Secret Love

Warning Shot

Nancy Watson wasn't a large woman. Petite had always been how people described her. Always well presented but never overly formal, comfortably upholstered as she put it herself; she had what her daughter and granddaughters said was the perfect hug.  With grey hair, piercing eyes, and a warm laugh, she was roughly the same height as two reasonably sized apples. Usually, about as fierce, too.

Today, however? She was eight feet tall and had the presence of a Rottweiler. 

Someone -  someone she'd grown to despise - had attacked her family and now? Now, they were about to feel her wrath.  Wrath that would come like an iron fist in a velvet glove.

She pushed the door of the shop open and stepped inside.  On all sides, luxurious goods. Teas, coffees, biscuits, and much more lined the shelves.  There was the all pervading aroma of exotic blends and money.

Fortnum and Mason on Piccadilly was world famous.  Its duck-egg blue and gold logo on all manner of goods, all sharing the same quality..... and price tag.  Being honest? Sometimes, it rankled a little with her. All this obvious display of disposable wealth when people who had less than nothing, slept in that same doorway at night. Often, she felt immensely guilty for being able to afford the price of their afternoon teas. Not, however, today.

Today was the means to an end.  This was Etta Wilks' home ground.  A woman with aspirations of grandeur. Nothing wrong with that in itself, she thought as she climbed the stairs, just the reason behind it. Shame. For the background she'd come from, that and the fact her first husband - John's father - had run off with the au pair she'd employed when John was a small boy. 

Hence, he'd become her world.

Even her second, and disgustingly rich, husband hadn't been able to supercede that. Then, on one tragic night, that world had been taken away.

It explained a lot... It didn't excuse anything.

She approached the café on the second floor, scanning the tables carefully.  For a moment, she thought she'd been successful in getting there first. Have the advantage; have a chance to gather her thoughts. As she neared the hostess stand, it became apparent that she had neither.

"Nancy, darling! Over here!" Etta stood, her perpetual black a stark contrast to the colourful butterflies lunching around her.  If Coco Chanel had been alive, she would have been impressed.  Etta was, if nothing else, a walking fashion photograph. Reed thin, hair swept into a chignon, immaculate makeup, and a slim fitting black two-piece with a grey silk blouse. She may have been more than a few summers north of sixty, but it had to be said, she was still stylish.

What she wasn't was understanding. Compassionate. Empathetic. Nancy would remedy that failing today.

"Etta!" With a thankful glance at the waitress who took her coat, she embraced the other woman, feeling every bone in her permanently dieting body. They air kissed and sat.  "How are you? How's Stephen?" She picked up her menu and pretended to read it, hands shaking.

"Stephen?" Etta almost sounded bored. "Oh, he's in New York.... or is it LA? Never can remember. For a man who's supposed to be retired, he's never at home much these days. Not that I mind particularly, you know what I mean..." she paused and glanced at her own menu, then looked up. "Gives me plenty of time and space to do my own thing.  It's so important not to fester away, don't you think? "

It took every ounce of Nancy's willpower not to say something, the hypocritical irony of the statement completely lost on Etta, it seemed.  If she hadn't been 'festering', the conversation wouldn't have been needed. 

Fortunately for all concerned, it was time to order.  The waitress smiled patiently and politely as Etta demanded, in her usual passive aggressive manner, to know the calorie content of every cake on the menu then proceeded to order a pot of black decaf coffee and some shortbread.