A month later, the affair was established and passionate. And it was wonderful, amazing, blissful and all-consuming and ticked all the boxes except one – the big fat box that had the word ‘perfect’ on the side of it, because her heart remained troubled by their relationship. She wanted to declare that they were a couple from the rooftops but that was strictly prohibited. Okay, so Laurence might have frowned heavily on romances in the workplace, which is why they gave no hint of any connection between them in Café Caramba HQ, but out of work should have been a different matter. Yet it wasn’t. Justin had only ever been to her house once. She’d cooked a meal which he ate nervously as if he expected his wife to appear from behind the curtains. His nerves, however, had not shown in the post-prandial bonk but they’d reappeared when the hands of the clock touched on 9 p.m. Marnie had barely got her breath back before he had leapt into the shower and dressed to go and not even his profuse apology that he had to rush off could smooth over the disappointment. They never went out to dinner or to the cinema or for a walk in the park in case they were seen. He gave her the best of reasons why they had to behave so, at least for the time being: because of his children. Justin still resided in the family home even though he and his wife lived separate lives now – and he knew that sounded like a line, but he really was telling the truth. His wife was a first-class bitch and yes, she’d agreed to a divorce but only on her terms. Terms he had to strictly adhere to because if not, he knew she would keep his three small children away from him. Or worse, poison them against him.
Suranna Fox, it seemed, had taken a leaf out of Gwyneth Paltrow’s book and insisted on a conscious uncoupling, which – Justin said – was a psycho-bollocks way of her drawing out the agony. It was making him depressed and thank goodness Marnie understood and wasn’t giving him a hard time like any other woman might have. Did she know how much of an angel she was for understanding such an impossible, sticky, horrible situation?
So how could Marnie give him any grief? She kept her misgivings to herself and gave Justin lots of care and attention and sex and the affair continued under a blanket of secrecy. But it didn’t sit right with Marnie at all.
Chapter 5
It was Friday night and once again Marnie was looking forward to a lonely boring weekend, even though she had been in ‘a relationship’ for six weeks and should have been going out for a lovely romantic dinner tonight and then dragging her man up to bed for lots of sex. Instead, she was in her pyjamas with a meal for one ready to shove in the microwave and only a bottle of Pinot Grigio for company. It was Justin’s daughter’s fifth birthday and he was having to spend the whole weekend with his family and extended family, who were coming up from Derby to stay with them. Justin lived in a des-res detached on the other side of Sheffield. Marnie didn’t know the exact address, but the area, Highton, was well-known as a new village full of prestigious multi-bedroomed, multi-bathroomed executive homes. Apparently, he and his wife were going to finally attempt to tell the children on Sunday that Mummy and Daddy were going their separate ways. He was terrified of losing the love of his three young children. His family values made Marnie like him even more. Or was it love? She didn’t know. She didn’t want it to be love yet because she had promised herself that she would definitely not fall for another man who had complications and more baggage than Elton John took on a year-long tour.
She had barely given Lilian Dearman a thought in the past few weeks and suddenly felt bad for that, especially as she’d been going into hospital the last time they’d been in contact. She logged onto the Sisters of Cheesecake site and found a multi-peopled heated dialogue going on. Have you tried introducing a swirl of marmite into the mascarpone for a singular taste? was the header of the thread, composed by ‘Cheeseman’. It had all the hallmarks of Lilian.
Marnie, grinning, private-messaged her.
‘Marmite would only work if you added parmesan to the crumb base. Are you out of hospital now?’
‘Hello, Marnie! Yes, hospital did the trick. Am well enough to come on here causing mischief. I have missed you. How are you and are we finally going to have that afternoon tea this weekend? Are you free tomorrow? Do say yes.’
And because Marnie needed not to think about her lover being in the bosom of his family surrounded by kids who would probably hate her when they eventually met her, she typed,
‘Yes, am free tomorrow and I would love to. Yes, yes, yes.’
*
Lilian Dearman was nothing like Marnie had pictured her. She’d visualised a second tiny Mrs McMaid, but Lilian was tall and willowy with long, wavy silver-white hair which added a femininity to her otherwise androgynous frame and square-jawed long face. Her eyes were the most striking feature: large, bright and green, sharp and intense. Already in situ at the café table, Lilian stood, leaning on her stick, when she spotted Marnie and smiled from ear to ear.
‘I recognised you immediately,’ she said, holding her arms out wide and as Marnie embraced her, she breathed in a familiar scent of lilies wonderfully reminiscent of times past.
Not a serial killer then, or a reporter. She was just as it said on the tin – an old lady with a spine problem, thought Marnie, taking a seat across the table. She noted the silver top of Lilian’s stick in the form of a greyhound’s head.
‘That’s beautiful,’ she commented.
‘Had it years,’ said Lilian. ‘I’ve got a collection of walkers but this is my favourite. Had it made after Dido died. Most loyal dog I ever had, bloody marvellous creature. Had to rely on damned sticks since I was a child, thanks to a lineage of bloody interbred bastards,’ she explained, at volume, causing the eyebrows of a woman on the next table to zoom up her forehead. ‘Let’s order first before we start to talk,’ she went on. ‘Afternoon tea with cheesecake, I thought. What else?’ And she winked.
Marnie nodded her agreement and Lilian waved over a waitress.
‘So how long were you in hospital for, then?’ asked Marnie.
‘Bor-ing,’ said Lilian. ‘Let’s not talk about health but of things far more exciting. Mr Fox for instance. Have there been any developments?’
‘A few,’ said Marnie, more sigh than words. ‘We are now a couple.’
‘Excellent.’ Lilian clapped her hands together. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of love in the air. I hope he treats you better than the last bastard.’
Again the woman on the next table – mid-macaron – turned around to give Lilian a glance of disapproval.
‘Do join us,’ Lilian yelled over, with an expansive beckon. ‘Your attentions seem to be more on our table than your own anyway.’
Marnie snorted in an effort not to laugh. She’d got it very wrong thinking Lilian would be a quiet little old lady like Mrs McMaid.
‘Aaron, wasn’t it?’ said Lilian. ‘And I have to say, Marnie, your friend sounds a horrible trollop. I say friend . . . She should not have put Grigori before a chum of nearly eighteen years,’ and she huffed and Marnie’s mouth dropped into a long O. Was there anything she hadn’t told Lilian Dearman that night of the two bottles of Shiraz? And was there anything Lilian Dearman hadn’t remembered about it? She felt her cheeks start to heat up with embarrassment.