Sex, Lies Declassified. Eva Mazza
John Pearce, isn’t it?”
Shelley did a double take and the waiter slinked off.
“For fuck’s sake, Shelley! That’s why Jen left him; because he is a cheating son-of-a-bitch.”
“Well, he’s single and free to do as he pleases.” Shelley sounded defensive.
“But you’re not.” Frankie rolled her head from side to side. Her massage had been for naught. She looked at her watch, Lee’s Rolex they’d managed to salvage from the fire; the only thing that remained unscathed. “Fuck! Look at the time. I have a meeting.”
“But I thought you had nothing to do today. It’s Saturday, for God’s sake!”
“You have nothing to do. I do. Thank you for the spoil, Shelley. I unfortunately have to rush off.”
“But your gin. You ordered another gin. Aren’t you going to drink it?” Frankie grabbed her ice-cold gin from the table and downed it. “There you go. All done.” She blew Shelley a kiss; couldn’t face being near her, the stupid bitch, then turned and walked away, resolving to phone John Pearce the minute she was in her car. How dare he?
On her way out she bumped into Karine, the owner of the hotel and spa. “Is everything good?” Karine asked in her French accent. Frankie realised she was still wearing the spa’s gown. “Karine, be a doll,” she said, “I have to rush off. Please charge Shelley for the gown. I have no time to change.”
Frankie climbed into her Porsche and revved the engine. She was furious with Shelley. And in true Frankie style, she didn’t question why her reaction was so vehement, why was she now dialling John’s number after he had attempted to rape her at the lunch after Lee’s funeral?
She knew John hadn’t considered it sexual assault. They had had sex countless times before. She had said no that day, but still he had had her up against the wall of her walk-in closet when Brigit had stumbled across her trying to fight off her father. Brig had clearly been upset, but Frankie did not expect her to snitch on them to her brother, Pete and certainly not to her son, Clive. The stupid girl caused a major furore between me and my son! And caused all three children to stage an intervention. Frankie had been demonised and made to behave herself. As a result, her relationship with her son was distant and they hardly spoke to one another as they used to.
She dialled John’s number. No answer. Her fists slammed down hard on the dashboard. The son-of-a-bitch was ignoring her call. Nobody ignored Frankie. Enough! She would not be dictated to, brushed off, manipulated.
She drove full speed to John’s farm. The fixed speed cameras on the R300 road did not deter her. She would confront him face-to-face.
It was almost lunchtime when she arrived at La Vigne Sacrée. She remembered those lazy Saturdays when she’d pop by at Jen’s and they’d drink copious amounts of wine, laugh and chat about the Dorp and its people. She missed Jen.
Once through the farm gates, she knew to slow down in case there were ducks or farm children who may be in her path. Eventually she arrived at John Pearce’s wooden front door. A VW Polo was parked outside. She didn’t give it much thought as she rang the doorbell. No answer, so she turned the familiar brass doorknob. It was unlocked so she just walked in.
Jen had taken nothing with her but her self-respect it seemed. The farmhouse was strangely quiet. Sad really. Not as she had remembered it when Jen was around. A bit like her house now Lee was dead.
She turned towards the kitchen and walked slap-bang into her ex-lover and so-called nemesis.
“What the fuck!” John shifted from surprised to sarcastic. “Another blast from my past: I’ve just got off the phone with my ex-wife and now my ex-lover. What are you doing inside my house, Frankie?”
It was only then she remembered she was in a Majeka House Spa gown. “I tried calling you and I did try your doorbell.”
Her Vuitton bag hung from her left arm; her keys clutched in her right hand.
“You look a sight. Why are you in your pyjamas? Have you escaped the funny farm?” He laughed at his own joke. Frankie didn’t find him funny at all.
“I am here to talk to you about…”
John looked distractedly down the passage that led to the spare room. Frankie’s eyes followed his. A young woman was walking towards them.
“Dee?” Frankie said.
“Meagan.” John volunteered.
“Hi, Mrs Holms” Meagan answered. Her hair was up in a ponytail.
“Dee, what are you doing here?” Frankie asked.
“None of your fucking business, Frankie.” John said. “Now please leave.” He tried to grab her arm to usher her out, but Frankie shook him off.
“How do you know Dee?” she asked John.
“Her name is Meagan,” John said.
“Okay, then. You don’t know her very well. Meagan is actually ‘Dee’, Clive’s girlfriend,” she insisted.
Dee stood in the passageway not quite knowing what to do or say.
“Clive?” John asked, “You mean your son?”
Both women ignored John. Dee spoke directly to Frankie.
“It isn’t what you think it is, Mrs Holms.” Frankie’s eyes bore into hers. Dee looked away.
“If you’re in John’s house it’s exactly what I think it is.” Frankie turned to John. “Are you fucking my son’s girlfriend, John?
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