Page 272 of Hell Hath No Fury
“Damn. See, I always knew we met too late in life.”
“Oh, I don’t think we would’ve been friends if we’d met any earlier.”
“And why is that?” She sounds intrigued and a little hurt. Not my intention, but I won’t lie.
“You were married, right?”
“Yes, five happy years.”
“Well, wives didn’t tend to like me back then. Actually, they don’t seem to like me much now, either, present company excepted.”
“Why didn’t they like you? You’re great.” She looks genuinely shocked, and I’m inclined to repeat my sentiment from earlier about not giving a fuck, but I settle for just being vague.
“I can take a few guesses; however, I only really need one and that is for another day. Let’s just say I’m more of a man’s woman than a woman’s woman, I’ve never had girlfriends. I mean, I have a few now, a very few.”
“Yeah, I get that. Women can be mean if your face doesn’t fit, especially around here. It’s so cliquey. It’s all about who you know and how much money you’ve got. I hate all that.”
“Yeah, me, too, which is why we get on, and why I’m shitting myself that Roman won’t have gotten in, because my face doesn’t fit.”
“It will be fine,” she says with her infectious optimism.
“Hope you’re right. Have you got time for lunch?” I hail a cab, and we both jump in as I give the cabbie the address and some directions. They really hate that, only I can’t help myself. Mary continues to talk when I’m done with my version of Google Maps for central London.
“Lunch sounds great. I have all day. The grandparents are on child picking up duty. I’m supposed to be sorting the last few bits for Christmas.” She grins conspiratorially. Spare time is a luxury when you have small children and a job, even more so when you don’t have a partner to share the responsibility.
“Great. I’ll fix us up some food and possibly a large glass of wine—or two—depending on the outcome.”
“If Petal got in without a generous donation, Roman is a shoe-in. Trust me.” She pats my knee with all the confidence in the world. I wish I shared a fraction of it at this moment.
“Mmmm, sorry, but I trust Jason, and that’s about it.”
“Lucky you. I couldn’t trust Marcus as far as I could throw him.”
“You’re five foot nothing, Mary. Exactly how far could you throw anyone?”
“Not far, still I did manage to kick his cheating arse all the way across the Thames and out of my postcode.” Her laugh is flat, and tinged with a bitter taste that purses her lips.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know he cheated.”
“With his secretary. So fucking cliché. No matter. I got the townhouse, the villa in France, and enough money every month to make him wince. He might even have to cut back on hookers at the sex club.”
“Sex club?” My stomach knots, drops, and I feel the colour drain from my face. The taxi jerks to a stop, parking outside my home. “Your husband was a member of a sex club in London?”
“I’m sorry. This isn’t the time for that dirty tale. Come on, let’s go and celebrate!” She pushes a ten pound note through the gap in the partition, and yells to the cab driver to keep the change. I give him the remainder of the fare and tell him to do the same. I feel queasy and lightheaded, and I’m surprisingly glad we’re home, because I think I might actually throw up.
CHAPTER THREE
I skip up the steps, swipe my finger across the entrance system pad, and push the front door wide open. The gorgeous holly wreath hanging from a red ribbon swings precariously with the force of the door hitting the stop. Mary steadies it and nods for me to go on in and do whatever to calm my nerves. I rush over to the console table and deftly sift through the mountain of post, promotional leaflets, fast food flyers, several Christmas cards, bills, and one envelope made from thicker paper, almost like card. An ivory letter with a royal blue logo embossed on the front, from St. Michael’s Preparatory School.
“Look, my hands are shaking.” Holding the letter, and visibly trembling, I kick my heels off and walk numbly into the kitchen. I perch on the edge of one of the tall stools that surround the small island at the other end of the kitchen nearest to the wine fridge.
“You want me to open it?” Mary asks after a few minutes of me just staring at the damn envelope.
“Yes.” Her question seems to snap me from my trance, and my arm jerks out like the letter is now the last thing I want in my hand. It’s ridiculous; I need to get a grip.
“Okay, you pour the champagne.”
Mary peels the edge of the envelope, and I can’t look. I pull two champagne flutes from the cupboard, place them on the counter, and set about opening a bottle of something fizzy and perfectly chilled.
