Femmes Fatal Read online

  Putting the meat back in the freezer compartment, I spied the Fully Female manual on top of the fridge where I had stashed it on coming home. All the while I’d had it in my handbag I’d felt … undressed. Now here it lay, flaunting its black-and-white cover while I went hot and cold thinking that Ben might have seen it and leaped to the idea that I was some sort of pervert. The last thing I needed with the nappies still to hang out was to have him flat on his back moaning “Take me.”

  But even as I was having these unwifely thoughts, I was flipping the Fully Female manual to Chapter One.

  THE MATING GAME

  Ladies, are we sitting comfortably on the edge of our seats? Then we’ll begin with a little story based on the life of yours truly—Bunty Wiseman. And don’t any of you fellow females go getting ideas that this publication was ghostwritten by the chappie who writes those pork belly ads for Hoskins the butcher. These words of wifely wisdom are all straight from the horse’s mouth. Now, as I was about to say before I rudely interrupted myself, Lionel Wiseman of Bragg, Wiseman & Smith, Solicitors at Law, married me—a blonde bombshell, young enough to be his daughter—while the town’s back was turned.

  Talk about a modern-day fairy tale! You bet your brassieres it was! I began my stage career as a kiddy dancing on the bar of my Aunt Et’s pub, The Pig & Whistle, in Luton. At twenty-something, there I was, kicking up my heels in a dinner theatre production of Tin Can Alley at Gravesend, when one night in strides this bloke who looks like Cary Grant, talks like the BBC, and wears custom-made socks. After the show he comes knocking on the dressing room door. Would I care to join him for a spot of supper? His Jag awaits outside and he names a nightclub where a glass of water costs more than a four-course dinner.

  They said it wouldn’t work. But we had the last laugh, Li and me. Everywhere we looked someone was getting divorced, while we kept right on living the Arabian Nights fantasy. Then came the day when the gal with the X-rated smile became a woman with a mission.

  An acquaintance of mine—we’ll call her Mrs. A—cornered me at the check-out lane at Tesco’s and poured out her heart. Seems her marriage was in big trouble. Other Woman trouble. And it didn’t take a degree from Oxford to see why. Mrs. A hadn’t a clue how to keep her man’s hormones hopping. She’d never owned a black garter belt or peekaboo undies. Sex was something a man needed, sort of like a dose of salts to be dished out once a week on Fridays along with a bath and a clean set of underwear. Poor Mrs. A. She used “those times” to plan her meals for the following week.

  Trust me, I was shocked! I hadn’t known there were women still living in the Dark Ages, women who still did their big nude scene in the dark. I gave Mrs. A some little tips, one being not to throw away that old electric toothbrush, and she was so well satisfied that she mentioned me to Mrs. B, and before I knew it, I was swamped by women all yearning to be the Happy Housewife.

  So what do you think, Fellow Female? Are you ready to trade in that old body for a new one? Are you willing to become the woman he always wanted? Do I hear a resounding yes? Hurrah! Then we begin. Now. At once.

  Before you can do nice things for your husband, you have to do nice things for yourself. First, mix yourself a drink. Two tablespoons of Fully Female Formula combined with eight ounces of water or fruit juice …

  “Ellie?” Ben’s voice exploded around me.

  “What?” Clapping the book shut, I tried to stuff it under my waistband—completely futile and unnecessary because my spouse hadn’t joined me in the kitchen. From the acoustical reverberations, he was yelling over the banister rail.

  “I phoned Freddy and he’ll be over in half an hour to watch the twins. Isn’t it time you were getting ready?”

  Something had changed for me in the last few moments. I wasn’t suddenly afire with renewed passion. What I felt was a stirring of sweet memory—of the days when the mere touch of his hand was enough to make me long to toss my smalls in the air. I couldn’t stand there with the Fully Female manual in my hands and tell him I wasn’t going to the Hearthside Guild meeting. It would have been tantamount to saying I was too busy to go to church while clutching a Bible.

  “I’ll be up to change in a minute,” I called, before heading into the pantry. There I shifted aside the flour bin and biscuit barrel as if they were the secret panel to a priest hole and brought out my lifetime supply of packets of Healthy Harvest Herbs and jars of Fully Female Formula purchased during my interview with Bunty Wiseman. With what I had paid for me and Mrs. Malloy, I could have purchased a new body for each of us, but she had said she was sentimental about hers. I rehid the herbs, along with all but one jar of Formula. I mixed my two tablespoons (vigorously, as instructed) until the grainy texture turned glutinous. Ah, fibre! With book and glass in hand I mounted the stairs to the bathroom.

  Lesson One, Fellow Female. I want you to think of your bath as a lagoon that you are going to bask in—not a place to boil like a ruddy lobster. That’s the ticket, lots of lovely warm water. Now pour in a good slosh of Fully Female Fantasy …

  By the time I had unearthed bottle of same from the towel cupboard and turned off the taps, my glass of Fully Female Formula had set solid. Should I unmold it on the soap dish and pretend it was a mousse? A finger-dunk taste settled the matter. Toss this one down the toilet and start fresh tomorrow. Sliding into the scented water, I experienced a moment of pure peace as it lapped over my chest. My hair had come down and was floating on the surface. I felt like a water nymph fated to dwell here until Prince Charming came riding around destiny’s corner. Was it possible that Ben and I could rediscover the old magic?

  Reaching out a soggy hand, I picked up the manual and continued reading where I had left off.

  Submerge, mermaid. Feel the movement of the water as you shift beneath its warm weight. Let it roll with you. Let it mold itself to your body until the ripples become his hands caressing your moist flesh …

  “Ellie?” Plaintive voice at the bathroom door.

  The mood was broken. My hand came sloshing down on the groping bathwater, sending a six-foot spray hurtling toward the ceiling. Plonk went the book to the floor.

  “What now, Bentley?”

  “Where are my good socks?”

  “Your what?”

  “The ones Mum knitted for my birthday.” The door cracked open, then closed again as if he feared the worst—a flannel in the face or the news that I had put the socks in the drier and something bigger and woolier had gobbled them up.

  “In the usual drawer.”

  “And what about my taupe striped shirt?”

  “In the ironing basket.”

  “Ellie, I have begged you—pleaded with you—not to put my shirts in the basket! Is it too much to expect you to hang them up?” Footsteps stomping down the stairs.

  Emerging from the bath as wrinkled as the damned shirt, I faced facts. I had a lot of chapters to go in this Marriage Makeover and—if my watch wasn’t telling bald-faced lies—about fifteen minutes in which to ready myself for the evening soiree. Decisions, decisions! Should I French braid my hair or make do with a quickie knot? Could I spend the entire evening with my cheeks sucked in, while maintaining a flow of social repartee?

  Rap rap on the bathroom door, but thank heaven for small mercies. It was only that homme horrible, Cousin Freddy, whose voice filled the silence left humming when I unplugged the hair dryer.

  “Mary Poppins reporting for duty.”

  Hands trapped in my hair, which fell down faster than I could put it back up, I pictured him leaning against the door, perhaps wearing his Viking horns, a gleam in his eye, and a gloat to his lips.

  “Favour for a favour, Ellie, old chum. Understand you were rushed when you got back this afternoon, but do spill the beans. How was your session at the sex clinic? Anything deliciously ribald to report?”

  “Shut up, Freddy,” I said, wrapping myself up in a beach towel, “I have no intention of discussing any of this with you, except to say that … should you happen upon any jar
s of Formula in the pantry, they are not for the twins.”

  “An aphrodisiac, eh?” His voice, thrilling to every syllable, crept up behind me as I was hiding the Fully Female manual behind the toilet tank. “Word from the wise, old dear, they can be kind of dangerous.”

  “What could be dangerous”—I glowered at the door—“would be your saying anything about this to Ben.”

  “He hasn’t suggested you sign up? The whole town is buzzing about this thing.”

  “Not a word.” Removing a hair clip from my mouth, I paused for a moment, wondering why Ben hadn’t said boo.

  Ben and I motored in his car, a vehicle of uncertain parentage, along the ridiculously short distance of Cliff Road to the vicarage. Wheels spitting up gravel, we roared into the churchyard, sending a scurry of birds into twittering flight among the cowering tombstones. St. Anselm’s church came at us in a rush of bell tower and stained glass. The interior was lit up like a Christmas tree.

  “Ben, do you think we’re to meet in the church hall instead of the vicarage?”

  He didn’t answer. An instant before hitting either of the cars already parked on the narrow path that looked as though it belonged inside a maze, he swung the Heinz 57 left, through a two-inch gap in the shrubbery. We ground to a halt on a stretch of crazy paving, with a birdbath hunched in one corner.

  Ben’s hand went to his throat.

  My sentiments exactly.

  “Damn tie! Makes me look as though I’ve gained ten pounds.”

  Of all the insensitive clods! I froze him with the sort of stare my Aunt Astrid bestows on anyone who laughs at her jokes before she gives the nod. “Have no fear, Bentley, my darling! You look radiant as always.”

  Switching off the ignition, he clenched his manly jaw. “I worry that I have bitten off more than I can chew, in agreeing to be program chairman. You’re sure this tie strikes the right balance between responsible leadership and fellowship?”

  “Perfectly.” With all due duplicity I hadn’t the foggiest idea whether he was wearing paisley or stripes. While I had fought my way into my clothes, Ben had blocked the mirror, looking for all the world like a Regency dandy left to tie his own cravat because his valet was smitten with the pox.

  “Ellie, I’m also having second thoughts about the speaker. Have I violated the ethics of my position in making a unilateral decision on tonight’s topic?”

  “Perhaps if I knew the identity …”

  “Of the speaker?” My trusty program chairman gripped the wheel and shot up in his seat. “I am not at liberty to tell you that! Not ahead of the other members. To do so would be to indulge in as nasty a bit of nepotism …”

  And for this I had abandoned my darling babies? Disembarking, I slammed the door and was brought up short by my raincoat belt … and the sight of a figure bolting down the steps of the church, which was now—as befitted a Monday night—steeped in darkness. A hurry-scurry of footsteps coupled with noisy sobs. And in the flare of light from the open car door I beheld the gaunt figure of Miss Gladys Thorn. Her arms embraced a shuffle of papers, some of which had been caught by the wind and whirled about her head like disembodied white-gloved hands, biffing and bobbing. Pathetic creature! Her lank hair broke free from its clips. Her spectacles were askew. Behind the thick lenses her eyes bulged like mushrooms.

  “Why, Miss Thorn, whatever is the matter?”

  She heard me not. Blind to my presence, the imperiled one threw back her head and howled at the moon, then cast herself upon Ben, who was hovering a few feet to my right.

  “Mr. Bentley Haskell! Thank God you’re here.”

  “Pleasure, I’m sure.” Sounding uncannily like my Uncle Maurice when asked to vacate the Ladies Room at Harrods, Ben made a masterly attempt to unbuckle his knees and stand up straight. Not easy. Miss Thorn, being the taller by many inches, hung over him like a felled tree.

  Loud sobbing. More papers escaped from the hatches of her elbows to fly in the wind.

  “Oh, hapless me, Mr. Haskell. Never in the sweet years of my youth did I dream so grievous a misfortune should befall me.”

  “Surely this is a matter for the vicar?” Arms pinned to his sides, Ben sounded in desperate need of an immediate tracheotomy. Was he, like me, suspecting that the lady was with child, courtesy of one of her many swains?

  Miss Thorn released him with such force that he slammed into me, almost sending us both into the herbaceous border.

  “Speak to the vicar!” Her face stretched the length of a tombstone, etched with mournful sentiment. “Be advised, Mr. Haskell, I shall never again speak to that creature! That monster in clerical duds! Let me go un-shriven to my grave! It matters not!” Here Miss Thorn clasped her knobby hands to her breast and let loose a throbbing moan.

  “By Jupiter!” Ben, who had given up taking the Lord’s name in vain when the twins were born, evinced profound shock, tempered with glee. “Are you telling us, Madam, that the Reverend made unseemly overtures?”

  Intriguingly, Miss Thorn looked quite shocked by this suggestion. “I should hope not! Never let it be said I am that sort! No indeed. The upstart informed me about fifteen minutes ago that my services as church organist are no longer required. Can you believe that, Mr. Haskell? After all these years of bashing out hymns on that worm-eaten instrument, I am cast off, or—to use the vulgar parlance—sacked!”

  “Oh, Miss Thorn,” I whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Too … too kind.” Wrenching a handkerchief from her coat pocket she buried her twitching face in it. “I come from the choir loft. None shall accuse me of theft, I trust, when all I took were my own sheets of music. Dear Mr. Haskell, how gripping the compulsion to cast myself o’er the parapet! But, alack, I do not have a head for heights and could not mount the steps to the bell tower.”

  “Did the vicar offer a reason?” To avoid sneaking a second glance at his watch, Ben placed his hands behind his back, out of temptation’s way.

  She raised her fogged glasses to his face. “Some trumped-up story about my being seen frequenting one … of … those places.”

  “The Dark Horse?” I ventured.

  “No, not a pub.” Miss Thorn shook her mousy head, sending a spray of Kirby grips to the four winds. “The Methodist Church. As if I am capable of such a defection, having seen my sister banished from the familial home for entertaining Wesleyan sympathies. A hedonist, my Daddy called her.”

  “Meaning, perhaps, a heathen?” Ben suggested.

  “Oh, deary me, no!” Miss Thorn sighed gustily. “Daddy invariably said what he meant and meant what he said. He used to call me his rose without a thorn. You get the humour, Mr. Haskell?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And he called my brother a ‘skirt,’ because he liked to cook.”

  Ben winced. But this harkening back to the good old days proved too much for Miss Thorn. She collapsed once more against Ben, who in slow motion brought round his hands to support her. Above us the moon nosed out from behind the clouds like a bloodless Peeping Tom. In the groping dusk the vicarage shifted a few paces closer to us, as if eavesdropping too. From every corner of the churchyard came the dark rustling of the trees, and from far off came the sly murmur of the sea.

  “Miss Thorn, is there anything my husband and I can do?” I reached into my coat pocket, thinking to lend her my hanky, but pulled out a nappy instead.

  “How sweet; industrial size.” Taking it, she mustered a heroic titter. “You are too, too kind, but only I can pick up the shattered pieces of my life. The Lord be praised, I do have my bird-watching and my collection of telephone directories to occupy my time … and the affection of a certain gentleman. His name, not to make a mystery of it”—a demure lowering of the eyelids and a coy lift to the lips—“his name begins with W.”

  Oh, knickers! Instantly, my eyes became glued to her face, as if by some force of will I could draw the nom de l’homme from her lips the way a snake charmer lures the serpent out of hiding. Surely Miss Thorn’s swain wasn’
t … couldn’t be … Mr. Walter Fisher, undertaker extraordinaire, he who had stolen Mrs. Malloy’s heart?

  Before miss Thorn was halfway down the drive on her way to catch her bus, Ben had managed to make our being a good ten minutes late for the meeting entirely my fault. He thumbed the vicarage doorbell; its gentle chimes added disharmony to discord.

  “Ellie, if we had left home on time, we would never have collided with that woman, and if you hadn’t been so damned sympathetic—”

  “Me?” I screeched like an owl. “Almost every remark she made was addressed to you—dear Mr. Haskell.”

  Hush! At the sound of stirrings within the vicarage, we wiped the scowls off our faces and clapped on a pair of the phoniest smiles you would ever wish to see. Precipitously, as it turned out. When the door didn’t open, Ben punched the bell again.

  “Jealousy ill becomes you, wife.”

  I started to say that he was talking utter rubbish. Me, jealous of Miss Thorn? That would be the day! But a little voice deep inside whispered that he just might be right. And far from feeling horribly cornered, I felt a stirring of excitement. Was it possible that I was already feeling the effects … reaping the rewards of my Fully Female novitiate? Could it be that I was destined to fall in love all over again? And even supposing the wonderful happened, would my feelings be reciprocated? Staring straight ahead, I prinked in the door’s glass panel. My French-braided hair looked nice and the chilly night air lent a flush to my cheeks and darkened my rainwater eyes. But I mustn’t get cocky. Easy enough for a headshot to pass muster. The full-length version is another matter. Bother! Why hadn’t I brought a bigger handbag? This stupid thing wouldn’t cover my belt buckle, let alone anything else.

  “Damn!” Ben lifted a fist to pound on the door, but managed to control himself. “I should have brought along a book to read.”

  The words were scarcely out of his mouth when a face blurred the glass a split second before the door opened, rocking me back on my heels. A sense of unworthiness came at me in a rush, like a dog who had been lurking in the twilit hall. What would Reverend Foxworth have to say about my missing Sunday service these last few weeks? Would he buy my explanation about God preferring quality time?