She waited until Monday, as there was a better chance that Howard would not be at the golf course. Daniel had mentioned which one he was a member of, and as she drove through the gates of the Royal Surrey Golf Club, she saw it was as exclusive as it had looked online. Wheels crunching on the gravel, she slowly passed the clubhouse, with its ivy-clad brick, and headed for the car park.
She stopped the car in a quiet corner with no one around but from which she could see the clubhouse. She got out and started to walk towards the entrance. Pushing open the large double doors, she stepped inside. It smelt of beeswax and money, and the carpet was thick and plush. As she walked along, she noticed wooden boards hung on the walls listing winners of tournaments. She stopped and read their gold lettering, rows of names going back to 1875. Then she saw his name, Mr Howard Cavendish, above the year 2015, winner of the Winter League with a Mrs Marianne Parker. They also won in 2014, 2012 and 2011. Wow, quite a couple. They disappeared for a while, but then she saw them listed again in 1995. It was a long gap and Cherry wondered what had happened; maybe they’d been off form. The most recent winners also had their photograph displayed and Cherry’s eyes were drawn to one of Howard with Marianne. She studied it, looking for something of interest. He had his arm around her – rather broad – shoulders, and both were smiling at the camera.
‘Can I help you?’
A middle-aged man, dressed in a blazer and pale chinos, had stopped beside her.
He was the kind of man who knew everything about his golf club, a man who would have very strong ideas about who should be a member and the etiquette involved. She was glad she’d worn one of her suits from her days at the estate agency and she gave him a disarming smile. ‘Are you the club secretary?’
‘Yes,’ he said expectantly, clearly waiting for her to tell him who she was.
‘I was just wondering if you could give me some membership information, a brochure or something?’
His suspicion receded slightly and she was handed a glossy brochure and had to listen to a sales spiel, but after a few smiles and complimentary comments about the course, she managed to escape. She made her way back to the car and sat inside wondering what to do. Howard spent a lot of time here, she knew, and she wanted to find out why. She opened the brochure and dialled the number printed on the inside cover, disguising her voice.
‘Oh, hello. I’m meant to be meeting a friend of mine, Marianne Parker, today, only I’ve forgotten what time we said and I can’t get hold of her. Could you possibly tell me our tee time? Two o’clock? Oh my, I’ve missed it, haven’t I. I’ll have to catch up with her later. I’m so sorry to have bothered you,’ and she hung up before he asked her any more.
So Marianne was here. It might be worth waiting a while. Chucking the brochure on the seat, Cherry settled back. After about an hour, she saw a woman exit the clubhouse who looked like the woman in the photo. She narrowed her eyes and was certain by her build, her brown hair, that she was Marianne. She watched her talk to a female friend she’d come out with; then after a couple of minutes they embraced and went to their separate cars. Marianne got into a silver BMW, a new convertible. Cherry waited until she drove off and then carefully, cautiously followed.
Marianne headed back into town along the A3, and Cherry made sure she stayed at least two cars behind all the way. They crossed the river at Battersea Bridge and then headed north towards Kensington. The roads grew busier and the drivers more erratic the further into town they went and Cherry almost lost her a couple of times. When they reached Swiss Cottage, Marianne turned off towards Hampstead into what were residential streets. Audis and Range Rovers were jammed up against one another in quiet exclusivity. Then the BMW slowed and pulled into a space outside a three-storey red-brick Victorian terrace. Cherry stayed back and watched as Marianne locked the car and made her way up the path to the storm porch and into the house. Cherry waited a moment, wondering what to do next, but there was nothing more to see.
She was just starting to pull away when another car came towards her from the opposite direction. Alarmed, she quickly reversed and parked against the kerb again. The other driver slid into a space just a little further up the street, undid their belt and climbed out. Keeping her head down, Cherry watched as Howard went up the path to Marianne’s house. Howard! She waited for him to ring the bell, but her eyes widened as she saw him take out his own key and let himself in. Cherry stared at the shut door in excitement and gave a little laugh. So that was what he was up to. And for some time, judging by the years of photos of them together. Cherry thought about the woman she’d just seen. She was a brunette to Laura’s blonde and more sturdy, more ruddycheeked; Cherry wondered what it was like knowing your husband’s mistress was not as pretty as you. Must be even more of a punch in the gut. She slipped the car into gear and drove away.
FORTY-FIVE
Tuesday 13 October
It was time for an apology. Time to eat humble pie and admit she was wrong. She’d been too harsh, too quick to judge – this Laura admitted, heavy-hearted about her abominable behaviour. She waited with some trepidation at the front door, and as she glanced around, noticed how the nights were drawing in. It was cloudy and the still greyness seemed to blanket everything. A few seconds later, her buzz was answered.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said anxiously, quickly, as she was feeling brittle and wasn’t sure if she’d be able to hold it together if Isabella was still angry with her. ‘I completely overreacted and I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.’
Isabella deliberated a moment, then opened the door wider and indicated for Laura to come in.
The relief was so great she thought she might burst into tears, but that would be absurd, so she bit the insides of her cheeks to stop herself. She seemed on the verge of tears too often now.
‘Drink?’ said Isabella, as she led her into the drawing room, where Laura had come for the party just a few days before.
‘Yes, please,’ and she watched silently as Isabella mixed two gin and tonics. ‘It was a lovely party,’ she started feebly.
‘I think we both know that’s not true,’ said Izzy, handing her a glass. ‘At least, not for you.’
Laura was chastened. ‘Sorry. But I did expressly ask you not to set me up with him.’
‘I didn’t set you up – he just happened to be at the same dinner party. He and Richard have been doing some work together and Richard wanted to extend the alliance socially. He was there as Richard’s guest . . .’
‘Oh God, now I feel even worse.’
‘. . . but I admit I did place you next to each other at dinner. Not to set you up,’ she said quickly. ‘I just thought you might enjoy the company. No, not like that – I don’t mean that you’re . . . lonely or anything. It’s just everyone knows each other inside out. I thought it might be fun for you, someone new.’