Parallel Life (7 page)

Sadie was staring longingly at the pudding trolley when hell broke loose. Lisa, with a forkful of chicken halfway to her mouth, forced herself to clamp her lips closed when the whirlwind descended on her. A short, rounded woman, with dark curls and a toddler clutched to her chest, appeared at the side of their table. With her free hand, she grabbed a lock of Lisa's hair and pulled so hard that several strands were loosened. ‘It's you,' she screamed.

Cutlery clattered on to plates, and a heavy silence hung over the small room. A waitress who had been pouring coffee gasped when she saw overspill gushing across a pristine cloth. That gasp sounded like the advent of an easterly gale, so quiet were the diners. A chef appeared in the kitchen doorway, cleaver held high in preparation for whatever he might find.

Lisa stood up. ‘I beg your pardon?'

‘It's you,' repeated the newcomer. ‘You and my Jimmy.'

‘I know no one named Jimmy,' Lisa said coldly. Her hair had cost a fortune only yesterday. Oh God, the shame of it. The whole town was going to be buzzing with gossip within minutes.

‘I saw you. So did the detective who works for me. You're meeting in Jimmy's mother's bungalow while she's in Eastbourne. Before that, you used the Pack Horse Hotel. You can't fool me, bitch.'

Lisa dropped back into her seat. ‘I'm sorry. I don't understand.'

‘Oh, really? Well, this is Daisy, mine and Jimmy's youngest. We have three of them. You are having an affair with Daisy's dad, my husband.'

Sadie Fisher forgot all about the puddings. She sat back and watched while Lisa Compton-Milne got dragged off her double-barrelled pedestal. The girls were going to love this one! As soon as it was over, she'd be on her Nokia mobile to Sandy, Mavis, Helen and . . . Wonderful. It seemed that the tiny intruder had more strength than most wrestlers.

‘I know of no one named Jimmy,' Lisa repeated. ‘Take your hand from my arm, please.'

‘But you know the Pack Horse, eh? And that little bungalow halfway up Blackburn Road: roses in the garden, china figurines all over the living room? Eh? Don't sit there like butter wouldn't melt, you old bag. That's my husband you're messing around with, lady.
My
husband.'

Sadie noticed that Lisa blanched when the bungalow was described.

‘Can't you get a man of your own?' the dark-haired woman continued, cheeks reddened by fury, baby beginning to grizzle because her mother was shouting. ‘Too old to find anybody that's still available?'

‘I think we should go outside.' Lisa picked up her bag and asked Sadie to pay the bill. Outside on the pavement, the adversaries glared at one another. Lisa had the advantage of height, though a proportion of that was attributable to high heels on which she was suddenly less than steady. She walked away from the restaurant to avoid several dozen stares. ‘Now, Mrs . . . er . . .'

‘Never mind who I am,' snapped the small woman. She balanced the child on a blue denim hip. ‘I know who you are, Mrs Jewellery Shop. You're my Jimmy's sugar mummy and he's your toy boy. He's up to his old tricks again, but I am on to him.'

Lisa swallowed hard. She knew the bungalow well, had rolled about on a mock sheepskin rug under the watchful eyes of several cheap and ugly ladies in pastel crinolines. ‘I honestly don't know a Jimmy. Or a James.'

‘Right. Who do you know, then?'

‘That cannot possibly be any business of yours.'

‘Oh, really? Then I shall be wanting my money back off the private detective, because he's followed you from the shop to the Pack Horse, from your posh house to the bungalow – and I've got photos. I don't know what my fellow's told you, but his real name's Jimmy Nuttall, and we've been married nine years. You're not the first old dear he's been with, and I suppose you won't be the last. Just bugger off and leave him alone, or I'll make sure your husband and kids get to hear about it.' She marched off, her gait made uneven by the weight of the child.

Lisa leaned against a wall. Within thirty seconds, her mechanism clicked back into gear, and she returned to the restaurant. The buzz of conversation ceased as soon as she entered. ‘Mistaken identity,' she told Sadie, who quickly turned off her mobile phone. ‘She seems to have confused me with some trollop who's having a good time with her husband. Ah, well –' she sat down – ‘let's have coffee, shall we?'

Had anyone asked Lisa about the following five minutes, she would have been unable to remember the topic of conversation. Her mind raced, as did her pulse. How could he do this to her? They had been planning a new start abroad, somewhere warmer, sunnier. He swore undying devotion and . . . and he held a large slice of her money in a place where the tax man would never reach.

‘Are you all right?' Sadie asked.

Lisa returned to the present time. ‘What? Yes, of course. I'm just thinking how terrible my hair must look. Do you think I should tell the police? It was assault, and there were many witnesses.'

‘It's a thought,' Sadie agreed. ‘It's coming to something when two old friends can't have lunch without one of them being attacked.' How was Lisa going to get out of this one? She wouldn't go for the law; of that, Sadie felt completely certain.

‘There'd be bad publicity, I suppose,' Lisa said with a sigh.

Sadie squashed a smile. This gossip would feed the clan for weeks to come. ‘Unavoidable, Lisa. Look, why don't you phone the shop and ask Simon to take over? Go home and rest.'

Lisa agreed. ‘I feel a migraine coming on. I suppose half a day off wouldn't hurt. Do you mind if I go now?'

Sadie shook her head. Her fingers were dying to press a few more numbers on her mobile. She wanted to be the one to pass on the news, though she had possibly missed her chance, since Mavis would have texted all and sundry by now. Mavis was the only one Sadie had found time to reach. She should have left Mavis till last . . .

They both stood and each kissed the air at the side of the other's head. Sadie watched while her companion staggered out of the restaurant, then reached for her phone. Today, the air would be filled with music. Probably a dirge to accompany the social death of a certain jeweller who had long been too big for her hand-sewn Italian shoes.

It was cooler up on the open moors. Lisa parked her car and gazed, as if for the first time, at a landscape fit for any poet wanting to write about daffodils. Except, of course, that it wasn't daffodil season and the yellow fields were packed with burgeoning rape. Jesus Christ. How could a person's life change so drastically in the space of a few hours? This morning, she had been planning for a new car and a new life abroad, though the latter had been scheduled for the next year at the very earliest. He had played her like an ancient Stradivarius, hadn't he? Stupid woman whose sole aims in life were to look younger and ditch a husband who had all the charm of a dead rat.

‘My reputation, such as it was, is destroyed,' she told the windscreen. ‘I've lost him and a load of money.' She had also mislaid several layers of self-respect. It had never been a thick cloak, but it had existed. Sadie Fisher would be buzzing with the tale. Mobile networks were possibly in meltdown already. ‘Thank God I didn't change my mind and invite Harriet to lunch.' Yet a very small corner of Lisa's mind housed the suspicion that Harriet would have stood up to the woman, would have defended her mother. Because Harriet was always on the side of any underdog, wasn't she? Like her own brother . . .

Nowhere to turn now, Lisa supposed. Simon could run the shop indefinitely, while she would have to disappear very soon and for a considerable length of time. There was, of course, Hermione. Hermione, given half a chance, might orchestrate a G8 conference from her wheelchair. She couldn't do much for herself, but she wielded a long baton when it came to conducting the lives of others. Eileen, too, was a loyal servant of the family. ‘Could I? Should I?'

She left the car and sat in a dip where a drystone wall had lost its capping stones. There were just three houses between here and the horizon. The rest of the landscape was a coat of many colours: several yellows, greens that ran from moss right through to emerald, shades that verged on blue. All these scraps of fields were sewn together with grey-brown stitches made of walls like the one upon which she sat. Lancashire was beautiful. She hadn't really noticed it before. Born in a backstreet of Bolton, father unknown, mother a distant memory, Lisa had no one of her own. Alec had been her own . . .

Jimmy opened the door and stepped back a pace as she launched herself at him. Blood coursed down his left cheek, and he raised both hands in order to protect himself. She was mad; people must be right about the Compton-Milnes. Perhaps like married like – she was as insane as her legendary husband. Jesus, she packed a hard punch. But she had originated from the backstreets of the town, so perhaps she was reverting to type. ‘What the bloody hell . . .?' he began as she hit him yet again.

‘Jimmy bloody Nuttall,' she screamed. ‘That nasty little wife of yours pulled some of my hair out in Antoine's this lunch time. Had your youngest brat with her, too. You lying, cheating, good-for-nothing toad.' Each adjective arrived in the company of a slap to his face.

He fled into the living room.

She followed, paused to take in the view of champagne in a bucket, flowers on a side table, strawberries in a bowl. ‘You bastard,' she cursed.

‘I'm leaving her,' he protested. ‘I always meant to leave her for you, Lisa.'

She picked up the nearest ornament and threw it in his direction. It missed, but shattered another on the mantelpiece. ‘So this is your friend's bungalow, is it? We're using it while he's in the bloody Seychelles? It's your mother's house. If I'd had any sense, I'd have noticed the absence of a resident man's clutter. Where's my money?'

He grabbed a large cushion and hugged it – any further missiles could be deflected, or so he hoped. ‘What money?'

‘My share. From the stuff in the floor safe. You said half of it was mine, but I haven't seen a penny piece of it.'

‘It's OK. You'll get it when we leave – I promised you that, didn't I?'

‘Just as you swore you were single after being heartbroken following the death of your fiancée. Get me my bloody money, or I'll . . .' She would what? What could she do? ‘You and I are going nowhere, Jimmy.' She spat the name as if ridding her mouth of an unpleasant taste. ‘No more goods in my safe from now on. The partnership is dissolved.'

‘But—'

‘But nothing. I want my cut. I'll settle for a hundred grand and your final exit from my life.'

‘Lisa, I don't deserve this.'

‘Neither do I. Neither does that furious little wife of yours. The child she had with her is called Daisy. I believe you have three in total.'

His top lip curled. ‘I would have left everything behind for you.'

‘You left honesty long, long ago, Jimmy. According to your better half, I am just the latest of your conquests. She might have been angry, but there was truth in her eyes. You're no good.'

‘And you're a recycled virgin?'

‘I have never lied. I have never pleaded a dead lover, just a decayed marriage. When does your mother return?'

He lowered his head. ‘Sunday.'

‘Then we meet here Saturday at two in the afternoon. Bring my cash. A hundred grand, and that is a mere fraction of the total accumulated these past few years. I mean it. Get me my money, or I'll have you dealt with.'

‘Oh, yes? And whose army will you use?'

She smirked. ‘If Hannibal could negotiate the Alps with a herd of elephants, I can certainly get past you. So bugger off back to the poor creature you're fastened to.' She turned, then looked over her shoulder. ‘Saturday. And be prompt. I have no patience with latecomers.'

Outside, she found herself shaking with a mixture of fury and grief. Could she cope with this on her own? Beyond the odd grunt from behind
The Times
at breakfast, Gus hadn't spoken to her in months. And why should he help an adulterous partner? A man of narrowed vision, he probably imagined that no one really needed communication within marriage once the children had been born.

Lisa sat in her car and waited for the trembling to stop. When she finally managed to focus, she found herself staring into the dark eyes of Nuttall's wife. She was across the road in a parked Escort. Slowly, Lisa opened her door, stepped out and crossed the road.

The Escort's window was wound down. ‘Well?' asked the occupant.

Lisa sighed. ‘All yours, though he may weigh a little less because I relieved him of some blood. Don't worry – he'll live. There is a bit of business to be concluded here on Saturday afternoon. Beyond that, it is finished.'

A tiny hand touched Lisa's arm. ‘Get in the car. Look, it's all right – I won't kidnap you, and I won't hurt you. I just need to talk to you, that's all.'

After hesitating for a few seconds, the older woman walked round the Escort, opened the passenger door and climbed in. There were small toys and sweet wrappers all over the place. Lisa's feet rested on a battered teddy bear in the footwell.

‘Do you smoke?' asked the driver.

‘I'd kill for one.'

They lit up, inhaled deeply, then both laughed nervously.

‘I'm Annie Nuttall.'

‘You know who I am.'

‘Aye, I do. Now, don't say anything. If you don't tell me anything, then I don't know anything – OK?'

Lisa nodded.

‘Saturday – is it about money?'

‘Yes.'

‘Right, set your ears on red alert because I'll say this only once.'

‘As in
'Allo, 'Allo
?'

‘Exactly. First, sorry I showed you up in that café. I lost my rag, and I'm not proud of myself, only I can't undo it. But I might be able to save you from more grief. Understand?'