Page 5 of The Temp

‘We can put this blip behind us, pretend it never happened.’

‘No, Frank, I wouldn’t be comfortable training with you now.’ Frank is one of the top trainers at Serval. I have lost weight and gained muscle, and, thanks to his personalised fitness programme, my confidence has grown. Admittedly, I do miss the buzz of the classes. But there’s no way I can be in the same room as him, not now.

‘I can get Dee to give you a 25% discount.’ I turn on the ignition. ‘Fifty then, but I can’t get her to go lower than that.’ He shoots to his feet. ‘Bella, wait,’ he says quickly, tone raspy. ‘We need to sort this. Wait…I haven’t finished.’

‘Stay away from me.’ I rev the engine.

Bending forward, he pins me down with a stare, one hand on the roof of the car. ‘It’s true what they say, you don’t know what someone’s like until the shit hits the fan.’

‘Get your hands off my car.’

Ignoring me, he licks his lips, glances away, and then his head snaps back round at me like a whip and the claws come out. ‘Just who the fuck do you think you are, hmm?’ he hisses, face contorted in fury. I’m taken aback. I’ve never seen this sinister side to him before. ‘I’m sure Mr Harris would love to know a few home truths about his precious wife.’ I go cold all over. How does he know Tom’s surname? I registered at the gym under my maiden name – Villin. ‘Nice little practice he’s got there at Hadley Green.’ And I certainly didn’t tell him where he works. But he’s wrong about the practice. Tom’s part of the optical team, but he’s salaried. ‘I think I’ve got a bit of blurry vision, actually. Might be due for an eye test.'

I swallow back sour liquid that is charging up my gullet, and just then a thought rockets into my head. Did Dee give him my address, or has Frank been following me after all? With a tremulous hand, I put the car into Reverse, leg shaking. The car moves, he staggers back.

I buzz my window up. ‘You stuck-up little bitch.’ Glancing in my side mirror, I flick the indicator on. ‘No one dumps me, Bella Villin.’ His words fly at me like bullets as I struggle to put the car into Drive. ‘There’s a six-month waiting list for my fucking services,’ he rages, booting the wheel of my car like a thug.

‘Move, you bloody thing,’ I mutter at the gear lever as he continues to spit vitriol at me. With a trembling hand, I try to force the car into Drive. ‘Come on!!!’ A clunking sound fills my ears – clunk, clunk, clunk. Shit, he’s trying to open the back door. Thank God for central locking.

Next to me, Frank’s face is a blur by the window. ‘I promise you, you’re going to regret this.’ Shrinking into my shoulders, I push my foot down on the brakes just as his gob hits the pane. I cringe, even though the window is closed. ‘Whetstone Manor. Isn’t that where Georgia goes?’ Oh, God, oh no. How could he know that? I slide the lever into Drive. ‘This isn’t over, trust me,’ he sneers, stumbling away from the car as I put my foot down. ‘I’m about to become your worst nightmare, Bella Villin,’ he hollers.

Tearing along the street, my eyes dart to the rearview until Frank becomes a tiny figure in the distance, every part of me shaking. If my life wasn’t complicated enough, it’s about to get ten times worse.

Chapter 4

I press the shiny, round, gold ringer. It shrills loudly. Smoothing down my hair, I straighten my silk pink blouse. I feel like I’ve arrived for a job interview, which I’ve buggered up by turning up late and dishevelled, know I won’t get, but go through the process anyway on the slim chance that my interviewer might be a reincarnation of Mother Theresa. I’m ridiculously late, thanks to Frank. Mrs Anderson’s anxiety levels must be through the roof. I can almost see a mist of her angst seeping through the newly tiled loft conversion. I’ll offer her a 10% discount if she gets shirty. Anything to avoid a bad online review. Although she did sound lovely on the phone. ‘Where the hell are you?’ I mutter to myself. ‘I thought you wanted this done and dusted before your husband got home.’

Looking at my watch, I ring the bell again and stand back, feeling small and insignificant after that altercation with Frank. Jesus, have I got myself a stalker? Will I have to go to the police? Tom will find out everything if I do. I shudder at the thought, throw a glance at the shiny green Mini Cooper parked on Mrs Anderson’s driveway. It has an air freshener in the shape of a pair of pink trainers hanging from the rear-view. Must be hers. Surely, she must be in. She sounded desperate on the phone this morning. Unless her husband turned up early. But no, she’d have texted to let me know.

Chewing my bottom lip, I pull out my phone, and just then there’s a gust of air and the door flies open. Mrs Anderson is tall, trim and attractive, with a messy silver bob, mid-sixties, I’d say. She’s wearing metallic brown shadow over her hooded hazel eyes, mascara, and a splash of plum lip-gloss. Sliding a hand into her black chino shorts, she gives me a warm smile and her eyes crinkle – no work done. I like her immediately.

‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long. I popped into the garden to empty the bin. Didn’t hear the doorbell go. Just caught sight of you through the lounge window.’

‘I’ve only just arrived,’ I offer, and she nods, casting an eye at her gold wristwatch.

‘I was freshening the place up,’ Mrs Anderson says, aerosol in hand. ‘Ginny just decided to do a poo on the lounge carpet instead of her clean litter tray.’ She rolls her eyes. A car door thumps behind me.

‘Oh, dear,’ I say, waiting patiently for her to invite me in.

‘Pets, hey?’ Mrs Anderson looks confident and relaxed in her tanned skin. Probably just back from basking somewhere hot and exotic. Maybe Rhodes, given she’s wearing a vest with the word emblazoned across the chest. God, isn’t she cold? I’m shivering in my wool suit. ‘Talk about timing. I’m sure she did it on purpose. Please, come in.’ She steps aside and I notice that she’s barefoot and has a gold chain around her ankle. Her lofty frame makes me feel like a midget, even though I’m a respectable five-foot-six.

Brushing my hand against the radiator covertly, I discover that the heating isn’t on. I’m going to die of hypothermia. The sooner I get this gig done, the sooner I can get to Linda’s and tell her all about my episode with Frank.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late, traffic was heaving – an accident on the North Circ.’ Mrs Anderson gives me a look and my face tingles. She knows I’m lying but doesn’t contradict me. I shuffle along the hallway, bag on shoulder, tripod under my arm, all the while going through the usual preambles – Isabella Villin but everyone calls me Bella. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you in the flesh, Mrs. Anderson.’ I give her a smile, eyes drawn to her toenails, which are neatly varnished in lilac, and then I remember my shoes. ‘I’ll just leave these here, shall I?’ My feet almost groan as I slip out of my uncomfortable heels.

‘Oh, you don’t need to take your shoes off, we’re not posh.’ Oh, I think you are, Mrs Anderson. This place stinks of wealth. My eyes dart to the floor - Chevron parquet – wall to wall. The good stuff – expensive. No scuffs, look new. The place looks like it’s just had a makeover. ‘And it’s Tina.’ Mrs Anderson extends a hand and we shake briskly. ‘I just like walking around the house barefoot. Drives Ben, my husband, well, soon-to-be ex-husband, up the wall. Accuses me of creeping up on him.’ Ben sounds like a prick.

‘I’d best,’ I say, dropping them next to a pair of blue Hunter wellies, ‘you never know what germs I’m bringing into your home.’

‘Okay,’ Mrs Anderson smiles. ‘Whatever makes you happy. Just leave them by the door. Can I get you anything to drink? Tea? Coffee?’ I shake my head - tell her I’ve overdosed on caffeine today. ‘Okay, shall we start downstairs?’ She flicks a glance at her watch again. ‘We are running a bit late, aren’t we?’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ I assure her.

‘I’ve removed all the clutter, as you suggested,’ Mrs Anderson says. I usually tell people to squint and get rid of anything that stands out like a sore thumb. ‘And took the photos down, too, just as an extra precaution,’ she adds, as I bend forward and fiddle with the switch of the lampshade. ‘You never know these days,’ she groans, helping me out with the shade. ‘This one’s a bit tricky – there. You can’t be too careful, can you, what with the dark web and all that.’

‘It all looks amazing. Makes my job a lot easier. Thank you.’ I point to a black and white photograph of a couple on the wall above the chic seventies-style wooden dining table. The young woman looks stylish and gorgeous with dark hair swept off her black flawless face, reminding me of a younger Linda. The man is ordinary, receding ginger hair, pale skin with piggy eyes. Definitely punching, as Zelda would say. ‘I’ll blur that portrait out, Tina.’

Mrs Anderson follows my eyes, confused, and then her face goes slightly pink. ‘Oh God, yes, please. I forgot about that one. That’s my son, Rupert, and Gloria, his wife, on their wedding day.’

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