Читать книгу Sex, Lies Declassified - Eva Mazza - Страница 14

Since Lee had died, both the book club evenings and poker nights had dissolved completely. Everybody seemed to have lost interest in committing to monthly social gatherings. Maybe it was their way of mourning Frankie’s husband’s death. Who knew?

Frankie’s girlfriends had agreed to keep things on ice and stick to their bi-weekly Zumba classes and coffee mornings instead. Shelley and Frankie, however, met more often. Shelley, it seemed, was only too happy to take Jen’s place as bestie.

She had always been a little frumpy but since they had started hanging out together, she had shed a few kilos and Frankie noticed Shelley now made more effort in the way she dressed.

She had attributed this to Shelley hanging out with her. After all, Frankie placed a lot of emphasis on her appearance and she gave herself credit for Shelley’s new glow. Little did she know!

They had just finished a hot-stone massage at Majeka House Spa and had chosen to breakfast in the beautifully manicured gardens amongst the pruned rosebushes and designer cacti; both species taking advantage of the last rays of a temperate autumn morning. The two friends looked like pampered princesses dressed in their white spa gowns, drinking Autograph Gin, a classy local gin that had become all the rage in Stellenbosch and beyond.

“What shall we toast to?” Shelley asked.

“To your rebirth. You are looking fantastic. It must be my influence.” They gently knocked tumblers.

“I have something to tell you,” Shelley whispered. “But you promise not to say anything to anyone?”

Frankie picked pineapple from her fruit salad. “Who am I going to tell?” she asked. “My husband’s dead, Clive isn’t someone I’d share any secrets with, and I have no real friends except you, Shelley.”

Shelley looked around before she spoke. “I’m seeing someone.”

“A shrink?”

Shelley laughed, “Hell, no!” She leaned in conspiratorially. “I am committing adultery and loving it.”

Frankie opened her mouth to speak but Shelley stopped her. “Before you go on a self-righteous tirade; I know you’ve had affairs.”

Frankie lifted a brow, then smiled. She drew in a deep breath. “How do you know I was about to be self-righteous, Shelley?” She summoned the waiter, ordered another round of drinks.

“I don’t know. Maybe because you’ve lost Lee and you miss him terribly. You feel guilty for cheating on him now he’s…” her voice petered out. Shelley had never been subtle. She saw Frankie’s face turn.

“How dare you! Don’t try to make what you’re doing okay by falsely accusing me!”

Shelley clutched her hands together. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I was out of line.”

“Fucking sure you’re out of line.” Frankie tightened the band around her hair. “Who are you fucking?” she asked.

Shelley flinched slightly.

“Come on Shelley, call it what it is. A fuck.”

“It’s not really a fuck. Yet. It’s more like phone sex, dirty pictures… that kind of thing.”

Frankie crossed her beautifully toned legs, threw back her head and laughed out long and loud. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s not adultery, that’s teenage behaviour.” Frankie noticed the tears well up in her friend’s eyes. She was unmoved. “You can be so hard sometimes,” Shelley whined. “It’s fun. I’m completely besotted.”

Frankie snorted.

“I’ve been in an unhappy marriage for years.”

“Frans is a good guy, Shelley.”

“No, he’s not. He seems like a good guy to all of you, but he’s an abusive prick.”

Frankie straightened up. “You’re joking! Does he smack you around?”

Shelley sighed. “You don’t have to be smacked around to be abused, Frankie.”

“Well, how else? Please don’t use that word ‘abuse’. I mean, come on, if he calls you names, you have a mouth. Tell him he’s a fat fuck and to shut up.”

“I wasn’t really raised that way.”

“And I was?” Frankie had always been sensitive about her ‘less-than’ upbringing. The women in their friendship circle were told to respect their husbands, speak kindly, look after ‘their’ children. They forgot the most important thing of all: to fuck them.

Shelley could see she had offended her friend. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. I know how sensitive you are about where you come from.”

Frankie shrugged. “Not really. I’m beginning to think you all are a bunch of two-faced bitches. All about pretences, all the bloody time. I’m the only real one.”

Shelley looked at her. “How real are you really, Frankie? Your affair with the diplomat was just as covert as mine is. You did exactly what you are accusing me of doing. You played happy housewife because you knew where your bread was buttered.”

Frankie scowled. “My husband is dead. Don’t you dare destroy the memory of us with bullshit.”

“You’re not even prepared to admit to me, your best friend, that you were cheating on Lee.” Shelley had become shrill. There was nobody about except the waiter and he had gone inside to place their order. Frankie rose from her chair and pointed a finger straight at Shelley. “Don’t spread such vile rumours about me, you hear?” she said. “Just because you are fucking around with someone else, don’t drag me into it,” she grabbed her Louis Vuitton bag, ready to leave, “so you can feel better about cheating on Frans!”

“I’m not spreading rumours and I’m not trying to feel better about anything. All I’m doing is trying to have an honest chat with you. Share my secret. Clearly you can’t come clean about yours. Sit down, Frankie, please.” Frankie remained standing. “It’s not like he’s married and I’m wrecking a home,” Shelley said.

The waiter had arrived with their order. Shelley held her tongue. Frankie wasn’t the type to hold hers. “It’s John Pearce, isn’t it?”

Shelley did a double take and the waiter slinked off.

“For fuck’s sake, Shelley! That’s why Jen left him; because he is a cheating son-of-a-bitch.”

“Well, he’s single and free to do as he pleases.” Shelley sounded defensive.

“But you’re not.” Frankie rolled her head from side to side. Her massage had been for naught. She looked at her watch, Lee’s Rolex they’d managed to salvage from the fire; the only thing that remained unscathed. “Fuck! Look at the time. I have a meeting.”

“But I thought you had nothing to do today. It’s Saturday, for God’s sake!”

“You have nothing to do. I do. Thank you for the spoil, Shelley. I unfortunately have to rush off.”

“But your gin. You ordered another gin. Aren’t you going to drink it?” Frankie grabbed her ice-cold gin from the table and downed it. “There you go. All done.” She blew Shelley a kiss; couldn’t face being near her, the stupid bitch, then turned and walked away, resolving to phone John Pearce the minute she was in her car. How dare he?

On her way out she bumped into Karine, the owner of the hotel and spa. “Is everything good?” Karine asked in her French accent. Frankie realised she was still wearing the spa’s gown. “Karine, be a doll,” she said, “I have to rush off. Please charge Shelley for the gown. I have no time to change.”

Frankie climbed into her Porsche and revved the engine. She was furious with Shelley. And in true Frankie style, she didn’t question why her reaction was so vehement, why was she now dialling John’s number after he had attempted to rape her at the lunch after Lee’s funeral?

She knew John hadn’t considered it sexual assault. They had had sex countless times before. She had said no that day, but still he had had her up against the wall of her walk-in closet when Brigit had stumbled across her trying to fight off her father. Brig had clearly been upset, but Frankie did not expect her to snitch on them to her brother, Pete and certainly not to her son, Clive. The stupid girl caused a major furore between me and my son! And caused all three children to stage an intervention. Frankie had been demonised and made to behave herself. As a result, her relationship with her son was distant and they hardly spoke to one another as they used to.

She dialled John’s number. No answer. Her fists slammed down hard on the dashboard. The son-of-a-bitch was ignoring her call. Nobody ignored Frankie. Enough! She would not be dictated to, brushed off, manipulated.

She drove full speed to John’s farm. The fixed speed cameras on the R300 road did not deter her. She would confront him face-to-face.

It was almost lunchtime when she arrived at La Vigne Sacrée. She remembered those lazy Saturdays when she’d pop by at Jen’s and they’d drink copious amounts of wine, laugh and chat about the Dorp and its people. She missed Jen.

Once through the farm gates, she knew to slow down in case there were ducks or farm children who may be in her path. Eventually she arrived at John Pearce’s wooden front door. A VW Polo was parked outside. She didn’t give it much thought as she rang the doorbell. No answer, so she turned the familiar brass doorknob. It was unlocked so she just walked in.

Jen had taken nothing with her but her self-respect it seemed. The farmhouse was strangely quiet. Sad really. Not as she had remembered it when Jen was around. A bit like her house now Lee was dead.

She turned towards the kitchen and walked slap-bang into her ex-lover and so-called nemesis.

“What the fuck!” John shifted from surprised to sarcastic. “Another blast from my past: I’ve just got off the phone with my ex-wife and now my ex-lover. What are you doing inside my house, Frankie?”

It was only then she remembered she was in a Majeka House Spa gown. “I tried calling you and I did try your doorbell.”

Her Vuitton bag hung from her left arm; her keys clutched in her right hand.

“You look a sight. Why are you in your pyjamas? Have you escaped the funny farm?” He laughed at his own joke. Frankie didn’t find him funny at all.

“I am here to talk to you about…”

John looked distractedly down the passage that led to the spare room. Frankie’s eyes followed his. A young woman was walking towards them.

“Dee?” Frankie said.

“Meagan.” John volunteered.

“Hi, Mrs Holms” Meagan answered. Her hair was up in a ponytail.

“Dee, what are you doing here?” Frankie asked.

“None of your fucking business, Frankie.” John said. “Now please leave.” He tried to grab her arm to usher her out, but Frankie shook him off.

“How do you know Dee?” she asked John.

“Her name is Meagan,” John said.

“Okay, then. You don’t know her very well. Meagan is actually ‘Dee’, Clive’s girlfriend,” she insisted.

Dee stood in the passageway not quite knowing what to do or say.

“Clive?” John asked, “You mean your son?”

Both women ignored John. Dee spoke directly to Frankie.

“It isn’t what you think it is, Mrs Holms.” Frankie’s eyes bore into hers. Dee looked away.

“If you’re in John’s house it’s exactly what I think it is.” Frankie turned to John. “Are you fucking my son’s girlfriend, John?