Chapter Twenty-Eight
‘Fuckity-fuckity-fuck,’ I swore. What a disastrous conversation.
Annoyed with myself, I ground the gears of my motor, kangarooed out of the carpark and headed in the direction of home.
Home.
And that was another thing. Moonlight Manor might be my address, but it had never felt like home. It was a showhouse. An immaculate monstrosity.
There was a lounge where cushions stood to attention.
Also, a dining room the size of a one-bedroomed flat.
Peter had insisted on having a table that could accommodate a minimum of sixteen guests.
Below the ground floor were storerooms, also a vast cellar that housed expensive wines and champagnes.
Upstairs were several bedrooms that nobody slept in.
Overlooking the garden, was a kitchen-cum-atrium. It looked like NASA’s headquarters. Peter had insisted on refurbishing this area, declaring it the hub of the house, even though it had been ‘done up’ just three years previously. And what for? To cook bloody beans on toast!
At least I’d been telling the truth when I’d told Liam about my evening menu. I always ate light when the twins weren’t around. What was the point of getting every pan out the cupboard and labouring over a meal for which I had little appetite? Not to mention all the washing up afterwards.
To be fair, there was a dishwasher. Two, actually. But dishwashers still needed stacking and packing, not to mention later emptying.
I’d needed two dishwashers during my reign of Perfect Corporate Housewife. It had been a frequent occurrence to entertain Peter’s various colleagues, business acquaintances, their wives, and even certain clients. I gnashed my teeth at the memory.
Many of the men had been so far up their own backsides they’d possibly have seen what they’d had for breakfast. Most had been beyond arrogant.
Many believed themselves to be so important that they were even above the law.
Several had had a cocaine habit. Their wives too.
That was their business. But I’d drawn the line at them indulging under our roof.
I’d dared to vocalise this objection to Peter.
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ he’d said angrily. This had been after one particularly challenging evening of entertainment. ‘Don’t you dare tell me what I can and can’t do in my own house.’
‘I dare’ – I’d challenged, hands on hips – ‘because this is my house too. Therefore, I also have a say in what goes on.’
He’d flown into a terrible rage. It had been even worse than the time I’d discovered something on his computer.
An upcoming business trip to Amsterdam to meet a woman who provided services that I didn’t give.
Peter had always paid cash for such transactions – something else I’d accidentally discovered.
Whenever Peter had lost his temper, he’d never hit me. But he’d always made to. His hand would fly upwards, hovering over my head like the Sword of Damocles ready to deliver its blow.
On every such occasion, I’d ducked and cowered. Shrunk back. My own hands had always fluttered up, ready to protect my face… neck… shoulders… anywhere that might be vulnerable should Peter ever, on this occasion, change the psychological rules and choose to follow through with a strike.
And so we’d trundled on. Peter, the expansive host. Me, the party planner and cook. Turning a blind eye. Making sure I was far too busy to witness any undesirable behaviour.
That said, I’d been secretly delighted when one of Peter’s colleagues had received a police caution for possession of cocaine. Peter and his inner sanctum of cronies had leapt to the guy’s defence and made sure it stayed out of the newspapers.
‘Why are you defending the likes of him’ – I’d grumbled – ‘when other people go to jail?’
‘Because Henry Rumbold is not a teenaged twat who dropped out of school to mug old ladies and do a spot of burglary. Henry is an educated man. A terrific lawyer. He just happens to have suffered a period of significant stress. You wouldn’t believe the financial pressure he’s been under.’
‘Maybe Henry should have stuck with his first wife instead of taking up with that airhead Dawn. Last time I saw her, all she did was brag about their new swimming pool, flash her Rolex, and prattle on about her new implants. Apparently, she couldn’t wait to show them off when they had Christmas dinner on the beach in Dubai. ’
‘Dawn is sensational,’ Peter had declared. ‘Given his age, Henry is a lucky man.’
‘Oh, get real.’ My lip had curled. ‘There’s no fool like an old fool.’
‘Jen,’ Peter had growled. ‘I’m warning you…’
In that moment the air had positively crackled with danger. I’d immediately backed down. Removed myself. Retreated to the snug.
This was a room where neither the cushions stood to attention, nor the wall sported a flatscreen the size of a snooker table. Rather, it contained an ancient sofa that sagged in the middle and an old-fashioned telly on a stand.
For a while, I’d dismissed Henry Rumbold. That is, until his next appearance on the guest list.
On this particular evening, I’d caught him – on the pretext of looking for the toilet – going upstairs.
Hugging the shadows, I’d followed. He’d paused outside the playroom.
On the other side of the door, my impressionable son had been sprawled over a beanbag, playing a computer game.
Henry had pushed down the door handle. Moments later I’d overheard the conversation between him and my son.
‘Sorry, old chap,’ Henry had slurred. ‘Looking for the little boy’s room. I say’ – he’d staggered slightly – ‘would you like to become a man of the world and do a line with me?’
All hell had broken loose. I’d gone ballistic. And so had Peter. But not at Rumbold. Rather, at me…