by Lacey Dearie
THE TANGLED WEB
by
LACEY DEARIE
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABOUT THE BOOK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PROBLOG
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
EPILOGUE
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
Meet Vicky: Single mother, aspiring novelist, undertaker…and glamorous, seductive private investigator. She and trainee plumber Flic forge the perfect partnership. They trap cheaters, report back to the wives and girlfriends, rake in the cash and then Vicky blogs about it all. The best thing about their job is it’s all done online, so it won’t interfere with their real lives and relationships.
Well, that was the plan.
What they didn’t count on was their first investigation being turned around on them so that they were the ones being investigated and written about - in a national newspaper. Soon, their loved ones want a piece of their secret lives and they discover that Vicky’s family are less than helpful as sidekicks. Her goofy brother Adam discovers the real reason why Flic wants justice for women virtually scorned and invites the woman who destroyed Flic’s happiness five years ago to become a client, with catastrophic consequences for all involved in the business. Meanwhile Vicky’s gobby sister Pamela is given a fake assignment to trap Christos, Vicky’s confidante, to keep her out of the way and makes an unsavoury discovery about him in the process.
It very quickly becomes apparent that they’ve become trapped in a web of lies from which they can’t escape…
“The story rattles along at a satisfying pace and the twists and turns will keep you guessing up until the end. Download this story, you won't be disappointed.” L K Jay, Author of The Ghost Hunters Club
DEDICATION
For my son, Luke and my husband, Alex
Thank you for supporting me xxx
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Unlimited hugs and kisses to my wonderful husband Alex and our son Luke. Thank you for putting up with me and my diva strops while I’ve been writing.
Special thanks to my parents and sister for all the cruise ship memories that kept me inspired when I struggled to remember the real Lumi. I hope we can dream up more characters together on future trips.
Big :)s to all the friends I’ve made online over the years. Special mentions to @Bugleduck and @fenlandgirll for your help with the promotion of this novel and a special mention to @thefusionseries for pointing me in the right direction when preparing the second edition of this novel.
Pink champagne cocktails to Leanne Garvey at Aubrey Kirkham Funeral Directors for providing an insight into the world of being a female funeral director. Thanks also to everyone at The Louis King Jason and Mr Chicken in Paphos for inspiring the Cypriot part of the novel.
Huge thanks and Wee Beasties to Michael King McGee for designing the cover. Without you I’d have been lost in a world of matchstick men and badly spaced lettering.
Finally, thank you to everyone who inspired me to write. It was me sitting at the computer but you all wrote this book too.
PROBLOG
VICKY’S BLOG
1st January – The Vibrator Story
This is a story about vibrators.
Apparently the first thing you must do as a writer is grab the reader’s attention with a fabulous opening. The opening of this blog is my attempt to grab your attention with shock tactics. If I’m ever to make it as a novelist, I have to attract interest in some way.
I’m aware it’s an appalling cliché but I thought I might make a fresh start this year with a new blog. It’s time to inject a little fun back into my writing. So instead of publicising my thoughts and feelings (which is probably a bad idea when you’re as dreary as me), I’ll blog events - just like I used to.
I spent Hogmanay reading blogs of yesteryear and having a glass from the bottle of wine I’d confiscated from Pamela and one of her demonic little friends. I didn’t start drinking until I was old enough to go to pubs but Pamela and her friends are practically alcoholics already. They didn’t seem too bothered that I’d confiscated their booze. Her friend was more miffed that I’d taken her Bag For Life, which makes me think they had more alcohol stashed in Pamela’s room.
This is not about vibrators, I hear you say. I’m getting there.
So, there I was looking after my baby girl, at home, alone, on Hogmanay. I wished I was out getting pissed somewhere, declaring my love to the barman, someone I just met in the toilet or a lamppost. That probably wouldn’t have been fun since it would undoubtedly end in a hangover, but I wished for it anyway. What did I do to take my mind off my loneliness? I cleaned.
I’m not O.C.D. about cleaning. I just had nothing better to do. I started finding things that brought back waves of nostalgia and reminded me of a time when I actually enjoyed life; back when I had a social life, a boyfriend I spent time with, hopes, dreams, and opportunities.
The sadder I became, the more intense the cleaning got. What started as a wee tidy up turned into dusting my chandelier, cleaning skirting boards and tackling the drawer.
Everyone has their own version of the drawer somewhere in their house. It’s that one drawer where you shove everything you don’t have a place for and you then forget about it. Until one night, feeling despondent and slightly tipsy on one glass of wine and wondering why your baby has chosen now to sleep when she could have slept through the supermarket visit earlier instead of screaming her head off, you tackle the cleaning of the drawer.
Guess what I found in the drawer: an old strawberry shaped sponge vibrator I bought in 2002 when I lost my Ann Summers virginity. That’s when my mother started working for Ann Summers. That’s when my life started getting a little crazy.
I moved on from wine to the Magnums in the freezer (yes, the whole box) and shoved said vibrator at the bottom of a crate of my mum’s old junk which was meant for the rubbish bin - right at the bottom. Nobody would find it there, you would think. I know I should have put it in the outside bin but it was pissing from the heavens and I was wearing my pyjamas and slippers!
It was a decision I would later regret.
I ate all the Magnums, put the remains of the wine in the fridge and went to bed, thankful that the night-feed stage of Sasha’s life is over and I can get a full night’s rest.
This morning I woke up with a head like a bag of frogs. I don’t know why. I only had one glass of wine. I lay in bed for half an hour, scared to move in case the frogs moved from my head to my stomach and made me chuck-up. I was feeling sorry for myself. On a night when I should have been with friends or my special someone, I’d been cleaning, while my parents downstairs complained that New Year isn’t what it used to be and my baby sister was in the room next to me having her own private party. My old school friends have all married and settled down, with the exception of Scarlett who flits from one disastrous relationship to the next. My ex, Colin, is (according to Foursquare) in South Africa caring for vervet monkeys. My secret crush is achingly unavailable. And Ian, my excuse for a boyfriend, is someone I haven’t met yet.
That’s right. I ha
ven’t yet met my special someone. Ian and I talked about meeting at New Year. It would be romantic. Then he called it off. Celebrating with his mates, he said. He was at a friend’s house. It was boys only. It was tradition. They do it every year.
It sounded a little bit girly to me.
There came a point when I had to get up because Sasha voiced her objections to hunger. I fed and dressed her and planned to spend the morning playing with her. Then my phone’s waiting message light caught my eye and got the better of my curiosity. What I saw when I opened my inbox changed my plans. I had umpteen emails from Tête-a-net notifications – none of which made any sense.
I grabbed my netbook and logged on. It transpired that Pamela and her friend had nicked my phone again (probably when I was ditching the vibrator) and run amok on my profile.
I must remember to log out in future.
But I was confused. Someone was replying to a hidden comment after “mine.” Why couldn’t I see the whole conversation? Had someone blocked me? The comment was on a holiday snap posted by one of Ian’s mates. I couldn’t work out who had been sufficiently pissed off to warrant a block.
Of course, I then did what any normal person would do. I created a profile for my dog, Bidean, befriended myself, and then viewed the picture as a friend of a friend. Being a neutral user meant I could see ALL the comments.
After I had done so, I really wished I hadn’t. The bile which had threatened to make an appearance all morning finally did and I rushed to the toilet. I can’t explain how much turmoil I was in at that moment. I had all the usual symptoms; head spinning, stomach churning, palms sweating.
I wiped my mouth, blew my nose and dabbed my eyes. Sniffing back the tears I turned to leave the bathroom and caught sight of my second shock of the day: my strawberry shaped sponge vibrator hanging off the cold tap of the bath.
WTF?!?!?!
In horror, I grabbed it, peered round the bathroom door and found my mother on the other side.
‘Oh, you found it. I was just coming to get that out of sight again before your Gran arrives,’ she breezed.
I gave her my best what-the-hell-is-going-on look.
‘Your Dad found it in a box of stuff I was going to throw out. He decided it still had some use left and rescued it,’ she explained, ushering me and the vibrator into my room.
‘W-w-why? Why would he do that?’ I stammered.
‘He has no idea what it is. I explained it wasn’t mine, it was yours. He thinks it’s a massager for your back, from that time you had to lift Mr. What’s-his-name when you were on call last month and hurt yourself.’
It’s true, I am prone to backache. I struggle to lift the heavier people, even when there are more than two of us attending. It’s an occupational hazard of being an undertaker.
I looked down at my vibrator once more and shuddered to think someone – anyone – had found it, let alone my Dad. My Mum must have sensed my awkwardness because she then turned to leave saying, ‘Don’t tell him the truth, he’d be mortified.’
HE would be mortified?
I couldn’t have felt any more pathetic at that point. I was sure of that. Until I absent-mindedly examined the device and realised that not only had he retrieved it, he had also cleaned it and put fresh batteries in it.
FML.
Comments
Christos Polycarpou 1st January 21:45
I was alone too. Jenny and the kids were in bed early. You should have come online for a chat. But what on earth did you find using the dog’s profile that made you vomit?
Vicky Robertson 1st January 21: 48
I wish I’d known :( I’ll email you about what I found.
Adam Robertson 1st January 21:56
Overshare much? Can’t believe you made a profile for the dog to spy on your boyfriend, you bunny boiler! And Bidean hasn’t accepted my friend request yet. Sort it out x
Vicky Robertson 1st January 21:58
You know by now what my blogs are like :P Bidean has decided social networking isn’t for her x
Scarlett McDonald 1st January 22:05
I will ignore the jibe about me flitting from one disastrous relationship to the next. I’ll have you know, I’ve been with Peter since July! And living with him since August. We’re very happy. I didn’t go out last night either. I wasn’t feeling well.
Scarlett McDonald 1st January 22:07
And did you know if you put a 2p piece in the battery connection thingy, those vibrators will go twice as fast? ;)
Adam Robertson 1st January 22:09
@Scarlett TMI!!!
Vicky Robertson 1st January 22:13
Thanks for the tip Scarlett! See you at work x
Ruth Watt 1st January 22:46
I want my Bag For Life back biatch! XXX
Pamela Robertson 1st January 22:53
omg ur so sad getting wreckd on 1 glass of buckfast n who puts it in the fridge??? seriously, ur not normal. luv uuuuuuu! X
1
3rd January
She was about to post an update which read “FUCKING MEN!” being a sign of her exasperation. Then she remembered the theme of updates on this particular site was “What are you doing?” Maybe not then.
Vicky had been glad of an opportunity to get out of the office, even if it was only to visit a local church about special arrangements for an upcoming funeral. It gave her a chance to avoid a blow by blow account of her colleague and best friend Scarlett’s latest step-child related drama. The last one involved replacing Scarlett’s KY Jelly with a medicated spot gel. Vicky shuddered at the memory.
The first working day of January was always disheartening but even more so this year. It always meant another year was over, and another year of what-ifs were just beginning. This time, on top of that and the loneliness she’d felt since Colin left, there was a broken heart she hadn’t expected to have mixed in with everything else.
Sitting down on a bench across from the church, she took in her surroundings. Maybe it was a good opportunity to count her blessings and focus on the positives.
Number one: She was alive. That’s always a good start. And so was her daughter Sasha, despite Vicky’s tendency to catastrophise every little scratch or sniffle Sasha had.
Number two: She was healthy. Ish. She blew her nose on a pre-used tissue and reminded herself it was just a cold.
Number three: She wasn’t Scarlett. That cheered her up even more than being alive. No hypochondria. No drama addiction. No boyfriend who has really no time for a relationship. No demonic teenage step-children. No attitude to life full of regrets and void of ambition.
Number four: She was in a beautiful place that she loved. Yes, it got a bit busy with tourists in the summer, but that was par for the course. To some extent she had her own addiction similar to Scarlett’s need for drama. Her addiction was travelling. So it didn’t bother her when other people took holidays in her home city. And the fact that she loved to travel didn’t change the fact that she adored her home in Inverness.
Staring across the river and allowing herself to become entranced by a random tree and the gushing noises from the river below, Vicky decided to count one more blessing and leave it at that. But which one? She couldn’t count family. They were all nuts. As for friends, well they were all a bit of a dead loss. Most were paired off and had forgotten her in favour of the men in their lives and their own babies. A few had moved away. And the rest were a bit boring these days if she was honest. At some point in the last few years, life had moved them all along and left Vicky behind with only Scarlett to have a laugh with during working hours and her daughter and computer for company in the evenings. There was always Christos. He was a florist she had met through work and started chatting to online. They’d become friends – close friends – with texts, emails and social networking. But they never spent any real time together. He was just the little man who lived in her phone.
There had to be another blessing to count.
Her attention moved from the random tr
ee to the clicking of stiletto heels and a jolt as someone forcefully placed their backside on the opposite end of the bench. She turned her eyes discreetly to see who was sitting next to her, doing her best not to move her head for fear that she might be caught staring. Before she had managed to catch a glimpse she heard a sniff and a sob, followed by a popping cork and the swilling noise of liquid being drained from a bottle. She couldn’t now be discreet. She must look.
The woman didn’t look like a typical wino. Immaculately dressed in a navy shadow-striped suit, red heels and matching red costume jewellery, this woman screamed poser. Vicky examined little details for a moment, like the sharp creases in the navy trouser suit, French manicured nails and the fact that the shoes had been polished enough to reflect the bottle in this woman’s hand. What was that she was drinking? Was that…pink champagne?
This is someone who had made a serious effort just to get drunk on a bench, Vicky surmised. She imagined this is what vagrants would look like in Monte Carlo – if there ever were any. Even this woman’s mascara was perfect, despite the tears. Would it be worth asking what brand that was? Vicky had been looking for a well-behaved mascara for quite some time.
Shaking off the tinges of amusement and respect she felt, Vicky internally sniggered instead. This woman was fabulous and pathetic at the same time.
Blessing number five: She wasn’t spending the first working day of the year crying and getting drunk alone on a bench at half past ten in the morning.
It was almost time for her to meet the beadle to talk about tomorrow’s funeral. Vicky stood and took one last look at the river, mentally telling herself that if she visualised it happening, the water would carry away all her heartbreak. She brushed off the seat of her trousers in case she had picked up any dirt from the bench and turned to walk towards the church – but instead walked straight into a seagull. Human squeals mixed with gull squawks and somehow Vicky lost command of her arms, which had taken on a life of their own, giving her the appearance of an out of control ninja. Swinging her right arm round instinctively, Vicky whacked the poor bird with her handbag, propelling it straight into the fabulously pathetic tramp.
