Before she even knew what she was doing, one hand had reached out and yanked the duvet upwards sending the decorative cushions flying off the bed. Amber recoiled. Instead of the whiff of floral body lotion rising up in the air, the smell of recent sex shot up her nostrils. Amber gasped. The buzzer on the invisible antenna was now making one long endless sound. The frying pan slipped from her other hand and fell to the floor with a thud. Amber’s fingers flew up to her temples, almost viciously massaging them. Swooping like an avenging bird of prey, she lunged forward and tore the fitted sheet from the mattress.
Something small and sparkly flew through the air, but Amber didn’t notice. Her focus was on the sheet. Holding it at arm’s length, she moved to the window so the harsh daylight could assist with a thorough inspection. The sheet was covered in stains. Eww! The linen had been fresh on the bed after her recent upchucking episode, and had certainly seen no action from her and Matthew. And then her eyes snagged on something tiny and glittery at her feet. Suddenly Amber thought she might faint, and put out a hand to steady herself. An earring. She bent down and picked it up. It was a stud, with a pretty diamond centre. It looked like the real deal too. No cubic zirconia crap for the rich bitch who’d been rolling around in her chuffing sheets in her chuffing bed with her chuffing boyfriend. Amber felt the start of a howl rising up through her body. It was a mixture of abject misery and red-hot fury. Dear God. Her lying boyfriend had not only cheated on her, he’d brought the tart home. He’d given her one in their bed. That chuffing Madam Rosa had been right all along – the bloody bitch. Bloody witch. Bloody cow. Bloody oracle genius.
The howl bypassed Amber’s tonsils and erupted into the room making a sound like an unearthly being. She was aware of a terrified Mr Tomkin scooting across the landing and down the stairs. Tears were pouring down Amber’s cheeks, running off her chin and dripping onto the stained sheet. How dare Matthew do this to her? Not only had he brought his mistress into Amber’s house, he’d let the bitch use her bathtub, her towels, and drink from her mugs. The bastard. The whore. Well they could both rot in hell.
Amber dropped the sheet and, sucking in great chuggy breaths, leapt over the upside-down frying pan and pile of jumbled bed linen. She raced down the stairs. Finding her mobile phone, hands shaking like an alcoholic needing a drink, she sought out the number of a twenty-four-hour locksmith. Two minutes later she was agreeing to pay an extortionate price for a Saturday call-out.
Amber then dashed back upstairs, taking them two at a time in her hurry. She flung open the wardrobe doors in her bedroom – yes, her bedroom – and began divesting them of Matthew’s clothes. She didn’t bother packing anything, or even shoving garments into black sacks. That would have been too considerate an action for the devious scumbag. Instead, she grabbed armfuls of immaculate shirts and pristine suits before marching into the spare room. Clutching everything to her chest with one arm, she wrestled open the window with her free hand. Then, like a demented Postman Pat emptying a post box in reverse, Amber began shoving all Matthew’s gear through the open window. Despite looking like a madwoman, there was a part of Amber that was incredibly calm and knew exactly what she was doing. Once the suits and shirts were scattered across her front lawn, she started on Matthew’s shoes. Boots and trainers followed. Drawers full of socks and pants were emptied and flew through the air, like strange looking birds wearing Y-fronts. Amber deigned to stuff Matthew’s aftershave, toiletries, toothbrush and a pair of expensive cufflinks into a sports holdall, but then that too was flung from the bedroom window.
Old Mr Jefferies from two doors down strolled past with his ancient Springer Spaniel and stared up at the house in amazement. Amber paused and gave Mr Jefferies a manic smile.
‘Afternoon. Wonderful day for a clear out, eh!’
‘Are you all right, lass?’ the pensioner called.
‘Never better, Mr Jefferies,’ said Amber, as Matthew’s alarm clock landed in the flowerbed below. ‘I’m having a Spring clean.’
‘But it’s January, lass.’
‘In this house, Mr Jefferies,’ said Amber, as Matthew’s tennis racket joined everything else below, ‘Spring has come early.’
‘Oy!’ came a shout. ‘That nearly hit me.’
Amber leant out of the window and saw the locksmith had arrived. He was looking none too pleased at dodging objects.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she called. ‘I’ll be right with you.’
Mr Jefferies shook his head at the locksmith’s raised eyebrows. As Amber moved away from the window, she heard Mr Jefferies say, ‘I think she’s having some sort of breakdown.’
Amber’s feet pounded down the stairs. Shoving her discarded shopping to one side, she greeted a very apprehensive locksmith. She appreciated her tear-stained face and ravaged make-up wasn’t a pretty sight. Her body was still vibrating from the adrenalin-rush of chucking Matthew’s belongings from high above.
‘I’m not crazy,’ were her first words.
‘Course you’re not, love,’ said the locksmith, giving an uncertain laugh. His expression said it all. Lunatic. Humour her. Get the job done and clear off as fast as possible.
‘Please, come in,’ said Amber stepping to one side. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘Are you making one for yourself then?’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Amber, smiling beatifically. ‘I’m going to open several bottles of wine and get totally rat-arsed.’
‘Ah ha ha ha,’ chortled the locksmith uneasily, and set down his toolbox.
‘I’ll put the kettle on for you, and get a corkscrew for me. Meanwhile, I want the locks to both front and back doors changed super quick.’ Amber lunged forward causing the locksmith to shrink back against the wall. He let out a whimper of relief as Amber ignored him and instead stuck her head through the open doorway. She looked from left to right, scanning the surrounding footpaths. She didn’t want Matthew suddenly turning up. It would be the Law of Sod that he’d come home just when she didn’t want him to. That must not happen. Not yet anyway. The timing had to be right on her part.
Amber was aware she’d had a meltdown, but God only knew what Matthew’s reaction would be when he saw this lot strewn around the front garden. She looked heavenwards. An army of dark clouds were scurrying across a very bleak sky. A big fat blob of rain fell upon her upturned face. Then another one. Oh goodie. In a few minutes Matthew’s belongings were going to get absolutely soaked. Giggling manically, Amber clocked the locksmith giving her an anxious look. At that moment, her mobile phone let out a loud dinggggggg.
‘Do you take sugar?’ Amber asked the wary locksmith.
‘Nah, love. I’m sweet enough,’ he said, giving a strained laugh. Flipping heck. Wait until he got home and told the wife about this bonkers dolly. He’d been changing locks on houses for thirty years and thought he’d seen it all – until this afternoon. He watched Amber stalk off with her mobile phone, and heaved a sigh of relief. The sooner he was finished here, the better.
Amber marched into the kitchen feeling strangely elated. She was calmer now, although her hands still trembled as she filled the kettle. Her body shook with post-rage adrenalin, but she felt almost euphoric at taking charge of the blow her devious boyfriend had dealt her. Amber was a firm believer in revenge – and she’d not wasted a second in taking it. As of right now, Matthew was homeless and clothes-less. A small high-pitched laugh escaped her lips. He was going to go doo-bloody-lally.
Her mobile phone let out a second ding reminding her of the ignored message. Amber tapped on the screen. It was a WhatsApp message under the “Secs in the City” name Dee had set up. Amber’s eyes scanned the messages from her friends.
Girls. It’s true. Josh is having an affair.
So is Andrew.
Her fingers moved across the screen.
And then there were three.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Dee’s Sunday
Dee awoke with a heart so heavy she didn’t think it would be physic
ally possible to get out of bed. The weight in her chest was like a giant boulder pinning her to the mattress. She closed her eyes again, desperately trying to return to the safe womb of sleep. Right now, all she wanted to do was withdraw from the world. If God stepped out of the clouds and offered her one wish, she’d request He let her snooze soporifically from this world to the next one – a place where nothing hurt.
Dee felt a stab of horror at being reduced to wishing her life away. How dare Josh have done this to this! She was young and healthy, for heaven’s sake. She had her whole life before her – a life she needed to get on and live. However, if Him Upstairs could throw a dollop of joy and a spoonful of love her way, then so much the better. Dee silently raged at herself. She would get out of bed and she would be happy. She swung her legs off the mattress. Hauling herself upright, she promptly burst into tears. Small steps, Dee. Small steps. One out of two isn’t bad. Just remember, you’re not alone. Chrissie and Amber are feeling wretched too.
The three young women had spent last night on Skype, shrieking and sobbing together as they exchanged sordid details about how Madam Rosa’s tarot readings had unfortunately been proven true. Chrissie and Amber had been stunned to hear that Josh had swanned off to Tenerife with a mystery woman by the name of Emma. They’d also been indignant on Dee’s behalf regarding Anne Coventry. How dare the woman accuse Dee of being a harpy who’d nagged her precious son into packing a suitcase! Finally, the girls had gasped at Josh’s manipulation of Dee’s sexy morning fry-up, making out to his parents that it had been more like a scene from a Saw movie.
Likewise, Dee had been aghast as she’d listened to Chrissie blubbing her way through the details of discovering Andrew’s sext message from the enigmatic Mandy. A movie director would have a field day turning their lives into a film for the big screen. However, of the three women, Dee thought it would be Amber who would collect all the drama awards: “Best Actress” for The Saga of the Stained Sheets; “Best Actress in a Supporting Role” for Discovery of a Diamond Earring (the winner being Mr Tomkin for portraying raw terror); and finally “Best Actress in a Leading Role” for How to Empty Your Lover’s Wardrobe in Sixty Seconds.
Dee thanked God for small mercies. Whatever she was going through, and no matter how dreadful she felt, she had two besties who totally empathised. It didn’t make her emotional pain any better, but equally it saved her depression from being a whole heap worse.
She stumbled into the bathroom, caught sight of her pale tear-stained face, and determined that, for now, her priorities had to be both realistic and simplistic – like emptying her bladder, cleaning her teeth, having a shower, and trying to make herself look more presentable. If she was looking better on the outside, perhaps she might feel a smidgen better on the inside. Stepping into the cubicle, she let the hot water blast over her body, unkinking parts of her spine that felt stiff. She wondered if the mysterious Emma was dealing with anything stiff right now.
Whimpering, Dee lathered shampoo all over her scalp. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut trying to blot out the image of an Amazonian blonde riding a panting Josh to orgasm in some swanky hotel in Tenerife.
As Dee scrubbed her skin to the colour of boiled lobster, she speculated on who had paid for this foreign holiday. Josh wasn’t a man to splash cash, which rather led Dee to suspect this other woman had stumped up. In which case, was Emma a rich bitch? What did the cow do for a living? Where did she work? Where did she live? What did she look like? How old was she? How long had she been shagging Josh? Dee’s head began to throb with so many unanswered questions.
Towelling herself off, Dee decided to take some care with her appearance today. It was unlikely Josh would walk in through the front door later but – if by some small miracle he did – she wanted him to be greeted by a chic and sophisticated woman, rather than the Undomestic Dog-ess he’d mentioned in his postcard to Anne and Peter Coventry. That comment had touched a nerve. Dee wanted Josh to look at her with fresh eyes, to be wowed by the attractive woman who had been by his side all the time, and for him to fall at her feet and grovel for forgiveness.
As she blasted the hair dryer over her short hair, she wondered if Emma had a long silky mane. As Dee applied moisturiser to her skin, she pondered whether Emma had tattoos. And as Dee threaded a pair of pretty hooped earrings through her ear lobes, she speculated whether Emma had piercings and, if so, where. Dee could feel herself getting obsessed by this woman. She wanted answers. And now. Suddenly an idea dropped into her brain that had her standing stock still. There was a way to find out the answers to most of her questions. She was amazed she hadn’t thought of it before. However, it would cost money. Possibly a small fortune.
Dee instantly thought of her secret savings account that Josh knew nothing about. Her “wedding” money. She snorted derisively. She’d been saving for an event that was never going to happen in a million years. At least, not with Josh. And then Dee experienced a moment of pure horror as another thought bounced into her brain. It rattled around like a lottery ball. What if Emma wasn’t a dalliance? What if Josh considered himself to be in a serious relationship with Emma? Dee gasped. What if Josh was secretly engaged? That last question was enough to convince her that breaking into her wedding-that-never-was fund would be money well spent. She made her decision there and then.
She was going to hire a detective.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chrissie’s Sunday
Chrissie was awoken by her mobile ringing. One hand shot out of bed and snatched it up from the bedside table.
‘Hello?’ she mumbled. She was cross-eyed with tiredness, and had the sort of thumping headache that felt like a box of marbles had been emptied into her skull.
‘Darling, where are you?’ said a familiar voice.
‘In bed.’
‘Why? Aren’t you well?’
‘It’s Sunday,’ said Chrissie, screwing up her eyes against daylight streaming through the bedroom’s thin curtains. ‘I’m having a lie-in.’
‘But it’s nearly one o’clock,’ said Pam in surprise. ‘Dad and I were getting worried. You and Andrew should have been here an hour ago.’
Chrissie groaned. Of course. She’d completely overlooked her mother’s invitation to Sunday lunch. She eased herself upright in bed, trying to shake off the events of last night that nobody – not even Amber and Dee – yet knew about.
‘I-I’m so sorry, Mum,’ Chrissie stuttered, her sluggish mind trying to come up with a plausibly quick excuse. ‘Andrew had some emergency call outs. He’s still not home from the last one. My sleep was so fragmented, I didn’t hear my alarm.’
‘You poor things,’ said Pam sympathetically. ‘No worries. I’ll keep everything hot in the hostess trolley.’ Pam Peterson had inherited the plug-in food warmer from her grandmother, and it was still going strong. ‘Just get yourselves over here as soon as possible. Do you reckon you could be here by two’ish?’
Chrissie felt panicky. She had no idea when Andrew would be home. And even if he walked in right now, she had a feeling he wasn’t going to be up for sitting around the Peterson’s dining table making polite small talk. Apart from anything else, Chrissie didn’t want him there. She was currently feeling like a pressure cooker. Although in her case it was rage simmering away. She wasn’t quite sure what would happen if the lid flew off. She had a sudden vision of emptying the scalding contents of her mother’s gravy boat over Andrew’s groin and saying, ‘You simply must have this with your meat and two veg. Is it hot enough?’
‘Er, the thing is, Mum, to be with you by two I need Andrew back here with the van. If he’s not home in time – and it doesn’t look like he will be – I’ll have to come on the bus. And you know what the buses are like on a Sunday.’
‘Oh dear. Hang on a minute, darling.’ Pam clamped a hand over the phone. Chrissie could hear her mother’s muffled voice instructing John to pick up their daughter. Seconds later Pam was back. ‘Dad’s on his way. See you soon, darling. Bye-eeeee!’
Hell. The last thing Chrissie wanted was to spend the day putting on a cheerful front. She didn’t know where the term “brave face” came from, but right now she didn’t possess such a thing. She let out a weighty sigh just as her stomach rumbled. She was amazed her body could even register hunger after such recent events.
Stumbling off to the bathroom, Chrissie headed for the shower. She needed to be quick, so that when her father drew up outside she was completely ready. It was best if John Peterson didn’t get out of his Jag to ring Chrissie’s doorbell. When you lived on an estate like this one, an awful lot could happen to a car in thirty seconds.
A couple of minutes later, warm water was playing over Chrissie’s skin. As it trickled over her face, she prayed it might wash away the horror scenes still playing in her head. Her mind travelled back to last night when Dee, Amber and herself had Skyped each other. It had been cathartic offloading to her besties about the discovery of Mandy’s sext message to Andrew. However, unburdening hadn’t taken away the physical pain that was still going on in her chest. It felt like invisible hands were constantly squeezing around her heart chambers. Discovering Andrew’s betrayal had left her shell-shocked. Due to her boyfriend leaving his mobile at home, Chrissie hadn’t been able to contact him. He’d had no idea that Chrissie’s sleepover plans at Amber’s had been cancelled, or that she’d returned to the maisonette.
The Woman Who Knew Everything Page 15
