The Tea House on Mulberry Street (34 page)

But Arnold was already fumbling his way down the back stairs and out the fire exit. He fled to his beloved car and screeched out of the carpark with Charlie pounding along in his wake. He didn’t hear Mr Walley firing him, or Sadie laughing her head off, or Nora New-Nipples weeping in the toilets.

Sadie turned to Mr Walley and said: “Over the years, my husband has sold a lot of windows. He’s worked very hard. And I’ve been very proud of him. But sadly, we have now decided to go our separate ways in the world. We are, therefore, going to donate this lovely holiday to charity. Thank you and goodnight.”

Mr Walley snatched the envelope containing the tickets for the cruise from Sadie’s hands. The chairman was a family man, and was very upset that no-one had informed him of this sorry state of affairs. Sadie waved to all the guests, and left the room with her head held high. Everyone began to clap again, more out of embarrassment than anything else.

Sadie packed her husband’s bags and left them on the doorstep of the bungalow. He came to collect them the next day.

“You know what?” she said. “I was just eating a packet of chilli flavour tortilla chips and a pot of roasted pepper dip, and if I had to choose between this savoury snack and your good self, I would choose the chips without a second’s hesitation. And by the way, I’m keeping the house. You may only contact me from now on through my solicitor. Goodbye.”

Chapter 44

O
PERATION
G
RASSHOPPER

If only Arnold could have let things lie, Sadie would not be standing on the fire escape of Patricia Caldwell’s flat at midday on a freezing cold Christmas Eve. But there she was, hiding behind a rack of laundry that someone had set out to air. Out of habit, Sadie felt one of the towels to see if it was dry. It was frozen solid.

She knew Arnold and Patricia were in the flat because she had been watching the building all morning and no-one had gone in or out. She had eaten all the ham sandwiches in her basket, and the two mince pies, and she was numb with cold and had cramp in one leg. She would give it another half-hour and then call it a day. From her hiding place, she had an excellent view of the kitchen window. If only someone would open the curtains, she could get what she had come for, and go home. She poured herself a small cup of hot chocolate from her tartan-patterned thermos-flask, and drank it quickly, warming her gloved hands on the cup. She waved away the steam with her hand, and prayed that the owner of the washing was out at work for the day. Explanations would be difficult, to say the least, if her presence on a second-floor fire-escape was discovered.

Suddenly, the curtains were wrenched open and Patricia stood there in her dressing-gown, a tacky little number with dragons on the front. As Sadie cowered behind the frozen towels, Arnold appeared behind his lady-love and slid his hands up underneath her satin robe. She turned round to kiss him and they locked onto each other like something from a nature programme. Patricia was naked underneath her robe, and Arnold was wearing only a tiny pair of black pants that didn’t suit him. Sadie felt like a television presenter as she observed them collapsing onto the kitchen table, gnawing at each other like two starving insects:
The female, having attracted the male to her cave with a bold display of sexuality, moves in for… oh dear, it isn’t pleasant, whatever it is
. Sadie dropped her cup into her little wicker basket, and fumbled for the camera.

In a way, it was too easy. She had been prepared to wait for days and days to get this picture, maybe even go as far as to pay someone else to do it. But here she was, on day one of Operation Evidence, and she had to admit they were putting their hearts and souls into it. They must be at it ten times a day, thought Sadie, who had never experienced marital relations in the middle of the afternoon herself, let alone on the top of a glass table with spindly silver legs. This was really going to knock Arnold’s socks off, she thought. That is, if he ever has the time to put his socks on these days. She saw Patricia’s long red fingernails go under the rim of Arnold’s black pants, and begin to peel them off. He was lying on his back on the table, and Patricia threw off her red robe and clambered up on top of him.

Sadie remembered seeing two grasshoppers fighting inside a glass tank, at the science day in her sons’ primary school, and that image came back to her now. Arnold still had a bit of a tummy on him, but his legs and arms were thin. The two people on the table were all elbows, knees and sinews, engaged in what could only be described as an aggressive struggle for sexual supremacy. It was no Mills and Boon scenario. Sadie had never seen anything like it, not even on satellite television, and she had to admit, it was a little disappointing. It was hardly worth giving up a comfortable bungalow in Carryduff for, at any rate. Dame Edna Everage would have been proud of the faces that Sadie pulled as she watched her husband and his skeletal mistress make love in the minimalist kitchen.

Sadie didn’t care for minimalism. It was too raw. The bungalow in Carryduff was full to the rafters with chintz armchairs and floral pelmets and tapestry cushions and pretty baskets of dried flowers. Sadie had spent twenty years creating her beloved home and she wasn’t about to let it go without a fight. That morning, she had received a letter from Arnold’s solicitor, telling her she had six weeks to vacate the premises, as she had no proof of her husband’s alleged infidelity, and no children under the age of eighteen to look after. She wasn’t frightened by the letter. Likely some crony of Arnold’s from the golf club had sent it. Men like that stuck together when they were getting divorced. But Sadie thought she would be wise to get the evidence she needed, just in case things did end up in court.

And so, she tiptoed over to the window, checked that the camera was ready to use, and that the flash was warmed up. Just as Arnold grabbed Patricia’s teacake-sized breasts, in his moment of climax, and gave them a good squeeze, Sadie knocked loudly on the window. Patricia looked up, and so did Arnold, and even though his face was upside-down, he recognised his turnip-shaped wife immediately. And then he saw the camera.

His wet lips began to form a four-letter swear word, just as the flash popped. He was immortalised making the letter F, his top row of teeth biting down hard on his bottom lip. Patricia screamed and leapt off Arnold’s trembling body, causing him quite considerable discomfort in the genital area.

“Get that crazy bitch!”
she roared, hauling her bewildered lover up off the cold glass, and knocking over a single white orchid in a tall vase.

“Where’s my robe, you stupid cow,” he ranted. “I told you not to open the curtains. You, stupid, stupid, little
cow
!”

“Don’t you dare call me names! I knew I was mad to give you a second chance. I should have stayed with Jason Maxwell. He’s got a Rolls Royce!”

“To hell with Jason Maxwell! Where’s my bloody robe? She’s getting away!”

“Use mine!” Patricia screamed.

Sadie had tossed the camera into her basket and was hurrying down the steps of the fire-escape, in her sensible flat shoes. Despite the fact that she was shaking from head to foot, and absolutely terrified, she couldn’t help laughing out loud as she made her escape. She was just fleeing past the wheelie bins at the back gate when Arnold appeared at the back door of the flat. He looked ridiculous in a bright-red satin robe with dragons on the front as he hopped down the freezing, metal steps in his bare feet.

“If you don’t get that camera, and smash it to smithereens, I’ll kill you!” yelled Patricia from the back door. “Bloody, married men! More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me.
It’s Fatal Attraction
, in reverse!” She was wrapped in a white quilt, already smoking a long brown cigarette. But Sadie didn’t see her. She was already halfway down the avenue, and hailing a taxi at the rank on the corner.

“Quick! Get me out of here! Take me to Carryduff!” shouted Sadie.

Arnold was running down the white line in the middle of the road by now, all thoughts of decency forgotten. Sadie got another picture of him reaching for her, through the rear window, as the car gathered speed and pulled out onto the main road. She saw Arnold slow down, then, and throw up his hands in defeat.

“Well, that went very well,” said Sadie, to the back of the driver’s head.

“I take it you’re keeping the house?” said the driver, who was a man of his word and had agreed to wait out the morning… for a worthwhile fare…

“You bet your sweet ass, I’m keeping it,” said Sadie.

Afterwards, when the film was developed and the disgusting pictures safely lodged in a solicitor’s office, Sadie renamed the event Operation Grasshopper. Somehow, she felt sorry for Arnold when she thought of the sexual slavery he would have to endure with his new partner. She couldn’t understand how he could prefer that rushed and desperate coupling to Sadie’s gentle embraces in the big bed that was scattered with cushions and little pillows of potpourri. To be honest, she thought Patricia Caldwell would put the old boy in an early grave. She wished Arnold had been honest with her from the beginning and told her about the affair. They might have parted friends. Who knows, she might even have forgiven him. After all, lovemaking was not one of Sadie’s strong points, and Arnold was only human.

But then she remembered his chilling words, when she was squashed behind the stationery cupboard in his office. About keeping Sadie on as the unpaid help until his parents went to their eternal rest, and then showing her the door. And letting that dirty little witch into Sadie’s beautiful home. That was impossible to forgive, and so she hardened her heart against him. She changed the locks and the telephone number, and sent his pompous desk and chair over to the flat in a removal van with a note sellotaped to the leather desk-top.

It simply said:
“Lots of love from Sadie Sponge.”

Chapter 45

T
HE
R
ETURN OF
P
ETER
P
RENDERGAST

Clare Fitzgerald sat at the big desk in her New York office. It was almost closing-time on Christmas Eve. Outside her door, in the main office, they were getting ready for the staff Christmas party. She could hear glasses being set out on a table, and someone was playing ‘Arthur’s Theme’ by Christopher Cross, on a music-centre. Clare knew they would send out for some party food later, but she was quite hungry already. She had a hankering for some cold ham and pasta salad, so she finished the sentence she was writing and shut down her computer. The December issue of the magazine had been a resounding success and she was feeling very pleased with herself. She looked up at the portrait of Brenda on the wall, now lavishly mounted in a speckled gold frame. In the short time it had hung on the wall, it had became for Clare a portrait of Peter. She looked at the picture every morning, every evening, every time he called her on the phone. They had spent hours talking, catching up, falling in love again. They were going to meet up in two days’ time. Clare wanted to see him so much, but he had work commitments and couldn’t get away any sooner. Now, she had resigned herself to spending Christmas Day on her own.

The article about Brenda Brown, in the arts section, had generated a lot of interest, and there were twenty-four requests for commissions in a folder on Clare’s desk. Clare took it out now, wrote a short note to Brenda, and placed it in her post-tray. Hopefully, Brenda would not have to stay in that cold little flat for much longer. She was a strange character, but then again, thought Clare, weren’t all very talented people a little eccentric?

She opened the Christmas issue and read again her editor’s letter to the readers.

Christmas is a special time of year. A time for friends and family to gather round the hearth; a time for flickering candles, evergreen wreaths and home-made treats like our white chocolate fudge. Cut out and keep the recipe on
page 212
. In this issue, we look at Christmas trees of days gone by; see the collection of delicate, antique feather trees on
page 46
, and the beautiful aluminium trees of the 1950s which are currently enjoying a revival. And don’t forget to have a magical holiday!