Stockings and Cellulite (40 page)

Jamie suddenly erupted out of the study, clearly agitated.

‘Everything okay darling?’ I called after his retreating back.

He stopped and spun round. ‘Yeah I – sorry Cassie. I’m a bit distracted.’

‘What’s wrong?’ I walked up to him and put my arms around him.

‘Nothing. Just work,’ he pulled me to him and hugged me hard.

I rested my head on his shoulder for a moment.

‘Who was that calling?’ I asked lightly.

‘Ethan. You know, Ethan Fareham. The guy I’m going into the security partnership with.

I nodded. ‘Is everything still on – no change of heart?’

‘Definitely not. I can’t wait to start working with the guy.’

‘
Mum
!’ Livvy called again.

‘Go on,’ Jamie kissed my forehead. ‘I’ll catch up with you in half an hour. We’ll have a nice glass of wine together.’

‘Lovely.’

As I walked up the stairs to the bathroom I felt slightly sick. Jamie had just lied to me.

As the weekend got underway, I dropped all the children off at the stables before diverting to Nell’s.

‘How’s married life?’ I asked over our ritual coffees and Hob Nobs.

‘Don’t ask,’ she pulled a face. ‘Tell me instead how the great romance is going,’ she popped half a biscuit in her mouth.

‘W-e-ll,’ I pulled my own face.

Nell’s rotating jaw froze. ‘What do you mean
w-e-ll
? What’s going on? Is everything all right?’

Miserably, I brought her up to date with the anonymous phone calls culminating in Jamie’s own mystery caller.

‘He blatantly lied to me Nell.’

‘Cass this is ludicrous,’ my old neighbour shook her head in disbelief. ‘There’s no way Jamie is cheating on you. No way!’

‘In my heart of hearts I don’t believe he is. But I can’t think of any other explanation. Why else was Jamie telling somebody
it’s over
and voicing concern about whether I could have picked up the call?’

‘Why don’t you just confront him then?’

‘What, as in “Oh by the way darling, you’re a bloody liar because I checked your mobile phone while you were languishing in the bath and your caller’s number does not match Ethan Fareham’s mobile number”. Then what?’

‘Well I’m fresh out of any other suggestions,’ Nell shrugged apologetically. ‘Did you make a note of the caller’s number?’

‘What sort of person do you think I am?’ I rounded on Nell. ‘It’s bad enough that I’m sneaking about eavesdropping on my fiancé’s private telephone conversations, doubting his loyalty, riffling through his mobile phone contacts-’

‘Where’s the number?’

‘Here,’ I said sulkily extracting it from my handbag.

‘I’m ringing it.’

‘No!’ I snatched the bit of paper back.

‘Why not?’

‘Ignorance is bliss. For the moment.’

‘You’re joking,’ Nell gaped at me incredulously. ‘Okay,’ she threw up her hands in despair, ‘do it your way. For now.’

The following day I drove into Fairview to buy some new clothes for work. I returned home to find Edna already in the throes of cooking Sunday lunch.

‘Bought anything nice dear?’

‘Just some clothes for the office.’

Jamie wandered in and slung an arm around my shoulder. ‘Let’s see.’

I shook the clothing on to the kitchen table.

‘A roughed up leather jacket, a T-shirt and a pair of combat trousers. And you say these clothes are for work?’

‘Why not! I’m about to embark on a three day full-time stint with Henniker. It will be like going to war. Therefore I need to be dressed appropriately.’

‘I see.’

‘I also figured that something less tailored might make me more relaxed.’

My fingers caressed the combat’s numerous pockets, zips and distressed bits. I’d had to buy the next size up as my tummy was still full and round. Only the other day Julia had prodded my stomach and cheerfully enquired if I was embarking on middle age spread as well as the menopause. Cheeky cow.

‘That’s very anti-establishment,’ Jamie pointed to the T-shirt. It was covered in a mix of silver and white scribbled graffiti.

‘Do you like it?’ I asked nervously.

‘Absolutely love it,’ he enthused, ‘especially the trousers,’ he lifted up the flaps and undid a zip or two. ‘Do these lead anywhere interesting?’

The remainder of the weekend passed without incident. There were no dropped phone calls and Jamie’s mobile remained silent. His attitude to me was loving and attentive. The mystery caller’s telephone number languished inside my handbag. I was positive my fiancé wasn’t having an affair. Well, fairly positive.

On Monday morning I slipped into the new clothes feeling almost liberated. Walking the short distance from car park to office, a piercing wolf whistle shrilled out from a passing van.

‘You’re a bit of a yummy mummy ain’t’cha darlin’!’ yelled a cheeky chappie.

I experienced a bit of a head rush. Fancy that! I bowled into Reception feeling incredibly
hip.

‘I’ve just been wolf whistled,’ I giggled to Julia.

‘Good for you!’ she grinned.

I headed off to Martin Henniker’s office feeling more than a little smug.

‘Good morning!’ I trilled shrugging off the trendy jacket.

Henniker boggled at me. One could almost feel the series of exclamation marks emanating from the area around his desk. Clearly my appearance had knocked him sideways.

‘
Mrs
Cherry!’

Ah. He’d recovered. Wait for it Cass. Wait for it.

‘
What
an extraordinary outfit. Tell me, where’s the fancy dress party?’

I blanched. ‘I beg your pardon?’

He raised his eyebrows in a parody of astonishment and pointed to my graffiti T-shirt.

‘Well presumably there is a reason for you coming to the office dressed like a hooligan?’

The effect was instantaneous. Like a pricked balloon, my shoulders slumped. Two seconds ago I had felt on top of the world. Now I just felt ridiculous.

‘Fortunately my client isn’t coming into the office today Mrs Cherry, but I must ask you to revert to appropriate sober attire tomorrow.’

‘Yes Mr Henniker. Of course Mr Henniker.’

Twenty-four hours later things had gone from tricky to downright sticky as Henniker grew more and more enraged. The client telephoned to say he was running late which didn’t improve my truculent boss’s mood. As the day wore on I found myself getting increasingly stressed as Henniker repeatedly flung paperwork back at me, derided my knowledge of Power Point and finally erupted into a furious outburst over a missing comma.

As the third and final day of working full-time for Henniker dawned, I offered up a silent prayer of thanks that I would soon be reverting back to part-time status.

‘And where the bloody hell did you disappear to yesterday afternoon?’ my boss roared by way of greeting.

Calm Cass. Do
not
retaliate.

‘Home of course Mr Henniker,’ I trilled. ‘Much as I love working for you, I do have four children waiting for their Mummy.’ He narrowed his eyes. Suddenly a stack of documents bound with only an elastic band catapulted through the air and landed with a heavy thwack on my desk. The band instantly snapped sending loose pages spilling to the floor.

‘That little lot requires urgent amending, so pull your finger out.’

I stared at him, fighting rising anger. I caught sight of the heavy stapler and mentally shivered at my previous imaginings involving that particular contraption. How easy would it be to punch it against the throbbing vein in his temple leaving a particularly pretty cross-stitch? Or reach for my monitor and bash seven bells out of his head?

‘My pleasure Mr Henniker,’ I smiled brightly and stooped to gather up the fallen papers.

The client arrived and instantly picked holes in several clauses. It was gone three o’clock before everything was signed, sealed and delivered. I felt shattered and my stomach was growling hungrily. It had been a long time since breakfast. I reached for my handbag.

‘I think we both deserve something nice,’ I said cheerfully. ‘Can I treat you?’

But my boss didn’t deign to respond or even look up from his work.

‘See you in a minute then,’ I addressed his bald spot before slipping out.

As I stood in the queue at the delicatessen, I decided that this sort of stress simply wasn’t on. I felt exhausted. So damn tired. I still hadn’t had my period and there never seemed to be a spare moment to sort myself out. Along with a trip to the gynaecologist, my dental check up was overdue, as was a sight test and when was I going to get time to visit a hairdresser for some urgent highlights and a restyle before Morag’s rapidly approaching wedding?

As I handed over a five pound note in exchange for two plastic triangular containers, I determined that I would hand in my notice. Tomorrow. I would draft it first thing in the morning. Jamie was right. I was lucky enough not to
need
to work, so why was I knocking myself into a cocked hat?

I walked back to the office feeling much calmer, a restored sense of being in control of my life again.

In the tiny kitchenette I opened the plastic containers and set the contents on two plates. Two enormous pieces of rich brown cake stared up at me. Something as stickily moist as this needed a cup of coffee to wash it down. Moments later I elbowed Martin Henniker’s door open, tray aloft, and placed the cake and china to one side of his ink blotter.

He glared furiously at me. ‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Buying you this,’ I beamed. ‘I told you – my treat.’

His gaze dropped to the plate.

The cake was heavily iced with soft fudge fondant. Henniker dug his fingers into the mixture to keep it from slipping and greedily opened his mouth to crocodile proportions.

‘It’s called
Death by Chocolate,
’ I informed him as his cheeks ballooned to alarming proportions. And may you bloody well choke on it, I silently added.

Two seconds later, he did.

From that point on things became hazy. I vaguely remember Henniker fighting to swallow the contents of his overfull mouth. His face went through the colour spectrum of pink, red, fuchsia and finally deep purple as his eyes bulged. There was a spluttering noise as he inhaled and choked at the same time. Everything slipped into slow motion. Somebody was screaming – presumably me – as Martin Henniker nose-dived into the remains of his chocolate cake sending the coffee flying in the process. The incessant screaming continued as frantic footsteps pounded urgently down the hallway. Moments later Julia burst in. The blood drained from her face as she took in the gruesome scene.

‘I didn’t do it!’ I yelled at her wild eyed. ‘Look – my monitor is still plugged in. And see here?’ I grabbed the stapler and waggled it in front of Julia’s frightened eyes. ‘Witness all the staples are present and correct.’

‘What are you talking about Cass?’ Julia whispered. She glanced from me to Henniker. A pate on a plate. I had a terrifying urge to break into hysterical laughter of the unfunny kind. Julia lunged across me and grabbed the telephone.

‘I didn’t do it,’ I repeated, swaying giddily. ‘I’m innocent and my hormones are not diminished.’

And with that I passed out.

I didn’t go to work the following day. After Martin Henniker’s literal Death by Chocolate, I was reliably informed by Julia that I had spouted incoherent garbling before dropping to the floor, eyes rolling to the back of my head. Thinking that she now had two dead bodies on her hands, Julia had frantically rung 999.

An ambulance had arrived. Paramedics had removed the body.
The body
. Just thinking about Martin Henniker morphing from living to dead before my very eyes produced violent shudders. One of the paramedics had helped me up, draped a blanket over my shoulders and pressed hot sweet tea into my shaking hands. Two policemen had materialised and assured it was unlikely I would be charged with murder. Jamie was duly summoned and whisked me home.

That evening Julia and Morag visited, both riding high on morbid fascination.

‘You should have seen Henniker’s face Cass when one of the paramedics pulled him out of the chocolate sponge,’ Julia gasped.

‘Yes, I can imagine,’ I rubbed my aching head.

‘His eyelashes were smothered in chocolate sauce and there was all this fudge goo everywhere – on his nose, around his nose, up his nose-’

‘
Thank
you Julia,’ I clapped a hand over my mouth. It was likely that I would never eat chocolate fudge cake again.

Morag, never one to bandy words, got straight to the point. ‘This does of course mean there is an available Senior Partner position up for grabs.’

Julia and I stared at her, shocked.

‘I’m a businesswoman,’ she reminded us. ‘Don’t think Henniker would be grieving if either one of us had been taken by the Grim Reaper. Let’s face it girls, he was a pain in the tubes and nobody’s going to miss him too much.’

‘Apart from his wife,’ I pointed out.

‘That reminds me,’ Julia rummaged in her bag. ‘Sign this please.’

It was a sympathy card for Martin Henniker’s widow. I scribbled listlessly.

‘And anyway,’ continued Julia, ‘why would you want a senior partner position when you’re about to embark upon wedded bliss, hang up your dictation machine and plan to get big with child?’

‘We’ll see. One never knows what the future holds.’

Julia retrieved the sympathy card. ‘For heaven’s sake Cass, I can’t give Doreen Henniker this.’

Morag leant across and peered at the card. ‘Congratulations and all good wishes for the future.’

‘Sorry,’ I rubbed my eyes. ‘If only I hadn’t bought that blasted cake.’

‘If. But. Maybe,’ Morag shrugged. ‘It’s not your fault Cass, end of subject.’

‘You don’t understand,’ I gulped, tears springing to my eyes. ‘I actually made a wish as he bit into the cake. I
wished
him to choke. And he did. And then he died.’

‘Do you honestly believe,’ Morag rolled her eyes, ‘that you made a wish which came true? If life were that easy the world would be awash with millionaires, everybody would be famous and nobody would do a day’s work. Julia, find Jamie and ask for stiff drinks all round.’