A Deep Deceit (7 page)

‘Don't be silly.' I smiled at him and he had the grace to look a bit sheepish before grinning back at me.

Mariette still lived with her mother. The first surprise came in the narrow hallway of their cottage, two-bedroomed, I knew, but not an awful lot bigger than ours, which was so cluttered you could hardly make your way through. The walls were lined on either side with shelves packed with brassware. Loads of the stuff.

‘Front door was open one day and a party of tourists just walked straight in; they thought the place was a shop,' murmured Mariette smilingly. ‘You ain't seen nothing yet,' she continued as she led the way into the small lace-curtained front room.

More pieces of brass were everywhere, horse brasses, brass weights, plates, jugs, candlesticks and a vast assortment of ornaments ranging from a Madonna and Child to a range of animals including cats, dogs, pigs and rabbits.

‘She's got about 4000 pieces,' said Mariette, gesturing me to a chintz-covered armchair. ‘Cleans 'em in rotation and it takes her an hour and a half every day.'

‘Amazing,' I said. It was the best I could come up with.

‘Now you know the Cornish are barking,' Mariette giggled.

I did not meet Mrs Brenda Powell that evening. Apparently the deal was that she steered clear of her daughter's girls' nights, even though it was Mrs Powell, apparently, who had diligently supplied sandwiches, cheese and biscuits, and homemade cake for the occasion. Mariette appeared to have her mother, whom I knew to be a widow, pretty well trained it seemed to me. Certainly being installed in her own front room – with, I was told, Mrs Powell busily cleaning brass in the kitchen next door – did not cramp Mariette's usual style, nor that of her three friends, none of whom I had met before, which made me quite nervous. The gossip was as raunchy as I had begun to become accustomed to – only this time there were five young women swapping stories of their sexual adventures. Well, four, actually. I had very little to say, although I found that I thoroughly enjoyed listening to the tales of their exploits.

‘Suzanne's all right, adored by a man who will do
anything
to make her happy.' Mariette put a hugely suggestive emphasis on the word ‘anything'. I tried not to look embarrassed.

‘He's coming to get you, I'll bet,' she added.

Hesitantly I agreed that he was.

‘Good, we'll all get a chance to have a look,' she said. I had yet to introduce Carl to her.

‘No, he told me he'd wait outside,' I replied innocently.

‘Really,' remarked Mariette, and glanced at her watch. It was about ten minutes before the time I had agreed to meet him.

‘And no doubt he's there already. He doesn't take chances with our Suze!'

The entire group then crowded around the bay window and began to peek through the net curtains in order to get a glimpse of Carl as he waited for me in the street.

‘Is that him?' cried Mariette. I peered around her and was just in time to see the back of a male figure disappearing round the corner. At that moment Carl appeared from the other direction and propped himself against the street lamp outside.

‘No, that's him, there,' I said somewhat unnecessarily.

‘Oh, doesn't he look nice,' said Mariette in a rather soppy voice. ‘God, I'm jealous.'

I manoeuvred myself so that I too could get a good view of him. He did look nice. That was the only word for Carl really, that and kind. He was not startlingly handsome, or startlingly anything for that matter, just nice, kind, solid, reliable and funny. And I did love him so.

‘Invite him in, go on, just for a moment, oh, go on.'

The entire throng encouraged me. I stepped briskly outside into the cool night air and, quite out of character, asked Carl if he would come in and meet the girls. Even the words sounded strange as I spoke them.

Carl looked terrified. His stammer made an appearance again. ‘I d-don't think so, Suzanne, p-p-please, I'd rather not . . .'

He could not escape, though. Mariette and her friends were apparently not prepared to wait indoors for long. When I did not return swiftly with Carl alongside, all four of them followed me out into the street, surrounded Carl and insisted on being introduced. He blushed, his already ruddy face turning absolutely crimson, and I found it as endearing as I had that very first time in Richmond Park.

‘He really is very very nice,' whispered Mariette in my ear as we finally said our farewells.

Carl hurried me up the hill. I think he was sweating. ‘Good G-God, Suzanne, I felt like a prize bull,' he said.

‘You are a prize bull, my love,' I replied.

He laughed, albeit a little uncertainly.

‘Mariette says she's jealous,' I went on. ‘I reckon it's because she thinks you'll do
anything
for me.'

I put a suggestive emphasis on the word ‘anything' in just the way Mariette had done.

Carl looked slightly aghast. ‘Did she say that too?'

I nodded.

‘Do women really talk like that about men?'

I chuckled. He didn't know the half of it. ‘Apparently,' I said.

‘Just don't ever throw me to the w-wolves again, that's all,' he admonished, still with just a hint of nervous stammer. But he was smiling when he said it.

Those truly were a happy few months. Nothing at all happened to cause Carl or I any anxiety. The van incident became ancient history. I really did get a taste of the normality I craved.

Mariette had alternate Saturdays off from the library and one weekend she persuaded me to go on a shopping expedition to Penzance with her. Actually, I didn't take much persuading, but I wasn't sure what Carl would make of it. I knew he was anxious about my friendship with Mariette, even though he passed little comment, so I didn't tell him about the trip until the night before Mariette and I were due to take the little train from the station just by Porthminster Beach.

He was fine about it though. ‘Don't ever think I don't want you to enjoy yourself, Suzanne, because I do, in every possible way,' he said. ‘Just remember that you don't know Mariette that well, won't you.'

I knew what he was saying. In a funny kind of way it felt as if I knew Mariette very well indeed, but I didn't of course, nor could I. Carl was just reminding me to be cautious and I knew that he was quite right to do so. That was how it was with us.

Of course, then I had to ask him for some money. Apart from my nightmares, which were lessening, money was our sole problem. We managed, but only just, and as I spent more time with Mariette I was increasingly embarrassed by having to rely on Carl for every penny. That had been one of the reasons why I had liked the idea of getting a job.

Carl, though, was as generous as ever. He swiftly produced fifty pounds from somewhere. I had few halfway decent clothes and I badly needed some new ones. Fifty pounds would not go very far, but for us it was a lot of money. I thanked him with enthusiasm.

‘Don't spend it all at once,' he responded with a twinkle.

I set off cheerily to meet Mariette at the station the next morning.

She eyed the calf-length skirt, cotton print blouse and cardigan I was wearing – more or less the best clothes I possessed – with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. ‘What you need is a complete make-over, my girl,' she said.

I didn't even know what a make-over was.

She led me through the crowds at Penzance to a shop called, rather appropriately I suppose, New Look. The prices, the lowest on the High Street, Mariette said, were, it seemed, the greatest attraction – that and a manic adherence to all the latest fashion fads. But every garment looked to me about three sizes too small and skimpy for any normal person.

‘Rubbish,' said Mariette. ‘You're slim enough and at least we might find something here which looks as if it should be worn by someone in their twenties, rather than a ninety-year-old woman.'

I retreated, wounded and beaten, and very soon, I'm not quite sure exactly how, found myself buying a bright-orange suit with a daringly short skirt. At least I thought it was pretty daring. In fact, even as I handed over a considerable chunk of my fifty pounds, I wasn't sure I should be buying it at all. ‘Don't you think it looks, well, you know, a bit tarty?' I enquired hesitantly.

‘Yes,' said Mariette. ‘Great, isn't it.'

I was then persuaded to buy a pair of ridiculously high platform shoes, but I balked at Mariette's next suggestion.

‘No, I am not dyeing my hair,' I told her firmly. ‘Absolutely not.'

‘I didn't say dye it, I said have a few blond highlights,' she responded in a wheedling tone of voice.

I stood my ground.

‘Well, what about a nice trendy haircut then? I've got a friend who's a hairdresser who'll give you a great cheap cut.'

I couldn't even remember if I'd ever been to a hairdresser in my life. Gran had always cut my hair when I was a child. In adulthood I had let it grow long and straight, just occasionally trimming the ends myself in front of a mirror. But I was a woman, albeit one who had missed out on so much, and I was sorely tempted. Eventually, against my better judgement, I allowed myself to be persuaded.

An hour later I was sitting in a leather chair at the extraordinarily named Fair-dos salon, while Mariette's friend, a striking redhead called Chrissy, snipped away alarmingly, and Mariette set to work on my make-up. I was beyond protesting by then. Two hours later I gazed in the mirror at a different human being.

My hair was several inches shorter, layered and gelled so that it kind of stuck out round my face. Hard to describe, but I had to agree with Mariette that it did seem to suit me. My lips were more or less the same colour as my new suit, I appeared to have had a cheekbone transplant and my eyes looked about two sizes larger than they had before.

‘Go on,' said Mariette. ‘Put on the new suit and shoes, and let's have a look at you.'

Obediently – I was thoroughly enjoying myself by then, by the way – I took my carrier bags into the loo and changed into my new outfit. When I emerged, teetering a little unsteadily on my platforms, Chrissy and Mariette both applauded, and Mariette emitted a loud and vulgar wolf whistle.

‘Why don't you keep it on,' she suggested.

I lurched back into the real word. I had a feeling it was not a good idea to confront Carl so unexpectedly with my total transformation. ‘I don't think so,' I said.

‘Go on,' encouraged Mariette, apparently reading my mind. ‘There's not a man in the world who wouldn't be bowled over. Carl'll love it, you'll see.'

The three of us trailed off to a nearby pub and shared a bottle of white wine. I felt sure everybody would stare at me in my new orange suit, but of course nobody did. Given some courage by this and the wine, probably, I finally agreed to keep the outfit on. I should have known better.

Carl called down to me from our upstairs room when I arrived home.

‘Don't come down, I'll come up,' I called back. ‘I've something to show you.'

But as I started to clump up the stairs I tripped over my strange new shoes and almost fell backwards. I recovered myself without injury, but not without making a terrific noise. By the time I reached the top of the stairs Carl was standing there looking at me.

I was still on a bit of a high. I smiled and threw my arms open wide. ‘What do you think?' I asked, doing a kind of twirl for him.

He didn't show any anger. He didn't shout. He didn't say I looked like a tart. He didn't say anything like that. He just looked disappointed and a bit sad. ‘I think you look like somebody else,' he said eventually.

‘You d-don't like it?' I stuttered.

‘What's to like?' he asked mildly. ‘I can barely recognise you.'

I felt terrible. I went straight downstairs to the bathroom, kicked off the silly shoes and scrubbed every vestige of make-up off my face. I combed down my hair and flattened it against my head, making it look as long and as much the way it had before as possible. Then I took off the tarty orange suit and let it fall carelessly on to the floor. There were a pair of jeans and a sweater in the airing cupboard. I put them on and went back upstairs to Carl.

He smiled at me and touched my cheek. ‘That's better,' he said. ‘I know who you are again now. It's you I love, Suzanne. Not some creature created by your friend Mariette.'

And that was that. He hadn't liked Mariette's make-over, that was for sure, but he didn't create a fuss. Indeed, by the time we went to bed that night it was almost as if it hadn't happened.

I was just sorry I had wasted so much money on the orange suit. And, of course, I never wore it again.

One way or another, I really had more or less forgotten our vandalised van when two days after my unfortunate shopping expedition, a letter arrived.

The words and letters were cut out of a newspaper. The message was stark and chilling. ‘I SAW YOU TOGETHER LAST NIGHT. I WATCHED YOU IN BED. HOW LONG DO YOU THINK THIS CAN GO ON? HOW LONG CAN YOU LIVE A LIE? FACE THE TRUTH, SUZANNE.'

The post had arrived while Carl was in the bathroom. There were three pieces of mail, one obviously junk, the electricity bill and the offending letter. The address was carefully printed using letters from one of those stencil kits you can buy in Smith's, and although with the benefit of hindsight it did look a bit odd, I did not initially study it very closely and no particular warning bells rang as I put the mail on the rickety old dining-room table and sat myself down to open it.

My shock was total. My cup of tea grew cold at my side as I stared dumbly at the letter on the table before me. This was nothing like the scratched words on our van, which surely could have been the work of kids. Someone out there was definitely threatening us. Or, more particularly, me. It was quite terrifying seeing my name there on the page. ‘FACE THE TRUTH, SUZANNE', made my blood run cold.