla six months wages at least; but they did little to disguise a brassiness that manifested itself in the woman’s hard face and her fag-ravaged voice.
‘I’m gathering you didn’t know anything about me then,’ the woman said, pulling off her black shiny gloves one long finger at a time, a ladylike, delicate gesture which contrasted with her aggressive cocky stance.
Carla opened her mouth to say that no, she hadn’t a clue, but nothing came out. She wanted to cry but her eyes were as dry as her throat, tears frozen by shock.
‘Allow me to introduce myself then. I’m Julie. Julie Pride. And I have been for thirty years. Mrs Martin Pride, to be exact.’
Carla’s legs started to tremble as if someone had replaced her usually sturdy pins with Bambi’s new-born fawn ones. She let herself fall onto a chair next to the large rectangular wooden table that formed the centrepiece of the room. Could this day become any more of a pantomime? Was Widow Twanky going to turn up in a minute and join the two Widow Prides?
‘I don’t understand any of this,’ said Carla. She wasn’t so much gobsmacked as felled. ‘You can’t be married to Martin. I would have known. I’ve been married to him—’ she stalled momentarily, to remember the church ceremony in which she had married him in a white dress in front of the very altar where his coffin now stood. A legal ceremony, with all the ‘i’s dotted and the ‘t’s crossed: register signed, vows recited, no just impediments exposed . . . She took a deep breath and continued, ‘—married to him for ten years.’
‘No you haven’t,’ snapped Julie, rolling up the gloves and stuffing them in the stiff black handbag she was carrying. It had a flashy gold double-C Chanel logo on the front. ‘You only think you have. We split up soon after we were married; but we never divorced. Didn’t have the money at the time, then I suppose we both just forgot.’
Forgot? thought Carla. You forgot to post a letter, you forgot to buy milk at the shop – you didn’t forget to divorce.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ sniffed Julie, snapping the clasp shut on her bag. ‘Forgetting to divorce is an odd one. I don’t think either of us could be arsed, if I’m being honest. He slipped from my mind until I saw him a year ago in Leeds. Could have knocked me down with a feather. It was like a thunderbolt hitting us both from above. You read about these things happening in women’s mags, but you never believe they could happen to you. Until it did. We went for a coffee and found the old spark reignited. Who would have thought?’ And she laughed to herself as if the memory had tickled her.
Carla shook her head. Was she hearing all this correctly? Her husband had been carrying on with another woman . . . his real wife . . . for a year behind her back? When the hell did he have the time? Or the ability? He’d puffed when he got the milk out of the fridge.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Carla, her head full of so many questions that were going to burst out of her eardrums any minute, fly across the room and shatter the stained glass window picture of Jesus having his feet washed. ‘When did he see you?’
‘He spent every weekday with me, of course,’ said Julie, patting the back of her heavily lacquered yellow hair. ‘I was frankly glad to have a rest at the weekends.’
‘A rest?’
‘From the sex.’
‘The sex?’
Carla was totally bewildered now. They could not be talking about the same man. Martin was always too tired. She could count on the fingers of one hand, minus the thumb, the number of times that she and Martin had had sex in the last year or so.
‘I’m not daft,’ said Julie, inspecting her tart-red nail varnish. ‘He promised me he wouldn’t have sex with you after we became a couple again but I know what he was like. Very healthy appetite in that area, so I promised myself I wouldn’t get upset about it. He was a bloke with needs after all.’ She pulled her lips back from her teeth and Carla saw how white and perfect they were. Thousands of pounds worth of cosmetic dentistry of which any Osmond would have been proud.
‘Are you sure you have the right Martin Pride?’ said Carla. ‘I don’t recognise this man you’re talking about.’
‘Martin Ronald Pride. Birthday: thirteenth of January.’
‘Works as a sales rep for—’
‘He didn’t work,’ Julie interrupted. ‘At least he didn’t after the lottery win.’
Carla’s brain went into spasm. ‘Wha-at?’
Julie’s black-tattooed eyebrows rose and a slow smirk spread across her lips. ‘Oh, he didn’t tell you about that either?’
Carla’s head fell into her hands. She was surprised she had a head left as it felt in danger of exploding at any moment.
‘Me and Martin won just short of a million on the lottery nine months ago,’ said Julie with smarmy satisfaction. ‘He told Suggs to stick their job up their arse on the same day.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Don’t get any ideas. It’s all in my name.’
Carla’s head snapped up.
‘But he went off to work every Monday and rang me every night from a hotel.’
Julie laughed. ‘He might have left you on a Monday morning, love, but he certainly didn’t ring you from any hotel.’
Carla covered her eyes with her hands to shut out the light, shut out everything around her whilst she tried to make sense of this. Martin wasn’t that duplicitous. Living that sort of double life took a level of cunning and cleverness that Martin couldn’t have aspired to: he was far too simple a creature. Every Monday morning, Martin had set off with his suitcase of cleaned and pressed clothes for the week. Every night he rang from Exeter or Aberdeen or wherever Suggs had sent him to sell paper. Every night he said the hotel was okay, nothing brilliant, but he was going to get something to eat and then have a good night’s sleep. She’d never questioned it, she’d never had grounds to. And every Friday, when he got home, he’d given her a measly sum of housekeeping money. There was never anything left over to bank. There was a freeze on wage increases, he’d said. And all the time he’d been sitting on his share of a million pounds?
Naw. She didn’t believe it. Martin would have gone out and bought himself the new iPhone if he’d had any money at all, that much she did know. She’d found his mobile in his pocket after his death and it was one which cost him ten pounds from Asda. There were few contacts on it when she’d checked it: Domino’s Pizzas, The Happy Duck Chinese takeaway, Andrew, work, herself, but no record of Julie, nor any texts.
‘Obviously, I’ll give you some time to get your things together before you leave the house. You can have the furniture,’ said Julie. ‘A month okay with you?’
‘What?’ said Carla.
‘The house. Obviously it’s mine now.’
‘My house is yours?’ Now it was Carla’s turn to laugh, but Julie wasn’t smiling. Her granite features were set in a very serious expression.
‘Martin’s house. It’s in his name, I do believe. My husband’s name.’
Martin’s house was indeed in his sole name. He had inherited it from his mother the year that Carla had met him and they’d never bothered to change the name on t
he deeds, or write wills. After all, they had no children and what was his was hers as a married couple . . . except that she was now finding out that it wasn’t.
Then Julie said a sentence that made Carla’s stomach lurch.
‘That house is our son’s rightful inheritance.’
Son. Our son.
‘Do you have a child?’ Carla stammered. ‘With Martin?’
‘What do you think this is – wind?’ said Julie, flicking open the two buttons on her coat and sticking out a surprisingly prominent stomach. ‘I’m five months gone. And yes he’s Martin’s. And they’ll never see each other because of you and your fucking dressing table.’
Carla’s Martin had said he didn’t want children. And because she loved him, she had sacrificed her desire to be a parent for his wish not to be.
Through her tears, Carla could see that Julie was savouring each twist of the knife. It was sick, cruel.
‘You’re enjoying this aren’t you? How can you? I didn’t know any of it.’
Julie’s small sharp eyes hardened.
‘Because he should have died with me, not you. Because if he hadn’t been heavy-lifting your tatty furniture, he wouldn’t have had a fucking heart attack and left me. Because you arranged his funeral and not me. Because I had to find out about my husband’s death from a story in yesterday’s bleeding newspaper.’ She opened her bag again, pulled out a page torn from the Daily Trumpet and proceeded to read it.
‘“Paper salesman dies suddenly trying to shift wife’s hand-painted furniture from garage into house”. How’s that for a snappy headline?’
Carla gasped. ‘I didn’t even know it was in the newspaper.’
‘They reported the wrong funeral time and the wrong church. And they said that Martin was seventy-four. And that his grieving widow was called Karen. I’ve been ringing no end of churches and funeral parlours this morning trying to find out what’s bloody happening.’
She wiped a tear that fell from the corner of her left eye and despite everything, Carla felt a too-kind surge of sympathy welling up within her for the older woman. If what she was saying was true then what a terrible shock she must have had too.
‘Julie . . .’
Julie snarled at the pity in her voice and stabbed her finger at Carla. Her momentary lapse in composure was over. ‘Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. And don’t you think you’re going to take his ashes. They’re mine. He was my husband and I fucking want them. Every single one of them.’
And with that, Julie Pride and her posh black handbag, her swingy coat and brazen red shoes clipped out of the vestry and boldly walked down the aisle. Carla listened to the sound diminishing, heard the heavy church door crash shut and then realised that her body didn’t have a single clue how to react.
Chapter 4
As Shaun McCarthy drained the last of the coffee from his cup, he watched the woman with the spiky dark brown hair tip her watering can over the brightly coloured flowers sprouting from the boxes in front of the teashop windows and thought of the cover of an old Enid Blyton book he had once had, with an elf on it. That’s what she reminded him of: a fragile little creature with wings hidden under her bright blue pinafore dress. He was too far away to hear, but he bet she was humming as she watered the plants. And smiling. She was always smiling, as if she had been born with a natural upturn to her lips. Ms Leonora Merryman. One of those infuriating people for whom life was filled with confetti, sparkles and fairies, no doubt. Her glass wasn’t just constantly half-full but fizzed out coloured sprinkles as well. He suspected that despite being around the mid-thirties mark, she would have a collection of My Little Ponies in cabinets at home.
Still, it didn’t matter. As long as she paid her rent for the shop on time, he’d be equally happy as she was, if not as outwardly smiley; and there was no reason other than business for their paths to cross. She was initially on a six month lease, although he had given her one month gratis in exchange for decorating the place, because she had wanted to do it herself and at her own expense. He suspected that she would terminate the lease at the end of the period rather than renew it. He’d hardly seen any customers in there since it opened a month ago and surely she needed footfall through the door to make a living? Any idiot knew that. Still, he’d been fair on the rent seeing as she was the first of the businesses in this quadrangle of shops to open up: Spring Hill Square. The second unit was finished – although the least said about that, the better – and they had now started on the third. The other four units weren’t finished but there had been a few enquiries about them. He’d said no to the couple who wanted to open a sex shop. He was, after all, a good Irish Catholic boy with guilt and honour issues, as well as being a savvy businessman.
The Teashop on the Corner. ‘It’s a sort of literary café,’ she had told him. No doubt Leonora (‘Oh do call me Leni’) thought she was in Oxford or St Andrews, and the erudite and scholarly types would be queuing up at her door every morning demanding their skinny lattes. He wondered if he should be the one to inform her that they were actually in a small backwater outside Barnsley on land which had been a real shit tip until Shaun had bought it to turn into his empire. He’d had to demolish an old wire factory and level the ground, which had cost a small fortune; but he hoped it would be worth it, cashing in on the increased trade which passed by en route to Winterworld, a Christmas theme park only a few miles down the road.
Ms Merryman had had a lot of furniture delivered. He kept seeing the vans turning up and men carrying it in. He’d peered through the window a few times when she’d gone home. The walls were now delicate shades of cream and shell pink and around three edges of the room were runs of glass cabinets full, from what he could tell at first glance, of paper and pens and other items of stationery. The central space was taken up with six round tables, cream-painted ironwork with heart-shaped backs, three with four chairs around them, three with two. It was all very pretty and girly and French-chic. He gave it another two months before she did a moonlight flit and he turned up on site to find her and her fancy furniture all gone.
She was smiling. Again. He could see her lips curved upwards as she turned to one side. That sort of constant chirpiness irritated him. What the hell was there to be so cheerful about, anyway? Everyone he knew was complaining about it being the crappiest spring in history. Sub-zero temperatures without let-up ever since November, even snow on May Day Bank Holiday. Only now, in mid-May, was the sun attempting to blast through the clouds with its rays; but bright as its beams were, they were half chilly too.
Leni turned without warning and caught him staring at her. ‘Mr McCarthy!’ She waved. ‘Hello there. Have you got a moment?’
Shaun cursed himself for not averting his eyes quickly enough. ‘Sure,’ he said, grumbling under his breath. He strode over to the pretty teashop and nodded a man-greeting.
‘Good morning, Mr McCarthy. The square is really coming together now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is,’ he said, thinking, Did she ask me over just to ask me that? He had neither the time nor the inclination for idle chit-chat.
‘I hope you don’t mind me mentioning that the tap in the teashop sink has a leak. It’s just a small one but I don’t want it to get any bigger.’
‘I’ll get my tool-bag and come back in a couple of minutes.’
‘Thank you.’
The tearoom was invitingly warm and smelt delicious when he walked in.
‘I’ve just made a jug of vanilla hot chocolate. Would you like one?’ Leni smiled at him.
Shaun hadn’t had time to stop for lunch and was both hungry and thirsty in equal measures. ‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘Cake?’ She pointed to two glass domes on the counter. A dark brown cake sat under one, a lemon cake under the other. They looked good but he passed. He’d mend the leak and then get quickly off before she started talking girly things to him. Rainbows and teddy bears and how to make cupcakes.
She poured him a mug of chocolate with a swirl o
f cream on the top and stuck a flake in it.
‘New recipe,’ she said. ‘For when all the crowds come.’ Her eyes were sparkling with mirth.
He humphed inwardly.
‘Do you think they will?’
‘Of course,’ she smiled. She had white, even teeth, he noticed. ‘I’ve had someone in who has been back three times so far for lunch. A Sikh gentleman. He’s bought two pens from me as well.’
Wow, you’re just months away from retiring on the profits, thought Shaun, digging his wrench out of his bag whilst taking a swig of chocolate. The cup had a large ginger cat on it.
‘Miaow.’
For a moment, Shaun thought the cup had made the noise.
‘Now Mr Bingley, you get back to your bed and stop being nosey,’ said Leni, bending down to a huge ginger cat who had wandered over and was sniffing around Shaun’s bag. She lifted him up, turned him around and he toddled off to where he had come from.
‘Are you allowed that thing in a café?’ asked Shaun, wrinkling up his nose.
‘I don’t know,’ said Leni. ‘But he’s staying. Chocolate okay?’
‘Er, yeah,’ said Shaun. Environmental health would be swooping down on her very soon, he reckoned. Surely cats and cafés didn’t mix?
‘Is it too thick? Does it need more milk in it, do you think?’
Dear God, thought Shaun. It was a cup of hot chocolate, not an entrant for Masterchef.
‘It’s fine,’ he said, tinkering with the tap. He noticed her apron was patterned with covers of old Penguin books but the pocket at the front was an orange sleeping cat. She’s added that herself, he thought. And made a good job of it. She looked the arts and crafty type. He could imagine her making her own rugs at night in a house full of shelves of books.
Shaun liked books and read a lot at home in the quiet evenings. He didn’t like cats particularly, but then he had never had much contact with pets. He didn’t do emotional ties.
‘What happens to the cakes that you don’t sell?’ he asked, bending to check the cupboard underneath the sink for leaks.
Here Come the Boys Page 10
