‘You are bloody kidding me. What the hell . . .?’
Upstairs, the stained-glass front door swung open. Sophie appeared in the doorway, a pearly grin plastered on her beautiful face. She draped a territorial arm around the shoulder of her guest who trotted forwards like a shy Bambi, with those skinny fawn-like legs and that expensive pelt on her back. ‘Bev, meet my friend, Angela Fitzwilliam. She’s the wife of one of Tim’s colleagues from way back. Angie, meet my oldest college pal and PI extraordinaire, Beverley Saunders.’
Angela Fitzwilliam looked as though she’d seen a ghost. ‘You?’
‘I’ve already had the pleasure,’ Bev said, grimacing pointedly at her mangled car. ‘What do you want, Sophie? I’ve got no wheels, thanks to her. How am I supposed to stake out cheating scumbags without a bloody car? I might have a job on in Warrington next week.’
‘Come on, Bev. There’s no need to be so unfriendly,’ Sophie said.
‘Oh, there’s every need.’
Learn to walk away from stressful situations when they threaten to overwhelm you, Dr Mo had told her. Don’t resort to your bad habits to regain control. Remember what’s at stake.
She needed to get out of there.
Pushing past both women, she picked her way around the pushchair, car seats and kid-paraphernalia that littered the otherwise pristine period chic of Sophie’s spacious hallway, and descended the narrow stone stairs to her poky basement flat. Sophie had deigned to rent to it to her at an only slightly discounted mates’ rates. Bev couldn’t stick her key in the lock quickly enough. She slammed the door behind her, praying that even someone as single-minded as her oldest friend would realise Bev was in no mood to make small talk with the reckless cow who had ruined her day.
Flinging herself onto the sofa, choking back a sob, she examined the origami kit. Obviously, once the delicate structure was complete, she would plonk it with the thousands of other cranes, flowers, dragons that were gathering dust on her display shelving. The itch would be scratched. She’d be back to buckling beneath the weight of disappointment, with the zero in her thirty years of age representing the emptiness of an existence where she felt distinctly sub-prime in the prime of her life ; where she’d failed with aplomb.
With determined fingers, she started to tear at the cellophane.
There was a knock at the door, leaving her poised mid-rip. Sophie shouted through from the other side. Her voice sounded tinny in the claustrophobic subterranean space at the bottom of the stairs, which constituted a vestibule of sorts.
‘Are you OK, sweets? Can we come in?’
Hiding her new acquisition in plain sight among the clutter on her coffee table, Bev opened the door. Both of them were standing there, a picture of Harper’s Bazaar perfection.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, suddenly feeling cheap and scruffy in supermarket jeans that were worn at the knees and a rower’s top from college that was stained on the belly. ‘I already gave her my details.’ She leaned against the architrave, arms folded. Legs crossed. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Oh, don’t be like that. Let us in.’ Sophie winked. Strong-armed her way past Bev as though she owned the place, which of course, she did. ‘Angie needs to talk to you.’
‘No! No, it’s fine,’ Angie said, folding her arms and turning to leave. ‘Let’s forget it.’
‘Nonsense.’ Sophie reached back and yanked her friend inside.
The dark, one-bedroomed flat felt overstuffed with three people in it. Bev waited for the kettle to boil, watching Angie through the crack in the kitchenette door. The two women were pointing at Bev’s origami collection, nodding and cooing over the delicate creations. But Bev could see them exchange a glance and wrinkle their noses. She was certain she heard the word, ‘dusty’ said by one of them.
‘Stinks in here, doesn’t it?’ she said, emerging with a cafetière of coffee and three cups on a tray. A packet of digestives that she knew only she would eat, judging by the telltale thick hair that grew on Angie’s forearms – a classic symptom of anorexia. And Sophie didn’t do carbs. ‘That’s because I collect black mould as well as origami. Tim won’t tank the basement properly. You’re married to a slum landlord, Soph. Ha ha.’
Dr Mo had told her to try to let go of her bitterness, thereby freeing up more positive energy with which to improve her life. But Mo hadn’t been taken for a ride by a disease like her ex, Rob. Mo wasn’t fighting to make ends meet. Mo wasn’t under the scrutiny of social services.
Ignoring the pointed comment, Sophie motioned regally that Angie should sit. Both of them perched gingerly on the edge of the sofa, like glittering Lalique vases wedged amongst the junk in a high street thrift shop.
Sipping her black coffee, Sophie waited until all eyes were on her. Then, finally, she revealed the reason for the visit. ‘Angie needs your help. Don’t you?’
Bev was surprised when tears started to fall freely from this stranger’s perfectly made-up eyes. The Bev of old would have clucked around her, knowing instinctively how to cope with this outpouring. But then, her former self wouldn’t have felt such an outsider in her own home. Who the hell was this woman, with her beige Gucci loafers and her silk scarf wrapped artfully around her neck? She looked as if she’d just come from a yoga session in some pocket-Ashram above an organic butchers or artisan bakery.
Whipping her new origami set from under her cup and replacing it with an unopened overdue gas bill, Bev offered her visitor the last tissue from a Kleenex box.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Angie said. ‘You don’t even know me and . . .’ She shook her head.
‘Jerry’s a bully,’ Sophie said. ‘Angie’s husband . . . he watches their bank account like a hawk, doesn’t he, Ange? And Angie’s certain he plays away when he’s down in London. Maybe up here, too.’ She turned to Bev, her porcelain cheeks flushed with the enthusiastic glow of a gossip who was on fire. Patted Angela’s leg as if she was a child who needed nothing more than a good bit of advocacy from a grown-up who knew best. ‘He’s a dog and she needs to put him down.’
Angie toyed with her rings. ‘Hang on a minute, Soph. I wouldn’t say that—’
But Sophie wasn’t listening. ‘Jerry used to work on the trading floor with Tim at Lieberman Brothers. The boys were so close, they got a pied-à-terre together, didn’t they, Angie?’ Her eyes were glassy as though she’d just hoovered a line of coke, though Sophie had always been steadfastly anti-drugs. She always got like this when she was on a mission. She’d been no different at college. Save the Children fund ; Oxfam ; Antonia on the ground corridor whose dad was being a pig. Do-gooding Sophie to the rescue with her sponsored walks and her Kum-Ba-Ya positivity and her leaflet-distributions. Tea, chat and a damp basement flat. ‘The two of them fast-tracked from being the hotshot new grad-trainees to masters of the universe in next to no time. They were quite the dream team. Before it all went . . .’ Her carefully shaped eyebrows bunched together as if in disbelief that those particular tits should have gone quite so spectacularly up in the period following the crash of 2009. ‘Jerry’s always been such an alpha. I’m not surprised Angie wants to make a break.’
‘What do you want, Angela?’ Bev watched the visitor’s spine curve like a whippy branch bent in a stiff wind. ‘You want a divorce?’
Those beautifully made-up eyes darted from Sophie to the iPhone she’d set down amongst the detritus on Bev’s coffee table. Her voice was small when she spoke. ‘Well, yes.’ A blotchy rash had started to crawl its way out of the bounds of the silk scarf and up towards her chin. She scratched the pad of her index finger with her thumbnail. Scratching. Scratching.
‘Angie needs to get irrefutable grounds for divorce. Dig up dirt on Jerry. That sort of thing.’ Sophie nudged her friend. ‘Show her the picture!’
Looking at the photo that Angie pushed into her hands, Bev studied Jerry Fitzwilliam’s face. Instant recognition. ‘The bloody shadow Science Minister? Are you kidding me?’ She started to laugh. ‘He was on breakfast telly this morning! T
he toast of Westminster and Labour’s great white hope? He’s our local MP too, isn’t he?’ She shook her head vociferously, imagining being revenge-stalked by some terrifying goon from MI5 or MI6 or whatever the hell it was. ‘I’m not poking my long-range lens anywhere near this guy. It’s beyond me. Seriously, Angela. I’m flattered you thought I’d be able to help, and God bless Sophie for believing in me. But I’m a marketing wonk who turned to a bit of PI work because . . . let’s just say, circumstances demanded it. Long story. Seriously. Get a pro with an expenses account and a five-star rating on Trustpilot. Actually, just get a bloody divorce lawyer like everyone else and get on with it.’
Angie reached out and snatched up her phone. Barely glancing at Bev. ‘I never should have come here. I’m sorry. It’s not as if I can pay you, anyway.’
‘You can’t pay?’ Bev was on her feet, now. What kind of bullshit had Sophie brought to her door? A woman with fashionably jutting hips and a high-profile husband who lacked the gumption to stand on her own two pedicured feet.
She ushered the two towards the front door. ‘Do me a favour, Soph. Don’t bring potential clients to me if they’re looking for a freebie. I can’t pay my bills with goodwill.’
‘She can pay, Bev!’ Sophie clearly wouldn’t admit defeat. Blustering like a WI federation leader. ‘Stop being so mean. You must help her. The impact that this is bound to be having on Angie’s children is just—’
‘Will you please not speak about me as if I’m not in the room?’ Angie said with a sudden acidity to her voice that seemed to change the pH value in the room. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing Jerry does all the time. I’m quite capable of telling Bev myself.’
Feeling whiplash from the crash really starting to bite into her shoulder muscles, Bev just wanted to be alone. Two painkillers and a kip before Molly Peters, a paying client, turned up at 2 p.m. to see the photos Bev had taken of her shitehawk of a husband, holding hands with his pert work colleague in Blackpool Starbucks. Maybe the rescue truck would show up to take her broken car in the interim. That was the extent of her ambition.
She held the front door open. ‘Look, Angela. I take happy snaps of snogging builders and IT bods when they’re bonking in Travelodges. But digging up dirt about someone in the public eye? For free? You’re on your own. I’m sorry.’
CHAPTER 2
Angie
The warm sun streaming in through the shutters meant it was a good day to ask for a divorce. Didn’t it? The paparazzi were outside. Sure. Poppy’s eczema had flared up again. Well, that was par for the course. Benjy was throwing his nibbled toast across the kitchen like a broken boomerang, screaming when he didn’t get it back. But Angie had been waiting for the right moment for weeks, before Sophie had put the idea of ‘making a case’ into her head. Today was the first day the rain had finally stopped. It was a sign. She’d do it now. She didn’t need Beverley Saunders.
‘Don’t want toast!’ Benjy yelled, banging his balled fist onto the table. ‘Benjy wants choccy. Get me choccy, Mummy.’
With a quailing heart, she took in the sight of her five-year-old son’s bright-red face. Her eyes. Her length of limb. Her platinum blonde hair. The temper was all his father’s.
‘No, darling.’ She picked the soggy, masticated toast up off the floor, hoping Jerry wouldn’t kick up a stink again that grease marks had permeated the wood. Reclaimed parquet from a French chateau needed to be treated with respect, he’d said. Why the hell couldn’t she just put a mat beneath the children when they ate? She’d conceded it was a fair point and had apologised. Now, here she was again, caught in the same predicament. Angry Benjy who hated the mat because it made him feel like a baby. Sneering Jerry, who couldn’t see why the hell she failed to mother her own children properly.
She sighed, rinsing out the cloth and cursing softly when she noticed the shellac polish on her nails had chipped.
The doorbell rang. Reporters, clamouring to get the press conference started. Jerry was keeping them waiting. Jolly whistling coming from the en suite as he prepared for the glare and flash of the cameras. If she asked quickly, he’d be so busy, he might not even process her request until the evening, giving him time to respond calmly, in a considered manner. I want a divorce, she’d say. It’s not you. It’s me. Let’s do this like civilised adults.
‘Choccy! Benjy wants choccy.’ Her son threw his plate at her head. ‘Get Benjy choccy, bitch!’
Poppy started to laugh hysterically at her brother, scratching and scratching at the florid, scabbed crooks of her arms. ‘You’re naughty!’
Angela reached out to her daughter, silently processing what Benjy had just called her. ‘Leave the scabs, darling. They’ll bleed. Mummy will put cream on for you after breakfast.’
‘I want Gretchen to do it,’ Poppy said, snatching her arm away. Clawing at the rash. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone on holiday to Austria, sweetie, to see her family. Mummy will do your cream.’
Bitch. A spiteful word that made Angie’s stomach twist into knots. Benjy had overheard his father using it. Maybe she had driven him to it. That had been his excuse. Nagging bitch. Frigid bitch. Maybe she was at fault and should just be thankful for this wonderful life he so generously funded and these children he had given her. Put her plans to start again on a back-burner indefinitely. Think of the children. They needed stability.
No.
She shook her head. Remembered Sophie’s words of encouragement : You can do it, Angie. Nobody should accept a life sentence of unhappiness. If you’ve given up on love, you’ve been looking for it in the wrong place. Do it when he’s distracted and the nanny’s not there. It will be fine. Jerry’s a reasonable guy.
Sophie had to be right. Sophie was always right, after all. Especially after a couple of gin and slims. And wasn’t the sun streaming merrily through the kitchen shutters as though God had ordained that her fresh start should begin this very morning?
‘Bitch! Bitch! Choccy, bitchy bitch!’
‘Don’t use that horrid word, Benjamin,’ she said, cleaning the boy’s hands with a wet wipe. ‘That’s really not a nice thing to call ladies, especially Mummy who loves you very much. Drink your milk please.’
‘No! I can’t have it.’
She wasn’t sure which stung more – the fact that her son slapped her or that his blow fell on a bruised rib that still smarted. ‘Oh, that’s not very nice, Benjamin Fitzwilliam.’
‘What’s not nice?’
Jerry had appeared in the threshold to the kitchen, still fiddling with his tie. He smiled warmly but his eyebrow was raised. He expected a response.
‘Just Benjy being silly, darling. I’ve made you a coffee.’
She smoothed her hair behind her ear and trudged over to the counter.
‘You’re walking like a hod carrier again, Angela.’ Her husband strode over and slapped her on her cashmere, legging-clad bottom. ‘A big filly like you should trot, not shuffle.’ He laughed at his own joke. ‘Think of the example you’re setting Poppy.’
Big filly. Her stomach growled. She fingered the waistband of her size 0 leggings and acknowledged silently that they had grown tight of late. Today, she would only drink boiled water infused with lemon. Go to the gym once the kids were at nursery. Even if he agreed to divorce, she’d need to keep trim. She could hear the taunts of her old school pals from the tough teen years when she had been big. Angie the Arse. Bloater Bedford. She’d lost the weight and swapped the hurtful school pals for a husband who called her Fatty Fitzwilliam, though he swore blind to all their friends that it was merely, ‘in an ironic way’.
The children were delighted to see their father, of course, unaware that each of his words cut into her carefully moisturised skin. They stretched out their little arms to him, wanting to be swept up and swung into the air. But Daddy was preparing for the camera, only doling out hair ruffles and a peck on the forehead this morning.
‘What do you think of Daddy’s tie, eh kids? Will it look good
on the TV when I talk about my new proposed Green Paper?’
‘Oh, Jerry, the children don’t know what a Green Paper is.’ Now was her chance. She turned to Poppy and Benjy, treating them to her most beatified smile, lest they cotton on to what was about to take place. It was important they knew as little as possible of any parental anguish or strife. Hadn’t she been careful to give them the dream childhood? Organic food ; designer clothes ; music lessons ; the best Austrian nanny money could fund ; a packed schedule of exciting and improving activities. The least she owed them was carefully stage-managed change. ‘Go and play, darlings. Mummy needs to talk to Daddy about boring grown-up things.’
Poppy led Benjy away from their undersized kiddy-table and chairs. They thundered off towards the playroom, oblivious to what was about to take place.
Angie’s heart thudded against the prominent bones of her ribcage. She fingered her pearls, trying to appear calm and keep the tremor out of her voice.
Jerry had seated himself at the breakfast table and was scrolling through the messages on his phone. Slurping his coffee as though the world’s press wasn’t waiting outside for their favourite shadow Science Minister, about to pronounce on the latest opposition party line on renewable energy. He didn’t have a clue, did he?
Now, they were alone. She took a deep breath and held it, poised to blurt out the lines she’d rehearsed over and over. Two years of desperate longing. Her head swam with a mixture of dread and adrenaline. Somewhere beneath that toxic cocktail lurked a base note of euphoria.
Standing in front of him, she said the introductory words quickly. ‘Jerry, I’m unhappy.’
He kept scrolling. Thumbing that damned iPhone screen. Had he even heard?
‘Did you hear me? I said I’m not happy, Jerry.’ She took a seat opposite him. Splayed her reed-thin fingers wide on the glass tabletop. Felt her pulse flick-flickering into overdrive all over her body.
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