Chapter One
I stared in disbelief at the private Instagram message.
Congratulations on your engagement. Clearly you are unaware that your fiancé is a cheater! From a well-wisher.
What on earth?
I sat down heavily on the edge of my bed and, for a moment, stared blankly at the carpet. The sender of that message couldn’t possibly be talking about George. Not my George. Not George with the waistline that bore testament to his love of steak-and-kidney puddings. Not George who had recently taken to doing a comb-over to hide his ever-expanding bald patch. I mean, well, George was George. George Baker. Not George Clooney.
My fiancé wasn’t around to see the message, having left for work five minutes earlier. My immediate instinct was to search George’s belongings for clues but, unfortunately, I was sitting on the bed at my house, not his. Nor were there any of George’s belongings under my roof. Not even a toothbrush. He always came to my place fully prepared, having previously neatly packed his stuff in an overnight bag. His holdall arrived with him, and it left with him.
Neither of us had ever got around to giving each other a key to our respective homes and, in truth, I was secretly pleased about that. I told myself that it kept things fresh between us. That it was more fun to have the anticipation of George staying in my bed once or twice a week or, alternatively, me going over to his place to snuggle up in his vast custom-made bed. However, after we were married, the plan was for me to permanently move in with George, and for my place to be rented out.
I tried not to think about making the transition to George’s modern detached house in nearby Kings Hill. It had been tastefully decorated throughout in white and dove grey but – if truth be told – I found it a little cold and depressing. I much preferred the rather hectic colour scheme at Catkin Cottage with its multi-jewelled rugs and bright throws. However, right now, our spare key situation meant I was unable to let myself into George’s place for a sneaky look around.
I tore my gaze away from the Axminster and gazed once again at the phone in my hand. The mystery messenger was called Thomas. A tabby cat featured as the profile picture. Neither meant anything to me.
I clicked on the name. Immediately, a notification flashed up. This account is private. A quick look at Thomas’s posts revealed nothing had ever been uploaded, and he – or she – had no followers. Also, Thomas was following just one person. Presumably me.
I took a deep breath, then exhaled gustily, aware that my stomach muscles felt tense and knotted. A sane, sensible part of my brain clamoured to be heard.
This message is nonsense. Utter rubbish. Click off it now!
Shakily, I swiped my mobile’s screen, then went straight to my list of contacts. I should’ve known my best friend’s number off by heart considering how often we spoke to each other, but thanks to digital life this wasn’t the case. My bestie answered on the third ring.
‘Sue!’ I gasped.
‘Soph,’ she chirped. ‘You sound tense. Surely half past seven on a Thursday morning is a little early to be so fraught. What’s up?’
‘Sorry, but’ – I stood up and began pacing the bedroom – ‘I’ve received a weird message via social media, and it’s unsettled me.’
‘Don’t tell me’ – I sensed Sue at the other end of the connection, blue eyes narrowing as she concentrated, one hand raking her blonde hair – ‘a rich overseas prince wants to deposit a billion pounds in your bank account, then pay you a vast sum of cash by way of reward but only if you help with his money laundering.’
‘Nothing like that,’ I said, pausing by the window.
I yanked the catch and pushed against the wooden frame, savouring the rush of sweet air as I gazed at the fields beyond the garden hedge. The pasture was full of cows. Oh, look! Overnight, another calf had been born. I gazed at the tiny creature in awe. Another miracle of Mother Nature in this new month of June. Despite the early hour, cornflower-blue skies were promising a day of warm sunshine. The heady scent of honeysuckle wafted through the open window, tickling my nostrils.
‘How many guesses do I get?’ Sue prompted.
I turned my back on the bucolic scene and resumed my pacing.
‘None,’ I said, chewing my lip, willing the anxiety to go away.
‘Then spill the beans and make it quick, or Charlie will be after me. He’ll want to know why I’m still starkers in the bathroom and not downstairs frying his eggs and bacon. Bloody man. All he thinks about is his belly. When it comes to food, he’s more insatiable than–’
There was the sound of a door opening. In the background I heard Sue’s husband asking if she’d finished with the shower.
‘Oh, er, yes, darling. You go ahead. I’m just on the phone to Sophie.’
‘Morning, Sophie,’ Charlie called.
‘Tell him I said hi,’ I said to Sue.
‘Sophie says hello too,’ Sue repeated.
‘Tell her I don’t know what you girlies find to talk about so early in the morning.’
‘Did you hear that?’ said Sue, a grin in her voice.
‘I did, and give him my love.’
‘Sophie sends her love,’ Sue told Charlie.
‘And tell her I send all love back but now’ – there was a shooing sound – ‘I’d like the smallest room in the house to myself, without Sophie overhearing any rampant trumpeting. A man likes to oversee his ablutions without being overheard, so out you go, dear wife. Be off with you. Go cook my breakfast.’
‘I’m going, I’m going,’ Sue assured. A second later came the sound of a door closing and a bolt being drawn. My bestie tutted theatrically. ‘Talk to me while I throw on my dressing gown and get myself downstairs. I’ll have my shower after Charlie has left for work and the house is quiet. So, come on, Soph. What’s this message all about?’
I glanced at the bedside clock. The big hand seemed to be galloping through its upward sweep reminding that I, too, should be getting ready for work, not gassing to my mate.
‘The message said that George is playing away.’
There was a pause at the other end of the line, and I could almost visualise Sue doing some rapid blinking.
‘What did you just say?’
‘You heard. Someone called Thomas – with a profile picture of a tabby cat – messaged me to inform I was betrothed to a cheater.’
‘That’s insane. Find the message and read it to me properly.’
‘Just a minute.’ I swiped the screen, then tapped the Instagram icon. ‘Oh, I don’t believe it.’
‘What now?’
‘It’s gone.’
‘The message?’
‘Yes, it’s disappeared.’
‘The author must have unsent it. Tell me exactly what it said.’
‘I can’t remember now. Not precisely. But the gist was’ – I screwed up my face trying to recall the words – ‘congratulations on my upcoming nuptials, and was I aware that George was an unfaithful bastard?’ My voice rose an octave as I said those last two words.
‘Calm down, Soph. Look, listen to me. This is George we’re talking about, right?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Exactly, and George wouldn’t do that.’
‘How do you know?’ I wailed.
‘Now, don’t be offended. I know George is your fiancé and you think the sun shines out of his briefcase, and that he runs a thriving stationery company that recently flogged a trillion paperclips to WH Smith–’
‘Are you insinuating that George is boring?’ I interrupted.
‘I asked you not to be offended.’
Now it was my turn to rake a hand through my hair.
‘Okay, no offence taken.’
‘I mean, who, in their right mind, wants to have a fling with George?’ Sue asked.
My jaw dropped.
‘Well I’m having a flipping fling with George,’ I said indignantly.
‘No, you’re not,’ said Sue quickly. ‘You’re having a relationship with him. That’s totally different. A fling is’ – she paused to consider, no doubt her thought processes swiftly back-peddling – ‘something tacky. And George isn’t tacky,’ she added loyally.
‘No, he’s not tacky, just boring,’ I said sarcastically.
‘I thought you said you weren’t offended? Listen to me, Soph. Let’s start again. George is reliable. Okay? Reliable.’
‘Do you think?’ I whispered, collapsing down on the bed again. ‘Oh God, Sue. What if Thomas Tabby Cat is telling the truth?’
A background clattering momentarily had me holding the phone away from my ear. Sue was banging pans about as she set to work cooking Charlie’s breakfast.
‘I think you’re getting worked up over nothing,’ she said staunchly.
‘I’m not so sure. Wouldn’t you be unnerved by such a message? After all, I’m marrying George this Saturday. That’s forty-eight hours away.’
‘Don’t you see what this is?’ said Sue in exasperation. ‘It’s a troll. Some jealous saddo with nothing better to do than pour a bucket of cold water on a betrothed woman’s happiness. Like many people who use social media, you wanted to share your joy with a pic of your beautiful engagement ring, and some nasty little prat has zoomed in on you, hoping to spoil things.’
I fiddled with a hole in my dressing gown. Sue’s words held some truth.
Here I was. Fifty-year-old Sophie Fairfax. One failed marriage already behind her. Then finally – finally – I’d found a guy who’d asked me to marry him, who’d sealed the deal by whisking me off to Hatton Garden for a ring. I’d been so delighted. So ecstatic.
Once home, I’d snapped away with my mobile’s camera. There had been one of me beaming away, long dark hair falling in waves, brown eyes sparkling with excitement as I’d presented my third finger to camera. I’d then zoomed in on the diamond itself and captured a glitzy close-up. The pics had subsequently been uploaded to Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter with umpteen wedding-appropriate hashtags. I’d burbled on about my impending wedding and imminent name change. You see, I’d wanted the world to know. Everyone else seemed to have shiny perfect lives, and now I had one too. Hooray!
I rubbed my temples. Despite Sue’s words of reassurance, I could feel a headache starting.
‘Do you understand?’ Sue prompted.
‘Yes,’ I whispered uncertainly.
‘I can tell you’re not convinced. Okay, let’s go over the facts.’ There came the sound of sizzling as rashers began to brown. ‘When you were a slip of a girl, you walked down the aisle to wed Teddy who, just like a certain band’s song, thought he was far too sexy for his shirt, his trousers, and his boxers and frequently shed the lot to cavort with other women throughout your twenty-five-year marriage. Teddy would then come back to you with his tail between his legs, promising it would never happen again. But Teddy only kept half his promise, in that it never happened again with the same woman. So, when you found out about his latest conquest in a rather public way, you knew it was time to either put up and shut up, or bail out. You chose the latter and, for a while, enjoyed not having your nerves jangling with dropped phone calls on the home landline. Then you met George in the chiller aisle of Kings Hill’s biggest supermarket while shopping for a lonely meal for one, and he asked you out. Initially you weren’t interested, but he persisted. Also, George was different to Teddy. He wasn’t loud. And, unlike Teddy, he wasn’t sexy.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Sue hastily. ‘You felt secure with George–’
‘Because of his boring looks and boring ways,’ I cut in.
‘Look, Soph. Let’s be realistic here. I have nothing against George, but everything about him is… grey.’
‘What do you mean?’ I gasped.
‘He has grey hair. Grey eyes. Grey suits. Grey jeans. He even drives a grey car.’
‘The car is silver,’ I objected. ‘Just like George’s hair. You know, male magazines refer to these guys as silver foxes. That sounds rather glamorous to me.’
‘If you say so.’ I sensed the shrug in her voice. ‘George eventually popped the question but, from what you’ve told me, the proposal was casual and lacked any romance.’
‘It was sweet enough,’ I protested. ‘Just like him.’
‘George isn’t sweet,’ Sue countered. ‘He’s safe. Men who are safe and look like George do not have a harem of women lusting after them.’
‘Well, I lusted after him,’ I squawked.
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘W-What?’ I stuttered. ‘Sue, that’s absolutely not true.’
‘Yes, it is.’ There came the sound of a spatula banging against a pan. ‘From what I can gather, you’ve never once ripped his clothes off. In fact, from what you shared about the first time you both did it, I seem to remember you being rather put out because you’d missed the first half of Coronation Street.’
I opened my mouth, then shut it again.
‘I’m fifty, Sue. Not fifteen. Women of our age don’t go around ripping off their man’s clothes.’
‘Don’t they?’ I sensed Sue arching an eyebrow as the sound of a plate rattled down on her worktop. ‘Speak for yourself. Charlie and I still go at it like a couple of teenagers.’
‘You can’t possibly.’
‘We do, and you’d better believe it.’
I felt momentarily flummoxed. Was there something wrong with me? Time under the duvet with George wasn’t adventurous. It was very perfunctory.
Very boring? enquired my inner voice.
I recoiled in horror. George was not boring. He was, as Sue said, safe. Safe was safe. Safe wasn’t boring.
Isn’t it?
‘So stop fretting about a ridiculous message from Tabby Twitface –’
‘Thomas Tabby Cat,’ I corrected.
‘Him too’ – Sue exhorted – ‘and know that when you marry George this Saturday, all will be well.’
‘Yes,’ I said slowly. ‘It’s going to be a lovely day.’
‘Of course it is.’
I stared into space thinking about my big day. It wasn’t going to be a grand event. Not at our age. After all, we’d both been married before. Sadly, neither of us had children, nor parents or siblings. Consequently, George had been adamant about not wanting a fuss. Instead, we were each inviting a couple of close friends to the local registry office – Sue and Charlie on my side, and Graham Rollinson and his wife Jackie on George’s side.
Afterwards, the six of us would have a celebratory wedding breakfast at Little Waterlow’s pub, The Angel. George had booked one of the pub’s two function rooms. It would be a small affair.
And rather boring,said my inner voice.
Nonsense!
‘It will be intimate and classy,’ I said to Sue.
‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘And I know George wanted to be conservative with his pennies and not splash out on a hideously expensive wedding, but at least he didn’t hold back for the honeymoon. I’m quite jealous of you jetting off to the Amalfi Coast immediately afterwards.’ Sue’s voice took on a wistful tone. ‘I’ve heard it’s stunning.’
‘Yes,’ I said, properly smiling for the first time since reading the troll’s message. ‘I’m really looking forward to that bit.’
‘Surely, you’re looking forward to your wedding day, too?’ asked Sue curiously.
‘Of course,’ I quickly answered.
But after we’d said good-bye to each other, I wasn’t sure who I’d been trying to convince the most. Sue, or myself.