Chapter Fourteen
By Monday afternoon I had a number of boxes full of Peter’s stuff. One by one, I lugged them out to the car. They were to be delivered to Starlight Hall in readiness for the upcoming fete.
Behind the scenes, Cilla and certain Starlight Society members had been working flat out letting the whole of Kent know about the best fete in history: venue – Starlight Hall, date – Saturday, time – early!
Every roundabout in the locality sported a placard announcing The Great British Fete Off which urged everyone to visit Starlight Croft and see what all the fuss was about.
There were also some rather startling headshots of Hetty Cartwright dotted about.
As I drove with my load to Starlight Hall, I did a double take at one such poster.
The self-proclaimed village prophet was wearing an emerald-green turban on her head and holding a crystal ball to camera.
It was captioned My Predictions Are Crystal Clear.
I was starting to look forward to the fete.
It promised to be a big social occasion.
Despite having been married to a very successful businessman and lawyer, my social life had been both restricted and entirely on Peter’s terms. My husband had been controlling and possessive – the latter of which was odd given that he didn’t really want me.
But, like most people with such traits, he didn’t want anyone else to have me either.
I imagined Peter, right now, sitting in the car with me.
His eyes would have been huge with the horror of my packing up his personal things.
He would have been furious that his classy books, expensive fountain pens, and exclusive office things, were to be sold to raise funds for a building he’d never given a stuff about.
These items would appear on a high-end bric-a-brac stall which I’d be personally manning.
‘Well, Peter,’ I said to the empty passenger seat. ‘What a turnaround, eh? You are indirectly supporting our community hall. I don’t mind admitting that it’s going to give me enormous pleasure possibly selling your Montblanc for a tenner.’
I could almost hear Peter’s scathing reply.
‘You stupid woman. Don’t you realise that pen cost almost a thousand pounds?’
‘Yes,’ I said to the empty air. ‘And please don’t call me stupid.
You see, there’s a method to my apparent madness.
It’s called satisfaction. Don’t think I don’t know that your last mistress bought it for you.
Lucy. Or was it Linda? Or am I muddling both women with Lorraine?
There were so many, Peter, I never could keep track. ’
‘Does it matter what the infernal woman’s name was? You could have sold the pen privately. Given the money to the kids.’
‘Don’t even go there,’ I hissed. ‘Joy and James will have other monies put aside for their respective futures. No way are my precious children making a quick buck from a gift bought by your last tart.’
Stop it, Jen.
My eyes briefly watered, and I quickly blinked away the angry tears.
I was aware that I needed to do some work on my mental health.
Talking to an imaginary spirit surely wasn’t healthy.
Although one might say – where Peter’s ghost was concerned – that it was actually a matter of seeing right through him.
I arrived at Starlight Hall and was greeted by Hetty’s son, Hugo Cartwright.
‘What have you got there, Jen?’ he asked, looking speculatively at my loaded car.
‘Just a few bits and pieces,’ I said carelessly. ‘One of two things might be worth a few bob. Hopefully it will top up the society’s coffers.’
‘Fingers crossed,’ he said anxiously. ‘If we don’t save Starlight Hall, the village will never be the same. Let me give you a hand taking those boxes inside.’
By the time we’d finished, my arms felt like stretched spaghetti.
I drove home gasping for a cup of tea and told myself that I deserved some chocolate to go with it. But when I pulled up outside my house, an unexpected visitor was standing on the doorstep.