As It Is On Telly by Marshall Jill

Author:Marshall, Jill [Marshall, Jill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2015-03-30T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was only as she drove home that Bunty realised the full impact of what she had just arranged – a Ray Cooney farce in her own dining room. The cast list would be:

Graham: Paunchy financial advisor with mid-life crisis, having an affair.

Bunty: Put-upon, cuckolded wife, trying to invent a new life for herself.

Ryan: Nasal and nerdy finance man, with the hots for Bunty.

Petra: Nasal and nerdy wife of finance man, no redeeming features, not even hots.

Mary: Bereaved widow and beloved neighbour.

Mallory: Bereaved widower and septuagenarian sex fiend.

Charlotte: Charlotte.

Charlotte? What the hell was she going to do with Charlotte while six supposedly grown people batted double entendres back and forth across the table? And Mallory – why on earth had she invited Mallory? It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but if he couldn’t tell the difference between thirty and fifty-five there was a strong chance he wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between thirteen and thirty-three. Charlotte would have to stay completely out of the way. And he could easily let slip about the Croesus Club. Perhaps she’d have to gag him. Although he’d probably like that. And Mary! Fancy inflicting Mallory the Mauler on poor, dignified Mary. What in God’s name had she been thinking?

She headed straight down the road parallel to her own and knocked at Mary’s door. No time like the present for a very back-handed invitation which she almost hoped Mary would refuse. There was no reply, so Bunty wandered down the side path and out into the back garden, following the squeak of the rotary clothesline. ‘Mary, I … oh! Hi, Dan.’

Mary and Dan looked up from the graveside. ‘Look,’ said Mary, dotting a tear away on yet another laundered handkerchief – pink this time to match Mary’s Marks & Spencer polo neck and cardigan, teamed today to contrast prettily with her neat brown trousers. For a lady in her seventies, she dressed very well. Bunty followed her crooked finger to the little mound of earth at their feet. ‘Look what Dan did.’

Dan grinned sheepishly, looking suddenly like an overgrown school-kid in his serviceable overalls. ‘I told you, Mary, it was nothing. I had the stuff spare and …’ He spread his hands towards Bunty in a manner that meant ‘Can you take over?’ Sobbing elderly ladies were clearly not in his remit.

Bunty put her head on one side and considered Dan’s masterpiece. Flinders’ new grave had been sited quite high up behind a small retaining wall, in the flower bed that used to house Colin’s collection of potted fuchsias. There was a little mound of earth in a carefully regulated rectangle, with a border of small white rings that looked like lace but turned out, on closer inspection, to be neat slender slices of three inch drainpipe. Mounted on the top was a small grey cross (guttering?) on which someone – Dan, presumably – had painted the cat’s name in neat gloss letters. A small pot of purple-tipped fuchsias danced nearby, adding just the right hint of colour.

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