‘Bugger.’
‘Exactly.’
Hermione wheeled herself toward a front window. ‘What has he done to himself?’
Harrie hesitated for a short beat of time.
‘Well?’
‘I think he bleached his manhood, Gran. If it wasn’t Ben, that might even be funny in a Michael Jackson sort of way. He insisted he had mistaken Domestos for shower gel. I almost lost my temper with him.’
‘You think he washes himself in bleach?’
‘Weakened bleach, yes.’
‘Why can’t he use soap and water?’
‘Gran, if I had answers, there would have been no visit to the hospital last night.’ She sighed heavily. ‘Time for me to become semi-detached – if your offer still stands. One of those prefabricated jobs can be built within weeks. They do it all the time in America. I think they put cooking foil between the two layers as insulation.’
Hermione nodded absently. ‘Of course.’ She fiddled with a string of pearls. ‘I should never have allowed Stanley to get those rooms done for him.’
Eileen appeared with a tray. ‘Are you taking my husband’s name in vain here? What’s he done now? When last seen, he was innocently mending a gate. Yes, you should get your house built,’ she advised Harrie. ‘Time you had a life. Here, you pour the coffee while I carry on carrying on.’ She returned to her task.
‘She misses nothing,’ smiled Hermione. ‘I’ll start the ball rolling out towards the copse as soon as possible.’
‘Ben will have to be more self-reliant with me out of the house.’
Woebee’s head made another brief appearance. ‘You’ll still be on top of him, but. You’d be better off taking one of those departments in Eagley Mills or such.’
‘Apartments,’ snapped Hermione with feigned annoyance. ‘She’ll do as she chooses, Eileen. Get the cupboards finished. It’s time you did something to justify your existence.’
It was settled. Harrie was to have a posh shed in the grounds, and all of them would wait and watch. It reminded Harrie of a set of books she had read in childhood. What Katie Did Next would become What Ben Did Next. And the grandfather clock was waiting, too.
Three
Must get a new car soon. A new car is such a source of pleasure, especially for the first few weeks: clean and fresh, new number plate, sense of achievement. An automatic, I think. The roads are so busy now that gear-changing, especially during rush hour, is becoming a full-time occupation. Much better to crawl along without fiddling with a gear shift, and without worries on hill starts.
My supposed husband is an inverted snob – I think that’s the term. He has used, over the years, a series of battered and bruised Minis into which he folds himself clumsily, knees almost under his chin. He’s a fool. A clever fool, but he thinks he’s so bloody special, too elevated for a decent car. What’s a car after all? Why should he need any kind of status symbol? What’s a car to a man who is going to be knighted one of these years?
Right. What’s down for today? The shop, of course. Meeting with the accountant, lunch with Sadie Fisher, home, change of clothes, an evening with Alec. The thought of him makes me shiver with anticipation. If only les girls knew that I bed a man ten years my junior two or three times a week. They’d be crying in their soup; the resulting dilution might alleviate Sadie’s weight problem, if nothing else . . .
A bottleneck here again at the top of Bank Street. I don’t know what the hell the planners think they’re doing, but this town is dying inch by inch. Soon, small shops like mine will disappear altogether. My Milne’s jewellers operates these days like a Lone Ranger at the centre of an almost empty block, businesses murdered, hope gone, lives ruined. Everyone shops at Middlebrook now.
I think I’ll have a blue car. Blue is my colour, always has been. It accentuates my best feature, the large, long-lashed eyes that have been the envy of so many girlfriends over the years. Not bad for forty-four. My skin continues firm despite warnings on cigarette packets, the nose is perfect now – after a couple of small adjustments, of course, and my breasts can hold their own shape no matter what the situation, because they cost me an arm and a leg. Yes, I have excellent limbs, too, and men still turn in the street when I pass by. Any male would be happy to be seen out and about with me. With the exception of the Prof. Well, he got his money’s worth: trained jeweller to carry on the family firm, pelvis wide enough to deliver naturally his two children. It wasn’t easy, but I proved my worth.
There are ongoings at home. If I could call it home, that is. Better to say that the strangers among whom I live are at odds with one another and with life in general. The only person I talk to is my daughter, and that doesn’t happen very often. Such a fuss last night when Ben had to be driven off to hospital. I pretended to follow my daughter’s car while visitors watched, but I didn’t bother, turned back when I thought everyone would have gone away. Harriet can cope. She always could.
Bridge ended prematurely, taxis ordered to take home my tired and emotional friends. Friends? Ha-bloody-ha. I am close to none of them. Alec is all I have and all I want. He is a closely-guarded secret, and he knows me better than anyone else in the world.
Park the car, enter my shop by the rear door, disable the alarm before it brings the house down. It’s Alec’s alarm. I met him when he fitted it. He’s the last – I hope – in a line of lovers who have kept me sane throughout a lifeless, soulless marriage. Must make sure no one sees the latest packages – without Alec’s constant flow of second-hand items that never touch the books, our bolting money would be a great deal less than I am going to need. I don’t ask where he gets the stuff, almost don’t care. I am out of here as soon as the shop gets its final condemnation from the powers that shouldn’t be.
Coffee maker on, coat on a hanger, use the hand cream. What shall I wear today? Ah, yes, the sapphire and diamond earrings with the matching ring, a whopper almost as big as Princess Diana’s was. I have been told more than once that I look like the princess, though I hope people notice that I have the better nose. She was unhappy, poor soul. God, how well I understand that!
My other shop is better placed and may survive. Well, let Harriet have it, because I shall be in Portugal with the love of my life. I’ll put those pearls in the window, I think. Nice, fat, juicy pearls suitable for a nice, slender, firm throat. No, I mustn’t wear them. The lily will be sufficiently gilded by the Diana furniture. Wedding season. I’ll shove a few silver lockets in the display – they seem favourites as gifts for bridesmaids.
Half an hour till the shop opens. Check the main safe, make sure that all questionable items are in the floor safe. Only Alec and I know of the second safe’s existence. We are well on the way to the quarter million mark. The books are clean and Alec’s stuff is sold to people he chooses carefully. He swears it’s not stolen, tells me he gets it from his second job – clearing houses. I have to believe . . . It won’t be long now. We’ll be gone, and no one will miss me. Not true. I believe Hermione will notice my absence.
Set up the earring stand. Creoles are so ugly, yet I sell more of these hideous items than of studs and sleepers. To Gus, sleepers are bits of wood beneath railway lines. Ha-bloody-ha again. When Harriet was born, Gus failed to hide his disappointment. He carried on “loving” me until I had produced a son, then buggered off faster than sugar off a shiny shovel into the world of research. Model trains filled his leisure hours. Occasionally, he would check on Ben’s progress at school, though he seldom communicated with either of his offspring. That was supposed to be my job, I think. I don’t like that jade, think I’ll take it off display.
I know now that it was post-natal depression. Eileen and Hermione took over the rearing of Harriet and, by the time Benjamin was born, I was set in my pattern, because the first symptoms of Hermione’s MS had begun to show shortly after the birth of my daughter. She is my daughter. Sometimes, I have to remind myself. However, Hermione stayed at home to help Eileen mind the children, while I ran the shops.
<
br /> The Austrian crystal sells well. Glad I had those lights set into the display cabinet – see how the cute little hedgehog sparkles? From the age of three, Harriet has run to her grandmother, has known that Gran was ill, that Gran and Ben needed her. Am I jealous? I should pick up that phone, cancel Sadie and take Harriet out to lunch. No, it would be awkward. Ah, I’ll turn on the little fountain. When a customer sits next to that, they are soothed by water lapping over smooth stone. That, I worked out for myself. So I am not as daft as some might believe.
Right. Jewellery on, smile on, shoes shining, suit a miracle of understatement. A Renault, I think. Yes, I’ll have a change. Alec says the Renaults are good. A blue Renault, a false smile, borrowed jewels, man-made boobs. But the whole is greater than the parts. Before I leave for Europe, I’ll find myself. And Harriet. For some reason, it is suddenly important that she understands.
It was ten minutes after one by the time Lisa arrived at the restaurant. Sadie Fisher, already toying with a second glass of wine, hailed her friend enthusiastically. ‘I’m booked in,’ she whispered excitedly. ‘Liposuction and a couple of tucks; soon be back to normal. Only a few weeks to wait.’
Lisa smiled and sat down. At the rate Sadie consumed carbs, she would never be anything approaching normal. ‘Sorry I’m late – got a bit tied up at the shop. Have you ordered?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll just have a green salad and a bit of chicken –’ Lisa patted her flat stomach – ‘or I could well be joining you in the liposuction stakes.’ She smiled to herself while Sadie placed the order. Roast beef and all the trimmings? At lunchtime? No wonder the woman needed surgery. ‘Did you have a good morning?’
Sadie shook her head. ‘The boss is down with irritable bowel syndrome again, so guess who had to run the department? Yours truly. It’s all very well, but she’ll turn purple if I order the wrong accessories. Some nice handbags in today. You must come and look.’
The food arrived. Lisa picked absently at lettuce and chicken, tried not to watch while Sadie stuffed herself. Still, near-starvation did pay off. Sadie was two years younger than Lisa, though she looked at least five older. That was the high price of indulging an over-healthy appetite.
Sadie was staring longingly at the pudding trolley when hell broke loose. Lisa, with a forkful of chicken halfway to her mouth, forced herself to clamp her lips closed when the whirlwind descended on her. A short, rounded woman, with dark curls and a toddler clutched to her chest, appeared at the side of their table. With her free hand, she grabbed a lock of Lisa’s hair and pulled so hard that several strands were loosened. ‘It’s you,’ she screamed.
Cutlery clattered on to plates, and a heavy silence hung over the small room. A waitress who had been pouring coffee gasped when she saw overspill gushing across a pristine cloth. That gasp sounded like the advent of an easterly gale, so quiet were the diners. A chef appeared in the kitchen doorway, cleaver held high in preparation for whatever he might find.
Lisa stood up. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s you,’ repeated the newcomer. ‘You and my Jimmy.’
‘I know no one named Jimmy,’ Lisa said coldly. Her hair had cost a fortune only yesterday. Oh God, the shame of it. The whole town was going to be buzzing with gossip within minutes.
‘I saw you. So did the detective who works for me. You’re meeting in Jimmy’s mother’s bungalow while she’s in Eastbourne. Before that, you used the Pack Horse Hotel. You can’t fool me, bitch.’
Lisa dropped back into her seat. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘Oh, really? Well, this is Daisy, mine and Jimmy’s youngest. We have three of them. You are having an affair with Daisy’s dad, my husband.’
Sadie Fisher forgot all about the puddings. She sat back and watched while Lisa Compton-Milne got dragged off her double-barrelled pedestal. The girls were going to love this one! As soon as it was over, she’d be on her Nokia mobile to Sandy, Mavis, Helen and . . . Wonderful. It seemed that the tiny intruder had more strength than most wrestlers.
‘I know of no one named Jimmy,’ Lisa repeated. ‘Take your hand from my arm, please.’
‘But you know the Pack Horse, eh? And that little bungalow halfway up Blackburn Road: roses in the garden, china figurines all over the living room? Eh? Don’t sit there like butter wouldn’t melt, you old bag. That’s my husband you’re messing around with, lady. My husband.’
Sadie noticed that Lisa blanched when the bungalow was described.
‘Can’t you get a man of your own?’ the dark-haired woman continued, cheeks reddened by fury, baby beginning to grizzle because her mother was shouting. ‘Too old to find anybody that’s still available?’
‘I think we should go outside.’ Lisa picked up her bag and asked Sadie to pay the bill. Outside on the pavement, the adversaries glared at one another. Lisa had the advantage of height, though a proportion of that was attributable to high heels on which she was suddenly less than steady. She walked away from the restaurant to avoid several dozen stares. ‘Now, Mrs . . . er . . .’
‘Never mind who I am,’ snapped the small woman. She balanced the child on a blue denim hip. ‘I know who you are, Mrs Jewellery Shop. You’re my Jimmy’s sugar mummy and he’s your toy boy. He’s up to his old tricks again, but I am on to him.’
Lisa swallowed hard. She knew the bungalow well, had rolled about on a mock sheepskin rug under the watchful eyes of several cheap and ugly ladies in pastel crinolines. ‘I honestly don’t know a Jimmy. Or a James.’
‘Right. Who do you know, then?’
‘That cannot possibly be any business of yours.’
‘Oh, really? Then I shall be wanting my money back off the private detective, because he’s followed you from the shop to the Pack Horse, from your posh house to the bungalow – and I’ve got photos. I don’t know what my fellow’s told you, but his real name’s Jimmy Nuttall, and we’ve been married nine years. You’re not the first old dear he’s been with, and I suppose you won’t be the last. Just bugger off and leave him alone, or I’ll make sure your husband and kids get to hear about it.’ She marched off, her gait made uneven by the weight of the child.
Lisa leaned against a wall. Within thirty seconds, her mechanism clicked back into gear, and she returned to the restaurant. The buzz of conversation ceased as soon as she entered. ‘Mistaken identity,’ she told Sadie, who quickly turned off her mobile phone. ‘She seems to have confused me with some trollop who’s having a good time with her husband. Ah, well –’ she sat down – ‘let’s have coffee, shall we?’
Had anyone asked Lisa about the following five minutes, she would have been unable to remember the topic of conversation. Her mind raced, as did her pulse. How could he do this to her? They had been planning a new start abroad, somewhere warmer, sunnier. He swore undying devotion and . . . and he held a large slice of her money in a place where the tax man would never reach.
‘Are you all right?’ Sadie asked.
Lisa returned to the present time. ‘What? Yes, of course. I’m just thinking how terrible my hair must look. Do you think I should tell the police? It was assault, and there were many witnesses.’
‘It’s a thought,’ Sadie agreed. ‘It’s coming to something when two old friends can’t have lunch without one of them being attacked.’ How was Lisa going to get out of this one? She wouldn’t go for the law; of that, Sadie felt completely certain.
‘There’d be bad publicity, I suppose,’ Lisa said with a sigh.
Sadie squashed a smile. This gossip would feed the clan for weeks to come. ‘Unavoidable, Lisa. Look, why don’t you phone the shop and ask Simon to take over? Go home and rest.’
Lisa agreed. ‘I feel a migraine coming on. I suppose half a day off wouldn’t hurt. Do you mind if I go now?’
Sadie shook her head. Her fingers were dying to press a few more numbers on her mobile. She wanted to be the one to pass on the news, though she had possibly missed her chance, since Mavis would have texted all and s
undry by now. Mavis was the only one Sadie had found time to reach. She should have left Mavis till last . . .
They both stood and each kissed the air at the side of the other’s head. Sadie watched while her companion staggered out of the restaurant, then reached for her phone. Today, the air would be filled with music. Probably a dirge to accompany the social death of a certain jeweller who had long been too big for her hand-sewn Italian shoes.
It was cooler up on the open moors. Lisa parked her car and gazed, as if for the first time, at a landscape fit for any poet wanting to write about daffodils. Except, of course, that it wasn’t daffodil season and the yellow fields were packed with burgeoning rape. Jesus Christ. How could a person’s life change so drastically in the space of a few hours? This morning, she had been planning for a new car and a new life abroad, though the latter had been scheduled for the next year at the very earliest. He had played her like an ancient Stradivarius, hadn’t he? Stupid woman whose sole aims in life were to look younger and ditch a husband who had all the charm of a dead rat.
‘My reputation, such as it was, is destroyed,’ she told the windscreen. ‘I’ve lost him and a load of money.’ She had also mislaid several layers of self-respect. It had never been a thick cloak, but it had existed. Sadie Fisher would be buzzing with the tale. Mobile networks were possibly in meltdown already. ‘Thank God I didn’t change my mind and invite Harriet to lunch.’ Yet a very small corner of Lisa’s mind housed the suspicion that Harriet would have stood up to the woman, would have defended her mother. Because Harriet was always on the side of any underdog, wasn’t she? Like her own brother . . .
Nowhere to turn now, Lisa supposed. Simon could run the shop indefinitely, while she would have to disappear very soon and for a considerable length of time. There was, of course, Hermione. Hermione, given half a chance, might orchestrate a G8 conference from her wheelchair. She couldn’t do much for herself, but she wielded a long baton when it came to conducting the lives of others. Eileen, too, was a loyal servant of the family. ‘Could I? Should I?’
Parallel Life Page 5
