‘Janet, you went with the highlights and bob I suggested? You look absolutely stunning.’ I beamed at the Budgen’s shop assistant who fiddled with the ends of her hair shyly and nodded. ‘It’s taken years off you.’ It really had – she’d gone from ‘magnolia plain’ to ‘hot pink sassy’ since I’d last seen her. Jaded Janet to Jazzy Janet in a jiffy. My insides bounced about excitedly at yet another triumph in my quest to make people happy.
‘Thank you, Mrs Emsworth – I was a bit unsure about the chop but after you’d said I should go for it I thought “well what the heck?” My darling other half thought I’d gone and got myself a bit on the side because I’d apparently started “making an effort” all of a sudden.’ She giggled.
‘Well, that’ll keep him on his toes.’ I winked. I stepped outside feeling all warm and fuzzy, glad that Janet appreciated my advice. On the surface, it looked like I had it all, and I suppose I almost did but life hadn’t always been so rosy and it wasn’t quite complete. Coming from a background where I didn’t always ‘fit in’ gave me a level of empathy rarely found amongst the average Cheshire housewife cliques and that was my superpower.
As I stepped outside the shop contemplating my next quest, I spotted something that made my blood run cold. I squinted a little to make sure I’d not made a mistake. Sure enough, it was him, Mike, the fiancé of my personal trainer, Megan, sat in his car getting far too close to a much younger woman. As I froze, trying to figure out what to do, the engine started and they drove off into the night.
***
‘I’m going out. There’s hummus and crudités in the fridge in case you get peckish,’ I yelled to James late the following Saturday night. He was up in the office where he’d been spending far too much time of late. Megan had gushed about going to a Sam Smith concert with some of her friends, and that meant her fiancé would be home alone, allegedly. If I was going to expose him for the cheating worthless bastard I knew he was, I was going to need evidence.
I’d dressed in black skinny jeans, a black T-shirt, and black leather jacket for low visibility; my Kera Straightened blonde hair was tucked into a black woolly pompom hat. James didn’t question me as I left; I knew he wouldn’t because he’d been office-bound, working so hard on a huge case that he’d barely had time to eat, never mind worry himself with whatever I was up to. I sunk into the leather seat of my black BMW and pressed the ‘Start’ button. The engine purred to life.
It was a fifteen-minute drive to Megan’s house in a nice residential area on the outskirts of Stockport. Bingo, two cars sat on the driveway: Megan’s cute Mini and Mike’s navy Merc – or the ‘seedy-love-mobile’, as I now prefer to call it. I crawled past and saw a light on in the front room of their modern detached – confirming he was home.
I spun my car around at the top of the cul-de-sac and drove off up the street, pulling up on the main road at the top. It looked like one of those ‘Neighbourhood Watch’ areas – the kind with the twitchy curtains. My unfamiliar shiny new 5 Series wouldn’t sit unnoticed; it may have already drawn a look or two. I checked my watch. It was just after nine. The urgent trill of my phone made me jump as it came through the car’s Bluetooth system. I fumbled with the volume quickly before answering.
‘Hello?’ I said, eyes still fixed on the road.
‘Charlotte, it’s Lauren,’ she shrilled. ‘I just wanted to let you know we’ve had to bring our charity ball forward to Friday the seventh. There was a double booking at the venue but don’t worry, I gave them what for and they’re going to comp us some champagne. Hope you and James will be there?’
Tension built in my chest. I wasn’t a fan of Lordy Lauren at the best of times but this time she’d crossed a line.
‘Lauren, you know very well my charity brunch is that day.’ I didn’t even try to keep the bitterness from my tone.
‘Is it?’ Her tone was forcedly flippant and it served only to turn up the flame beneath my already simmering anger. I’d known Lauren for years through the golf club and our relationship was strained to say the least. We were ‘social acquaintances’ at best but she was rather unpleasant towards me on most occasions and I had no real idea why. I struggled to believe she’d clashed our events by accident.
As much as I wanted to give her what for, I was a lady, and had my dignity to maintain, so instead regrettable words oozed out from between my clenched teeth.
‘We will be at the ball.’ I paused. She wasn’t getting away that easily. ‘Can I count on you to attend my brunch? You did RSVP after all.’
‘That’s wonderful news about the ball, dear, and I’ll try my best to make brunch. Ciao for now.’ She hung up and I took a few deep breaths until I could relax my grip on the steering wheel and refocus on the job at hand.
As I sat concocting my plan, I heard an engine cut through the night’s silence. Through my rear-view mirror, I could see the headlights of a car pulling out of the cul-de-sac. As it passed I sunk low into my seat. My windows were tinted but not blacked out so I had to be cautious. I did, however, manage to make out the sleek lines of the seedy-love-mobile – enough for a moment of admiration – and I made a mental note to test-drive a Merc when I was ready to replace the BMW.
My father had always taught me to appreciate the finer things in life. He’d come from poverty and, back in the Eighties, life was bleak and we had very little. Dad worked for a haulage company on the brink of collapse and at one point they’d reduced his hours so much I remember my mother crying every time the fridge was empty, raking her fingers through her home-permed hair trying to figure out how to fill it again.
A few years later, Dad had a vision and begged, stole, and borrowed enough to buy the failing company for a knock-down price. At the time, he was the talk of the village and a day didn’t pass without me overhearing a neighbour whisper about how foolish he was. He never let the rumours affect him; instead, he redrafted the wagon routes and set up central hubs to make the business more efficient.
By the time I was fourteen, we were financially comfortable and he’d packed me off to an upmarket private school where I spent two hellish years trying to fit in. I mean, how’s a teenager supposed to know when Calvin Klein is out and Gucci is in? I just felt lucky to no longer be in clothes passed on by well-meaning family members. That was all water under the bridge now: a distant memory. Thankfully. I glanced down at my J Brand skinnies and stroked them affectionately.
Once the Merc was far enough ahead, I started my engine and followed him. We drove towards Manchester, and I almost doubted my earlier suspicions. Perhaps he was just going to pick up Megan from the arena and I was wasting my time on a ‘mission improbable’. Maybe I hadn’t spotted another person in the car after all.
But then he turned off towards Rusholme. Yes, Rusholme: where the students live. Mike pulled up outside a terraced house with a small, overgrown front garden and I drove on, turning onto another road further down. I got out of the car and crept to the corner, making sure to stick to the shadows before peering around a privet hedge.
There she was, stepping out of his car.
I fumbled around in my pocket and pulled out my phone ready to capture the evidence, but in my giddy haste, I was all thumbs, unable to get the screen to unlock in time. Before I knew it, she was inside and he’d driven off. Damn, damn, and double damn. Thwarted, I trudged back to the car and drove home.
James was already in bed when I got there so I slipped under the covers quietly, taking care not to disturb him before kissing him gently on the shoulder.
The next morning, I was already up making breakfast when he came downstairs. I’d bought those part-cooked pains au chocolat that you pop in the oven for a bit. They’re just like home-cooked ones but without the mess and the effort, which suited me perfectly.
‘Mmm, something smells delicious – you do know how to spoil me.’ He came up behind me and snaked his arms around my waist, kissing my neck as he snuggled in close, sending a tingle up my spine. He was dressed in just his pyjama bottoms and his torso radiated a familiar, comforting heat.
‘Sit down, the coffee is almost brewed,’ I said, pouring him a glass of freshly squeezed orange as I guided him to the table. I loved Sunday mornings. Enjoying a lazy breakfast with my handsome husband couldn’t be beaten.
‘How about a long countryside walk later?’ I asked as I took the pastries out of the oven. I’d hoped to broach the subject of trying for a baby again. We’d discussed it and James said he wanted nothing more than a family of our own, but work was consuming him and there wasn’t exactly much action going on in the bedroom. I needed to bring it up. I wasn’t getting any younger and we’d put off having children when we were younger, to allow time for James’s business to grow. We couldn’t put it off for much longer. It was a case of now . . . or maybe never.
‘I’m sorry, darling, I can’t today. This case is taking everything I have at the moment. You know how big Bracken Peel are and one of the directors has been accused of embezzlement. His imprisonment would completely ruin his life – he has a family and everything. You do understand don’t you?’ He placed his hand on mine.
Bracken Peel were a huge FTSE500 company and the case had made the news so I could understand his need to win, but a tiny seed of thought at the back of my brain selfishly wondered why he’d put some director’s family before having one of his own. It was irrational to think that way, I convinced myself, and smiled warmly; I was in awe of his dedication, and had to push my own concerns aside.
I’d been dedicated myself when I worked as an accountant, but once James’s legal practice took off, I left to support him in any way I could. Once James and his partners built a team and he no longer needed me in the office, I got into organising charity events and social gatherings until I reached a point where I couldn’t even begin to imagine how I ever had time to work. I shop for locally produced, organic foods; I do yoga; keep up with physical maintenance – facials, light masks, or whatever the latest craze is; prepare meals; and save the rest of my time for James. He likes having me here for him too.
‘Okay, another time then. Here you go.’ I handed him his pastry, rubbing his back with my other hand.
‘The money from this case is going to be huge.’ I tensed on the word ‘money’. It wasn’t that I hated him earning good money – it brought us a wonderful life. I just wondered when James would ever feel like he had enough money to just sit back and enjoy it a bit more. I didn’t feel like we needed extra. ‘It’s going to be worth our while, I promise you.’ He kissed me on the head and then bit into his pastry.
It was probably just as well he was busy since I still had to catch that cheating rat of a fiancé of Megan’s. I couldn’t believe how I’d messed it up the previous evening. I never messed up. I’m the type of person who’d once spent a whole twenty-four hours feeling like a failure because I’d forgotten to put the wheelie bin out in time for collection.
Leaving James at the table eating his breakfast, I went upstairs to get my phone. My first thought was to get in touch with Megan to see if she had any idea about her fiancé’s indiscretions. I tapped out a quick text:
Megan, I accidentally ate a full Hotel Chocolat pistachio and honey slab last night. My thighs have swollen to double their size. Any chance of an extra session today?
Admittedly, it was far-fetched because I always try to eat healthily and would never wolf down a bar of chocolate that size, but I did eat a good quarter of one yesterday afternoon. A long run afterwards had probably dealt with the calories but to be honest, Megan was unlikely to question it – she knew I could be overdramatic at times. Knowing Megan wouldn’t turn down the extra thirty quid, I slipped into my gym kit and waited. Bingo. Less than five minutes later I got her reply:
Okay, be there in thirty minutes
Right on time, she was buzzing at my gate, and I went out to greet her on the driveway. Megan looked fresh in her colourful geometric-print workout leggings and matching cropped top, which showcased her lean stomach and visible six-pack. Her honey-coloured hair was scraped back into a high ponytail and her flawless caramel skin required no make-up. Why Mike felt the need for an affair was anybody’s guess. I’d never understood why men took such risks when they already had the perfect woman by their side. I was so fortunate to have found James.
‘Thank you so much for coming over on a Sunday. I’ve been consumed by chocolate-induced guilt.’ I shook my head – not so much for effect, but more because the thought of eating that much chocolate really did make me feel like a glutton.
She gave me a wry smile. ‘Is this as bad as the time you ate two bread rolls and thought you were nine months pregnant with a loaf?’
I knew she thought I was being over-the-top, but Megan knows I’m conscious of how I look. She would say vain, but that’s only because I don’t know what else to talk to her about other than weight and exercise. She’s a personal trainer for goodness’ sake! James loves my figure and he gives me so much that staying in shape is something I can do to keep him happy in return. Besides, once you hit thirty, you really have to work a little harder to keep the pounds off and the bread rolls do make more of a difference than they perhaps would have done a decade before. Ageing is a bitch.
‘I thought you and James were trying for a baby?’ she asked, like it was an excuse.
‘Trying being the operative word, and only once it happens will I allow myself to put on weight.’ Frustratingly, getting pregnant was the one thing I couldn’t control.
‘You’re like a size six already!’ Megan said, shaking her head. ‘Come on, let’s get those thighs working.’
I was more of an eight to ten, but it was sweet of her to say, and I was hardly going to argue.
We headed to the room off the kitchen that James and I had built behind the garage. It was going to be a snug, as that seemed to be the trend, but then I had the amazing idea of turning it into a mini gym after watching one of those ‘celebrity homes’ programmes. We’d kitted it out with a running machine, cross-trainer, and bike, plus all the kettlebells, dumbbells, and fitness stuff you could ever need. It sometimes irritated me when Megan ignored the equipment altogether and made me do burpees, but just that once, I let her have her way without complaining.
‘Let’s get you warmed up. Start with forty seconds of jumping jacks.’ No pain, no gain.
‘Okay.’ I began. ‘Did you enjoy the Sam Smith concert last night?’ I asked, panting as I jumped.
She smiled and gushed for well over the specified forty seconds about how amazing it was. I carried on jumping with a smile fixed to my face – it never seems right to stop until told to, does it? I must’ve jumped for at least eighty seconds (it felt more like ten solid minutes) and it was hard, trust me.
‘Who did you say you went with? Your fiancé, was it?’ I asked when she’d finally finished extolling the virtues of Mr Smith.
‘No, he’s not a fan. Besides, it was a girls-only night. I went with Mike’s brother’s wife.’ She smiled. I hoped she didn’t remember that she’d already told me who she was going with.
‘Well, at least he could pick you up afterwards,’ I prompted.
She laughed. ‘We were out too late for that. He was already asleep when I got in.’
I’ll bet he was. Worn out no doubt! The poor woman had absolutely no idea what her husband-to-be was up to. I had to catch him out. I allowed her to inflict burpees upon me and then surprisingly, we did actually use my kettlebells. By the end of the workout, my muscles burnt and my chest felt light. I felt good.
‘Thank you so much for coming over.’ I handed her three crisp ten-pound notes.
‘Not a problem. Same time tomorrow?’
I nodded. Mondays were one of our regular days along with Wednesdays and Fridays – I just hoped I’d be able to move my legs by then.
After Megan left I took a shower then sat in the orangery to work on my plan. The garden views always instilled in me a state of calm but the grass was looking a little longer than I liked, so Jim the gardener obviously hadn’t been. Recently, he’d missed a few weeks here and there, and I’d started to wonder why he called himself a professional since he wasn’t very good or reliable. I made a mental note to contact Sam, the owner of the gardening company, to let him know. With any luck, he’d send someone else. Sam and James were old university acquaintances so I was sure he’d be accommodating.
My phone buzzed with a message.
Charlotte, I’m terribly sorry. I’m unable to make the charity brunch. I’ve popped a donation in the post and we’ll catch up at the ball. Emmy x
I sighed. I knew guests would drop like flies when they caught wind of Lauren’s ball date clash. Coiffured curls and Charlotte Tilbury smoky eyes were more important to those shallow types than showing support for a good cause and a ball always trumps a brunch. I was furious with Lauren, and Emmy Walters wouldn’t be the only one to back out. After her recent lipo, she was probably petrified of eating two full meals in one day. I grit my teeth and tapped out a response.
Not to worry, Emmy, I appreciate the length of time it will take you to get ready. Thank you anyway for your generous support. Since I’m attending the brunch and the ball, perhaps I’ll see you in the evening. Xx
I deleted the kisses, because nothing makes a point better than the number of kisses at the end of a message.
Right, back to business. My first task was to find out who the scarlet woman was. From there I’d decide how best to tell Megan.
‘I’m going shopping,’ I called to James, knowing that wouldn’t rouse suspicion on his part. I wasn’t sure how I’d justify my actions to James – he could never understand why I got involved with problems that weren’t my own, which was silly. I was helping people just like he did every day. Outside I saw that the drizzle had dampened the small red bricks of the house, transforming them into a murky brown colour. I couldn’t wait for summer. Winter had been months of spirit-inhibiting grey drizzle, so some heat and sun would be quite welcome.
I pressed my key fob and the black cast-iron gates at the end of the driveway creaked open. I made a second mental note to call the handyman to oil them. With James being so busy, I really had to take care of all these things.
I drove to the house that Mike had dropped the mystery woman off at the previous night. It looked even worse in the stark light of day: weeds had sprung up between the broken slats of the cheap wooden fence. The upper half of the small property was pebble-dashed, and part of that had chipped away. The door had been painted purple. Purple? Had I liked the woman, I’d have probably arranged for a few of my contacts to spruce the place up for her.
Small and simple plans are the key to success; long, elaborate plans leave too much room for failure. Quite frankly, I didn’t even have a plan. I snuggled into my heated seat and contemplated what to do. I had a few options to consider, including knocking on the door under the pretence of having got the wrong address; waiting in the car until she came out and then following her to get a feel for her routine and how I might catch her; or giving up and going home. But giving up wasn’t in my nature.
As it happens, the decision was made for me, when the door opened and a young woman came out. Younger than me, anyway. Around twenty-seven give or take. She had thick shiny chestnut hair and was wearing some kind of yoga attire. Well, if you live in a place that looks like that I suppose one has to achieve a relaxed state somehow, I thought, already stressed just looking at the unkempt appearance of the house.
The sun broke through the clouds, glinting off the moist pavement and privet hedges. Squinting a little – an action that would definitely deepen my emerging crow’s feet – I rummaged in the glove box for some sunglasses, pulling out some old Chanel cat’s-eye ones that I kept in there for emergencies. I wondered absent-mindedly if they were still in style. Despite my fashion-crisis interlude, I never took my eyes off the woman. She had a mat-roll slung over her shoulder and walked briskly to the end of the street. As she turned the corner, I fired up my engine and crept along the street until I spotted her again at a bus stop.
Pulling over, I checked my make-up in the mirror. It was difficult to tell, but there was a slight possibility the lady at the Lancôme counter had recommended the wrong colour eyebrow pencil. It looked more orange than beige, but it could have been the light.
Debating whether to return the offending pencil, I belatedly realised that a single-decker bus had pulled up at the stop and had set off with the woman on board. My heart started to race as I turned the corner to follow it with no clue as to where we’d end up. As I drove, my mind wandered through the what-ifs: what if she’d noticed the car, knew I was following her, and was leading me to some dodgy disused warehouse on the outskirts of town so she could bump me off before I could disclose her sordid affair? I laughed out loud at my own imagination. Too many thrillers, Charlotte! I shook my head. Plus, she’d hardly be taking the number 84 if that was her evil plan.
The bus was heading away from the town centre, towards the outlying village where Megan lived. Interesting. I knew she wouldn’t be heading to see Mr Megan in the cold light of day, and, of course, I was right. She got off the bus on the high street, which was convenient for me as there was a Costa Coffee there where I could top up my caffeine levels.
I pulled over and watched as she entered a door set between a bridal shop and a children’s shoe shop. Adrenaline coursed through me as I climbed out of the car and approached the door. There were no prizes for guessing she was on her way to a Pilates session. What was puzzling, however, was the choice of venue: Megan’s studio.