‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re bonkers! You’re better off to just talk to him and find out what is what.’
‘I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Well, there you are then. He better have a good reason for keeping this from you, or I'll kick his sorry butt from here to next Sunday. Best friend's prerogative and all that.'
Cally let out a watery laugh. ‘Too funny.’
‘Let’s have something to eat. That will make you feel better. I really don’t think it’s a good idea to bottle it up and go to the races with the secret, though. Why would you do that?’ Eloise narrowed her eyes. ‘I don’t get that.’
Cally watched as Eloise ladled out two generous portions of pasta and garlic prawns into shallow bowls. ‘I don’t know. It’s warped, but me knowing and him not knowing that I know…’
‘Yeah, thatiswarped. You just need the truth, plain and simple. Or just finish it. Why put yourself through that?'
‘Grandma always said to stick with the truth.’
‘And we know she wasalwaysright.’
‘That we do. I’ll go to the races and then call it a day.’
18
Cally shifted another box along the floor in the dispensary, plonked it in the corner, and counted the line of boxes in front of her. It had been hard going in the chemist with Birdie having added another store to her empire. Cally’s role had kicked in with her having to deal with extra deliveries, unpacking them, and getting them ready to be collected by a member of staff from the new store. Well used to the intricacies of the job and the fact that it looked very easy on the outside but that you actually had to keep your wits about you, she had been firing on all cylinders since she’d arrived early that morning. Birdie had been very good to her, but she sure got her pound of flesh in return.
Coffee and treats from the Lovely Bay chocolate shop had fuelled Cally quite nicely, but now she was ready to put her feet up and have a sit-down. She finished with a stack of boxes, called out to Birdie that she was going up to the flat to make a sandwich, hauled herself up the stairs, made a sun-dried tomato, cheese, and ham sandwich and a cup of hot blackcurrant and went and sat at her desk to check for any emails from her chatbot role. After scrolling through her inbox and answering a message from Nina about helping out with a decluttering job in a housenot far from the RNLI station, her mind zipped straight back to the discovery of the marriage certificate.
Since her find, she’d managed to only see Logan twice and had kept her mouth fully shut while she attempted to regroup and work out what she was going to do. Her loose plan was to get the races done and dusted and confront him after that. There had been their usual texts and exchanges, but from her end of the stick, she was right off him. Being an expert in keeping up appearances, Logan himself didn’t have a scooby about what was going on in Cally’s head. Neither did she, really. He had no clue that Cally now knew he'd been married. Every time she looked at him or thought about him, she felt anger bubbling up in the pit of her stomach. So much for being in love. It no longer felt like that at all. For some unfathomable reason, though, she hadn’t said anything. She’d kept telling herself that she’d dress up for the races and then cut him off just like that. Part of her wanted to wait and see if perhaps without her prompting, once she’d met his wider family, he’d tell her about it anyway.
She sat and ate most of her sandwich and blackcurrant, and before she knew what she was doing, she whipped out her phone, tapped on the photos, expanded the one of the wedding certificate, and zoomed in on the names. Cassia Allegra Brommington. Cally tutted. It even looked posh written down. She repeated the name a few times in her head, pushed her fingers up into the little grooves under her cheekbones, and pressed as if doing that might somehow help. No such luck.
In the space of about two seconds, before really thinking about what she was doing, she popped the name in the box under the six brightly coloured letters of the Google logo and had hit return. That had been our Cally’s first mistake. As soon as she saw the entries in the search going on for what felt like ever, she knew she’d made a gigantic error in judgement by going anywhere near snooping on Cassia Allegra Brommington. Sheshould have left well alone. As she read the first few lines, the old screaming voice of self-doubt and inferiority started to yell manically at her.
She tapped on a picture of Cassia and nodded. Cassia was not what one might have described as pretty if one was so inclined. But, oh, did she look noble. Indeed. With that sort of glossy, straight, blown-out hair with a just right curl at the very ends that looked, if a curl could, well bred. Ditto the skin. An almost aristocratic jawline and a very good nose. Teeth were good. Expensive.
Cally scrolled through the search results, the second half of her sandwich forgotten beside her as she delved deeper into the life of Cassia Allegra Brommington. The more she read, the more her heart sank. A heavy weight settled in her chest and she must have sighed out loud a thousand times.
‘Fine art gallery in Kensington,’ she muttered, her voice tinged with disbelief. ‘Of course, she owns a blooming fine art gallery in Kensington. Probably sells paintings that cost more than my entire flat. Oh, wait, I don’t own a flat.’
She took a sip of her blackcurrant, grimacing as she realised it had gone cold. She told herself to click on the red button on the left hand side of her screen and leave well alone, but she couldn't tear herself away from taking in more.
‘Distinguished career in the art world,’ Cally read aloud, her voice taking on a mocking tone. ‘Curated exhibitions for some of the most prestigious museums in Europe. Well, la-di-da-di-da, Cassia. I've curated a pretty impressive collection of caring duties in my time, if I do say so myself.’
She clicked on another link, this one detailing Cassia's education. ‘First-class degree from Oxford.’Because, of course, she went to Oxford. Probably rowed crew and drank champagne for breakfast.
Cally glanced around Birdie’s small flat, taking in the slightly worn furniture and the stack of pamphlets from the adult education centre on the corner of her desk. Her three menial jobs flashed through her mind and she mused that her flat would probably fit in Cassia's walk-in wardrobe. She scrolled further, coming across a photo of Cassia at a charity gala. The woman was draped in a designer gown, diamonds glittering at her throat and wrists. To Cally, she might as well have been wearing the Crown Jewels.
Cally pushed back from her desk, looking at her reflection in the small mirror on the wall. Deflated was the word with a side of demoralised. Turning back to her computer, she continued her deep dive into Cassia's life and had a conversation with her laptop screen. ‘Guest lecturer at the Sorbonne,’ she read, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I don’t even know where that is. Well, I once gave a very moving speech to the nurse’s station at the hospice. We're practically equals.’
On and on it went. She came across an article detailing Cassia's family background which informed her that Cassia had descended from actual aristocracy. Taking an aggressive bite of her sandwich she continued to scroll to learn that Cassia spoke four languages fluently, was a published author, a noted philanthropist, talented pianist, and patron of the arts.Speaks at international conferences. Advises on government arts policy. Vegan.
Cally clicked on an image of Cassia at a polo match, looking effortlessly elegant in a polkadot dress. She scrolled further, finding more photos of Cassia at various high-society events: at a gallery opening, a charity ball, a royal garden party. Cally glanced at her own CV, a single sheet of paper next to the stack of pamphlets, and a Post-it note beside it with 'Don’t forget bin day' stuck on the desk. She felt a bit sick and continued to scroll further, finding more and more evidence of Cassia's seeminglyperfect life. She found herself looking at photos of Cassia's art gallery, a sleek, modern space in the heart of Kensington. Cally sighed out through her nose at the injustice of it all. She felt so outclassed it was actually comical. Shaking her head, she leaned back in her chair and addressed the room at large and mimicked a movie announcer's voice, ‘Coming this summer: Extreme Makeover: Cally de Pfeffer Edition. Watch as we transform this common chemist worker into a high-society art dealer. Stay tuned for our new reality show: 'Chemist to Countess. Warning: may require actual magic.’
Cally sighed, pushing away from her desk and stretching her arms above her head. She'd been hunched over her computer for far longer than she'd intended, feeling worse and worse about pretty much her whole existence. She tried to talk herself up, telling herself that she was her own person, that she could do anything she wanted to. It didn’t really work that well.
She grimaced at the irony of it all; she’d just read about a wonder woman and here she was about to go down to the back of the chemist for the remainder of her day to deal with the rest of the cartons of drugs and shop supplies. She wasn’t a curator of art. Far from it. Oh, no, instead she had cardboard boxes full of antacids and haemorrhoid cream with her name on them.
As she closed the door of her flat and carefully stepped down the steep stairs she reminded herself that she’d promised she wouldn’t give in to self-doubt. She’d plough on. No navel-gazing or pity. However, when you flattened cardboard cartons and decluttered other people’s junk for a living, it was much easier said than done. She nodded defiantly. She’d stick with her master plan of going to the races and then she’d do what she’d planned and drop Henry-Hicks from a height. Take back control.
19
