Chapter Twenty-Six
Chrissie’s Sunday
Chrissie was awoken by her mobile ringing. One hand shot out of bed and snatched it up from the bedside table.
‘Hello?’ she mumbled. She was cross-eyed with tiredness, and had the sort of thumping headache that felt like a box of marbles had been emptied into her skull.
‘Darling, where are you?’ said a familiar voice.
‘In bed.’
‘Why? Aren’t you well?’
‘It’s Sunday,’ said Chrissie, screwing up her eyes against daylight streaming through the bedroom’s thin curtains. ‘I’m having a lie-in.’
‘But it’s nearly one o’clock,’ said Pam in surprise. ‘Dad and I were getting worried. You and Andrew should have been here an hour ago.’
Chrissie groaned. Of course. She’d completely overlooked her mother’s invitation to Sunday lunch. She eased herself upright in bed, trying to shake off the events of last night that nobody – not even Amber and Dee – yet knew about.
‘I-I’m so sorry, Mum,’ Chrissie stuttered, her sluggish mind trying to come up with a plausibly quick excuse. ‘Andrew had some emergency call outs. He’s still not home from the last one. My sleep was so fragmented, I didn’t hear my alarm.’
‘You poor things,’ said Pam sympathetically. ‘No worries. I’ll keep everything hot in the hostess trolley.’ Pam Peterson had inherited the plug-in food warmer from her grandmother, and it was still going strong. ‘Just get yourselves over here as soon as possible. Do you reckon you could be here by two’ish?’
Chrissie felt panicky. She had no idea when Andrew would be home. And even if he walked in right now, she had a feeling he wasn’t going to be up for sitting around the Peterson’s dining table making polite small talk. Apart from anything else, Chrissie didn’t want him there. She was currently feeling like a pressure cooker. Although in her case it was rage simmering away. She wasn’t quite sure what would happen if the lid flew off. She had a sudden vision of emptying the scalding contents of her mother’s gravy boat over Andrew’s groin and saying, ‘You simply must have this with your meat and two veg. Is it hot enough?’
‘Er, the thing is, Mum, to be with you by two I need Andrew back here with the van. If he’s not home in time – and it doesn’t look like he will be – I’ll have to come on the bus. And you know what the buses are like on a Sunday.’
‘Oh dear. Hang on a minute, darling.’ Pam clamped a hand over the phone. Chrissie could hear her mother’s muffled voice instructing John to pick up their daughter. Seconds later Pam was back. ‘Dad’s on his way. See you soon, darling. Bye-eeeee!’
Hell. The last thing Chrissie wanted was to spend the day putting on a cheerful front. She didn’t know where the term “brave face” came from, but right now she didn’t possess such a thing. She let out a weighty sigh just as her stomach rumbled. She was amazed her body could even register hunger after such recent events.
Stumbling off to the bathroom, Chrissie headed for the shower. She needed to be quick, so that when her father drew up outside she was completely ready. It was best if John Peterson didn’t get out of his Jag to ring Chrissie’s doorbell. When you lived on an estate like this one, an awful lot could happen to a car in thirty seconds.
A couple of minutes later, warm water was playing over Chrissie’s skin. As it trickled over her face, she prayed it might wash away the horror scenes still playing in her head. Her mind travelled back to last night when Dee, Amber and herself had Skyped each other. It had been cathartic offloading to her besties about the discovery of Mandy’s sext message to Andrew. However, unburdening hadn’t taken away the physical pain that was still going on in her chest. It felt like invisible hands were constantly squeezing around her heart chambers. Discovering Andrew’s betrayal had left her shell-shocked. Due to her boyfriend leaving his mobile at home, Chrissie hadn’t been able to contact him. He’d had no idea that Chrissie’s sleepover plans at Amber’s had been cancelled, or that she’d returned to the maisonette.
A part of Chrissie had harboured faint hopes that “Randy Mandy” had meant to text her sordid message to a completely different Andrew, and that somehow her contact numbers had become muddled. Chrissie had wanted Andrew to come in and say, “Oh there’s my mobile! I wondered what I’d done with it. Good grief! Look at this obscene message. Some daft cow has sexted me, ha ha ha! Well, fancy that. It’s Mrs Granger. I did an electrical job for her last week. Her old man is also called Andrew. Quite frankly, I’m stunned the pair of them still have a sex life. Mrs Granger’s celebrating her ninety-ninth birthday next week.” And then Andrew and Chrissie would howl with laughter on behalf of poor Mrs Granger being red-faced with embarrassment, and Andrew would fondly squeeze Chrissie’s hand and say, “That’ll be us one day, babe. Still bonking for Britain when we’re close to receiving the Queen’s telegram!”
However, Andrew had failed to put in an appearance to act out such a rose-tinted scene. Throughout Chrissie’s tearful exchange with Amber and Dee, she’d had to face the awful reality that things weren’t looking good between her and Andrew. After they’d all finished Skyping, Chrissie had been exhausted from so much crying.
She reached for the shampoo, working it into her scalp. Shutting her eyes, she let soap trails cascade over her sore eyelids. Her devastation was acute. It was as if a wrecking ball had ploughed through the walls of her relationship and scattered it in all directions. Her brain kept conjuring up tawdry images of Andrew’s hands on this other woman’s body, touching her in a way he hadn’t touched Chrissie in goodness-knows-how-long. Her mind travelled back a few hours, to the point where her world had not so much as shifted on its axis but toppled right off.
The maisonette had been quiet. No rowdy, pot-bellied, dodgy men had filled the lounge demanding late-night chip butties. There had been no stink of weed seeping under the bedroom door as she’d taken herself to bed. Even Fran next door had been silent although, as soon as Chrissie had noted that observation one of the children had begun to cry. Within seconds Fran had shrieked at the offending child to put a sock in its gob because she was tired.
Chrissie had drifted off to Fran yelling, ‘And if you wet the bed again, I’ll make you sleep in it.’ She’d felt sorry for the poor little kid. Her last conscious thought had been of her own pleasant childhood, with a mother who had never moaned at getting up in the night for her little girl. Pam Peterson had always been there for Chrissie, from holding a small hand if she’d been scared to walk to the loo in the dark, or because an eight-legged nightmare monster had caused her to scream the house down. Whatever her parents hadn’t been able to give her materially, they’d more than made up for with cuddles and love.
Chrissie hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep until jerking awake with a start. An eerie orange glow had been filtering through the flimsy curtains, transforming the bedroom into a scene fit for a horror movie. She’d lain as still as a corpse, her heart flip-flopping in her chest. Her eyes had been the only thing that dared to move. They’d flicked to the digital clock on the bedside table. The blood-red number display had told her it was just after one in the morning. And then she’d heard a noise that had filled her with dread. The sound of somebody trying to get into the maisonette. One ear had stretched, cartoon-style, beyond the bedroom door, out into the narrow hallway, pressing up against the front door and listening for clues.
Prod, prod, prod. Stab, stab, stab.
Chrissie had presumed that whoever was on the other side of that door was trying – if such a thing was possible – to quietly crowbar it open.
In that moment she’d leapt out of bed faster than Usain Bolt over the finishing line, and stationed herself to one side of the bedroom door. Grabbing her dressing gown, she’d flattened herself against the wall and prepared to ambush the intruder. Her brain had been barking out orders like a bossy sergeant major, and her body had responded with a heightened awareness she’d never thought possible.
“Fling dressing gown over trespasser’s head. Blind him with terry towelling. Push intruder forward. Shove him face down on mattress. Leap on intruder’s back. Grab digital clock. Bash intruder’s head repeatedly. Got it?”
“Sir! Yes sir!”
The front door had caved in, slamming so hard against the wall it had ricocheted back and hit the intruder in the face. Chrissie had caught a string of expletives as the intruder registered pain. Good, she’d thought, that would teach the prat a lesson, although she’d decided the pain would be nothing to the lesson she was shortly going to teach him. How dare he break into her home!
But all Chrissie’s gung-ho had fizzled out like a soggy firework in a thunderstorm when she’d heard a second voice – that of a woman.
‘Andrew! I’ve told yer before. Don’t bloody swear. You know I fuckin’ ’ate it.’
What the–?
‘I think I’ve broken my fuckin’ nose.’
Chrissie’s eyes had widened with horror. She’d certainly not anticipated a late-night housebreaker to be her boyfriend, or his accomplice to be the mysterious Mandy. Judging from the sounds of staggering about, the two of them had shipped quite a bit of booze.
As adrenalin rushed through Chrissie’s veins, her brain had screamed out a contingency plan.
“Throw dressing gown over self. Curl into ball. Pretend to be dropped laundry.”
And then another part of Chrissie – the one full of outrage – had poured some much-needed courage into her heart. The last thing she wanted was Andrew and Mandy barging into the bedroom and having a drunken bonk in front of her. Her skin had crawled as further sounds – slurpy ones – indicated the two of them were now snogging.
Chrissie went through the motions of rinsing her hair and combing through conditioner, but her mind was still firmly watching the re-run of last night’s event.
‘Yer a great kisser,’ Mandy had enthused.
‘Yeah,’ Andrew had responded, but not very eagerly. ‘Babe, I’m too drunk. I won’t be able to get it up.’
‘A droopy candy cane is no good to me, lover.’
‘Make us a coffee,’ Andrew had asked, ‘and give me ten minutes. Then my candy cane will be ready for a good licking.’
Chrissie had been shocked. Their sex life had never been full of innuendo – jokey or otherwise. She’d felt both revolted and insanely jealous.
‘Where’s yer kitchen?’ Mandy had asked.
‘Straight ahead. I need to use the little boy’s room.’
Chrissie had remained in the bedroom, as still as a statue, listening to the bathroom door opening and closing. From the kitchen had come the sound of the kettle being filled and then switched on. Cupboard doors had opened and closed as Mandy hunted for cups. Next were the sounds of the freezer and fridge doors opening and closing as Mandy had sought out milk, but not known which door was which. Chrissie had dithered about what to do next. There had been two choices – either hide in the wardrobe until Andrew had bonked Mandy, or confront them both. Realistically, it had to be the latter.
Mind made up, Chrissie had wrapped herself in the dressing gown, and hurriedly run her fingers through her hair. She’d wanted to look presentable, even though she was swollen-eyed from her earlier tears, and grey-complexioned from shock. It would have been nice to have stepped out of the bedroom looking glamourous, so her love rival hadn’t been holding all the aces. Instead, Chrissie had told herself that if she couldn’t look like a bombshell she could at least behave like one. Her rival’s discovery of Chrissie’s presence would hopefully cause the emotional equivalent of nuclear fall-out.
Moving like a wraith, Chrissie had silently exited the bedroom and positioned herself in the kitchen doorway. The woman had been peering in the larder, oblivious that her lover’s girlfriend had been studying her. Chrissie had noted the short peroxide-blonde hair, dangly earrings, and a cropped sweater revealing flesh that might have recently seen a Caribbean sun. Either that or Mandy was an avid sunbed user. Chrissie’s eyes had travelled up and down Mandy’s body, noting the Designer label on the backside of her white jeans. She’d caught a glimpse of polished toenails peeping out of beautiful strappy gold stilettos. Those shoes had been the trigger to Chrissie feeling so incensed she’d momentarily felt insane. For a second she’d experienced the weird emotion of not knowing what she’d wanted the most – Andrew, or those gorgeous gold sandals.
All thoughts of footwear fragmented when Andrew had stumbled out of the bathroom. He’d opened his mouth to say something to Mandy, but shut it again when he’d seen Chrissie standing before him looking like an extra from Night of the Living Dead. A strange gurgling noise had escaped his lips. Chrissie had folded her arms across her chest, and watched her boyfriend’s booze-flushed face change to the colour “Ghost” on a paint chart. When he did eventually speak it was to utter two strangled words.
‘Faaaaaarkin’ ’ell.’
‘Stop fuckin’ swearin’ an’ tell me where the fuckin’ biscuits are kept,’ Mandy had replied. When Andrew had failed to respond, she’d turned around. Unlike Andrew, the woman hadn’t been in the least fazed to see Chrissie standing there. In fact, she’d been cooler than a North Pole ice floe.
‘’ello, love. Do yer want ter join us for coffee?’
‘Faaaaaarkin’ ’ell,’ Andrew had repeated.
For a moment Chrissie had thought she’d not heard correctly. What female, caught red-handed with another woman’s boyfriend, casually extended an invitation for coffee and in the kitchen of the wronged woman? But Chrissie hadn’t even got as far as attempting to answer that question, because she’d been so distracted by the other woman’s face. Chrissie might have looked like death warmed up, but one thing she did have on her side was youth. Mandy must have been in her mid-forties, and she was no Cougar Kate. Deep laughter lines were etched around her heavily made up eyes, and her conker-brown face was the texture of leather. Chrissie knew straight away that Mandy hadn’t been further than Suzie’s Sunbeds in Gravesend. And then she’d marvelled at how she could think about something as bizarre as Mandy’s tan when the three of them were in this surreal situation. Without missing a beat, Mandy had pulled a third mug from an overhead cupboard.
‘Yer look a bit shocked, love. Shall I put a couple of sugars in for yer?’
‘Faaaaaarkin’ ’ell,’ Andrew had said, backing away from both women as if they were unexploded World War Two bombs.
Chrissie had started to feel out of her depth. She’d not known whether to lunge forward and slap Mandy’s dermal-filled cheeks, or try and match her love rival’s sangfroid with her own depleted reserves of Artic coolness. If Amber had been there it would have been a no-brainer. But Chrissie wasn’t Amber. Instead, she had decided to rattle the two of them by not going ballistic. She had neither grabbed Mandy by the hair, nor put her knee in Andrew’s privates.
‘Coffee, please,’ Chrissie had said.
She’d spoken in her best Kent accent. She didn’t know where Mandy came from, but it definitely wasn’t this side of the river. ‘No sugar,’ she’d added.
‘Faaaaaarkin’ ’ell,’ Andrew had said, holding his hands out like a shield in case Chrissie went mental.
‘Oh do shurrup, yer stupid tosser,’ Mandy had snapped. She’d rolled her eyes. ‘Go in the bloody lounge an’ wait fer yer coffee.’ Andrew hadn’t needed telling twice. He’d scarpered. Mandy had turned back to Chrissie. ‘Sorry, love. Where were we? Right, so no sugar. Sweet enough, eh?’ Mandy had given Chrissie a wink and friendly smile which, bizarrely, she’d found comforting. Andrew’s mistress was about the same age as her mum. What the hell was her boyfriend playing at?
‘Why don’t yer go and sit down, love,’ Mandy had invited, as if Chrissie were a guest. ‘I’ll bring the coffees in on this nice tray you ’ave ’ere.’
‘Thank you.’
She’d walked into the lounge with her dignity wrapped around her like a blanket. Sitting in the armchair opposite Andrew, he’d averted his eyes and stared at a spot on the ceiling. Chrissie had wanted to shriek at him, but her brain had told her to behave like a lady, even if it nearly killed her.
Mandy had followed her in with the tray of coffees, and placed them down on the scruffy occasional table.
‘Isn’t this nice!’ she’d trilled.
‘Lovely,’ Chrissie had replied.
‘Faaaaaarkin’ ’ell,’ Andrew had said.
Chrissie had taken her drink, and marvelled at the stillness of her hands as they’d held the china. Not a tremble in sight. She’d glanced across at Mandy as she’d picked up her own cup. Annoyingly, Mandy’s hands had also been tremor-free. She certainly was a cool customer. Perhaps she’d been in this situation before? Maybe she made it a habit of helping herself to other women’s boyfriends, and creeping home with them in the early hours? Possibly this wasn’t the first time she’d made a consolation drink of something sweet and comforting for the poor cow who’d been fast asleep in bed.
For one mad moment Chrissie’s hands had itched to throw scalding coffee all over Mandy and her immaculate white jeans. But no sooner had the thought registered in her grey matter, another part of her brain had screamed, “No!” She’d looked briefly at Andrew to check how he was coping with the two women in his life smiling at each other over their coffee cups. Badly, it transpired. His face had been porridge-grey.
‘I’m sorry yer found out about us like this,’ Mandy had said cosily.
‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Chrissie had flapped a dismissive hand. ‘I’ve known for ages. Didn’t Andrew tell you?’
Mandy had looked surprised, and she’d looked questioningly at her lover. ‘Andrew? Is that right?’
‘Faaaaaarkin’ ’ell.’
Chrissie had taken Mandy’s annoyance as her cue to make trouble. ‘We have,’ she’d shrugged carelessly, ‘an open relationship.’
Mandy had arched an eyebrow. ‘Oh?’
‘Every Monday and Wednesday I see Andrew’s mate, Mick–’
‘Mick? Yer mean Big Mick?’
‘The very one and same. And he’s not called Big Mick because of the size of his beer belly,’ Chrissie had grinned impishly.
‘Does his wife know?’
‘But of course. Andrew does his best to bonk Jane in return,’ she’d glanced sympathetically at Andrew, before making a see-saw gesture with one hand, ‘but unfortunately his candy cane doesn’t always work, does it poppet? He’s got an appointment to see the doctor. In the meantime, Andrew met you and told me he’d introduce us. You were meant to come here earlier this evening for a ménage à trois–’
‘A what?’
‘A threesome, sweetie. You were so late I presumed something had gone wrong, and took myself off to bed.’
‘Are yer fuckin’ kidding me?’ Mandy had glared at Andrew for confirmation.
‘Faaaaaarkin’ ’ell,’ he’d replied, looking absolutely terrified.
‘I don’t do fuckin’ threesomes,’ Mandy had said, banging her mug down on the tray.
‘Oh don’t worry,’ Chrissie had soothed, ‘now that we’ve met, I couldn’t possibly do a threesome with you.’
‘What’s that supposed ter mean?’
‘No offence, but you’re twenty years too late.’
Mandy had looked outraged. ‘Right,’ she’d snapped, ‘I’ll let yer get back ter bed. Meanwhile,’ she’d hooked a finger at Andrew, ‘are yer comin’ with me or not?’
Andrew had rocketed upwards, nodding his head and making unintelligible noises as he’d hastened after Mandy.
‘So charming to meet you at last,’ Chrissie had said to Mandy’s rigid back. She’d followed the hateful pair to the front door. As they’d taken their leave into the dark night, she’d pleasantly called after Andrew, ‘Save a bit of that candy cane for me, darling.’
Chrissie stepped out of the shower and began towelling herself off. She knew Andrew would vehemently deny every one of the seeds she’d planted in Mandy’s brain. But with a bit of luck her words would fester and gnaw. Women like that wanted to be the ones in control. They didn’t like having their love affair upset by youthful girlfriends insinuating they were simply being used, especially for sordid reasons. Not that Chrissie would ever engage in a threesome. Never in a million years. But Mandy wasn’t to know that. Chrissie wondered what Andrew had made of it all, listening to his girlfriend make sexual suggestions like a porn star on heat. Well he could go to hell. She was done with the prat, not that she’d let Mandy know that if their paths ever cross again. Revenge was sweet, and Chrissie had enjoyed delivering it.
As she tugged on a clean pair of jeans, through the bedroom window she saw her father’s old Jag purr to a halt outside the maisonette. Moving over to the window, Chrissie flicked back the net curtain. Her father waved. She mimed for him to stay in the car, and that she’d be with him in a moment.
Picking up her handbag, mobile phone and house keys, Chrissie straightened her spine. She was going to have to do a lot of that from now on. Stand tall. No way was she letting the likes of Mandy and Andrew wear her down. All she had to do now was tell her parents the truth about her smashed-up relationship. Madam Rosa was right. There was a way out of this awful situation. Even though she didn’t want to be back under her parents’ roof like a big kid, unfortunately needs must. After Sunday lunch, she would ask her parents if she could come home.