Chapter Two
I’d barely ended the conversation with Sue when my mobile rang. I glanced at the name on the screen and my heart sank. Teddy Fairfax. My ex-husband.
‘Hello,’ I said cautiously.
‘How’s my favourite ex-wife?’ he said jovially.
‘Your only ex-wife,’ I pointed out.
‘And that’s why you’re my favourite,’ he quipped. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘Honestly, Teddy? None the better for hearing your voice.’
‘Oooh, that’s harsh. Very harsh.’
‘What do you want?’
‘That’s my girl. Straight to the point. You were never one to beat about the bush.’
‘Unlike you. That’s probably because you spent a lot of time in the bush, having your wicked way with your latest conquest.’
‘That’s all in the past.’
‘Ah, a sentence that tells me you’re currently between girlfriends.’
‘You’re right. Fancy a quick one?’
‘Are we talking about a drink or sex?’
‘Sex, of course.’
‘No.’
‘Bet you don’t say that to George.’
I sighed. Teddy always had the ability to exasperate me. I began to quickly dress, trying to ignore my stomach which was starting to growl with hunger.
‘Teddy, you’ve been calling me a lot lately, and I wish you’d stop. What if George had been here?’
‘Then I’d have behaved honourably and asked his permission to give you a quick one.’
‘You’re not funny.’ I headed towards the steep staircase inside my two-up-two-down. Like most of the old cottages in the village of Little Waterlow, the ascent and descent in these properties required one’s full attention and utmost caution. ‘I’ll ask you again. What do you want?’
‘I want to persuade you not to marry George.’
‘Again?’ I sighed, walking into the kitchen.
Teddy had been aghast when he’d found out about my engagement. Not that it had been a secret. In a village like Little Waterlow, gossip was a pastime. At one point or another, nearly everyone fell under the spotlight of scrutiny because that’s just the way my village was. A resident couldn’t change their washing powder without it being discussed. I could still remember Mrs Bates, two doors down saying, “I heard you’d gone off Persil, Sophie. Is that true?” And me replying, “Yes, it seemed a bit pointless buying it after having all my dirty laundry washed in public.” This was a reference to when villagers were gossiping about Teddy and me when our marriage – which had always been on a slippery slope – had finally ended and in a most public way.
We’d been having a drink at our local. Teddy had barely set his lager down at our table when he’d excused himself to go to the Gents. Unbeknownst to me, he’d then attempted buying contraceptives from the machine on the wall. Unfortunately, the machine had swallowed his money without delivering the goods. He’d promptly had a private word with the landlord but, from my seat, I’d managed to catch the gist of the conversation.
Shocked, I’d waited for Teddy to return to our table before shrilly asking why he’d bought contraceptives when I’d gone through the change. Regrettably I’d been overheard by Little Waterlow’s biggest gossip, Mabel Plaistow. She’d been having a quiet Guinness with her husband Fred, out of sight at the table behind me. She’d leant across to tap me on the shoulder, intent on getting my full attention. “I’ll tell yer what yer man wants ’em for,” she’d declared. “To put on ’is willy when ’e’s playin’ away.”
No shit, Sherlock!
I’d subsequently picked up Teddy’s pint and, in front of astonished customers, tipped it over his head. Leaving Teddy open-mouthed and dripping, I’d calmly walked out of the pub. That night I’d ignored Teddy’s familiar pleas for forgiveness, and slept in the spare room.
The following day I’d made an appointment with Gabe Stewart, a local no-nonsense solicitor who specialised in divorce. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Teddy had always played around. I’d spent years forgiving, but never quite forgetting. The issue with the contraceptive machine at The Angel had simply been the last straw.
My ex-husband and I now lived at opposite ends of the village. It was inevitable that our paths sometimes crossed. Teddy had wanted to remain friends and – after twenty-five years of marriage and no close family members – I’d felt the same way. Also, it was easier to love him as a mate rather than a philandering husband. However, there was a world of difference between occasionally bumping into him and now having him telephone on an almost daily basis.
‘This is the fourth time this week,’ I said, using my shoulder to wedge the phone against my ear while filling the kettle. ‘Why don’t you want me to marry George?’ I plonked the kettle on its electric base, then flipped the switch.
‘You know why.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do. The man is a berk.’
I reached into a cupboard and extracted a mug.
‘You don’t know George, so how can you possibly hold such an opinion?’
‘I’ve seen him around.’
‘Oh, really?’ I went to the fridge. Extracting a loaf of bread, I dropped two slices into the toaster. ‘And have you ever bothered to say hello to him?’
‘Of course not.’ Teddy sounded indignant. ‘Why on earth would I want to associate with a man who wears a grey suit?’
I rolled my eyes.
‘What’s wrong with a grey suit?’
‘Grey suits are for boring people.’
Oh God. First Sue. Now Teddy.
‘I see. Do you think George would be more likeable if he wore a loud pinstripe, like your good self?’
Teddy was a business consultant with a fine line in patter and an eye for expensive cloth that made a statement.
‘I simply take pride in the way I look,’ he pointed out.
‘Is that why you went to Turkey last year for a hair transplant?’
‘I need to look my best to succeed in wooing you back.’
‘You’ll never woo me back and, anyway, Sue says men who have hair transplants are vain.’
‘Says the woman who’s had more filling than a sandwich shop.’
‘I think you mean filler,’ I corrected, just as the toaster violently ejected my breakfast on to the worktop. I grabbed it and reached for the margarine.
‘That too.’ Teddy cleared his throat, an indication that the subject was about to be changed. ‘Anyway, never mind Sue. I’m talking about George. Call off the wedding. If you go through with it, darling, you’ll be making a terrible mistake.’
I paused from my toast buttering.
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard. The guy simply isn’t your type.’
‘And what, exactly, is my type? Someone like you who behaves like a dog with six dicks?’
‘You’ll be bored to tears if you marry George Baker.’
‘That’s fine,’ I said, reaching for the marmalade and lathering it over the toast. ‘It will be my pleasure to be bored to tears, because it means I’ll never be stressed wondering what George is up to behind my back.’
‘Don’t count on it,’ said Teddy darkly. ‘Sometimes it’s the quiet ones that need to be watched.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Teddy,’ I snapped. ‘I’m now ending this conversation. If I were you, I’d take a good long look at yourself before you start casting aspersions about other people.’
Annoyed, I abruptly ended the call and aggressively bit into the toast.
It was only when I was later walking to work, that a thought occurred to me. Might Teddy be the author of that strange Instagram message?
As I bowled along the leafy lane covering the distance from my cottage to another not so very far away, the possibility that my ex-husband was Thomas Tabby Cat seemed more and more likely.