Marble’s Marvels

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Francesca Darby walked along Kings Road towards her gorgeous cottage, its white walls a shining beacon, even with the grey, dreary clouds overhead. It was small, with two bedrooms, a lounge, kitchen, and bathroom, but it had a big plot of land around it, which she and her husband, Paul planned to extend on.

Reaching her drive, the first thing she noted was Paul's car missing.

Curious, she tried shrugging it off, knowing that sometimes he liked taking long drives away from the house. Working from home had its pitfalls. She enjoyed going for long walks herself. Being so close to acres of fields at the back of her house helped.

Upon opening the front door, the coat hooks seemed emptier than usual. "Strange."

Two of Paul's jackets were missing.

Closing the door, she told herself that he might be dropping them off at the launderette; they had not been cleaned in months.

When she left him at his desk earlier in the morning, Francesca had kissed him goodbye as she did every day.

Taking off her coat, she hung it up. Cold outside, she shivered in the warmth of the cottage, thinking she might put the gas log fire on. She had three hours before she was due back at Marble's.

In the lounge, her attention focused on Paul's armchair, or rather the book cabinet next to it. Her husband used it to store DVDs. The shelves were bare. "What the-" She marched over to it, noticing only her movies remained.

Francesca scratched her head, trying to put the pieces together in her head. What would Paul do with his collection of gory and brutal movies? Would he have taken them to a charity shop? Sold them to a*****e? What? And what about his coats?

Struggling to focus, she trudged upstairs to their bedroom. She gasped when she saw his bedside cabinet had been emptied. His pants, socks, T shirts and jumpers were all gone, the only thing left were empty drawers. "No! You bastard!"

Forcing tears back, she checked the rest of the house.

In the bathroom, his toothbrush and toiletries were gone, along with his guitars and amp from the spare room. All that remained in the house was hers.

Pacing her lounge, Francesca wondered what she'd done, trying to piece together any evidence he might have left regarding his disappearance.

In the kitchen, she found a white envelope on the work surface with her name written on it. Not wanting to, she picked it up, ripping the sealed flap open, and taking out the A4 plain paper.

Reading his words again, drawing it out, poring over every syllable, she couldn't match them up with his actions. It said, in his handwriting, that he had met someone new, someone he had a lot in common with. "But we have lots in common." Her hands shook.

None of it made sense. She read about how they had been in a rut for over a year. He blamed her for not getting pregnant, suggesting they would still be together had she borne him a child, like that would have changed everything.

Every word he wrote stung. Francesca had herself checked out after failing to conceive. Paul knew it wasn’t her fault, but he had been too afraid to have himself tested.

For two years they tried to conceive a child, two whole years. In the end he blamed her for it, saying she was barren. He apologised almost straight away, although the insult stayed with her for months after. To show him she wasn't 'barren', Francesca took herself off to see the doctor.

After a trip to the hospital for tests via a referral from her G.P, Francesca showed them to Paul. His reaction annoyed her; he shrugged it off, like he didn't care. His sperm count was the problem, not her being 'barren', and he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge it.

"Bastard!"

Standing by the kitchen counter, she wondered if maybe that was when he began the affair? Paul started being nice. His attitude had improved, too. s*x after that became more recreational, rather than at the desired times of her menstrual cycle. It all fit together now she was in full receipt of the facts.

"You utter bastard!" Her hands were fists.

The doorbell rang.

Francesca glanced at the clock on the wall: 15:30. With Paul's declaration, she completely forgot about Declan bringing over the wardrobe. "Shoot!"

She bashed the counter with her right fist, wanting nothing more than to open the cupboards and throw the contents of china plates on to the lino; she wanted to smash them to pieces, to hear the noise of them breaking. Paul's mum bought them as a wedding gift. b***h!

The doorbell rang again.

She organised for Declan to deliver her wardrobe; she couldn't pretend to be out. He worked hard making her teak furniture. Every piece she now had in the house was hand-carved by Declan, the wardrobe being the final bit.

"I'm coming."

Francesca raced to the front door, trying to keep tears at bay, which seemed impossible.

Opening it, Declan's smile had the opposite effect on her than intended. Francesca's throat strangled the words she tried to relay.

"Fran? What's wrong?" He stepped forward, wrapping his muscular arms around her. "Let it out, honey. Let it out."

After burying her face in his neck, Francesca sobbed, still trying to comprehend the fact that her husband had left her all alone in the cottage. Declan's embrace was comforting and welcome. Between sobs she heard him quietly order his helper to go back to the truck and wait for him.

"Let's get you inside." Declan helped her into the lounge, easing her on to the sofa.

Sat on the comfy cushions, Declan joined Francesca, his arm around her, as she leaned on him, her cheek on his shoulder. "Thank you," she sniffled.

"Do you want to tell me what's wrong? I'm a great listener."

"Paul's gone," she informed him between sobs. "He's packed up all his gear and left me for some woman he's met." She found it difficult to see through the tears. "He waited until I went to work, then got his stuff together. He wrote me a note in the kitchen."

Declan stroked her arm. "What did it say?" His voice was quiet, deliberate. "Sorry! I shouldn't pry. You don't have to answer that."

She stared up at him, through teary eyes. "He's had enough of me, that's what it said." Her words were loaded with scorn. "Paul's found another woman, someone he has lots in common with." She sobbed again. "And I thought we had loads of things we liked doing together."

"What a bastard!" Declan put his hand over his mouth. "Oh Fran, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that. It's not my place to judge."

Francesca sat up, wiped her face. "No, you're right. There’s no need to apologise for calling him on it. He is. And a total one at that."

An uncomfortable silence wedged itself between them.

She had known Declan since primary school. They had been friends all the way through secondary and college, neither having moved from Bishops Drake. Or rather Declan came back after moving to London for a few years.

He returned three years earlier to look after the family business when his father died. If she were honest with herself, Francesca was relieved when he took on his parents' farm, opting to turn the barn into his new carpentry company.

Scratching his head, awkward, Declan stood. "Right, I really should bring this wardrobe inside now, Fran. Are you going to be okay here by yourself?"

Francesca rose. "Sure, the wardrobe. I almost forgot." After wiping her face with a tissue from her pocket, she walked with him to the front door, not answering his question on purpose.

While the boys were doing the heavy lifting, Francesca went to the bathroom to make herself more presentable. When she came out, Declan was walking upstairs backwards, trying to carry most of the weight himself, his helper a tall, lanky teenager. "Careful!"

"It's alright, I know what I'm doing."

Knowing she’d overstepped, Francesca stood back, letting the boys heave it through to her bedroom. Everything would change now. This was her house, her wardrobe. How would she get used to saying 'hers' instead of 'ours'? It took her months to learn to say 'ours' when she agreed for Paul to move in. "Thanks, both of you. I appreciate this."

Declan asked where she wanted it. Francesca told him, and her saviour offered to take the existing wardrobe away and chop it up for leftover wood. He was her hero, twice.