Best Laid Plans (5 page)

A proper job was the last thing she wanted. She did not
want to be bothered with that for she loved the freedom of working from home, getting up around ten o’clock in the morning long after Mike had left for work, having a leisurely bath, making coffee and eating cereal and scrambled eggs whilst reading the morning paper from cover to cover. She would then get dressed and, if she felt like it, she might do some painting or now and again she might meet up with Sol for a naughty romantic liaison.

On several days a week, she drove her little car – a luxury Christine had helped her buy – the ridiculously short drive to Snape House for afternoon tea and if the weather permitted a stroll arm in arm with her mother-in-law round the gardens. Later, she would prepare dinner for when Mike arrived home, which could be as late as seven o’clock. He often needed soothing because he was frustrated by his father’s refusal to listen to any of the ideas he might come up with to improve the business. If Frank had not thought of it himself then it was a no-no. She had never met a man who was so intransigent or as Mike said, bloody minded.

A couple of times a month she and Christine would take a trip into Preston and do some shopping. She would steer Christine to her favourite little boutique where Christine could be relied on to buy her a little something. Her
wardrobe
was heaving with the sort of vintage clothes she loved, not to mention the shoes and handbags, and sometimes if she had nothing else to do in the afternoon she would spend it trying clothes on, admiring herself and parading in front of the free-standing mirror.

She loved her little home although she was not quite so much in thrall with the village itself and she sometimes yearned for the bustle of a city existence but it was just too impractical a course to pursue, for their reliance on Frank and Christine was considerable. If Mike gave in his notice they could not be sure that his father would provide him with a decent reference and even if he did it would be looked on with suspicion and the truth was she could not
risk losing Christine’s support. She had thought once upon a time of trying for a diploma in education so that she could teach art but it was a fleeting notion because her heart was never in it and it would have meant getting up stupidly early and doing a full day at college and actually working for once.

In any case, she did not care for kids and although she pretended to Christine that a baby was on the cards one day it most certainly was not. Mike thought she was off the pill now, thought they had been trying for a while but each month she had to disappoint him and shake her head sadly. He was muttering now about seeing the doctor just to check all was well but she could put that off for a couple of years because of her age. Relax, she told him, and it will happen one day.

With Mike not minding very much how she furnished their home she had happily done exactly what she wanted and although it looked much the same on the exterior as the others in the row, inside it was quite a different matter.

The little living room that you stepped into directly from the street was aglow with rosy reds and deep pinks,
sumptuous
silky materials and fringed lacy throws covering the two comfortable sofas, which together with a leather armchair made up the seating arrangements.

‘Bloody hell, Monique, it’s like a tart’s boudoir,’ her dear father-in-law had said with a laugh when he first stepped through the door.

She took that on the chin although the remark hurt her. What did he know about interior design? He was happy to leave all that to Christine and although the thought had crossed her mind that she had not quite achieved the look she was after, that it was all slightly over the top, it was impossible to change a thing once that remark was uttered. She was not going to allow him to think that he could influence her in any way.

There was no television; she felt strongly that it would
have dominated such a small room although it of all things surprised people for how on earth could they exist without it? Quite well, thank you. They had an extensive collection of books as well as a selection of CDs so they never felt any desperate need to sit in front of a television screen. It was largely her decision and there were times when Mike wavered when he heard people at work discussing what they had seen on the box the night before but she always talked him round.

Frank thought they were bonkers but then he didn’t have much of an opinion of his son and everybody knew that he would have much preferred to train Amy up as his second in command. Frank was proud of the business but, honestly, the way he talked it up you would think he ran a huge international organization at times instead of a small-time removal and storage concern. If Amy had gone into it she would have commanded the respect of the workers for she had that air of authority about her that was patently lacking in Mike. Amy was the golden girl even though she had upped and left them in the lurch deciding that working for her father was never going to work and going out into the bigger world instead.

‘She broke her father’s heart,’ Christine had said once, in a confiding mood over coffee. ‘He doesn’t let it show, of course, but he always thought she would take over when he was gone. Everything was ready for her and then she just came right out with it one day that she was going into retail management. You should have seen Frank’s face, Monique. I am trying so hard but I can never quite forgive her for doing that to him.’

‘You poor thing.’ Monique had given her a quick cuddle and hardened her own heart to Amy, blithely skirting over the issue of her relationship with her own mother that had never amounted to much, either. Whenever she and Amy met they were courteous to each other but it was all superficial for she knew that Amy resented her, too. Amy
was a workaholic, scarily ambitious, but that was her misfortune.

‘You’ve landed nicely on your feet, Monique.’

Monique recalled those words, deep with meaning, and it could have led to a full-blown row, for she had seen the danger signs in Amy’s eyes knowing that she had a quick temper but she had turned the tables on her by saying sweetly that Amy must learn to relax a little more and find the time to smell the roses.

‘Some of us need to work to earn money, Monique. We don’t all have a man willing to look after us.’

‘Poor darling. I do understand.’ She had given her a winning smile knowing that the best way to wind Amy up was not to take up the bait.

‘Not that I would ever want to be in the position of having a man take care of me,’ Amy had finished stoutly but again Monique refused to take up the challenge, which infuriated her all the more.

She used the smaller of the two bedrooms upstairs as a studio. On the Sunday before Christmas, Monique, her pale blonde hair caught back in childish bunches tied with narrow black ribbons, was working in it, putting the finishing touches to a painting. Mike was out on a secret mission – probably a last-ditch attempt to buy her Christmas present.

She was trying a more commercial approach these days and concentrating on what she could sell; namely pretty watercolours of local scenes. She had handed some over to a shop in Lancaster that specialized in local craftware and they had seemed pleased with them so she was hopeful that they might display them prominently and maybe they would catch somebody’s eye. She had also put some into a small exhibition organized for local artists and by pitching the price right had managed to sell several. Sol had offered to put some on display in his shop but she had declined that
dubious offer.

Carefully, she added her name in the bottom right-hand corner.

Despite her supposed lack of ambition, her desire for an easygoing lifestyle, her lack of real success was beginning to get to her. She still just about held onto the belief that one day people might clamour to own one of her paintings. On the other hand, it was more likely that Frank Fletcher would crack a proper smile. She had known when she took up the course at art college that the chances of success out there in the real world were slim but she had hoped that eventually she might earn enough from her paintings to think of it as a proper career. Still, as Christine said she was young yet and there was lots of time so she must stay positive.

Leaning back and squinting at the canvas, she nodded at last with satisfaction. It was a painting of Beacon Fell. Christine knew quite a bit about local history and had told her that it got its name because in medieval times it was the ideal place to put up a string of lit beacons to warn of danger or to celebrate major events. From the high point there were panoramic views in all directions over
Snowdonia
and North Wales, the coast of Fylde, the Lake District and even on a clear day the Isle of Man. The air up there was forever clean and crisp and chill.

This painting was one of a series and she had sketched this one back last year, remembering the smell of summer as she spent a day up there, soaking up the atmosphere and taking a picnic with her. Christine offered to come along but she wanted to be alone because she could not paint and listen to Christine chattering at the same time.

‘Do be careful up there on your own. It’s a lonely place,’ Christine had said. ‘Take your mobile with you.’

‘Of course,’ she said knowing that she would leave it at home. She needed solitude away from a constant stream of trivial text messages and anyway, it probably wouldn’t
work up there. As it turned out she had a lovely day and never once did she feel worried about being alone. Up in her studio, recalling the scene vividly, she blew gently on the name she had just written on the painting. She used her maiden name professionally and it was unwise to change it.

Monique Fox.

She was born in France to a French mother and English father although they had moved to the northwest of England when she was just a few months old. It was so annoying that her parents had not persisted with teaching her to be bi-lingual, her mother deciding that if she was to be married to an Englishman and live in England then she would more or less abandon her own language. Once she started to dream in English her mother said then that was the time to give in. So, Monique could speak French no better or worse than any other student in this country.

There was a Christmas card – a large, expensive one with a Victorian snow-scene – from her father and his second wife. Her father now lived in Kent and she had not seen him for some considerable time. The card was not even written by him but was signed ‘With best wishes from Trevor & Jill Fox’, so obviously Jill had taken charge of the business of writing the cards. ‘From Dad and Jill’ would have been more appropriate and she wondered if it was a deliberate slight on Jill’s part, who had never forgiven her for refusing to attend their wedding.

The letter from her aunt, her mother’s sister, informing her of her mother’s death had arrived last month and she had not discussed that with anybody other than Mike. She had been tempted to tell Christine and, in fact, invented an excuse for disappearing for a couple of days when, alone, she attended the funeral down in Sussex. She did not want the bucket-loads of sympathy Christine would offer and Mike understood that. She and her mother Isabelle had been estranged for years and so she could not bring herself
to feel very much. Her Aunt Sylvie was there but even her relationship with her sister had been on cool terms and so it had been a dry-eyed affair at the local crematorium, the conveyor-belt effect painfully and rather amusingly obvious and afterwards the two of them, the sole mourners, had a meal in the hotel. Sylvie spoke English very well so at least that made things easier. Monique did not know her aunt at all and whenever her mother spoke of her it was with a sneer in her voice, ‘posh tart’ being the kindest thing she ever said about her.

‘Does Trevor know?’ Sylvie asked. Her aunt was very like her mother and as there was only a year’s difference in age they might well have been twins. It was disconcerting to say the least although Sylvie had a softer look to her face and that subtle elegance of the Parisian lady.

‘I think he must,’ Monique said. ‘I left a message on the machine.’

‘You left a message?’ Sylvie smiled thinly. ‘If he had a shred of decency he would have turned up today for your sake if nothing else. It was the least he could do although I don’t suppose he would have wanted that woman of his to be here. I certainly would not.’

‘It wasn’t Jill’s fault.’ Monique felt she ought to try to explain. ‘It was over long before then so I don’t suppose we can blame him for finding somebody else.’

‘And where is your husband?’ Sylvie said, immaculate in black, a pillar box hat completing her outfit. Like Monique, she was a tiny blonde lady although unlike her niece she chose to wear very high, spiky-heeled shoes.

‘I didn’t want Mike here today.’ Monique twisted the rings on her finger.

‘Why ever not? You need a husband’s support at a time like this. He should have insisted on being here.’

‘Mike’s not like that.’

‘Isn’t he? Oh dear.’ Sylvie glanced at her own hands, a large diamond and sapphire ring sparkling as it caught a
sunbeam. ‘Are you happy living up there?’

She talked as if Monique had a house on the moon.

‘I have a lovely home. My husband and his mother are kind to me. I admit I don’t like my father-in-law or my sister-in-law but that can’t be helped.’

‘You haven’t answered my question. Are you happy?’

‘I suppose I am.’

‘You
suppose
? You made a mistake in marrying him.’ It was a statement from a woman who knew what she was talking about. ‘You married for clever reasons, I grant you that, because a little financial security is essential to life’s happiness but you chose badly. I married for the wrong reasons, too, my dear, and I am not ashamed to admit that but at least I came out of both my marriages with a little pot of gold. If you left your husband where is
your
pot of gold? He is not rich enough. If you are going to go down that route then you must do it with flair. A man of modest means is simply not worth the bother.’

‘I love Mike,’ she protested, surprised that Sylvie could read her so well.