Life in a Week

By Gillian Forrest

A simple dinner invitation leads a middle aged woman to have blackmail on her mind. Still grieving from the loss of her best friend, Clarissa soon discovers money is actually the least of her concerns. Old friends, new acquaintances, painful memories and fading mental acuity collide to make this a singular week – with far reaching consequences.

Clarissa is inwardly simmering at the way her husband, Edward, is managing their future. Existing in a dual disharmony of crumbling house and marriage, the desire to be transported away from the mundane leads to family betrayals, unearths secrets and puts Clarissa on an irreversible path to vengeance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Jan 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9781398448292

Gillian Forrest

Gillian Forrest was born in Bedford and lived in Wales for a few years, before moving North. She attended Sheffield High School before studying economics at York University. She unwisely trained as an accountant, with limited mathematical skills, she left that career early in the hope of writing a book and now lives in North London with her husband, Robin, and their three amazing children, plus the cat, Fluffy, and Rufus: the dog.

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About the Author

Gillian Forrest was born in Bedford and lived in Wales for a few years, before moving North. She attended Sheffield High School before studying economics at York University. She unwisely trained as an accountant, with limited mathematical skills, she left that career early in the hope of writing a book and now lives in North London with her husband, Robin, and their three amazing children, plus the cat, Fluffy, and Rufus: the dog.

Copyright Information ©

Gillian Forrest 2024

The right of Gillian Forrest to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398447486 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398447493 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781398448292 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.co.uk

First Published 2024

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Thank you so much Katie Forrest, for the amazing

book cover.

Chapter 1

Saturday 9 March

As the letterbox suddenly rattled, Clarissa walked over to it, bent down and lifted the cream-coloured envelope that had dropped through it, off the floor. She recognised the stationery immediately and slid her finger along the top of the envelope to release its contents. Out came a handwritten invitation. Mr Edward and Mrs Clarissa Derby are hereby invited to dine with Sir John Heal at Cheadle Hall on Wednesday the 13 of March at 8 pm. Clarissa had never been fond of her name, especially in print but looking at it now, she started to think that she might finally be growing into it. She had celebrated her 62nd birthday earlier that month; just a quiet dinner with Edward at home. The children hadn’t visited but had sent generous gifts. So her age, together with the slight sag around the jawline and a definite leaning towards comfortable clothes to accommodate the increased girth, may indeed indicate that she was becoming a Clarissa. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant thought and she sat down in an effort to come to terms with it.

The French window clattered open and Edward emerged from the garden, rather unwisely dressed in just a light shirt. The reddish glow to his face suggested that he had been for a stroll before breakfast but there would be no confirmation of it. After 36 years of marriage, they had settled into a routine, which had pared their conversation to nothing but the bare necessities although they were both capable of great animation when on public view. This ‘Companionable’ existence, as it probably would be called, was assumed, incorrectly by both, to be perfectly acceptable to the other. In reality, both parties found their married life rather less than satisfactory.

Clarissa pushed the invitation out of sight under her plate and smiled vaguely over at Edward who was already having his cup filled with coffee by the new girl. Had this domestic scene been taking place ten years earlier, Clarissa may have watched surreptitiously for signs of interest Edward may have shown in the young girl but today she scarcely noticed. Instead, she reached for a piece of toast and applied a liberal coating of butter. Had Edward been more in tune with his wife’s emotions, this act alone would have warned him that her mind was elsewhere, as Clarissa was a vehement calorie counter, particularly at breakfast.

There was a knock on the French door and Tom’s head appeared. Morning! he announced cheerily and Edward rose from his chair, hand thrust forward in greeting, inviting him into the room. Tom’s role in the life of the Derby’s was a horticultural one, liaising with the National Trust on their plans to open some of the house but focusing on the garden to the public, ‘Project Joe’, as it was often referred. The Derby’s had recently had to accept that they were no longer in a position to maintain their home in the manner it deserved and this currently seemed the only option. Clarissa was still appalled by the prospect of it and felt great resentment towards Edward who seemed to be rather coming around to the idea of striding around the grounds in his wellingtons, introducing himself to all and sundry.

Declining the offer of coffee, Tom suggested he and Edward go over the final plans for the garden and with a communal wave in Clarissa’s direction, out they went. Clarissa was relieved and pulled the invitation back out from under her plate to consider it further. John’s invitations had increased several-fold since his wife had died the year before. Though not consumed with grief, at least to the naked eye, John clearly did not enjoy eating alone and seemed increasingly inclined to spend some of his over ample wealth feeding his many acquaintances. John was in the perhaps unfortunate position of benefitting from widowhood in the sense that he had never looked better, had lost enough weight with the initial shock to redefine his cheekbones and his decision to take up tennis meant the sight of him in tennis whites wasn’t infrequent or, some ladies agreed, unpleasant although Clarissa certainly wasn’t one of them.

Unknown to John, Clarissa had discovered several years earlier that he had been spotted in a compromising situation during a fancy dress party involving the wife of a fairly well known quite obnoxious MP. As John’s late wife, Milly, had been a close friend of Clarissa, she had never let it be known that she was aware of this, which would obviously damage his reputation immeasurably but Clarissa had recently found herself dwelling on John’s secret and his available wealth and wondering if she would ever dare try to use it against him.

Thoughts of her beloved friend Milly led Clarissa to study the photograph on the piano of the two of them together at college which had been resurrected from a musty, damp album in the attic after her death. Milly always smiled with a beguiling enthusiasm, which couldn’t help but outshine Clarissa with her sensible hair and brief smile who already possessed full insight that she was never going to be anything other than a plain Jane, plain and simple. Meeting as student nurses Milly and Clarissa, or Millicent as those in charge insisted on through training, became acquaintances and fairly soon real friends. The daily toil and stresses of the training had been eased by their support of each other, both new to the job and new to London, they explored on Clarissa’s moped in their spare time and soon spent virtually all their time together.

Getting married in her mid-20s, Milly had carried out her wifely role diligently and having dealt early on in their marriage with the deep sorrow of being unable to have children, threw herself into keeping John’s life as smooth as possible. John had begun work in the civil service working for the treasury, just after they were married, not particularly well paid but a good foothold for his career aspirations in parliament and it wasn’t long before he became a local MP and entered parliament. This meant long unsociable hours and several rather unglamorous constituencies but Milly did the smiling wife part with an energy Clarissa had admired. Her one hobby which got her out of the increasingly substantial houses was cross-country riding which she had begun as a young girl and been a junior champion of West Sussex aged just 13. The irony that it was this freedom, which tragically ended her life when she misjudged a small hedge out in the local fields, aged 58, was still painfully fresh to Clarissa. Clarissa was startled back to the present by the phone ringing shrilly in the hall.

Pendle House, good morning, she said, as she picked up the phone.

Ah, is that Clarissa? John boomed, not waiting for any confirmation. Did you get my invitation? Percy tells me he posted it personally this morning, John questioned.

Oh, John, yes this is Clarissa and the invitation arrived safely, thank you, Clarissa trilled in a rather high pitched voice.

Can you come then? asked John, rather abruptly but not un-typically. I know its short notice but it’s our wedding anniversary that day and I don’t really want to dwell on my own and we can raise a glass to Milly, John suggested.

Oh…well, it’s very kind of you to invite us, very kind, of course, we would be delighted but unfortunately, Edward won’t be available, he has his annual golf club dinner with all those cronies! Clarissa steadied herself as her heart raced. Shall I come alone? she half-whispered, as she craned her neck awkwardly backwards to check Edward wasn’t returning from the garden, which caused her stomach muscles to complain about the unexpected workout.

Well, if you’re sure, my dear, if you’re sure, if Edward doesn’t mind, blustered John, sounding rather awkward and taken aback by the unexpected chain of events.

Oh, no need to worry about that, John. Clarissa attempted a girlish giggle. He’ll understand. See you next week. Looking forward to it, Clarissa said, ending the conversation and gently placed the phone in its cradle before John even had a chance to answer and made her way back to breakfast. Luckily, her husband and Tom were also only just returning and clearly had not heard the phone so there was no inquiry as to the caller.

With some surprise, Clarissa realised Edward was swiftly approaching her with a bunch of daffodils picked straight from the garden, looking rather pleased with himself. This was so totally out of character, in fact, Clarissa couldn’t think of a single occasion when it had happened before, it took her a while to react in an expected manner and take them from him. Did Tom suggest you cut them? she asked quizzically.

Oh well, yes, he thought they would be a nice feature inside and there are so many in the garden, it’s a shame not to, Edward replied, looking rather less pleased now. That was certainly true as one of the few gardening tasks Edward had done over the years was to frantically plant daffodil bulbs to define the garden borders in place of fences. What Edward seemed to have forgotten was that his wife disliked bringing living things from outside, to die inside, with the added problem of disposing of the rotting crispy mass when they were dead.

Also as a frequent visitor to Milly’s grave meant that at the moment especially she associated flowers with death. She didn’t want to make a scene though and merely took the flowers and busied herself finding a vase, which wasn’t easy, and in the end, she crammed them into a rather too small but pretty Royal Worcester jug, which she knew would leak slightly when the water was added. She placed them in the middle of the drawing room table, protecting it by a coaster, just as Tom was spreading out the plans for the garden onto it and he leaned over her shoulder as she sat down. She could smell the sweat that had generated from him digging out a gnarled, tired rhododendron that morning in his plans to ‘Modernise’ their garden. She examined his profile and wondered exactly how old he was. His untidy dark beard that all young men seemed to have these days, tended to obscure the usual ageing signs on their skin. She guessed early 30s. Although he was pressed against most of her right-hand side, Clarissa realised that she felt no flickers in her own body which may well simply be natural for one with her post-menopausal status. She felt relief tinged with a sense of regret. Tom was explaining how the new vegetable garden would work, with large rectangular raised wooden beds where the old greenhouse used to be. There would be green beans, courgettes and all manner of things to harvest, together with sweet peas on triangular trellises to provide a three-dimensional aspect. On the opposite side, facing the house they planned to build a new circular patio with old stones and bricks they had found in an old shed. Here they could sit facing the new flower garden and the house. It sounded like an awful lot of work to Clarissa. Who would maintain all this when it was all finished? They couldn’t afford to retain Tom permanently to pick radishes. Clarissa glanced spitefully over at her husband. He looked up from the plans to his wife and raised his eyebrows.

I think it will be excellent, plenty of colour and variety in the flower garden, bags of home-grown vegetables which we can sell to our paying visitors, cajoled Edward. Edward had never used the word ‘Bags’ in that context in his life and was clearly aping young Tom’s vocabulary, irritating Clarissa even more.

I must leave in five minutes, Clarissa reminded her husband, as I have an appointment at the optician. It took Clarissa the remaining five minutes to locate her glasses case, which she had left upstairs in her bathroom. Clarissa quickened her pace, which quickly shortened her breath as she bustled to the car and reversed out of the gate. The optician was the only one in the nearest town roughly four miles away and Clarissa knew she would be able to park right outside at this time of the day and arrived at the optician only one minute late. As she opened the door, the young receptionist glanced up and smiled rather too brightly for a drizzly morning.

Hi there, Mrs Derby. The girl continued, Just take a seat and he’ll be right with you. Clarissa did as she was told and quickly scanned the reading material to see if it was worth picking anything up. There were two old gossip magazines and a lifestyle one with garden tips on how to revitalise your garden, so Clarissa ignored them all.

As she was waiting, she studied the face of Amy, the receptionist, who was busy staring at the screen of her computer and Clarissa strongly suspected was playing some kind of game. Not that she would blame her, she had seen her in that same seat, year after year, looking after the same ageing, dull patients with barely even a new lick of paint to cheer the practice up. Boyfriends and even a husband had come and gone but Amy was still in that same seat. It was fairly common knowledge that Amy did circus tricks in her spare time, was an accomplished trapeze swinger, if that was the right expression. She certainly had the required abdominal muscles, which Amy was not shy to display if anyone showed an interest but Clarissa was well past that. After a full ten minutes of waiting, Clarissa saw the optician’s door open and the current client edge out with a large pram. She then blocked the whole room as she looked at the display of frame choices on the wall so Clarissa had to edge her way into the optician’s room in a rather undignified manner.

Clarissa, according to my notes, you haven’t been checked for nearly two years, Bernard scolded. At your age, you must come often so we can keep an eye on things, he carried on as he lit up the eye chart.

Clarissa didn’t smile at the pun. Clarissa actually usually rather enjoyed trips to the optician as Bernard, was a tall, and on the whole, charming Frenchman, with an accent that reminded her of Gerard Depardieu in his younger days. Now though she felt embarrassed at the accusation that she had been careless. She also felt rather irked as she had always had good eyesight, only needing reading glasses in the last five years or so of her life. She repeated back the letters on the chart and endured very uncomfortable stinging as Bernard inserted yellow drops.

Have you been having any vision problems, any cloudiness? he asked, as he deftly manipulated the machine that was looking deep behind her eyes and she tried to avoid being dazzled. Clarissa had to concentrate and give it some thought while trying to manoeuvre her eyes in the right direction when requested. She had thought her glasses had needed a clean but cleaning them had made no difference. She had assumed she was tired. You have the early signs of a cataract in your right eye, Bernard explained, using an extra gentle voice now. Clarissa felt slight panic in the pit of her stomach but forced herself to appear calm; she associated cataracts with old people shuffling around with walking frames bumping into everything.

It’s not uncommon for people to develop cataracts in their early 60s. Bernard carried on, "There’s no need for too much concern as we can look into getting you some bifocals now to help with the cloudiness, and in time, think about surgery. It’s really a fairly simple procedure