Their group of friends had been invited, along with their wives and offspring, to a lunch on Frankie’s farm after the service. Frankie had not extended the invitation to John, but he was going anyway, taking Brigit with him.
Faith had set a long table on the veranda, overlooking the Franschhoek mountain range in the background and in the foreground, the farm’s vineyards.
All through lunch, Frankie refused to meet John’s eyes. When he spoke, she ignored him, snubbing every attempt to include him in the conversation. After everyone had finished their lasagne, Lee’s favourite dish so lovingly prepared by Faith, he noticed that she was missing, and he discreetly left the table to find her.
Frankie had retreated to the bathroom to fix her hair and touch up her make-up. She had had an exhausting day, but she felt, somehow, satisfied at how smoothly everything had gone. Faith’s thoughtful and unsupervised preparation of the lunch did not go unnoticed. Faith had made sure that the tables were dressed with Frankie’s crisp white cloths and the family’s finest silver. The lasagne was accompanied by a green salad. The cold tomato soup as a starter was refreshing and light on such a hot day. She was also surprised at how many people, some of whom she had never met, had come to pay their respects. She had even spotted Patty and Jen in the hall.
She jumped with fright as she opened the bathroom door. John was waiting for her. “Get away from me!” she whispered, afraid that somebody would hear her. “What do you want? You have no respect. No remorse.”
“I want to say how sorry I am, Frankie.” John seemed to be speaking with uncharacteristic sincerity. “I know that this has been a tough time for you, and I’m sorry for everything.”
Frankie was taken aback by his kind words but didn’t entirely trust him, particularly as he’d obviously been drinking.
“Okay. Thanks,” she said, trying to walk around him. The bathroom was through Frankie’s dressing room, which made the chances of being discovered slim. As Frankie tried to pass him, John grabbed her arm and twisted it around, pushing her up against the dressing room wall in the way she used to love.
But now it was sinister, and it scared her.
“You make a shit-hot widow,” he whispered lustily in her ear.
“Don’t! Please!” she begged.
“Are you playing hard to get? Is this the game you want to play, Frankie?” He reeked of alcohol.
“I’m not playing hard to get. I don’t want anything to do with you. Do you hear me? We’re done. It’s over. What don’t you understand?” She was desperately trying to break free from his grip.
John’s hand moved under her dress and his fingers ran up her inner thigh.
“Stop, you fucking bastard!” She tried again to break free, but he only tightened his grip around her hands.
Pressing himself against her, he kissed the nape of her neck.
She heard a gasp. Someone was there!
“Wha…what are you doing?” It was Brigit.
John quickly withdrew his hand from under Frankie’s dress, and let her go. The look on his face told Frankie that he knew exactly how much trouble he was in.
All Frankie could say was, “It’s not what you think it is, Brig.”
Brigit shoved her father aside and made one of her characteristic dramatic exits. This time Frankie could not blame her; in fact, she was grateful she had saved her from John, who left the room as abruptly as he had arrived. Frankie watched out of her bedroom’s bay window as Brigit sped down the driveway in her car, braked hard for a moment to allow a clutch of ducklings to pass in front of her, and then zoomed off, away from the farm.
John stepped back out onto the veranda.
“Boys, let’s go,” he said, and the men all rose from the lunch table.
“That’s enough for one day,” Shelley scolded Frans.
“Maybe for Frans, but not for the rest of us. We don’t have to ask your permission, now do we, Shelley?”
“I don’t have to either!” Frans retorted. “It’s my mate’s wake. You’ll see me when you see me, Shelley.”
He heaved his considerable weight up from the lunch table and joined his friends. John knew Frans was making a point: no woman was going to dictate to him, especially not in front of his mates.
The men spilled noisily into the popular pizzeria in Dorp Street that was frequented by students, tourists and families alike. The manager greeted them sympathetically and led them to a table in the bar area where they could resume their drinking. Before long, they had the whole pub singing ‘We Are the Champions’, much to the chagrin of the residents of the block of flats nearby. Someone◦– it could have been John, but he wasn’t sure◦– decided they should all drink until they passed out. But by one in the morning, the manager, well known for his no-nonsense style, had closed the bar after they had finished their round of free drinks.
John was far too drunk to drive, but he got behind the wheel anyway. He made his way back to the farm, weaving from side to side along the treacherous sand roads. It crossed his mind briefly that he was way over the limit, but he was John Pearce. He could do anything.
The farmhouse stood dark and empty.
At least Jen was home. No way could she ever leave him. She didn’t have enough money to finance a move, and she had no family or friends to run to. She must have come straight home after the service, and she was probably asleep right now in their bed.
Make-up sex with his wife was always passionate. He stumbled to the bedroom and whispered in the dark, “Jen, I’m home. Are you ashleep?”
He fell on his stomach onto the bed.
“I’m home!” he slurred.
He felt for Jen with his hand, but it just swept through air. He pushed himself up to make sure she really wasn’t there. He winced as he rolled off the bed, removed his shoes and his suit jacket, undid his tie and finally pulled down his pants. He was standing in a pool of clothing, swaying from side to side, with just his shirt, jocks and socks on.
“Jen! Where are you?”
He staggered past the kitchen towards the spare room. As he pushed the door open, he called out his wife’s name again. This room, too, was dark, and there was no answer.
“Come on, Jen,” he said. “Let’sh be friends. Fuck it, Jen, life is too short. You fucked Lee and I fucked Frankie. We’re even. Anyway, I need you.”
He switched on the light to find a neatly made bed. At the foot of the bed was a sealed envelope with his name on it. He grabbed it, tore it open and shook the contents out on to the bed. Out spilled all the incriminating photographs of him, the same photographs Frankie had thrown at him. It had never crossed his mind that there were copies! He fell to his knees, photographs in hand, as he looked at every one of them. He felt as if he’d been punched hard in the guts. Jen had evidence of the life he had kept from her◦– a secret life he knew was unforgivable, let alone unacceptable. Even in his drunken state, he knew that leaving the envelope was her way of saying ‘over and out’.
“I need you, Jen.” There was nobody to hear him. “You can’t leave me,” he moaned.
Never had he loathed himself so deeply. He had pushed his wife away and hurt his children. Everyone had deserted him, even his best friend.
Thirty-six
A distraught Brig had messaged her brother to come to her place as soon as possible; she had just caught their dad and the grieving widow together. Pete had driven as fast as he could through peak-hour traffic to get to her. Overcome by anger, he had phoned Clive.
To his surprise, Clive was not at all shocked. He thanked him for being brave enough to be upfront about Frankie’s affair.