The Woman Who Knew Everything

by Debbie Viggiano

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ murmured Dee. Harry had told her that engaging sympathetically with clients was extremely important. ‘Would you like an initial consultation?’

  ‘Yes,’ sniffed the woman.

  ‘Okay. Let me jot down some brief details for Mr Hunter-Brown. Let’s start with your name.’

  ‘Emma Emmerson,’ said the woman.

  Dee’s brow puckered. Whoever had called their daughter “Emma Emmerson” must have been friends with Peter Piper who had picked all those peppers. She began to enter the name on the computer, but stopped as a jumbo-sized penny rattled through her brain. No! It couldn’t be. Could it?

  ‘And…er…the name of your boyfriend?’

  ‘Josh,’ sobbed Emma. ‘Josh Coventry.’

  ***

  Chrissie admired the sparkling diamond on her left hand as she stood behind the bar of The Beagle and Bugle. It had been with some reluctance that she’d left Hood, Mann & Derek, but the place hadn’t been the same without her besties by her side, pounding away at their respective keyboards. Apart from anything else, Jack had been desperate for a full-time manager who didn’t have super sticky fingers around the cash till when his back was turned. There had been a rather nasty showdown with Katie after Jack had caught her “borrowing” two hundred pounds from the restaurant’s lunchtime takings.

  The job worked perfectly for Chrissie, and it meant Jack could flit between his two other pubs. It was hard work, but she loved it. And she loved Jack even more.

  ‘There’s only two conditions,’ Jack had said on her first day at The Beagle and Bugle.

  ‘What’s that? Chrissie had asked.

  ‘Firstly, you must promise not to drink all my gin and tonic.’

  Jack had never let Chrissie forget her “tit bipsy” gaffe when she’d consumed enough G & T to open an off-licence. Chrissie had rolled her eyes. ‘Okay, I promise. And what’s the second condition?’

  ‘The second condition,’ Jack had said, dropping down on one knee, ‘is you have to marry your boss.’

  ***

  Amber admired the sparkling diamond on her left hand as she stood outside the school gates waiting for Danny. From the moment she’d met him, Amber had fallen madly in love with the little boy. She would never, even if the moon turned blue, understand how his biological mother had opted to cut herself off. Nonetheless, Amber had silently thanked Nina for giving her this beautiful little boy who looked like an angel and loved her right back. A little while ago Danny had asked, with wide hopeful eyes, if he could call Amber his own special made-up name. He’d explained it was a cross between “Amber” and “Mummy”. Would she be his “Ammy”? And Amber had picked him up and hugged him tight, so he didn’t see the tears in her eyes.

  ‘Of course I’ll be your Ammy,’ she’d whispered.

  And now, as Amber caught sight of Danny in a sea of happy children that were pouring out of the school building, she couldn’t help but smile. His hair was sticking up all over the place, mini rucksack bouncing on his back, as he headed towards the school gate. A wet painting was visible in one of his small hands. He spotted her and his face split into a banana-wide grin as he rushed towards her.

  ‘Look what I did for you, Ammy,’ he beamed, thrusting the damp picture at her and flinging his arms around her hips.

  As they walked home together, Amber’s heart squeezed with joy. Her little boy was holding her hand, and growing inside her was another little boy. She had so much to look forward to, including her forthcoming marriage to Steve. Her fiancé loved to tease her and sing, “Here comes the bride, all fat and wide.”

  ‘And who’s fault is that?’ she’d quipped in mock annoyance.

  ‘Mine,’ Steve had said proudly. ‘My beautiful bride-to-be is up the duff. I’m over the moon, and love you so much!’ And then he’d whisked her off to their giant double bed to prove it.

  Amber didn’t think she’d ever been so happy.

  ***

  Madam Rosa had a trio of women sitting in the waiting area of her hallway. None of them knew each other, but Madam Rosa knew exactly who they were.

  The elegant woman sitting rigidly on the first chair had once been known as Cougar Kate. She’d married a much younger man and, in the beginning, hoped to have his babies. But no babies had been forthcoming, and the fledgling marriage was in deep trouble – as were her finances.

  The blonde female slumped on the second chair was called Emma. She was living with a two-timing window-cleaner who had recently started a relationship with a customer. This had come about after the window-cleaner had sloshed soapy water all over the bathroom window of a sultry brunette. She’d been languishing in her foaming bath giving him the come-on. It had been debatable whether it had been the window or the window-cleaner who had been in the greatest lather.

  A much older lady with peroxide-blonde hair was weeping silently as she sat on the third chair. Her name was Mandy. She’d stupidly fallen for a toy boy who had pushed both her credit cards and patience to the limit.

  All three women wanted to know what the future held. Madam Rosa smiled mysteriously as she cuddled Merlin, her silent black cat. She would tell each of them their future, and she would do it very accurately. Because she was the woman who knew everything.

  THE END

  The Corner Shop of Whispers

  Debbie Viggiano

  Chapter One

  My husband flung his arms around me. Suddenly I was being whirled round and round the kitchen. I gasped and gave a nervous giggle. There can’t be many married couples who engage in a spot of Strictly Come Dancing early on a Tuesday morning in late April. But then again there aren’t many married couples like us. Only yesterday my immediate neighbour, Alison, had caught Marcus and me on our doorstep. She’d been hurrying out of Number 3 about to embark on the school run just as I was waving Marcus off to work – or, rather, my husband was kissing me good-bye. Except his cursory brush against the edge of my mouth had swiftly slid to my lips and turned into a lingering kiss which almost immediately had become a full-blown hungry devouring of my mouth.

  ‘Mmm, mmm. Oh, Florrie. Mmm, mmm. I need you. I need you so much. Mmm, mmm. I’ll miss the eight oh-seven and catch the eight thirty-two. Mmm, mmm. Get back in the house, Florrie. I can’t help it. Mmm, mmm. I simply have to have my wicked way with you and–’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake, Marcus!’ Alison’s cut-glass accent had sliced through the air instantly putting a stop to things. ‘What sort of message are you conveying to Tiffany?’

  Marcus had promptly released me. We’d gazed at Alison’s bespectacled daughter. Plugged into her iPod, Tiffany had been oblivious of her surroundings. The little girl had been neatly dressed in the uniform of Darwin Prep, the local private school. She was the most hot-housed child we’d ever met. The likelihood that Tiffany had been listening to iTunes was improbable, but there was every chance she’d been absorbing French vocabulary specifically downloaded for her by Alison. My neighbour had given her daughter a little prod in the back.

  ‘Get in the car, Tiffany. Mummy will be with you in two minutes.’ She’d turned back to glare at Marcus. ‘It’s high time you stopped this exhibitionist behaviour on your doorstep every morning. Do you really think the residents of The Cul-de-Sac want to witness borderline soft porn?’

  Marcus had smiled at Alison disarmingly. ‘There are only three houses in The Cul-de-Sac, Ali. It’s hardly the world and his wife watching. Do I detect a touch of jealousy?’

  Alison had pursed her lips and given Marcus a frosty look. ‘Most certainly not. However, behaving lecherously in a public place is a big no-no. It’s beyond uncouth.’

  ‘Uncouth, eh? You don’t fool me, Ali,’ Marcus had playfully retorted. ‘I don’t think old Henry is giving you enough attention. C’mon, admit it. We’ve seen the sweep of your hubby’s headlights along The Cul-de-Sac at midnight. What sort of time is that to be coming home from the office? Your Henry is so burnt out from City trading he’s not stoking your fi
re.’

  Alison had immediately looked like she’d swallowed a gobstopper. ‘My fire,’ she’d spluttered, ‘does not need stoking, thank you very much. And if Henry chooses to work long hours, that’s his business. At least we know Christmas will be in the Caribbean as usual.’

  And with that my neighbour had stuck her nose in the air and stalked off to her brand new four by four. Any onlooker would have been forgiven for thinking Alison, a vision in full make-up and high heels, had been heading off to a smart London office instead of simply keeping up with all the other high-maintenance mothers and their spoilt offspring at the gates of Darwin Prep.

  At that precise moment, Daisy, our other immediate neighbour at Number 1, had opened the door to her house. Husband Tom had stepped out, three children scampering around his legs. The kids had been wearing mismatched overcoats suitable for St Mildred’s Primary, the local school where Tom was headmaster. The children had also been arguing furiously. Tom had looked both henpecked and harassed as he shepherded his clamouring brood over to the family vehicle.

  ‘Morning, Florrie. Morning, Marcus,’ he’d called over his shoulder. ‘I saw you both through the window, by the way. Nice to see romance is alive and kicking, even if it is at Number 2, and not my house.’

  ‘I heard that,’ Daisy had called after her husband. She’d scowled at Tom’s back. ‘I’m ready, willing and available – just as long as it’s before nine in the evening.’ She’d shrugged and turned to Marcus and me. ‘After that I’m out cold. The kids are exhausting.’

  Tom had shut the car’s rear door on the still noisy children. Walking back to Daisy, he’d plonked a dutiful kiss on her cheek. ‘I have a pile of pastoral work to catch up on with the vicar this evening. I’ll grab a sandwich while I’m out, so don’t wait up.’

  Daisy had given an exaggerated sigh. ‘Story of my life,’ she’d grumbled. ‘No rumpy-pumpy for me this evening.’

  ‘When are you ever awake for rumpy-pumpy?’ Tom had countered.

  ‘I’m awake now, aren’t I?’ Daisy had said belligerently. With her bed-head hair and crumpled pyjamas splattered with that morning’s egg and baked beans, it was fair to say she hadn’t looked her most alluring.

  ‘You two should have a date night with each other,’ I’d suggested.

  ‘Ah, but you don’t have children,’ Tom had sighed. His expression had been one of long-suffering. ‘They change your life. Wear you down. Pretty much wear you out too. I can’t remember the last time Daisy and I managed to eat a meal peacefully together without one of the kids emitting a blood-curdling scream and all hell breaking out.’

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ Daisy had added hastily. She was fully up to date on my many attempts to get pregnant. And the many failures too.

  ‘All I’m saying,’ Tom had sighed, ‘is that the days of being a loved-up couple like Florrie and Marcus here are a thing of the past for us.’ He’d turned back to us with a deprecatory shrug. ‘I take my hat off to you both. Honestly. I don’t know any husbands and wives who have been married for five years still enjoying the honeymoon period.’

  He’d given a warm smile and for a moment his whole face had transformed. He was actually a very good looking guy. Seconds later he’d morphed back into put-upon Tom complete with drooping mouth and matching posture.

  ‘Forgive me for holding you both up. I must get the children to school and then,’ he’d perked up slightly, ‘have a coffee in the staff room for ten minutes. It’s the one place where there is peace, quiet, and grown-up conversation.’

  He’d inclined his head by way of farewell and, like a man going off to his execution, opened the driver’s door. The Cul-de-Sac had briefly been filled with the din of still arguing children before Tom had pulled the door shut after him. From behind the steering wheel he’d raised a tired arm by way of farewell. Moments later he’d driven off in a cloud of exhaust.

  Daisy had turned to us and suddenly given a cheerful grin. ‘Hurrah! Peace until I collect the mini mob at half past three. I’m going to put the kettle on and watch a bit of Jeremy Kyle. Fancy joining me, Florrie?’

  ‘Are you trying to persuade my perfect wife to be a lazy good-for-nothing woman?’ Marcus had teased.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Daisy had instantly bristled. ‘The moment Jeremy has finished telling some poor cow that the father of her unborn child is an unfaithful lying bastard, I’ll be off the sofa and cleaning this house from top to bottom. I shall then tackle an overflowing laundry bin, work my way through a mountain of ironing, and finally head off to the supermarket for a mammoth shop that will leave my arms like stretched spaghetti for the rest of the week. My days are full to bursting, Marcus. Make no mistake about it.’

  ‘I’ll consider myself told off,’ Marcus had said graciously.

  ‘And I’m busy too,’ I’d reminded Marcus.

  Despite not having a litter of kids making demands upon my time, I did have a huge canvas awaiting my attention in the loft room. Whilst I’d yet to strike it big and be represented by an art gallery, nonetheless I’d recently started to make a decent living producing colourful works for a local restaurant.

  But all of that had happened yesterday. Sometimes things can change dramatically in the space of just twenty-four hours, which Marcus and I discovered on this particular Tuesday morning resulting in him dancing me around our kitchen. You see, after five barren years of marriage, I was pregnant. We gazed again at the double blue lines on the pregnancy tester before my husband squashed me into another hug.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ he murmured into my hair. ‘It’s nothing short of a miracle.’

  Suddenly I couldn’t think of anything to say. Already the enormity of the situation was starting to make itself felt. My heart quickened. Anxiety? No, Florrie, I told myself, just shock. Mentally, I took a deep breath. It would be fine. Everything would be fine. To the outsider my life was perfect. Enviably so. I lived in a desirable house in The Cul-de-Sac in the popular village of Lower Amblegate. I had fab neighbours and was married to a respectable man who was earning nicely thank you very much as a property surveyor. A little baby was the icing on the marital cake. I was the luckiest woman in the world. Wasn’t I?

  Chapter Two

  I spent the next couple of hours brushing oils onto a vast rectangular canvas. But as colour and form grew, my mind continuously wandered elsewhere. My brain was whirling. Thoughts of babies, conception, the gestation period, trying to work out exactly how pregnant I was, all kept tumbling over and over like an old-fashioned video tape stuck on a loop. This pregnancy was indeed a miracle. As soon as we’d shaken the confetti from our hair, Marcus had wanted to get down to the business of starting a family.

  ‘I want us to have ten children,’ he’d grinned. ‘Five boys and five girls.’

  I’d laughed and suggested we let Mother Nature take her course and that two children would be perfect. As twenty-five-year-olds we had no real qualms about money. We both did the daily commute to London. Marcus had an escalating salary, and I was a stressed PA. Together, we earned good money. Not long after becoming engaged, we’d driven through Lower Amblegate and spotted The Cul-de-Sac. Investigating, we’d noted the For Sale board outside Number 2. We’d wasted no time making an appointment to view. Walking through the front door, we’d fallen in love with the larger than average rooms and huge windows letting in streams of lemony sunbeams. We’d felt as though the house had embraced us. Even the branches of the fruit trees dotted around the paddock-like garden had seemingly wrapped their leafy boughs around our shoulders, hugging us, urging us to stay. In the misty recesses of my mind I saw a little boy hanging off a tyre that swung from one of the sturdy branches, while a little girl played tea parties with her dollies in a home-made treehouse.

  Buying it was, admittedly, a bit of a push. You don’t see many twenty-five-year-olds starting out in a four-bedroomed detached, but we opted for living on baked beans and toast in order to get the deposit monies together. It was more than a dream home. It w
as our dream family home. A year after moving in, the initial room we’d set aside as a nursery remained empty. Eventually I’d mentioned my pregnancy concerns to my doctor during a routine smear test.

  ‘You’re young and a busy working lady,’ he’d smiled reassuringly. ‘I suspect you’re living life in the fast lane, skipping meals and staying late at the office.’ The doctor had been more precise than Mystic Meg. ‘It’s time to slow down. Make some changes. Eat properly – no missing breakfast. Take your lunch hour in full and go out of the office. Stretch those legs. Do some walking and fill those lungs with gallons of fresh air.’ The “fresh air” bit hadn’t been quite so accurate. At the time I’d been working near Fleet Street. The air had always been thick with the diesel fumes of a hundred buses and honking black cabs, while a haze of exhaust belched from scores of immobile cars stuck in congested lanes. In fact, the pollution was so bad that one of my colleagues regularly used to have an asthma attack on the walk to Blackfriars Station. But I didn’t tell my doctor all that. Instead I hoovered up his words of hope. ‘Some women simply need to prepare their bodies for pregnancy. I would bet my stethoscope that you’re simply one of them.’

  After two years I went back to the same doctor, who also summoned Marcus for examination. That’s when the tests began. Apparently I had lazy ovaries causing an irregular menstrual cycle. This made it tricky to plot the most fertile time of the month. But, even trickier, Marcus’s tests revealed a very low sperm count. There were no obvious reasons as to why. It was just one of those things.

  ‘Try not to worry about it,’ the doctor had said kindly. ‘I’ve had many a man in my surgery with the same problem. They’ve all gone on to become fathers. I’m sure it will happen for both of you. One day. Meanwhile, try not to stress about it. Stress makes things much worse and, indeed, could even be the cause.’