Cloverdale Walk was on a hill. About twenty new-build houses stood next to each other going down said hill, tall brick dominoes ready to fall. Number eight had a neatly kept lawn and a hanging basket either side of the front door. Someone liked their gardens here, all right. There was a small poster in the front room window next to the front door that read BEWARE OF THE CHIHUAHUA.
Chihuahua?
I didn’t even know Doug had a dog.
I hated Chihuahuas. I hated any dog where there was a danger you might tread on it by mistake.
Yelp!
And it got me to thinking. How many more things was he keeping from me?
The front room window boasted those net curtains that went up in the middle. I’d never understood them. Either you wanted a good net to stop folk looking in and to afford you some bleeding privacy or you didn’t.
She obviously didn’t.
She may as well have flashed her knickers for all the road to see.
As my mam would’ve said. One word. ‘Common’. God, Vera. Talk about lousy taste!
I knew Doug wouldn’t be in as it was the middle of the working day and I’d phoned his office and asked to be put through to him. And just as I was I’d hung up and headed out. But even so my heart was in my mouth as I reached out and pressed the doorbell.
It played a tune.
I hated doorbells that played tunes.
It played ‘Greensleeves’. I knew that from school as our music teacher Mrs Jones had told us that Henry the Eighth composed it. She’d told us this to impress, like we should’ve thought it was cool. Like Henry the Eighth was practically him off the Bay City Rollers.
I hated ‘Greensleeves’ as well. Who the heck was Doug married to?!
I saw the net curtain ruffle a bit. Clearly Vera was checking to see who was calling. I picked a bit of fluff off my Fair Isle sweater and got my name badge ready to show, smartly covering my right nipple, but I made sure I had it the wrong way round so I wouldn’t actually have to tell my love rival my real name, and as she opened the door I smiled sweetly.
‘Hello. I’m a Pretty Lady.’
And I have to be honest. She did look slightly alarmed.
‘It’s the name of the company,’ I added, apologetically. ‘Can I ask if you’ve got five minutes to talk through your beauty regime?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Have you got five minutes? For a quick chat about beauty. And how I might be able to help you.’
As if. As if I’d ever be able to help this ravishing beauty.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, closing the door. ‘This is a really bad time.’
The door shut in my face. She had sounded like she was about to cry. I instinctively crouched down and opened the letter box.
‘Is everything all right?’ I called through. No response. ‘Anything I can help with, dear?’
Again no reply. I called again, ‘Everything okay in your marriage?!’
Still she didn’t reply. Then I saw her walking towards the front door.
‘What did you say?’
‘I was just saying. I hope I’ve not offended you, madam.’
‘No. Not at all. Family bereavement.’
And she walked away.
Family bereavement? Who the bloody hell had died? Doug hadn’t told me anyone had died, and he told me everything. Well, he said he did. It would appear my journey here had been pointless. I picked up my Pretty Lady briefcase and walked back down her path and tried to memorize everything I had seen when she’d opened the door.
She was wearing a black pencil skirt and a clingy dark grey V-neck sweater that I would have bet a dollar to a dime that she wasn’t wearing a bra under. She had pale tights on and no shoes. Around her neck there was a gold chain with a locket hanging off it. I dreaded to think what was in there. Around one wrist, the wrist that held the hand that held open the door, was a silver charm bracelet that contained many charms. The two I could remember were a dog and a bottle. Like a wine bottle. She had no make-up on. Or if she did it was very subtle. She had no earrings in, but did have piercings. She had amazingly soft blue eyes. And her blonde wispy hair was tied back into a ponytail, but was still short enough at the front to fall into a fringe. A thick fringe. This lady was never going to go bald.
I had a sudden image of her bald. Bald as a coot with one wisp of question-mark-shaped hair bouncing in the breeze. It did make me smile, I have to be honest. Okay, so I was cruel. So what!
Her hall carpet was cream coloured and looked reasonably new. Either that or it had recently been cleaned. The wallpaper in the bit of hall that I could see was shiny, like it had an effect to make it look like mother of pearl. There was an oval-shaped mirror behind Vera’s head that I could see myself reflected in.
None of these things really gave me any more clues to what I could learn about the state of Vera, her personality and her marriage. This was most annoying. My cunning plan was that she’d be so interested in talking all things make-up and beauty and hair and the like that she’d practically drag me inside, throw a Mellow Bird’s down my neck, and then start inappropriately confiding in me about how bad her marriage was so she was embarking on an extra-marital affair, and then I’d be able to grass her up, somehow, to Doug, who’d then leave her and come and live with me full time.
But nothing ever went according to plan, did it? Oh God.
This was not good. Not good at all. I’d have to find some other way to accidentally bump into her.
And who the hell was she bereaving when they were at home? I needed to know! I couldn’t just say to Doug, ‘Who’s died in your family recently?’ as it’d make me look as if I had inside information. And I couldn’t go giving the game away.
At the top of the cul-de-sac I turned to look back to the house. No sign of movement. It was then, though, that I saw her neighbour’s front door open, and a portly woman with a headscarf tucked back behind her ears like a gypsy from a picture book bent down and put her empty milk bottles out. She then hurried back in.
Now that was what I called a Pretty Lady magnet. I hurried back. And knocked on her door.
‘Hiya! I’m a Pretty Lady?’
She too looked alarmed, but not for long.
To say Gwen Jenkins was a pushover would be over-exaggerating, but stuff me with a bag of sausage meat, once I got her going she sang like she’d OD’d on frigging canary food. She practically dragged me into her house because she ‘took her beauty regimens very seriously’.
As she was trying out all the samples, neatly laid on her oval dining table in what she described as her ‘through-lounge ambience’, I complimented her on her serving hatch.
‘It’s extra large,’ she boasted. ‘My Malcolm’s very good with his carpentry.’
‘Just like Joseph!’ I quipped, feeling a little bit biblical. But it was a waste of time. Because she answered, ‘Oh, is your fella into carpentry too?’
First rule of beauty product selling. Never make your customer feel thick or ugly. So I just nodded and squirted some hand cream into her open palm.
‘Thank you!’ she said, all overcome, and rubbed her hands together, like this was the very elixir of life.
‘I was just next door,’ I said casually, taking a sip from the rather bland cup of tea she’d made me. ‘You know, with Vera. Isn’t she lovely?’
I could tell she was impressed.
‘Oh yes. We’re very lucky, neighbour-wise.’
Then I sighed dramatically. ‘Poor Vera.’
I could see Gwen was immediately up for a gossip.
‘Oh I know, it’s shocking,’ she said, lowering her voice as if the walls might be wafer thin. ‘She must be in bits. Well, we’re all in shock really. We’d met Muriel several times, truth be told. I mean, I knew she liked a drink but . . .’
‘Did she?’
‘Strictly between us this is, yeah?’
‘Of course.’
Who was Muriel??
‘So, anyway.’ She leaned in even closer to me. She was about to explain who Muriel was. EXCITING! ‘Does Vera take these products, then?’
Oh.
I had to keep her on side.
‘Well. I’m not meant to say owt but . . .’
Her eyes widened with anticipation. Vera was definitely the most beautiful woman for miles around. If I made out she used my products I could make a killing.
‘She likes to pretend she gets the posh stuff from the department stores.’
Gwen nodded; she knew what was coming.
‘And I could never confirm or deny who uses what. I’m not a tell-tale tit.’
‘Me neither!’ she beamed.
‘But let’s just say. I’m very familiar with her through-lounge.’
I didn’t know where that came from. And neither did Gwen. ‘She hasn’t got a through-lounge. We’re the only ones with a through-lounge in the cul-de-sac.’
‘No, I know. It’s just . . . a turn of phrase. I get a bit carried away sometimes.’
‘Oh, I see!’ And now Gwen looked most relieved. ‘So . . . which ones does lovely lovely Vera . . . perhaps . . . or perhaps . . . hide away in her cupboards, then?’ She eyed the various tubs and bottles eagerly.
I picked a few at random, sliding them across the Formica towards her. She swivelled some of them round to inspect them.
‘I’ve just had a brain freeze,’ I said, trying a different tack.
‘Is that a new treatment? Is it like a facial? My friend had a facial. Said it made her look like Selina Scott.’
‘No. No. My mind’s gone blank. Who was Muriel again?’
‘Muriel? Vera’s mum.’
‘What am I like?!’
‘It’s so sad. So tragic,’ she said, her expression suddenly sombre as she squeezed some face cream onto her hand and then started dabbing it on her cheeks.
‘Yes. The way she went.’
‘And it wasn’t a nice car crash, if you know what I mean.’
‘No. No.’
‘What with them kiddies in the back.’
‘This is it.’
‘And her three times over the limit.’
‘Three, yes.’
Bloody hell. This sounded so gruesome! Muriel, Vera’s mam, had died in a car crash? While she was over the limit? And she had Doug’s kids in the back? This was like something out of a horror story! No wonder Vera had been all over the place when I’d rung her Greensleeves bell! I almost felt sorry for the cow.
‘I said to my one. I said, she sat right by that serving hatch Boxing Day. Polished off a whole box of liqueurs.’
‘Blimey.’
‘The warning signs were there, love.’
‘Weren’t they just?’
‘And I don’t meant to be rude but . . . can I be frank?’
‘Of course.’
She took her time. Then eventually said, as quiet as quiet could be: ‘She once did a poo in my walk-in wardrobe.’
That did actually make me feel sick. But as I needed to keep plugging her for information I couldn’t let on.
‘Muriel?’
‘Yes. Muriel. And it wasn’t a nice poo, if you know what I mean.’
Oh. My. Giddy. Aunt.
‘Dirty bitch,’ I said, unable to help myself. But Gwen concurred.
‘That’s what I called her. Vera was the colour of that.’
She pointed to her puce curtains.
‘We’ve not really spoken since. Embarrassed, see.’
‘Well, when your mam poos in your neighbour’s walk-in wardrobe . . .’ I said, letting the potential end of the sentence hang silently in the air. She could finish it any which way she wanted. And she did. Whatever she imagined me saying, she agreed with.
‘This is it. I bobbed over with a condolence card when I saw the piece in the Evening News. She seemed grateful. Especially when I said she could now ignore the bill I’d popped through her letter box for the carpet cleaning and . . . well, let’s just call it the dry-cleaning on my palazzo pants.’
‘Very big of you, Gwen.’
‘This is it, love. I’m a very big woman.’
You could say that again.
‘Funeral’s tomorrow.’
‘Is it?’
‘Yes. At the crem.’
‘Will you go?’
‘No. And of course . . . he’s been banned.’
‘Who?’
‘Her Douglas.’
WHAT A BITCH! Banning her own husband from her mother’s funeral! No wonder he was knocking me off!
‘Has he?’
‘Well, they never got on. And coz she was always half cut she was always claiming all sorts about him.’
‘Like what? I’ve always found Douglas lovely.’
‘Oh, she said he had a roving eye. Bit too easy with his hands when he’s hugging you, kind of thing. I mean, we know it’s all nonsense. Bit fond of the younger ladies, but then which fella isn’t?’
‘Not Douglas, surely!’ I said in mock horror.
‘She said he once got drunk and told her . . . he told her . . . I shouldn’t be repeating this . . .’
‘Gwen. When we join up to be a Pretty Lady, we have to sign a form.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, saying that whatever we hear in a consultation . . . stays there. I’m practically a priest. You can tell me anything.’
‘He said he wished he’d never married anyone as pretty as Vera.’
I was overjoyed, naturally.
‘Why would he say that?’
‘Because he said ugly women were more grateful in bed.’
And that was like a dagger to the heart. My instinct was to defend him, though.
‘Oh, she’d’ve been making that up.’
‘Muriel?’
‘Big fat piss-head, course she were making it up. Doug’s lovely. D’you want these products or not?’
I was getting snappy. I’d lost patience with her. And that was bad. That was not the way to complete a sale, and I knew it. First rule of the Pretty Company? Never lose your temper. Hold onto it at all times. So I took a deep breath, and I leaned in to her.
‘Forgive my short fuse, Gwen, temper-wise. It’s just I have Vera banging on about this stuff morning, noon and night. If she thinks Doug wouldn’t stray, I say he wouldn’t neither.’
She looked like she knew something but wasn’t telling. ‘If you say so.’
‘Why? What do you know?’
‘Nothing.’ She was being all nonchalant, and pretending to inspect my products.
‘Tell me,’ I said.
‘I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding.’
‘What was?’
‘What he was caught doing in Denise McAdam’s lean-to after their Cheryl’s eighteenth.’
My blood ran cold.
‘What was he caught doing?’
‘There was probably just an innocent explanation for it all.’
‘For what?’
‘It’s just none of us could think of one.’
‘For what?’
‘Having his hand up Cheryl’s skirt. She said he’d got her tipsy on rum punch and wasn’t sure what was going on. He said he walked into the lean-to and she practically threw herself at him.’
‘Well, he is pigging handsome. And from what I hear, that Cheryl’s got a reputation.’
Gwen looked most interested. ‘Has she?’
Of course I was making it up now, but I embroidered a few fancy tales about my sister and made out they were about this Cheryl, whoever she was. And as far as I was concerned she was a bit of a slut. Well, what do you expect when you hurl yourself at my Doug at your eighteenth birthday party?
I did not like the sound of Cheryl.
In my eyes, Cheryl was the ultimate suburban slut.
I didn’t dare think the obvious, though. I didn’t dare for one second allow myself to think that any of these rumours could be true. I’d gone in search of stories about Vera. Last thing I wanted was mud chucked at Doug.
Jealousy. That’s what this was about. Out and out jealousy. Doug were a handsome chappy and they all wanted a slice of the man and so, short of chucking their car keys in the fruit bowl every time they went round each other’s houses, what could they do to snare him?
Pounce on him, that’s what.
This whole street was a hive of pouncers. And I didn’t like it one bit. I’d a good mind to go round to this Cheryl’s house and slap her round her lying little face. She’d certainly been asking for it.
I knew her sort. They might’ve had nicer houses than me and our Josie but they defo had slacker morals and even looser knicker elastic. They were ferried everywhere in fast cars to places like Guides and church hall discos. They got a whole matching outfit for Christmas and Easter. They had pop stars on their walls and a record player that matched the carpet. And they were bored. Bloody bloody bastard bored, and so they mooned over the man across the road and had a cheeky extra drink whenever he came round. And eventually they got tired of waiting, waiting for him to stick his hand up their skirt, and so what did they go and do? They went and did it themselves.
Here you go, Dougie. Don’t be shy. I won’t tell a soul.
Oh, sorry. Someone’s just walked in and caught us.
It was him – it was all his doing!
Oh yes. I’d wipe that smirk off her lying little face all right.
Gwen was looking a bit worried.
I couldn’t really remember what I’d just said.
I knew I’d been slagging Cheryl off. But I think Gwen was shocked by how angry I’d got.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, then swallowed, like she was scared.
‘Fine, Gwen. Sorry. You can probably tell me and this Cheryl have history.’
‘Right.’
‘She did the same to my fella a while back.’
‘Your Joseph? The carpenter?’
I nodded. ‘And now it’s the talk of the wash house. That he’s a dirty old man.’
‘I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I’ll make sure the neighbours know. She’s not to be trusted.’
‘She’s not.’
Well, I’d certainly put that one to bed, eh?
‘If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you?’
‘I’m thirty-six.’
‘My God, you look about twenty.’
Cheeky bitch, I was only eighteen.
‘Exactly. And it’s all down to the Pretty Company.’
Within five minutes she’d given me the best part of thirty quid. And I’d left there knowing that the neighbours would stop thinking my Doug was a knicker-twitching randy old toad.
Job done, Shirley. Job done.
I felt like I should’ve got a promotion for what I’d done there. If that’d been part of my job I’d be management level by now. But it wasn’t. There was no-one I could tell about what I’d done as it was very much not allowed.
Oh yeah, Doug? I went snooping at your neighbour’s. Heard some horrendous gossip but it’s okay, darling. I nipped it in the bud.
No. I’d sound like a pigging psycho.
I went straight into town. I went to the library. I asked for a copy of every local paper for the past week and sifted through till I found what I wanted. The death announcement for someone called Muriel and the details of her funeral. I just had to get there. I didn’t know how; I didn’t really know why. I just wanted to be in the same space as Vera for half an hour to see what I could glean about her. Gwen had said Doug wouldn’t be going to the service, and I hoped she was right. Because my cover would defo be blown if he walked in and saw me. But also, I didn’t want Vera to clock me and think, There’s that Pretty Lady who came to my door yesterday.
What I needed . . . was a disguise.
And then . . . on to Narnia!
The woman in Narnia, the fancy dress shop, was either very flattering, very impressed, or trying to make a quick sale. Either way it worked. She told me I had a blank canvas face. Whereas up until now I thought I was a bit of a Plain Jane, she told me otherwise. What I had was the canvas on which any picture could be painted. ‘And that, lady,’ she said between puffs on a ciggie, ‘is a godsend to fancy dress.’ She said with the right outfit, the right wig and the right sort of make-up I could pass myself off as anything from a scullery maid to a woman of high office. I quite liked the sound of that, and for once I appreciated the face that God gave me.
At first I’d thought, rather over-dramatically I now realized, that maybe I’d dress up as an old lady and make out I’d been a pal of the deceased. I fancied myself in a white curly wig, lumpy tights, a nylon frock and some sensible shoes, doddering down the aisle with a walking stick and a best handbag. But with some simple advice from the smoking lady of fancy dress, I realized that with a simple pair of specs, a cap and a pretend ponytail, I was unrecognizable. And that would do for me.
Next, I had to find out exactly when the funeral was taking place. That was easy enough to do. Once I got home and leafed through the phone book for the number of the crem I phoned them up and did my doddery old lady voice and asked what time Muriel’s funeral was ‘on the morrow’. God knows why I said ‘on the morrow’; it sounded so wrong as the words left my lips, but the fella at the crem didn’t seem to mind, and informed me it was ten in the morning. ‘Better than ten at night!’ I quipped, over-egging it a bit, I must say. ‘I’m tucked up in my three-quarter by then at the resting home!’
Yes, I knew it should have been ‘care home’, but I was so pigging chuffed he believed I was an actual old woman, I got a bit carried away.
Ten on the morrow it was.
I planned that my name would be Janine, if anyone was to ask. But let’s be honest. When you go to a funeral and you see someone you don’t know, you don’t exactly bound up to them and go, ‘Hiya, how did you know the corpsified one, kid?’ Well, I knew I wouldn’t anyway. Janine, I reckoned, worked in Muriel’s local shop and loved serving her coz she was a laugh, and always came in for those little bottles of vodka. Or maybe she was a barmaid in a local pub? Hmm, I wasn’t sure what best suited her as I didn’t know how secret her drinking was.
The more worrying concern was, I had no idea where Muriel had lived. So if anyone did say, ‘Oh, which pub?’ or ‘Oh, which shop?’ I wouldn’t have the foggiest where I had worked, or rather, where Janine had worked.
This wouldn’t do.
Just in case.
Someone might ask.
And the last thing I wanted to do was arouse suspicion.
I kicked the bin over in the kitchen. I sometimes did that if I was in a foul mood.
I could wait till the morning. Ask Doug when he came round.
But that too might arouse suspicion. Why would I all of a sudden be interested in his mother-in-law and where she lived, etc.?
Maybe I could ask roundabout questions.
‘What’s going on in your life, cock?’
But Doug didn’t offer stuff up about his family. He knew it upset me. And he didn’t like to see me upset.
No. I knew what was coming. I got my cap on, my glasses and ponytail, and headed back off to the high street and towards the library. Again!
Janine asked if she could find any more local news articles about the recent car crash and the woman behind the counter was most helpful. Within fifteen minutes, Janine was sat at a desk reading all about Muriel Gatsby’s high jinks again, but this time looking for proof of where she lived. God, no wonder she was Vera’s mother; this woman sounded like a complete piece of work.
Janine made some notes in a notepad, taking it all in. Muriel lived not too far from me, truth be told. I wondered if Doug ever popped in to see her after deflowering me of my so-called innocence each morning. But then I remembered what Gwen had said about them both practically hating each other’s guts, so I decided that was unlikely. She was in her early seventies and had taken to the bottle after her husband had died from cancer five years ago.
God, you could learn a lot from a local rag!
She had been arrested several times for drunk and disorderly behaviour and wasn’t meant to have her grandkids in the car that day, but she had picked them up from school as a surprise and taken them for a ride, which is when she’d hit an empty bus which was returning to the depot. The kids had come out pretty much unscathed, but she’d not been wearing a seat belt and had hit the windscreen and hey presto. Bye bye Muriel.
I didn’t like Muriel.
Well, she didn’t like my Doug.
And what she’d put them kiddies through. I mean, face facts, I was no fan of Abigail, but them kiddies could have been brown bread as well.
Oh, I had to get to this funeral quick smart. And see what a train wreck this Vera must really be, having had a mother like that.
I was beginning to feel very confident about me and Doug’s future.
Very confident indeed!
That night I dreamt I was at the funeral. But when they brought the coffin in it all went a bit loopy. I looked to the back of the crem and saw some pallbearers carrying a huge silver platter. And on top of the platter was Vera, in a swimsuit, microphone in hand, singing, ‘Have you met Miss Jones?’
I woke up in an oddly confusing sweat, then couldn’t get back to sleep again.
Obviously I was very excited about what lay ahead.