Shatter

8

Sylvia Furness lives in a flat in Great Pulteney Street on the first floor of a Georgian row that has probably featured in every BBC period drama since the original Forsyte Saga. I half expect to see horse-drawn carriages outside and women parading in hats.

Sylvia Furness isn’t wearing a hat. Her short blonde hair is held off her face with a headband and she’s clad in black spandex shorts, a white sports bra and a light blue T-shirt with a looping neckline. A gym membership card dangles from a bulky set of keys that must help burn calories simply by being lugged around.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Furness. Do you have a moment?’

‘Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.’

‘It’s about Christine Wheeler.’

‘I’m late for a spin class. I don’t talk to the press.’

‘I’m not a journalist.’

She glances past me then and notices Darcy at the top of the stairs.

With a squeak of anguish she pushes past me, wrapping her arms around the teenager, summoning tears. Darcy gives me a look that says, I told you so.

She didn’t want to come upstairs because she knew her mother’s business partner would make a fuss.

‘What sort of fuss?’

‘A fuss.’

The front door is reopened and we’re ushered inside. Sylvia is still clutching Darcy’s hand. Emma follows, suddenly quiet, with a thumb wedged in her mouth.

The flat has polished wooden floors, tasteful furniture and ceilings that seem higher than the clouds outside. There are women’s touches everywhere- from the throw cushions in African prints to the dried flower arrangements.

My eyes scan the room and fall upon a birthday invitation propped beside the phone. ‘Alice’ is invited to a pizza and pyjama party. Her friend Angela is turning twelve.

Sylvia Furness is still holding Darcy’s hand, asking questions and offering sympathy. The teenager manages to slip out of her grasp and tells Emma there’s a park on the corner, behind the museum. It has swings and a slide.

‘Can I take her?’ asks Darcy.

She’ll have you pushing her forever,’ I warn.

‘That’s OK.’

‘We’ll talk when you get back,’ says Sylvia who has tossed her gym bag on the sofa. She looks at her watch- a stainless steel, sporty number. She won’t make her spin class. Instead she flops into an armchair, looking irritated. Her breasts don’t move. I wonder if they’re real. As if reading my mind she straightens her shoulders.

‘Why are you so interested in Christine?’

‘Darcy doesn’t think it was suicide.’

‘And why does that concern you?’

‘I just want to be sure.’

Her eyes are full of a gentle curiosity as I explain my involvement with Christine and how Darcy came looking for me. Sylvia props her toned legs on the coffee table, showing what miles on the treadmill can do for a woman.

‘You were business partners.’

‘We were more than that,’ she replies. ‘We went to school together.’

‘When did you last see Christine?’

‘Friday morning. She came into the office. She had an appointment with a young couple who were planning a Christmas wedding.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘Fine.’

‘She wasn’t concerned or worried about anything?’

‘Not particularly. Chris wasn’t the type.’

‘What was she like?’

‘The sweetest person. A total one-off. Sometimes I used to think she was too nice.’

‘In what way?’

‘She was too soft for this business. People would give her a sob story and she’d give them longer to pay or offer them discounts. Chris was a hopeless romantic. She believed in fairytales. Fairytale weddings. Fairytale marriages. It’s funny when you think her own lasted less than two years. At school she had a wedding chest. I mean, what sort of person still has a wedding chest? And she used to say that each of us has a special soul mate. Our Mr Right.’

‘You obviously don’t agree.’

Her head swivels towards me. ‘You’re a psychologist. Do you really believe there is only one person for each of us in this big wide world?’

‘It’s a nice thought.’

‘No it’s not! How boring.’ She laughs. ‘If that’s true, my soul mate had better have a six pack and a six figure salary.’

‘What about your husband?’

‘He’s a lump of lard, but he knows how to make money.’ She runs her hands along her legs. ‘Why is it that married men let themselves go while their wives spend hours trying to look beautiful?’

‘You don’t know?’

She laughs. ‘Maybe that’s a discussion for another day.’

Sylvia stands and goes to the bedroom. ‘Do you mind if I get changed?’

‘Not at all.’

She leaves the door open and shucks off her T-shirt and bra. There are muscles on her back like flat stones beneath her skin.

Her black spandex shorts slide down her legs, but I can’t see what replaces them; the bed and the angle defeat me.

Dressed in cream slacks and a cashmere sweater, she returns to the lounge, tossing her tiny shorts and bra on her gym bag.

‘What were we talking about?’

‘Marriage. You said Christine was a believer.’

‘Head cheerleader. She cried at every wedding we planned. Complete strangers were tying the knot and her pockets were full of soggy tissues.’

‘Is that why she set up Blissful?’

‘It was her baby.’

‘How was business?’

Sylvia smiles wryly.

‘Like I said, Chris was a soft touch. People asked for dream weddings- with all the bells and whistles- then they refused to pay or delayed sending the cheque. Christine wasn’t tough enough.’

‘There were money problems?’

She stretches her arms above her head. ‘Rain. Cancellations. Legal action. It wasn’t a good season. We have to turn over fifty thousand pounds a month to break even. The average cost of a wedding is fifteen thousand. The big ones are few and far between.’

‘How much were you losing?’

‘Chris took out a second mortgage when we set up. Now we have an overdraft of twenty thousand and debts of more than two hundred thousand.’

Sylvia rattles off the numbers without emotion.

‘You mentioned legal action.’

‘A wedding in the spring was a disaster. Dodgy mayonnaise on the seafood buffet. Food poisoning. The father of the bride is a lawyer and a complete wanker. Christine offered to tear up the bill but he wants us to pay compensation.’

‘You must have insurance.’

‘The insurance underwriter is trying to find a loophole. We may have to go to court.’

She takes a plastic bottle of water from her gym bag and drinks, wiping her lips with her thumb and forefinger.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t seem very concerned.’

Lowering the bottle, her eyes lock on mine.

‘Chris put up most of the money. My exposure was minimal and my husband is very understanding.’

‘Indulgent.’

‘You could say that.’

The money problems and legal action could explain what happened on Friday. Perhaps the person on the phone to Christine Wheeler was owed money. Either that or she lost hope and couldn’t see a way out.

‘Was Christine the sort of person who would commit suicide?’ I ask.

Sylvia shrugs. ‘You know how they say the ones who talk about committing suicide are less likely to do it- well, Chris never talked about it. She was the most positive, up-beat, optimistic person I’ve ever met. I mean that. And she loved Darcy like there was no tomorrow. So the answer is no- I have no idea why she did it. I guess she cracked.’

‘What’s going to happen to the business now?’

Again she glances at her watch. ‘As of an hour ago it belongs to the receivers.’

‘You’re wrapping it up.’

‘What else can I do?’

She tucks her legs to the side in that casual effortless way all women can. I see no signs of regret or disappointment. Hard-bodied Sylvia Furness is as tough on the inside as she is on the outside.

Darcy and Emma meet me downstairs. I lift Emma onto my hip. ‘Where are we going?’ asks Darcy.

‘To see the police.’

‘You believe me.’

‘I believe you.’