Amber’s Sunday
Amber awoke on Sunday morning feeling tired but strangely elated. She stayed snuggled under the duvet for a few moments, and reflected on the events of Saturday afternoon. She’d started to gulp down a glass of wine when the locksmith had been in the house, but then poured it all down the plughole. No man was driving her to drink! She’d then spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening scrubbing her house from top to bottom to eradicate the ghost of the mystery woman. All towels and bedding to both bedrooms had been boil-washed. Afterwards, she’d cooked the fillet steaks she’d bought for Matthew and shared them with Mr Tomkin.
‘From now on,’ she’d told the delighted cat, ‘you are going to be the only man in my life.’
Amber had munched her way through the tender meat, buttery mash and fresh vegetables resigning herself to a different existence from this point onwards. She’d be a spinster. Rather than settling down and having children one day, she’d get another cat. Maybe two. Or six. Twelve even. She’d be the Mad Cat Lady of New Ash Green. Everyone would talk about her, including Mr Jefferies, who would lament about his Springer Spaniel always trying to chasing Amber’s moggies.
A burgeoning bladder eventually forced her out of bed. Matthew still hadn’t put in an appearance. His clothes remained festooned around the front garden. Winter shrubs had seemingly bloomed early, sporting strange flowers which, on closer inspection, were men’s underpants. Amber’s lawn was open-plan to the numerous footpaths that wound in and around the village. Somebody’s dog had run across Matthew’s scattered suits and shirts. Muddy paw prints were splodged across sleeves and lapels, and a fox had left its calling card on a pair of jeans.
Amber was trying to get enthusiastic over a piece of burnt toast, when the doorbell buzzed. Her heart began to clatter about. It must be Matthew, ready to read the Riot Act. She tiptoed to the hallway on wobbly legs, and peered through the front door’s spy glass. But instead of a furious ex-boyfriend, it was Edith, Amber’s immediate neighbour to the left. Edith was a retired headmistress. She had some interesting facial hair, and bore a remarkable resemblance to Del Boy’s Uncle Albert. Amber had no doubt that Edith had once put the fear of God into her school pupils. From her glimpse through the spy glass, Amber could see Edith scowling at the clothes littering the lawn and flowerbeds. A pursed mouth indicated her neighbour was not happy. Amber took a deep breath and opened the door.
‘Morning, Edith. How are you?’
‘Hello, Amber. I’ll come straight to the point.’
‘I thought you might.’
‘Your clothes–’
‘–Matthew’s clothes.’
‘That you chucked all over the place, according to Mr Jefferies.’
Amber folded her arms across her chest. ‘Ah, the New Ash Green grapevine has been busy.’
‘Well it’s not on, is it?’
‘But they’re not on,’ Amber retorted. ‘They’re off.’
‘That’s my point.’
‘No, it’s an observation.’
‘Amber, you’ve evidently had a domestic–’
‘No, I’ve had a clear out.’
‘This isn’t normal.’
‘What isn’t normal?’
‘Making this mess. The residents here have pride, you know.’
‘I have pride, Edith.’
‘Good, in which case you’ll clear this lot up.’
‘Matthew will remove it in due course. Ah, talk of the devil.’ Amber’s eyes hardened as Matthew appeared at the far end of the footpath that led out from a communal block of garages. He had a spring in his step and appeared to be whistling.
‘He’s going to go mental when he sees what you’ve done.’
‘He is indeed,’ Amber purred. ‘Now if you don’t mind, Edith, I need to shut my front door. You’re welcome to station yourself outside if you want to watch the floor show, but if I were you I’d go indoors and stick to twitching your curtains. Good-bye.’
‘Well really, there’s no need to be–’
But Edith was left talking to herself.
On the other side of the door, Amber drew the bolts, turned the key, and put the safety chain on for good measure. She then scampered through to the kitchen and made sure the back door was secure, before taking the stairs two at a time. Dashing into the spare room, she flung open the window just in time to see Matthew’s jaunty gait change to stalling steps. His cheerful whistling petered out, and his eyes were doing a fair impression of cartoon-like stalks.
‘What the–?’
‘Yoo hoo, Matthew,’ Amber called from above. ‘I’ve changed all the locks, so don’t bother giving me back your house keys.’
Matthew’s astonished face looked upwards. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’
‘Not at all. I’ve had an epiphany. Isn’t it wonderful!’ Amber beamed.
‘Do you mind telling me what the hell’s going on?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? You and I are finished.’
‘Finished? Well if we weren’t before this, we definitely are now. You’re absolutely barking. Off your rocker. Think I want a nutty girlfriend? And look at my stuff – it’s ruined.’ He held up his arms, then let them drop to his sides again. His expression one of dismay. Then his eyes snagged on something, and his face turned magenta. ‘My shoes!’ he shouted. ‘Those are Jeffrey West. They cost me three hundred chuffing quid.’ He bent down and picked them up, only to drop them again as if hot coals. ‘There’s fox crap in them,’ he yelled. ‘You cow! I’m going to sue you.’
‘Take your compensation from the money you didn’t pay me when living under my roof.’
‘This is my house too, Amber,’ said Matthew ominously.
‘Oh no it’s not,’ Amber spat. ‘I bought this place long before you came along. It’s my name on the deeds.’
‘And I’ve helped pay the mortgage.’
‘Ha!’ Amber sneered. ‘Your very infrequent contributions were for food and alcohol which didn’t begin to cover what you’ve cost me over the last few years, so don’t you dare try and play that number on me.’
‘I KNOW MY RIGHTS,’ Matthew bellowed, ‘and I’m entitled – ENTITLED, do you hear? – to half your house.’ His face was rapidly changing from magenta to aubergine.
‘You’re entitled to ZILCH,’ Amber roared. ‘You never put a ring on it,’ she thrust her left hand through the open window, waggling her bare fingers at Matthew, ‘and thank God you didn’t. Now clear off. And take your stuff with you. Go to HER,’ Amber screamed, ‘and let her wash and iron your clothes, and pick up after you.’
Matthew put his hands on his hips and decided to bluff it out. ‘What are you on about now? Are you accusing me of having an affair? Ha, as if! There is nobody but you, Amber.’ His tone switched to one of wheedling. ‘Aw, come on, babe. Let me in. It’s you I love.’
‘Don’t lie to me, you prat. Here’s your tart’s earring which she left in MY bed. Catch!’ Amber lobbed the diamond stud. It landed with a plop in one of the shoes. ‘Oh dear. Was that the one full of Mister Fox’s poop?’
‘You…you…you…,’ Matthew tried and failed to think of an adequate name to hurl at Amber just as Mr Jefferies creaked past with his spaniel.
‘Hello, lad,’ he nodded at Matthew. ‘Back are you? Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. I think you’ve upset your lady.’
‘That’s no lady,’ Matthew hissed.
‘Now then, young man,’ Mr Jefferies warned. ‘Don’t go insulting Amber. You’ve done her wrong, and she’s retaliated.’
‘Mind your own business, you interfering old–’
‘Careful, lad. I might be nearly eighty, but I can still pack a punch.’
At that moment Edith reappeared in her slippers, brandishing a rolling pin. ‘And I might be seventy, but I won’t hesitate to defend Mr Jefferies. You’re guilty, Matthew. Guilty of infidelity. And you know it.’
‘What is this?’ Matthew snapped. ‘New Ash Green’s kangaroo court?’ Nonetheless he to
ok a step away from Edith’s rolling pin and Mr Jefferies raised walking stick.
‘Good on both of you,’ said Amber in delight, to the two pensioners, ‘and thank you very much for standing by me. Sorry, Edith, for cheeking you earlier.’
Edith shrugged. ‘You had cause.’
‘Here you are, Matthew,’ said Amber, lobbing a roll of black sacks at her ex-boyfriend. ‘Just to prove I do have a heart, you can have these on me.’
‘It’s a pity you didn’t have the decency to bag up my stuff in the first place,’ he growled.
‘Rest assured, Matthew, decency doesn’t come into it. Good-bye.’
And with that she slammed the window shut, and drew the curtains for good measure.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dee’s Sunday
Dee smiled at her reflection in the bedroom mirror. She was blessed with teeth that were straight and pearly. She was surprised to see, grinning back at her, a very attractive woman. Her glossy brunette crop was tousled to Vogue-like perfection, and thanks to Max Factor her complexion was flawless. She looked like a typical English rose. She moved her head from left to right, inspecting the newly applied make-up from every angle. How ironic that the mirror reflected such a glowing image. What it didn’t capture was a heart that felt like it was permanently bleeding, and an inner churning as if an acrobat had taken up residence in her stomach. Even her legs felt like they were trembling within the jeans she’d shimmied into.
She jiggled around and glanced critically at the lower half of her body. She’d lost seven pounds in almost as many days thanks to the Misery Diet. She was now fitting into her denims like the proverbial hand in a glove. The stretchy cloth moulded her bum to perfection. If only Josh could walk in right now. She felt sure he’d drop his suitcase in astonishment and say, “Babe, you look amazing. What the hell was I playing at taking off to Tenerife with the very average-looking Emma? I’m so sorry. Please forgive me, darling.” Or, even better: “Emma is a total dog. I discovered she’s a hypnotist. She clicked her fingers and told me that whenever I looked at her I’d see Selina Gomez. In reality, she looks like Speedy Gonzales. You must understand that what happened wasn’t my fault.” And Dee would say, “Of course. Emma duped you with mind games. You were a guinea pig for little more than a magic trick.” And then Josh would sweep Dee up into his arms, stride into the bedroom, throw her onto the bed, and do all sorts of thrilling things to her that he’d never done with Emma.
Dee watched the smile slide from the reflection in the mirror, and the mouth settle into a downward turn. Josh’s postcard was propped up on the table in the hallway. Boy would he get a shock when he came home and saw that. It would be the precursor for an overdue showdown from which there would be no going back. Dee’s mouth drooped even further.
She spent the next hour sitting at her laptop Googling private investigators. She was astonished how many there were. Nor could she quite believe their sales spiel.
Do you need a private dick to investigate what your husband’s dick is privately up to?
Good heavens, that was putting it baldly. She had a sudden vision of some cheating husband’s penis surrounded by a bald pubic area. She shook her head to clear the image. She must be awfully stressed to have her brain conjuring up such things. But then again, what sort of investigator would write something so prolific? She checked his reviews.
Did the job. Five stars.
That didn’t give much away. Dee sighed. The postcard proved Josh had cheated on her. She even knew the woman’s name. What she wanted now was surveillance – to know where Emma lived. Dee didn’t know what she’d do with such information. Pay her a visit? Beg her to leave Josh alone? Or slap her around the face? Dee didn’t fancy getting arrested for assault. She wondered if she could give the private investigator a bit extra and have him do it on her behalf? Her mind played out a possible scenario.
Dick: Are you Emma?
Emma: Who are you?
Dick: Never mind who I am. I have it on good authority you are a total slapper.
Emma: Eh?
Dick: Let me demonstrate.
Dee imagined the satisfying sound of Emma’s chops reverberating under a series of thwacks as revenge was exacted. Good heavens, not again. She rubbed her temples viciously and told her brain to pack it in.
On the other hand, perhaps she should simply give in to her dark fantasies. Why not take it one step further? What about hiring a hit man? Dee flinched. Why in God’s name was she even contemplating such murderous thoughts? This wasn’t her at all. Perhaps she was having some sort of breakdown. She felt a flash of anger at Josh for reducing her to playing mind games with herself. She carried on trawling through the list of investigators. Ah. What was this one? She scrolled back a bit.
Our sensitive private investigators provide a discreet and professional service.
That sounded more like it. More proficient. No smutty innuendo either. Dee read on.
A client called us because she believed her husband to be having an affair. The extra marital activity was taking place whilst our client was at work. Various options were discussed. It was decided to surveil the marital home when our client was out of the house and over a three-day period. On the first day, the husband stayed at home. On the second day, the husband left the marital home and our investigator followed him. He was trailed to an address five minutes away. It was a domestic residence and the door was opened by a female. At 2.25pm the husband left the residence. He was accompanied to the front door by the same female, this time spotted in see-through nightwear. We reported our findings to our client with supporting video evidence. The third day was cancelled because, although deeply distressed, our client was now sure of her husband’s indiscretions. In this instance, the charge for the private investigator was £625 plus VAT and mileage.
Dee totted the likely total figure up and realised it would virtually swallow the entirety of her wedding-that-never-was fund. She sighed. So be it. She wanted to know who Emma was. To meet her. Until she saw this love rival with her own eyes, Dee didn’t think she would rest. Even if Josh was honest and said, ‘Sorry, Dee, there’s absolutely no chance for either of us,’ Dee still wanted to meet this woman. It was something she simply had to do. And with that thought in mind, she picked up the phone.
It answered on the second ring. Dee hadn’t been expecting that. It was Sunday. She’d assumed it would be an answering machine.
‘Hunter-Brown Agency,’ said a man. His voice was no-nonsense, one of authority, with a deep baritone. ‘Harrison Hunter-Brown speaking.’
‘Hello,’ Dee croaked. She cleared her throat. ‘Hello,’ she said again.
‘How can I help you?’
‘Er, my partner is having an affair.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the voice, with just the right amount of sympathy. ‘And you would like us to help you?’
Dee gulped. ‘Yes. I hope you don’t think I’m weird but I want to know who she is, and where she lives, and what colour hair she has, and whether she’s pretty and,’ Dee paused, aware she was gabbling, ‘just…everything about her,’ she finished lamely. ‘I’m not sure what I’ll do with this information. There’s a part of me that wants to appeal to her better nature. If she has one,’ she added, in a small voice.
‘Understandable,’ said Harrison Hunter-Brown. ‘Most female customers are very inquisitive about who the other woman is.’
Dee found herself nodding in agreement at the other end of the phone. ‘Exactly. Can you help me?’
‘Of course. I’d like to meet you first, if that’s okay?’
‘Sure. When do you have availability?’
‘How about in an hour?’
‘Oh, as soon as that?’ Dee was taken aback.
‘I run a small agency, Miss..?’ his voice trailed off.
‘Do I have to give you my name?’
‘Everything here is confidential,’ Harrison Hunter-Brown assured. ‘Maybe, for now, you could give me your first name
?’
‘It’s Dee,’ she said cautiously.
‘Okay then, Dee. How about you pop over to the office, and we’ll run through everything. If you like what you hear, we’ll work out a plan. How does that sound?’
‘Er, good, but…,’ Dee trailed off.
‘Is there a problem?’
‘I’m a bit worried about fees. How much will the initial meeting cost?’
‘Nothing. We only charge if you go ahead with surveillance.’
‘Really?’
‘Really!’ He sounded amused, and his manner filled Dee with a sense of calm and purpose. She didn’t know if private detectives took courses in people management, but she was already feeling confident in the person at the other end of the telephone.
‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I’m on my way.’
‘Do you have our address?’
‘Yes, it’s here on the website.’ She peered at the screen. Seal. Ah, yes. It was a village near Knole Park in Sevenoaks. Very nice. She gave a mental sniff. Where there was muck there was brass. Or, in this case, where there were fucks there was brass. She wondered how many men – or women – Harrison Hunter-Brown and his associates rumbled on a daily basis. Enough to pay the bills in a posh area.
‘I look forward to meeting you shortly, Dee.’
‘Likewise.’
Dee ended the call. She suddenly felt incredibly fired up. Minutes later she was in her car, listening to the sat-nav guide her towards the A2. She took the first slip-road to Wrotham, and then meandered for several miles through an increasingly rural landscape. Twenty minutes later she was in the village of Seal, bumping along a tree-lined private road. The sat-nav told her she’d reached her destination. Dee peered through the windscreen at a smart courtyard of houses. A hundred years ago they’d been barns and stables, but some clever builder had converted them into stylish mews homes.
She locked the car and walked over to some heavy wrought-iron gates with intercom box. Seconds later Dee was buzzed into the main square. It was beautifully landscaped with huge terracotta urns full of frothing winter pansies and colourful shrubs. A rustic door opened to Number 2 and a weeping female came out.
The Woman Who Knew Everything Page 17
