Mistletoe Mansion (36 page)

‘No!’ Jess sat more upright. ‘Okay, yes. But I’m over that. You know what stopped me? I won’t have him treating this kid the way he treats his others. When we split up, he let slip that our affair wasn’t his first. It won’t be his last. I’m not prepared to see this baby right at the bottom of a list topped by previous children, his wife and other mistresses.’

‘See – you’ve already got the good mum factor… But what about money?’

‘As long as I don’t lose my job, I’ll muddle on by. Dana’s been acting dead strange lately. I just hope she’s not trying to find a way to sack me.’ Jess shoulders sagged and she sipped her tea. ‘So? Yesterday? Did you find the will?’

‘I’m always here if you need to talk, you know,’ I mumbled. ‘Or if you want to throw food colouring and flour at anyone, I’m your gal.’

‘Thanks, Kimmy. You’re the best.’ Her mouth upturned. ‘Melissa has already insisted on throwing me a baby shower.’

‘Great American tradition, that,’ I said and smiled.

‘Hmm, a giddy mix of presents, cake and talk about stretch marks and sore nipples… Anyway. Back to the business in hand – what did you find in the loft?’

‘Two wills and the latest, from 1990, said the bulk of the estate was to be split between two charities. Me and Luke went through the rest of the paperwork round at Melissa’s last night and couldn’t find any new one that made Mr Murphy the main beneficiary.’ I grinned. ‘Luke was so funny, he…’ Jess gazed hard at me, whilst I chatted.

‘Kimmy!’ she finally said. ‘Melissa was right, you
do
like him!’

‘No! I mean… Okay… Maybe… I didn’t think so, but…’ My voice steadied. ‘He’s going away for a month, anyway, so what’s the point? Then there’s Adam. My good, solid Adam…’

Jess’s shoulders bobbed up and down. ‘Sometimes, you can have too much of a good thing.’

‘And Adam
is
good, isn’t he, Jess? It’s just, he doesn’t get me and my business dreams
at all
.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m so confused. Anyway. As I said, we didn’t find a later will, so it looks like it’s plan B – following Mr Murphy to his appointment with the solicitor. Melissa found out that it’s at eleven o’clock this morning…’ I looked at my watch. ‘In fact, I’d better go and call for her now. Could you stay here? It might look odd if we both bunk out of tidying this place. Me and Melissa are catching a taxi near the Royal Oak pub.’

‘Did I hear my name?’ boomed a voice. Mike Murphy strolled in, a newspaper under his arm. He wore smart jeans which hung below his rounded belly and a black turtle neck jumper. Around his wrist was a prominent gold chain bracelet. ‘The house clearers are due this afternoon. If the quote’s good enough, they’ll take a lot of the stuff then and there. Tomorrow some man’s coming to look at Walter’s gardening equipment. I’m going to be in and out, so I’m assuming one of you delightful girls will be around?’

‘I’ve, um, got errands to run too,’ I said, ‘but Jess will be here today and I’ll make sure I’m in tomorrow.’

‘Guess you’ve got to get another job lined up… If you ever need a reference…? After all, you’ve both done a cracking job here, what with all the shenanigans. You girls have got steel…’ He glanced at his watch and disappeared into the hallway. A few seconds later, the Games Room door creaked shut.

‘See you later,’ I muttered to Jess and raced upstairs to fetch my fake leopard-skin handbag – it matched my leopard print headband. I rushed back down and out of the front door. At the bottom of the drive I ran into Terry and Frazzle. In a pink Pringle jumper, under a blush anorak and white plus fours, he was talking to a young woman wearing huge black sunglasses. Short black hair poked out from underneath a cap. She wore faded jeans cut off just below the knee, fingerless gloves and a hooded sweatshirt saying “I love London”. A load of photographers hung outside the Winsfords’ house.

‘Kimmy! How are you feeling?’ Terry said and kissed me on either cheek.

‘Not the best. What did you and Melissa put in those cocktails last night?’ I asked, glad I’d thrown my second drink out of the window. If only I’d brought a bottle of water with me – although I could always borrow the Evian face mist Melissa kept in her handbag and spray it onto my tongue instead of my cheeks.

‘Advocaat of course, vodka, lime cordial and a squirt of champers, probably. I can’t remember the rest… Have to admit, I’m feeling a bit delicate too.’ He chuckled. ‘And talking of Melisssa, I bumped into her earlier – she’ll meet you by the Royal Oak.’

I nodded and glanced at the woman in the cap. Who was she? A friend of his? A niece? We headed for Terry’s house.

‘Where are my manners!’ he said. ‘Kimmy, this is Becca. I’ve got so many all-day tournaments on over the next few weeks, I’ve decided to hire someone to walk Frazzle. She and I are just taking a stroll, so that they can get to know each other. In fact we may as well go a bit further, and accompany you to the pub.’

‘Hello,’ I smiled at her. ‘Do you walk many micro-pigs?’

‘Dogs are my usual bag,’ she said, with a strong Luton twang as we carried on towards the end of the cul-de-sac. ‘But how different can a pig be? Food still goes in one end and comes out the other, right? And mud baths sound wicked.’ In fact, she didn’t stop talking as we headed down the long, winding road to the Royal Oak. I heard all about her last client who insisted she read a story to their dogs before they lay down for a nap. Her make-up looked a bit full on for a dog walker. She must have earned lots as she was wearing a pair of designer trainers. Wishing I’d put on gloves, as well, I bent down to tickle Frazzle between the ears, before saying goodbye.

‘Can’t see Melissa,’ I said and stared at the bearded taxi driver, waiting in his car by the pub. There was no one sitting in the back.

Terry sniggered. So did Becca.

‘What’s so funny?’ I said.

‘It’s me, you big doofus,’ said the girl, leaning forward to whisper in my ear.

I stood back as she pulled down her sunglasses and wiggled them Eric Morecambe style. I pushed her shoulder and grinned. ‘Cool hair! You’re quite the actress, Melissa!’

‘Well, I did take a drama course for a few weeks last year – thought it might help my confidence, presenting my exercise DVD.’ She pushed her glasses back on. ‘I had to avoid the paparazzi outside the house, somehow. Hopefully the bloodsuckers will get bored and go bother Jonny and Saffron.’

We got in the back of the taxi, as Terry waved goodbye and went off with Frazzle. It was a saloon car, nothing conspicuous. Melissa pulled a face as she sat inside, having brushed down the seat before she parked her perfect bottom on it.

‘Where to?’ muttered the driver, as rain started to spit against the windows. Low-volume rock music emanated from his radio and a half-eaten sandwich sat on the front seat, on top of a newspaper. He looked in his rear view mirror. ‘The meter’s running.’

‘We’re not quite sure,’ I said, ‘you see…’

‘Look, it’s been a long night, love. Do you want to go somewhere or not?’

Melissa took off her cap and sunglasses and smiled broadly towards the rear view mirror. The man almost choked.

‘You’re… Jonny Winsford’s wife… I mean…’ He flushed purple. ‘Bad week for you. What with the papers…’

‘This trip could be a nice earner for you if you don’t ask too many questions,’ she said.

He brushed crumbs from his greying beard and winked in the mirror. ‘Say no more.’

At that moment Mr Murphy’s black car loomed into view. Melissa pointed at it with a perfectly manicured finger – a detail that would have eventually given away her dog-handling disguise.

‘Follow that car!’ she said.

Damn! I’d always wanted to say that!

Whilst we pulled away, Melissa and me ducked down. After a few seconds we sat back up. The black car was just about visible in the distance.

‘Don’t lose him,’ said Melissa.

‘No problems, Mrs Winsford. Is it your husband?’

‘Remember what I said – less you know, the better,’ she said.

‘So, he’s heading for St Albans,’ I muttered. ‘We could go to the precinct afterwards. Have a coffee. Discuss our findings.’

But Melissa wasn’t listening; she was too busy looking behind us to see if the paparazzi were following. This was the first trip she’d taken out since the news of Jonny and Saffron broke. But she needn’t have worried and some twenty minutes later we found ourselves in the centre of St Albans, well away from the lenses and snide comments. The taxi driver tailed Mr Murphy down a side road and pulled up about fifty metres behind him as the black car stopped outside a row of businesses and shops.

‘Where that car’s stopped, is a solicitor’s,’ said the driver, looking at us from his rear view mirror. ‘I used to go to the chiropodist on the top floor. Great little Indian take-away next door to it, if you’re in the mood for something hot.’

Mr Murphy went inside.

‘We’ll just sit here until that man comes out again,’ said Melissa, to the driver.

‘But the meter’s running,’ I whispered.

‘My treat,’ she whispered back.

For half an hour we sat there– me playing games on my phone, Melissa answering various texts as rain now pelted down. Suddenly, the driver turned around.

‘That bloke’s just come out of the building, ladies,’

He was by his car and a woman with short brown curly hair, in a black trouser suit, was talking to him under a large navy brolly. Awkwardly, he kissed her on the cheek. Melissa took out her purse, tapped the driver’s shoulders and thrust several twenty pound notes into his hand.

‘That’s, um, very generous,’ he said, revealing a bit of tomato stuck in between two of his teeth.

‘Remember,’ she said. ‘Confidentiality is paramount. Keep this to yourself and I’ll use you again.’

‘Thanks for paying,’ I said as he drove off and we hid for a moment, behind a post box. Melissa pulled down her cap, whilst I put up my parka hood.

‘It’s all for a good cause,’ she said. ‘Plus it takes my mind off Jonny and his bit of fluff. Do you know, Infamous rang me this morning? Apparently Saffron’s doing a double spread with them about her and Jonny’s “deep love”. They wondered if I wanted a page to myself to retaliate; said they could set me up with some hunky model and take some snaps that would drive Jonny wild.’

‘What did you say?’ I remembered in the past tit-for-tat articles between celebrity couples who’d split. Good reading they were, trying to guess who was the most upset and which couple were actually fake. Except now it concerned the real lives of people I actually knew – and it seemed nothing but… sad.

‘David Khan is represented by my agency and–’

‘Isn’t he that hot new soap actor who won all those newcomer awards last month?’

She nodded. ‘Just think how mad Jonny would be if we did an interview together – me saying what a support he’d been. How we’d been friends for a long time and how my break-up with Jonny had sparked something between us. We might “accidentally” get papped going out to dinner together.’ She smiled. ‘Where’s the harm? It’ll do wonders for David’s career.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to just lay low for a while?’

‘No. Because my side of the story needs to be heard.’ She glanced at me. ‘Guess you think I’m a hypocrite? One minute moaning about a lack of privacy, the next selling my marriage breakdown? But you said yourself, people like celebrities to mess up. It makes them feel human, right?’

My cheeks burned. ‘I reckoned they couldn’t complain as, at the end of the day, whatever happened, they had a fancy home to go back to or could swan off to Barbados. Those magazines used to make me feel that whatever the problem, I’d rather face it with loads of money in my pocket than sitting eating a supermarket value pizza in a one-bedroom flat. Break-ups, drug problems, affairs… They almost look glamorous, set out on a page, in between adverts for liposuction and the latest designer handbag. Yet since I’ve got to know you…’ I shrugged. ‘Dunno – reckon it’s all just as painful, however much money you’ve got.’

Melissa nodded. ‘Money doesn’t stop you being miserable. It doesn’t stop you wanting revenge or making a fool of yourself. All it does is play out your desperation in front of a massive audience.’ Her voice wobbled. ‘You know what I really miss? When we first got together, Jonny used to tell me he loved me most of all, because I “kept him right” – in other words, kept his feet on the ground. He was so frightened of losing me he did all that he could – like visit my parents, and he never stayed out for the whole night. Jonny would cook at weekends and encouraged me to get an agent and make the most of my own talents. But lately, he’s slipped into the old habits and is more like the Jonny his first wife described, when she sold her story, after their divorce.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘I reckon these photos with David Khan will make him realise how he took me for granted.’

‘You’re better off without him.’

A tear rolled from behind her glasses – or was it a raindrop? ‘It’ll take some getting used to. What’s my life if I’m not Melissa Winsford? I’m a nobody. Seeing myself in the papers, it reminds me that I’ve made something of my life.’

‘You don’t need a man to be someone, Melissa.’

‘But it was more than that – being married to The Eagle. It was my job, like working for some exclusive brand.’

‘But you’ve got loads going for you – you could be a personal trainer or… or beautician.’

‘You’re sweet.’ She gave me a smile straight from her eyes. ‘Come on. Deep breaths. Let’s get on with this mission – and get out of this rain.’

I gave her a quick hug and glanced over to the road. Mr Murphy’s car had left. ‘Okay. So… We need to find some new will; see if Mr Murphy has legitimately inherited everything. But we mustn’t be too obvious. He seemed well friendly with that solicitor – she might be in on it.’

‘So, what’s the plan?’

We looked at each other and approached the solicitor’s front door. Hopefully inspiration would strike at the right time. A gold plaque to the right of the glass white-framed door was engraved with the words, “Chapman Solicitors, Legal Service Professionals.” We entered and turned left into a reception area. I pushed back my hood. A young woman was on the phone, in a smart navy blouse, hair pinned up in a bun. Past the receptionist’s desk was a dark corridor which presumably led to the solicitors’ offices.