Chapter Fifteen

 

 

 

There’s garbled shouting going on outside the main doors of Hangley Grange, and I don’t need proximity to recognize Mo by the language flying like nunchuks. As I get closer, I can see a flashing blue light outside the gate. Shit.

You leave a party for some hush-hush sex and all hell lets loose, complete with the boys in blue.

I feel like I’ve walked into a No Sex Please, We’re British production.

I pull Will aside quickly. “I’ll talk to the police. Let me do the schmoozing, okay? It’ll be fine. Nothing untoward—you’re entitled to have a house party even in a mansion.”

Will nods and we split up to each fulfill our roles in diplomacy.

I reach Mo and, as I do, her shouting turns to floods of tears. Which is going to play havoc with her warpaint let alone her mascara. It’s only then that I notice she has a torn top and the massive shiner of a black eye is not face camouflage gone wrong.

“Mo! What the hell happened here? Who did that to you?” I’m incensed. When I first heard Annie’s claims, I thought it was probably bluster, but seeing a black eye on your best friend fires you up for repercussions.

“Photographer. Filthy scum. And he denies everything,” says Mo.

“Bastard!”

“Bastard’s too good for him. He even tried to do a runner. Though my tae kwon do worked wonders. He took a right doof in the nads!”

The man in question is sprawled on the grass. I can hear his moans and see his abject pain. Two of Will’s car parking attendants are keeping him down. He does, indeed, have cameras—a bag full, in fact. They’re now lying beside him. He looks less than pleased and I wonder what the hell he was after? Shit—why are we having papping stalkers here?

I hug Mo to me and I let her have the cry she needs.

“And her!” Mo says with volatility, pointing at Annie. “She was a chocolate teapot in a crisis. Bloody nutso woman tried to fight me off him and jumped on my back. I saw him skulking by the cars so I followed him and he tried to jemmy open the back cellar door round the back. Found him when I nipped out for a fag with Jack. He was looking a bit peaky.”

“Who was peaky, Jack?”

Mo nods and I realize I haven’t seen him. He’s kinda hard to miss in his massive Arsenal top hat.

“He okay?”

“He’s inside with Dibs. He had a sore chest and he was breathing bad.”

Shit, not again. Both gates have opened and there’s an ambulance with paramedics and a police car coming up the drive. The evening keeps dishing out surprises of the nasty kind.

This is proving to be quite a party. And not in the way I’d have thought. There have been incredible highs. I suspect this dip isn’t one of them. And suddenly I feel the need to run and find Jack.

 

* * * *

 

The policeman, as it turns out, is related to one of Dibian’s neighbors and she recognizes him straight away His name is Rod O’Leary and he also used to be a prefect when Dibian was a trainee teacher. I’m pretty sure Rod the Plod is a nickname he doesn’t care to have reiterated, so I don’t use it. I keep it all under lock and key in my head.

As policemen go, we got a good one and his partner in crime is a doppelganger for Samwell Tarney of Game of Thrones fame, whose frame suggests he’s more accustomed to pen pushing and doughnuts than baddie chasing. And while he looks like he’s the jolly, amiable one, maybe he has a surprising, vicious side when it comes to questioning suspects.

Mo is in the vast dining room with Rod, making a statement. Her tears have turned to pert interest and I think it’s due to seeing Rod in his shirtsleeves—he has gym-honed arms and rigid pecs. Rod’s quite something to behold in a uniform and Mo is so very easy, it’s almost a sin. She smiles as I enter to offer moral support and raises her eyebrows in a silent ‘Wow, he’s lush! I’ve got a good one here!’

“So we have attempted break-in. Assault. Car damage in order to steal goods,” I can hear Rod saying as he scribbles in his pad.

“And he swore at me. Called me a dumb army bitch and to eff off to Afghanistan.”

“I merely wish to record your version of events at this stage. We will investigate fully,” Rod says with the tight lips of the mother superior at the convent-of-our-lady-of-the-perpetually-strained-patience. He gives her a sly wink, which I’m pretty sure isn’t in the policeman’s protocols manual.

“You’d better be interviewing him too? Secret snapper camera-toting scumbag that he is. He was up to no good, whatever he says! Find out what he stole from Tarquin’s car!” Mo says.

“Mr. Endermann and the perpetrator are also being questioned in the lounge down the hall. Rest assured, madam, we want to get the train of events recorded. Do you want another cup of tea to calm the nerves?”

“No. I’d kill for a double Jack Daniel’s and a plate of vol-au-vents, though. Did I tell you I’m a chocolatier by trade—I’ll make sure you’re fully reimbursed for your troubles in chocolate ganache truffles.”

Again, Rod flashes her a proper pert grin. I think he’s interested. Though it could be Mo’s double F boobs in a clingy army vest that’s the cause.

“Perhaps once the questioning has been completed.” He watches her as if he’s veering toward the selvage edge of his patience’s pinafore fabric.

“I’ll get tea for you both,” I interject. “And biscuits. Tea and biscuits always help steady the nerves! Especially Wagon Wheels,” I say and I take this as my cue to go and find out what’s happened with Jack.

Unfortunately, if the photographer assault surprise is bearable, Jack’s situation is the biggest downer of the night.

 

* * * *

 

Jack is lying on a couch in a bedroom on the ground floor. He has an oxygen mask on his face and his complexion is ashen. His eyes are shut and Dibian is holding his hand as paramedics simultaneously talk reassuringly, but also give instructions.

It’s clear, within only a few moments that he’s on his way to hospital.

“I’ll go with him,” says Dibian, nodding on fast speed. “You stay here and sort out the rabble. Do I need to let any relatives know?”

I shake my head. Jack has nobody I’m aware of who’ll need to know right now. He does have a sister in Southend but I don’t know her address or contacts.

I notice Dibian’s headdress is gone, her gaudy Carmen outfit now covered up by someone’s gray cardigan. I can see when she looks around and her eyes meet mine that she’s had a shock and there are telltale mascara tracks. I go to her side.

“What are they saying?” I ask simply.

“Not a heart attack, but definitely a heart problem.” Her eyes probe mine in silent communication that it’s serious. Being managed but serious nonetheless.

“Are you sure you want to go? I’ll go.”

“As much as you mean well, my darling, you’d scare the natives. I wouldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. I’ll handle it, darling.”

“You’re a fantastic woman, Dibs.” Shit. I feel it come on me. I’m crying. And I never cry. Well, that’s a lie, isn’t it? I cried when I was ill. It seems in moments of true weakness and big life problems I do crack.

“Shall I come and keep you company too?” I ask. “I don’t give a shit if I look weird. I can borrow clothes from Will.”

She looks at me and nods.

“Go and get changed. I’ll ask them if you can come in the ambulance.”

“You go in the ambulance. I’ll get a cab. Text me where you are.”

We hug.

I long to hug Jack but he’s so still. So quiet. There’s lots of tubes and things stuck to him.

I’m suddenly very scared. Like an icy tap’s deathly drip down my spine, and some horror instinct that I don’t even want to face yet that’s telling me—you have to go, he may not rally. Go or you’ll regret it.

Fuck.

“I’m going to get dressed and sort a taxi now,” I tell her, wiping stray tears away with nothing but my fingers. “I’ll be there every step of the way.”

Sometimes, as I know too well from experience, you don’t get a second chance in life. Some moments are drama, pathos, tragedy and you have to go with it and take it and stoically step up to the parapet. I’m so very afraid that this could be such a time.

Like it was with my dad. Like it was with me.

Jack. Please. Don’t die tonight. Please.

Fuck.

 

* * * *

 

When I get there an hour on, wearing a pair of Will’s combats and a T-shirt and sweater, the hospital is what hospitals usually are.

Me and Dibian sitting, huddled for warmth, waiting for news that doesn’t come. The hospital is new and, like every recently furbished hospital up and down the country, it’s clean, crisp but uniformly nondescript. They may as well have a sign that says ‘Warm Welcomes and Reassurances Left at Home’. This is a land where a vending machine is your only highlight. But I guess hospitals aren’t there for our entertainment, are they?

So far all we know is Jack has some kind of heart condition. He hasn’t suffered a heart attack. But definitely some kind of coronary episode—Dibian related that the doctors are most worried about a possible problem with his arteries. Apparently, his legs were starting to turn a dark shade. It doesn’t look too good. And that revelation leaves us both feeling more than a little grave.

“Poor Jack. He’ll hate this,” I say.

“You’re close to him, aren’t you, Izzy? I didn’t realize quite how much until Jack talked of your friendship earlier.”

“A friendship partly forged out of the mutual football thing. But he’s a great guy. I’ve known him on a personal level for many years.”

Dibian’s once bright magenta lipstick has paled to a pastel pink. Her eyes are dark and black rimmed. “He talks of you like one would do of a daughter. You make him proud.”

“Me? Don’t be daft.” I huddle deeper inside Will’s sweatshirt.

“He’s fonder of you than you think.”

“Don’t!” I say softly. “He’s the dad I haven’t had—mine passed away when I was four. Mum brought me up solo, after he died in an accident walking into work as a Billingsgate fish marketman. Early morning accident, poor visibility and a careless driver. Uncle Cyril passed on Dad’s love of Arsenal. Meeting Jack forged an instant bond—sometimes I swear we read each other’s minds.” I gulp out a final sob. The tears are running fast and free. “I’m so cross with him because he had a turn and he told me he’d gone to the doctors. I suspect now he was giving me a line.”

Shit. Now I’m crying. Now do you see why I don’t go on memory lane trails? I like being stoic Izzy, the non-crying, sensible pragmatist. Emotional Izzy, the weeping train wreck isn’t a version of me I encourage.

Dibian’s arm sneaks around me and provides surprising comfort and calm.

“There, there. I know why he picked you. And vice versa. I find myself becoming ever so fond of you both.”

“Dibs. I’m not good with crying,” I say, my voice dry and strained.

“Who is? But it’s better out than in.”

She’s right and I let the tears roll.

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

“I hope so, darling. I do hope so. And he’s in one of the best places to make that happen. Let’s give him all the positive vibes we’ve got, eh, sweetie? Vibes, positive energies. And hope. Let’s feel a firm conviction that he’s a lot more Arsenal matches ahead of him.”

 

* * * *

 

Jack is doing better. It’s a huge relief—there are question marks over the handling of his future health condition, but it’s been positive that he’s improving. He remains in hospital—still under observation, but we’ve been reassured that our vigil in the waiting room won’t help.

We’ve left him to the medical experts and returned home to restore and replenish. Dibian’s going back for afternoon visiting and I’ve agreed to pop back soon.

Back at my flat, I look like a total troll tonight. Possibly the result of too much crying and sitting around without sleep in hospital. Even Flo shut up in shock at my appearance, and that speaks volumes.

It’s partly because, with backed-up laundry, I had to get down and dirty with the U-bend, due to a problem with the washing machine. I’m no stranger to jubilee clips or fitting a new washing machine seal, so I did my bit. But, alas, I got spewed on by the outlet pipe in the process. My hair’s a bloody disgrace and I fear I smell like a ruddy bog monster. And when I’ve smeared something up my face while removing my rubber gloves, the doorbell rings.

I’m fully suspecting it’ll be Will.

After all, isn’t this when you want the man of your loins to find you? He’s dreaming of lace and lingerie and I’m smelling of stagnant water and rancid sinks. This view will certainly challenge our relationship.

But it’s not Will.

It’s Tessa, Will’s maid. I can’t even cover my shock.

“Oh, hi,” I say as my mind reels on why she could possibly be here.

I slap my forehead with my palm. “Shit. I forgot. I need to reimburse you for the pajamas and things… Come in! I apologize that it slipped my mind. That was so bad of me… Life’s been a bit crazy.”

A tiny semi-smile tugs at the very corner of her lip but it, as swiftly, vanishes like the briefest slash of golden sun during an overcast, gray, leaden picnic. “No. I’m not here for money. But I want to talk.”

I’ve only ever seen Tessa from a distance. She’s model-caliber good-looking—thin, long ultra-blonde hair, impressive boobs and a Cupid’s bow you’d kill for. There’s an accent to her voice I can’t place. Her manner’s more than a little off-putting. Maybe she’s had a bad day—clearing up after Will’s party, that’s hardly a surprise.

“Nothing wrong is there?” I ask and motion her toward a chair in the lounge, pulling stray throws and strewn hoodie tops off it, in order to clear the way. “Must’ve been a right mess to tidy up after the party. Hope nobody threw up in the Jacuzzi.” I rummage in my bag to retrieve my purse and, after a lot of fruitless searching, I’m delighted when I find it at the bottom of the bag—like a forager finding a truffle in the forest.

Tessa sits tentatively on the very edge of my sofa seat, as if she thinks it’s going to bite her bum and gnaw a bit off. She closes her eyes briefly then stares hard into mine. “I don’t clean. I’m a services maid, not a cleaner. There’s a team at the house getting it ready now. I don’t deal with such menial basics.”

Wow. Talk about touchy. I feel like I’ve stood on a status landmine or something. So I backpedal. I can’t undetonate the faux pas but I can wrap it up in apologetic gift wrap.

“Sorry. I figured you managed the team or something. Anyway…how can I help you? Will okay? Nothing’s happened, has it?”

She stares me down. “Everything’s happened. Since you came. You do realize you’re one in a line.”

I stand, staring back at her, nonplussed. My brain is fighting off the rabid ninja instinct to grab her by the neck, even at the inference of what I think she means. But my ninja’s had the day off booked for a while. Maybe he doesn’t want to come to the party when I look and smell so bad from my behind washing machine and under sink activities. So today I’m on my own in terms of fending Tessa off.

“I’m sorry. You’ll have to be clearer and explain what you mean.”

Man, what a wuss. Ninja get the fuck out here now and help me.

“You’re his latest thing. It’ll pass. Don’t get ideas you’re special.”

“Will?”

“Who else do you think I’d be talking about or interested in?”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“To give you the message to back off.”

“Why? Tired of changing bed sheets?”

I inwardly salute my tenacity. I can see a glimmer—he may not have totally departed the building. That last one cut a slash and I can see from her face that she’s displeased.

Her blue eyes are ice shards, meeting my gaze head on with piercing threat. “I’ve slept with him. Many times. You’re his latest thrill. You were there at a disadvantage and, heaven knows why, but he got interested. But don’t bank on it lasting beyond a few weeks. It never does.”

“And you’d know this because you’re his…what? Relative? Employee? Micromanaging maid? Or scary stalker? Take your pick. I’m kinda thinking all four would fit the bill.”

Tessa makes a pit bull face and spits out her words. For a pretty woman, she’s damn ugly when riled. “I knew you were a bitch when I first saw you. You and your ridiculous tartan knickers. What kind of man could ever fancy that?”

My purse, in my hand from when I rummaged to get it to reimburse her, is still there clutched in my fingers. I unzip it and yank out forty pounds—leaving me with only a couple of quid to my name but hell, who cares? I toss the money in her face.

“Take your money and get out, you slag.”

“I don’t want your money. I want to warn you. Back off. Leave him alone or you’ll regret it. I will make sure you regret it.”

“What are you going to do? Beat me to death with a duster? Spray Captain StreaksAway in my eyes? Ouch. Watch me tremble. Me and my tartan knickers are quaking with fear!”

“Fuck off. You’re an easy lay. You can’t possibly keep him interested. He’ll be back, knocking on my door, before you know it.”

“He said you have a husband and kids. Nice Mary Poppins image you’re presenting here?”

“And who are you to criticize me? My husband knows I have needs on the side.”

“Tessa. I don’t think I want to talk to you anymore. I might catch something.”

She rises from her seat. It’s only then I notice her higher-than-high leopard-skin stiletto shoes. And the tiny anklet that glimmers with diamonds around her ankle. She’s a leopard all right—but I’m no fusty, fat old cat and I can give her a good old feline fight if pushed.

“Fuck off. Don’t dare to speak to me again. And keep your dirty bed-changing, rubber-gloved desperate hands away from Will. He’s with me now. You weren’t his thing. Deal with it.” I almost can’t believe I’ve used her profession against her, it’s so against my principles but sometimes only the lowest jab will do.

I’m right behind her, forcing her back up my hall and out of the door with my words. It would have made me feel powerful if she hadn’t tossed her waist-length, much-highlighted hair in my face as she turned on the door threshold. The over-sweet smell of her bubblegum shampoo tickles my gag reflex.

“Better go and buy some new underwear if you stand any chance of turning those words into action.”

She turns, walks down my path, gets into a sleek, scarlet-starlet sports car and slams its door as I let rip with mine. But, as I’m standing behind the closed door, my hands shake.

I’ve been bitch-slapped. But hell, so has she.

And what the fuck do I think of this little episode? I’m so confused.

I dive for the phone and ring the only person I can.

Dibian.

And that’s something my friends would never have bet on in a month of ruddy Sundays. Fuck, how weird has my life got.

 

* * * *

 

Dibian proves to be exactly the right choice for reassurance—mostly because she was the one who first knew about me and Will. She’s practical and would make a brilliant agony aunt.

“Nasty little fucker,” she says.

I love Dibian. Couldn’t have put it better myself.

“And do you believe her?”

“Well. That’s it. I’d love to think not. That she’s just a deranged, jealous bunny boiler. But I haven’t known Will that long. As much as I’m enamored, he could be faking and playing me a line? What if she’s right and she is telling the truth?” And much as I hate to think it, I’m risking a tightrope of taut, treacherous doubt by casting all my hopes into Will’s, as yet, unknown waters.

There’s a long pause while Dibian ruminates.

“Do you plan to tell and ask him?”

I bite my lips. “I don’t know. We’ve not had things going on that long. A big part of me doesn’t want to sully the fragility. Or dampen the thrill or the excitement.”

“Then don’t.”

“Really? But what if I’m wrong? What if she’s right?”

“Leave it with me. I have means of finding things out.” Dibian’s tone doesn’t brook questioning or doubts.

Then again, I’ve never been one to back down without answers. “What do you mean?” She’s always so full of mystery. What on earth can she be planning? Is she going to read our tea leaves or something? Does she have a spy-cam up and running in the school or a bug on his phone?

“I mean that. Leave it with me. You try your level best to be as you were with Will. Forget Stalker Girl ever dropped by. I’ll use my contacts to get to the truth.”

Easy for Dibs to say—but she isn’t the one who’ll be seeing suicide blonde streaks and acid-bath eyes staring out of the dark at night. The woman would kill me in a blink. She loathes me and my knickers with an insidious hatred I can only liken to my fear of oral tests in French.

I pipe up yet again. Forever a voice with misgivings. “But isn’t shrugging shoulders and pretending like she doesn’t exist going to be more than a bit tricky?”

“Depends how you deal with it. Trust me, Izzy. Leave this to me to do some digging about Psycho Maid. And put it out of your mind. In fact—set up a tryst for amour. You can use that time with Will to ask him some gentle questions, safe in the knowledge that I’ll get to the bottom of things for you. And you’ll have more great memories to treasure with your man. Trust me—we’ll find out and then you can make an informed choice. And I’m pretty sure she’s trouble-making—I have a great instinct for these things.”

If only the same could be said for her ‘instinct’ for the many crimes of her paramour, Ronald.

“I’m not sure. Kinda smacks of denial.”

“Oh. No. You’re dealing with it cleverly. And skillfully. Trust me.”

“But how on earth are you going to do this? I don’t get it.”

“Best you don’t, my love. But trust me. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. No pun intended. I’ll get your answers. And you can help me in return.”

“How?”

“Let me go and visit Jack tonight?”

“You sure?” I’m quite shocked at her directness. Then the penny drops and I realize she’s got a crush on my pal. “You into Jack?”

“Course. I’m outside the hospital now for afternoon visiting. Cutting to the chase, I’m keen on him. I do want to see him. If you don’t mind. I’ll tell him you’ll drop in tomorrow? I wanted a second chance to drop in today.”

“Of course.” I smile. Impressed and slightly pleased that Dibian has a crush on my best buddy Jack. She clearly has good taste. And I’m so very glad that Ronald the Pilfering Rogue is second billing. She couldn’t find a nicer guy to get over bad stuff with.

Will Jack be up for it?

We’ll have to wait and see.

“Go for it, girlfriend,” I tell her.

“Just putting on my lippy now.” I hear her lips smack together on cue. “I wholly intend to, darling. Jack’s a keeper and I know when I’ve hit solid gold. Wish me luck, Izzy. I’ve never prayed for it more.”

My phone pings with a text seconds later. I wonder what I’m going to say to Will, if it’s him, but I needn’t have worried.

“Can you come by the gym earlier tonight? Say half four?” It’s Ben and we’ve a coaching session planned. Shit, I’d forgotten about it entirely.

“No probs. Cancel if you like?”

“No way—you don’t avoid it that easily. You can’t default on me, Lazybones.” His answer’s on the money. “Tonight Janey and I are doing something special. Very special. Stay tuned.”

I intend to grill him at my lesson. For something inside me tells me this might be a bigger deal than he’s revealing.