PROLOGUE
Honeymoon Tragedy of Bride in the
Bath – Exclusive
West Cornwall Times
This past weekend, tragedy has struck the quiet village of Polpen. On Saturday, James Anderson married Stephanie Faulkner and on Sunday they drove from London to Polpen to start a fortnight’s honeymoon at a pretty holiday cottage. James had never felt so happy, but that evening, on the second day of his marriage, his bride drowned in the bath while alone in the cottage. Prostrate with grief and even though he felt unable to talk face to face, James bravely agreed to give your local paper an exclusive interview by telephone from the room in the White Hart where he’s staying until he can make his sad, lonely journey back to his empty home.
As he wept, James tried to explain what happened, but his account was constantly interrupted by his obvious heartbreak. ‘I’d run her a bath,’ he said, and stopped, choking on his tears. ‘She loved her baths. She was about to add some bath oil and foam before getting undressed when I realised I’d forgotten to pick up eggs when I was in the village earlier getting the papers. Stephanie loves — loved’ — James stopped again, his voice a hoarse croak when he resumes — ‘a cooked breakfast as a special treat. So I popped back to the shop, except of course when I got there it was closed. I’m used to London shop hours I suppose. I was only away for five or ten minutes.’
James paused, clearly needing time to control himself. He blew his nose and continued. ‘I called up the stairs to say I was back. She didn’t reply but I just assumed she hadn’t heard. She often puts headphones on in the bath, she has some relaxing playlist on Spotify I think. So I didn’t worry, didn’t go up to check.’
James stopped for a third time. ‘Sorry. I — I’ll never forgive myself. If I’d gone straight up, maybe … Anyway I went up after about ten minutes I suppose. I thought I’d take her a glass of champagne for her to sip in the bath. But she was … she was under the water. She’d drowned. I think she must have slipped. To be honest we’d been drinking off and on all afternoon — it was the first day of our honeymoon for god’s sake. She’d put lots of bath oil in and there was also a small bar of soap that looked squashed, as though she’d trodden on it. So she must have slipped and banged her head, lost consciousness long enough to drown.’
CHAPTER ONE
Three months earlier
I brush my fingertips over the brochure for the umpteenth time while I wait. MadeInHeaven MatchMakers — the raised gilt letters feel smooth and full of promise. It took a lot of courage for me to make the phone call. I don’t have much courage anymore, but I did it.
The knocker raps. I glance around the sitting room — I’ve decided it’s the best place for the interview, tasteful and welcoming but also comfortable — smooth my skirt and square my shoulders. I’ve lost the knack of relaxing in the company of strangers. I lost a lot in my marriage, though I suppose that ultimately I gained a lot also.
When I first spoke to MadeInHeaven MatchMakers, the owner, Vivien Harrison, spelt out her first name. ‘With an “e”, but only one, like Vivien Leigh.’ And I see now, as I open the front door, that she has something of the actress’s striking beauty. Raven dark hair, perfect skin, glossy red lips. I realise I’ve forgotten to check my lipstick and run my tongue over my teeth, hoping to sweep away any stray flakes.
‘Mrs Faulkner?’ she asks with a smile. I nod and she follows me to the sitting room where I hesitate, briefly stranded. ‘Erm, I thought … Maybe the sofa? Or would you prefer that we sit at a table?’
‘This is perfect. What a lovely room.’ Her eyes sweep the lush swagged curtains, the art, the Persian carpet, and she settles herself on the leather Chesterfield, crossing one elegant leg over the other. She pulls a silvery pen and a hardback notebook with a Liberty-print cover from her bag. ‘This is a very informal meeting, my dear. Stephanie. Is that how you prefer to be addressed, the full name?’
I nod again, feeling awkward and tongue-tied, and offer coffee, which Vivien declines. I would have liked a shot of caffeine — it’s my form of Dutch courage — but sit down on the other sofa, angled and close enough for easy conversation. I hope it will be easy.
‘As I said when we spoke,’ she begins, ‘I always like to meet a new client in their own home. So much more relaxing than an office. And I know that meeting, even making the first contact with, a matchmaker — I prefer the term to “dating agency”, it sounds so much more personal — can be very stressful. Is this your first time, Stephanie?’
I nod, then swallow. I need to speak, to participate. There’s no one here now to tell me to keep quiet, to know my place. Or not to do something I’ve decided to do. I take the plunge, and once I start talking it’s hard to stop.
‘My husband passed away a few months ago. It may seem soon —’ Vivien smiles, and shakes her head — ‘but it was … not a happy marriage. I want to try again, but I want to get it right this time. So I thought maybe a dating agency was the answer. I didn’t want to just sign up to some app though.’
Vivien gives a slight but eloquent shudder. ‘You are so right, my dear. We don’t even have a website, as I’m sure you know. I believe you said you found us through one of our discreet notices in The Lady?’
I nod. Get a grip. ‘Yes. I thought that might be a safer bet than Tinder or whatever it’s called.’
‘There are lots of them. And lots of horror stories also. But we vet our clients, both male and female, very carefully indeed. Not only so we have the best chance of introducing people who have similar interests, but also to be absolutely sure that there are no …’ She pauses, as if searching for the word.
‘Gold-diggers?’ I suggest.
Vivien smiles. ‘Precisely. Such a vulgar term, but exact. And there are a lot of them out there, believe you me. Which is why I need to ask what might seem to be searching questions. I know you’ll understand — it’s for your own protection, and also gives you the reassurance that anyone I introduce you to will have gone through the same wringer. So let’s just rattle through my list. The sooner it’s done, the sooner I can leave you in peace and start the hunt for your perfect man!’
I offer coffee again, and this time she accepts, perhaps realising that I need a break. She seems sensitive to moods. A good matchmaker must need that quality, and a good matchmaker is what I need.
I put the tray with the cafetière, mugs and a plate of biscuits on the small table between us. Robert couldn’t abide mugs, always insisted on cups and saucers, but they’re tricky if you’re sitting on a sofa with a notebook and pen. And he’s not here anymore anyway. If he were, Vivien wouldn’t be.
‘I’ll start with the most intrusive question,’ she says, putting her mug down after sniffing the coffee appreciatively and taking a sip. ‘Can you tell me a little — as much as you feel comfortable with, given that you know that the more information I have the better — about your financial circumstances?’ She glances around again and gives a small, seemingly satisfied sigh.
‘My husband, late husband, was a wholesale trader in precious stones. Gemstones, he called them. He always said it wasn’t as lucrative as people think but … well, he must have been good at it. I didn’t realise how good until he died. So no, you can rest assured I’m not a gold-digger.’
Vivien makes a note, her pen swooping and dipping. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Stephanie. And of course none of this information gets passed to potential matches; I just need to be able to say, hand on heart, that you’re not after their money. Most of our male clients are, well, very rich I suppose, no point beating about the bush, and it’s often the first thing they ask.’ She takes another sip and a delicate nibble of a brittle speculoos biscuit.
‘Delicious, thank you. So the next thing they ask is about family and friends. As part of the question why you’ve come to a matchmaker.’
I give a short laugh. ‘That’s easy. No family, no friends.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘None?’
‘No close family. We — my husband never wanted children. My parents died ten years ago, within a short time of each other. They were in their eighties and not in good health.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Vivien makes another note. ‘Siblings?
‘No.’ It’s strictly true after all, though I wish it wasn’t so. ‘I’m an only child. A late one — my mother had turned forty when she had me. I have two cousins but we lost touch.’
‘And no friends? You poor lamb.’
I sigh. It’s hard to think back, to articulate it. ‘My husband was … very controlling. I think it’s called coercive control now, but really, if I’m honest, it was just bullying. It was only once he’d … gone that I realised quite how bad it had been. He was never physically violent but —’
I trail off and Vivien picks up the slack. ‘Let me guess. He didn’t like you having friends. Wanted you for himself. Gradually persuaded you to let them go. Along with the cousins.’
I nod gratefully. ‘It was exactly like that, yes. And now I want — company. Someone kind. I don’t even care what they look like, or not much anyway. Just kind. Someone who’ll be nice to me, look after me. I think I deserve some happiness.’ I feel my voice start to quaver, and stop.
Vivien reaches across and pats my hand. ‘I understand. I’m sure I can find you your soulmate. Give you a second chance at happiness.’ We chat some more, batting little questions to each other, but it’s clear that she has what she needs. Or almost.
‘Just one last thing,’ she says. ‘I have to check your ID. Irritating interfering regulation — KYC they call it. Know Your Client. It’s to prevent money laundering. So would you mind if I took a look at your passport?’
I find my passport and pass it to Vivien, who gives it a cursory glance and hands it back to me. ‘Thank you. Faulkner’s your married name, I assume?’
I nod, and Vivien makes a brief note then slips the notebook and pen back into her bag as she stands up. ‘That’s all, my dear. Thank you so much for your time. I’ll be in touch very soon with some suggestions.’
There’s something that’s bothering me and I need to clear it up before Vivien goes any further. It’s true that Robert left me a lot of money, but according to the solicitor handling the estate most of it was tied up in the precious stones or in accounts in his own name. We had a joint account which was mainly used for what Robert called ‘housekeeping money’, and his monthly infusions, though more than adequate for that purpose, stopped once his other accounts were frozen pending some official milestone called probate. So ironically I’m having to watch the pennies for the time being. When I began to research dating agencies, I was horrified at the mouth-watering amounts they charged upfront.
I swallow, but force myself to speak. I feel my shoulders tense and my colour rise as the words stumble out, part question and part explanation. ‘It’s … about the money. I just need … I’m not sure I can —’
Vivien steps in smartly.
‘My dear,’ she says. ‘I know exactly what you’re going to ask. Don’t be embarrassed. I too am shocked at how most agencies operate. It’s another way in which MadeInHeaven differentiates itself. I’m demanding about the clients I take on, as you’ll have seen. I meet them, in their home, and ask a lot of intrusive questions. And I have good intuition. I know if a potential client is a good fit for MadeInHeaven. And if they are, that means I’m sure I can find them that match made in heaven. Maybe not with the first or even the second introduction, but I’ll find you your Mr Right. And I’m so confident about that that, for some clients, I don’t ask for payment of our fee until it happens.’
Some clients. Not all, it seems, and Vivien asks me, delicately, not to enter into any discussion about fees with potential Mr Rights.
I see her out then flop back down onto the sofa. I’m exhausted but exhilarated. And proud of myself for having taken this step, daunting as it was. But MadeInHeaven was a good choice, and I’m clearly in a safe pair of hands with Vivien.
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