The Desperate Wife’s Survival Plan (2 page)

This time she didn’t question the failure. Instead she fiddled about in her purse, desperately trying to find the correct amount.
When the money came up short, she had to choose what to leave behind. In the end, she handed back the bottles of wine, grateful that they already had plenty at home.

Charley was squirming with embarrassment as she left the shop. It was possible that they had reached the overdraft limit on their bank account. Perhaps that was why the credit card hadn’t been paid. Steve had been making ominous
rumblings over the last couple of weeks about tightening their belts. Charley knew he was stressed about the opening of their fourth clothes shop, but she hadn’t taken it seriously.

She drove the short distance to Upper Grove. The high street divided the village into Upper and Lower Grove. Charley lived in Upper Grove which was mainly inhabited by the rich and privileged. In direct contrast Lower
Grove was an unfriendly estate, to be avoided at all costs. She never went there, never dared to. The high street was Grove’s Berlin Wall and most of the villagers were grateful it was still standing.

Upper Grove had large houses, wide avenues and neighbours who ignored each other. The only person Charley had ever spoken to there was Julie who lived next door.

Julie was one of the group of four
friends who met up once a fortnight for dinner. Each of them in turn would cook a meal to enjoy whilst they caught up on the latest gossip. More often than not, the girls demanded that Charley make ice-cream for pudding and it had become a sort of ritual amongst the group.

She swung her car into the driveway and allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction at the sight of her home. It was still
the prettiest house she had ever seen. She had fallen in love at first sight with it, over four years previously. The black timber beams set against the white masonry had stolen her heart. The addition of custom made oak windows and a new front door, after they moved in, had completed the look.

Inside, the fireplaces, original oak flooring and exposed beams were crying out for a makeover. Charley
had enjoyed turning the house into their dream home.

The kitchen was her favourite part of the house. It had been poky and dark when they moved in. But the addition of a brand new extension had opened up the room, and light now flooded in from the skylights and the wall of folding windows which led on to the patio. Pale, shiny tile flooring and dark walnut cabinets brought the look up to date.
The cream marble work surfaces held tiny flecks of silver which provided just enough bling without being tacky.

Having unpacked her purchases, Charley switched on her Gaggia Gelatiera ice-cream maker. For years she had made her ice-cream by hand but as soon as the money had begun to pour in from Steve’s business, she had placed an order for the sleek, silver appliance. Loved by chefs everywhere,
the paddles churned the ice-cream so well that it always turned out velvety-smooth.

Charley began to break up a bar of Venezuelan black chocolate into chunks so that it would melt more easily before being poured into the ice-cream maker. She had already made a beautiful rhubarb sorbet but there would be hell to pay later from the girls if there wasn’t any chocolate on the menu.

SAMANTHA HARRIS WAS
bored. She glanced around the office but no one was taking any notice of her. They were all too busy staring at their computer screens.

She wondered if she could get away with reading her new magazine but decided against it. That cow Miranda would definitely notice and probably rat her out to their manager.

Samantha glanced across the low divide between their
desks at the dark-haired woman opposite talking on the phone. She hated her posh voice and perfect hair. She hated her constant references to her double-barrelled friends, all of whom appeared to own country estates. Most of all, she hated the fact that Miranda was her line-manager. She was only a secretary, for God’s sake. And Samantha was her assistant.

Not that there appeared to be enough
work for Samantha to do. She had all the filing and photocopying dumped on her, but that barely took up any time at all. So she was reduced to glancing surreptitiously at the internet when nobody was looking and texting her friends, mainly Charley, who had the spare time to reply.

She liked Charley. They had both once worked for a small insurance agency, where they had bonded through boredom
and a mutual dislike for the Personnel Manager. They had also shared a love of designer clothes and expensive shoes.

Then Charley’s husband had begun to make all that money and she had left the insurance agency. It was all right for some, thought Samantha. No sign of a rich husband for her. Yet, she told herself.

But the pickings weren’t rich in Grove Village and especially not in her office.
Most of the directors were pensionable. All the other men were either fresh out of university, or dull. Craving some male attention, Samantha had had a few flings with university graduates, knowing that they relished a sexy, older woman like herself. Well, not that old. The big 3–0 was hurtling up towards her next year, but she kept herself trim by keeping a careful eye on her diet and constantly
exercising.

‘Hi. I wonder if you could help me?’

Samantha spun round in her chair at the sound of the deep male voice and found herself pleasantly surprised. Late thirties, dark hair, blue eyes. Cute . . . very cute.

She crossed her legs, knowing that her black skirt would ride up a little as she did so. His eyes lowered to check out her legs. It was a brief glance but she noted it.

She fixed
on her sexiest grin. ‘Of course,’ she said, lowering her voice into a soft, husky tone. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘Richard, is it?’ Miranda’s abrasive voice broke into their exchange.

‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘I’ve got a ten o’clock with Matthew Jones.’

‘I’ll take you in,’ said Miranda.

He must be the new Sales Director, thought Samantha.

Just then, Richard glanced around, catching her eye
for a second before he disappeared into the next room.

Samantha smiled to herself. Things were definitely looking up.

Caroline Jones didn’t have time to be bored. As usual, her mug of coffee was only half-drunk and growing cold while it stood forgotten on the kitchen counter.

She logged into her email on the laptop, cradling the mobile between her ear and neck.

‘We have one place left in the
Tuesday class,’ said the voice at the other end of the line. ‘Would you like me to reserve it for you?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Caroline, relief flooding her voice. ‘It’s just such a rush on a Wednesday when Flora does ballet as well.’

‘I understand. We’ll transfer all of the future classes to Tuesday at 2 p.m. and cancel the Wednesday lessons.’

‘Thank you so much,’ replied Caroline, grabbing her
desk diary and placing it on the kitchen worktop.

She flipped over the page to Tuesday of the following week and scribbled ‘Mandarin class, 2 p.m.’

Caroline was relieved she had been able to transfer the class to a different day of the week. Flora’s Mandarin lessons were so important, now that China had become an international player in the world markets.

But Caroline also knew how valuable
ballet classes were to a child. Correct deportment was important for Flora’s bone structure, not to mention the benefit to her health and fitness.

Flora had enjoyed disco when she was younger but Caroline disliked the lack of structure in the classes and moved her into ballet as soon as she was old enough.

Caroline glanced at the clock. Four o’clock and still so much to do before supper at Charley’s
house that evening. She really didn’t want to go, reluctant to let Jeff take over the bedtime routine. It was so important, in these last precious months before Flora started school, that her reading skills were brought up to scratch. Jeff was always a little too lax, too willing to give in and read that dreadful
Peppa Pig
book his sister had bought Flora for her birthday. Caroline’s preferred
option was the Oxford Reading Tree. Flora was already over halfway through level one.

However Caroline had known Charley since secondary school and didn’t want to let her down at the last minute. They had been friends after Caroline’s parents moved to the village when she was thirteen. Her life had been on an upward trajectory ever since school. She had been a top PA for six years at a firm of
solicitors. Engaged at twenty-five to Jeff, married at twenty-seven and pregnant at twenty-nine. Her life was orderly, planned and smooth. Even her titian hair was perfectly straight.

Caroline skimmed her emails. A couple of children’s party invites would require carefully worded replies. All her diplomatic skills came into play in weeding out any of Flora’s ‘friends’ whose parents might not
share Caroline’s ambitions. It was all very well now, but as soon as school began, so did the real work. They had scrimped together enough money for Flora to attend the private school for girls on the edge of the village. Her education needed to be given top priority.

Flora was still in her ballet outfit from that afternoon’s class and Caroline’s heart warmed as she watched her four-year-old
daughter read
Angelina Ballerina
. Dressed in a pale pink cardigan and leotard, her red hair swept back into a tidy bun, she was the image of Caroline as a child.

Except there had been no ballet classes for her then. Her own upbringing had been happy, but modest. She was determined that Flora would do better and to that end she had to be a super mummy, an alpha mum. It was exhausting but it would
be worth it.

Julie Gordon unpinned the butterfly brooch from her black jacket and stared down at the gold detail. It had been on her mother’s dressing table for as long as she could remember. Not worn very often, of course. Perhaps at her grandmother’s funeral, Julie wasn’t sure. Anyway, it had felt like the right thing to wear that afternoon.

Julie felt sad that there hadn’t been many people
attending the funeral but she wasn’t surprised. Her mother’s social circle had always been small, especially after her husband had been sent to prison all those years ago. Nobody trusted a thief at a party or in the pub. Or the wife of one either.

Julie was grateful that her lovely Uncle Sidney had been able to attend. He had wept a few silent tears over the loss of his younger sister, especially
when her favourite hymn was played. Afterwards, Julie had taken him home to his flat above the shop that he could no longer manage to run. With a sigh, she knew it would become her responsibility to sort things out for him over the years to come. After all, she was his only family now.

A few of the mourners had been close friends, supporting her mother throughout her hard life. Friends like dear
old Sheila and Daphne, muttering under their breath about how Julie’s father had been scum and undeserving of such a special wife.

She hadn’t offered any defence of her father. Why should she? His infrequent visits between stays in prison had stopped around the time of her fifth birthday. From then on, it had been just Julie and her mother.

Until Julie had fallen for Clive Gordon at the age
of seventeen. He had managed to stick around long enough to see their son’s sixth birthday. But then he too had left, deciding life would be much better spent in Spain with the barmaid from their local pub. Or so she had been told.

Clive had left behind a large mortgage for Julie to manage and a young son for her to bring up. She had never wanted the rundown house in fancy Upper Grove. What did
they need three bedrooms for? But her husband had made a deal with the owner just after they were married. Another dodgy contract, the details of which Julie didn’t want to know.

She had never had enough spare money to do up the house so had never bothered. Its rundown exterior and lack of modern appliances didn’t concern her. The real interest for Julie lay in the mature garden at the back of
the house.

She looked out of the window. Apart from the vibrant red stems of the dogwood, the garden seemed to contain only dead stems or evergreen leaves. It was her least favourite time of the year. But she was filled with hope. The snowdrops had just come out, soon to be followed by early crocuses and then daffodils. Spring brought fresh life to the scene, a blank canvas waiting to be rediscovered.
She couldn’t wait.

The garden had become Julie’s refuge from her marriage, with its loud arguments and painful bruises. After Clive had left, Julie had spent more and more time there, especially when Nick entered his teenage years and began to get himself into trouble.

Nick . . . her nineteen-year-old son. A chip off Clive’s block. Another lazy, cheating, lying man in her life. But she had raised
him so perhaps it was her fault that he had turned out so bad. He hadn’t even bothered to finish school before leaving home at sixteen.

He had visited infrequently ever since, usually when he needed money to get him out of yet another mess. And Julie helped him because that’s what you did for your children, wasn’t it? It would have been nice if, for once, he had thought of her and been at his
grandmother’s funeral. But he hadn’t turned up.

The house seemed very quiet that afternoon and Julie was looking forward to seeing the girls later on. Upper Grove had become very fancy over the years and many familiar faces had gone. Her only friend there these days was Charley.

She was nice and not at all stuck-up like the other neighbours. Of course, she and Steve had done a beautiful job
with the house, but they never seemed to look down on Julie’s shabby home. In fact, Charley was easy to talk to and get along with. A bit of a lifesaver when the house felt big and empty as it did that afternoon.

Julie stared down at her mother’s brooch in her hands. Thank goodness she was still meeting the girls later. She really didn’t want to be alone this evening.

THE SALMON HAD
been poached to perfection. The salad was fresh and crisp. The wine chilled to just the right temperature. Now it was time for the ice-cream and gossip.