Shame the Devil Chapter Two - Part one

Someone knows.

That was the predominant, terrifying thought that ran over and over in Helen’s mind.

Who...? How...?

For all intents and purposes, Marcus came every Tuesday as her personal trainer. How could anyone know the true nature of their relationship?
And whoever wrote the note knows where she lives...

A jealous girlfriend perhaps who, suspecting infidelity, had followed him – or even worse... a wife?

Had, Marcus deceived her? Oh she was a fool to believe he hadn’t someone in his life...

But no. She had been to his flat, once when he’d been laid up with a bad cold – even he, as fit (in both senses of the expression) as he was, couldn’t evade every bug that went around. She’d taken him chicken soup – ever the ministering angel. He’d been surprised to see her yes, but pleased. She’d looked freely around his flat. There’d been no sign he shared it – or his life – with a significant other.

Or maybe he hadn’t deceived her – not in that way. Maybe the truth was even worse, more unpalatable than being hoodwinked into believing, Marcus was free to give her his affection, his – dare she use the word, love?

For all she knew he was having affairs (she couldn’t bear to use the obvious, blatant description of their weekly trysts) with other sad and lonely middle-aged clients.

And, let’s face it, that’s what she was: sad, lonely and middle-aged. Easy pickings.

She was a fool to ever get involved with a man so much younger than her – was thirty-one too old to be described as a ‘toy-boy’? Good God, she was a stereotype..!

But then why the note?

If, Marcus was merely a player, then who would care..?

Back to square one. Who knows? And what were their intentions...?

She was sure their marriage only continued because it suited Phillip – for now. As faithless as he undoubtedly was, he was careful. There was no way he would tolerate her having the chance of divorcing him on the grounds of his adultery – it was cheaper to keep her as a wife. But if Phillip was made aware of her infidelity, as hypocritical as it would be, Helen felt sure he’d jump at the opportunity to play the injured party and set his high-priced lawyers to work ensuring she was ousted unceremoniously from the marriage with nothing. She could forget even the minimal settlement.

And if her duplicity was disclosed that would destroy her carefully crafted image of Domestic Goddess, destroy her chances of a career and an escape from a stifling, precarious existence reliant on a man she didn’t love and had long since stopped loving her.

So who was the anonymous writer and what did he – would it be ‘he’?

More likely ‘she’. Poisonous, anonymous threats are much more likely from a woman.

So what does she want..?

“Repent your adulterous ways or you will surely regret it”

What does that even mean? How was she supposed to repent? Just stop seeing him?

Stop seeing him.

Could she give him up...?

And even if she did, how would the writer of the note know? Is she watching her...?

This innominate.

This pathetic person whose life is so lacking she has nothing better to do than spy on her. So cowardly she dare not sign a name to her poisonous warning – of what?

What would, what could she actually do? Where’s her proof?

Helen’s fitness regime – her real fitness regime, wasn’t a secret – she goes running twice a week and everyone, including Phillip, knows she has a personal trainer. How could anyone have proof that, Marcus was anything other than just that?

Helen looked at the note in her hand, screwed it into a tight little ball and tossed it in the bin.

*

The affluence of an area can be judged by the number of its charity shops; Broad Street had five. Whilst the shops in Broad Street provided everyday retail opportunities with its chemists, banks, pet shop, restaurants & cafés and ubiquitous den of estate agents, the High Street proper was a cluster of independent shops leading up to the stone-walled church, outside which a large Christmas tree, complete with twinkling lights and brightly coloured baubles, was the focal point of the High Street’s Yuletide decorations each year.

Whereas Broad Street was always choked with cars and busses, the High Street was pedestrianised. Walking round the corner into the High Street was like walking into another world; peace and calm descended. The shopper could amble, stopping to gaze at delightful trivialities in the window of Presently Perfect, smell flowers spilling from the tumble of buckets and baskets on the pavement outside Earthly Delights, purchase a freshly baked-on-the-premises croissant or box of swirly butter-cream frosted cupcakes from Mr Bunne (the admittedly rather unoriginally named baker, but unfortunately that really was his name, or an Anglicised version of it – he had a slight trace of an accent the origins of which no one had been able to pinpoint) and after all these exertions, sit peaceably outside the only independently owned café. Starbucks and Café Nero on Broad Street did a roaring trade, especially with young mums and au pairs with their charges, but at La Bella Café, Giorgio or Antonio made the best cappuccino and made it their mission to commit to memory their customers’ preferences after one visit, thus ensuring their continued presence on the High Street despite competition from the heavyweights.

But Helen wasn’t in the calm of the quaint High Street. By lunchtime the next afternoon a long line of excited women, each clutching a copy of Helen’s book, trailed its way from the door of the recently-opened Broad Street branch of Waterstones to where Helen, in her favourite Chanel suit and silk blouse (Jackie O sans sun glasses) sat at a table signing books, the perfect image of demure grace and style.

Having written on the inside page, Best wishes, Helen for the umpteenth time and returned the copy of her book to the next woman in line, Helen turned to thank the member of staff for the much-needed proffered cup of black coffee.

‘What’s your secret?’

Everything imploded to a white raw-edged pinpoint, an icy chill spreading from the skewered hole in Helen’s centre rushing through her body. The eager chattering of the women in line and traffic noise from the busy main street outside blurred to a dim, cotton-wool rumble. The coffee cup jittered spilling some of its contents into the saucer.

‘And for heaven’s sake don’t tell me it’s clean living and exercise. Couldn’t believe it when I saw you on Good Morning.’

The tension drained from her body as, Helen looked up into the smiling face of her old school friend, Jemima Fortescue.

‘Anyway, Googled you, discovered you were going to be here today and voila! Just had to come. Congrats on the book. I swear you’ve hardly changed from when we use to skip old Batty Bampton’s interminably dreary lessons.’

*

Janet stared at her fingers, the tips pruning from the warm soapy washing up water. She knew she should wear rubber gloves. Helen did, but Janet hated the feel of them, hated how she couldn’t grasp things properly when wearing them. Helen had beautiful hands. Helen had beautiful everything. What must it be like to achieve such elegance so effortlessly? Some women were just naturally glamorous she supposed. Shirley had an overtly sexual sense of dress, and Meredith, still trim in her 60s, had a relaxed air in her casual slacks and crisp cotton blouses. Sartorially contrastive, but all, in their own way, had a sense of self.

Who was Janet Trent? What did her mien say about her?

At school she had been able to disappear behind the homogeneity of a school uniform. And whilst other girls were experimenting with cosmetics and the latest fashions, Janet was content to remain inconspicuous, devoid of makeup in the trademark teenage garb of jeans and t-shirt.

It’s a wonder any man had noticed her, but Russell, who had had little luck with more assertive, assured women, found himself attracted to the unprepossessing young waitress at his local café. Janet was inexperienced and bewildered by Russell’s attention. He hadn’t had to work hard to win her. They’d married. She’d finally grown up. She was someone. She was someone’s wife.

Even if Russell hadn’t insisted on it, Janet had been glad to give up her dead-end job. Fulfilling her need to show, him her gratitude for being noticed and taken from the shelf, she’d kept their tiny one bedroom flat spotless, dinner was ready promptly on Russell’s return home every night, his shirts carefully ironed and she gave willingly of herself at night.

They’d been happy, but with every occupational change, improvement on the property ladder and increase of his social standing, Russell had become more dissatisfied with his wife. Little things about, Janet, that he’d once found endearing, irritated him. He needed a wife suitable of standing beside him on the social platform not a nondescript little mouse hiding away at home.

As the old joke goes, when first married and sex is on tap you can’t get enough of each other, but give it time and before you know it the whispered ‘sweet nothings’ change to: “Is that you breathing? Well stop it because it’s pissing me off”.

Russell had gone in to work that morning as an important customer was coming in first thing to pick up a case of wine for her dinner party (he always liked to be there in person to attend to his most valuable customers), but before he’d left he had announced that they were to go shopping for outfits for his impending awards ceremony. After all, it wasn’t everyday one was nominated (in Russell’s case it wasn’t every year – in the three years he’d been writing his wine column this was his first nomination) and the annual Sunday glossies’ awards were a prestigious affair. He’d meet her promptly at eleven.

Janet would have been happy to wear something from her wardrobe, after all, Russell would be the centre of attention, what did it matter what she wore?

She sighed and tipped the water from the washing up bowl.