'Enclosure,' Gillian corrected, 'and stop sounding so bloody smug. I've kept your secret about your father, haven't I? I don't expect you not to keep mine. Actually –' she wriggled further back into her scant allocation of cushions, 'I think Vincent has rather taken a shine to Maureen. How do you feel about having the Munchy Bar as a step-mum?'
'Maureen's married,' Jemima said. 'I think she and Dad are just good friends.'
'No one in Milton St John is just good friends – except you and Matt, of course. Goodness, don't you ever get – well, you know – urges?'
'Of course I get urges. Just not with Matt.'
Gillian reached for the remainder of the wine. 'Really? Then who -?'
Jemima suddenly remembered a bottle of Beaujolais tucked away in the larder and struggled to her feet. 'Don't change the subject. You do know that according to the grapevine, your Bonnie Nuts is owned by Fizz Flanagan, the entire Saudi royal family, Sharon Stone and Prince Philip? Quite a consortium.'
'They'd make a stir in the paddock at Aintree, granted.' Gillian raised her voice as Jemima headed for the kitchen. 'And I'll divulge all when the time is right.'
Jemima returned with the bottle. 'Which will be when?'
'Not yet. There will have to be a bit of heart-to-hearting between Glen and myself before I go public.' She sighed. 'It's all got into such a terrible tangle, to be honest.'
Jemima had guessed as much. She had long since given up trying to work out why Gillian needed to lose her money. The high earners like drugs, armed robbery, or prostitution seemed hardly likely, and there really didn't seem to be any other way – especially not in Milton St John – to make a killing. Unless, of course, it was blackmail. There would be tons of scope for that.
Glen had apologised to her on several occasions for the exorbitant rent she was allegedly paying on the Vicarage flat. If it hadn't been for Gillian knowing about Vincent's peccadilloes, she might well have told him that in fact she parted with less than a quarter of that amount.
Jemima poured Beaujolais into both glasses. It went cloudy. It would probably give them tannin poisoning. 'Are you running a betting ring? Is that where your income is from? Or have you won the lottery? I suppose the church frowns on gambling almost as much as I do. Is that your hidden vice?'
'I wish.' Gillian swigged back half the contents of her glass and lit a cigarette. 'Oh, bugger – Jemima, haven't you got any idea? I wish I could tell you. I wish I could tell bloody someone. Can you imagine being a vicar's wife and having this sort of secret on your shoulders?'
Jemima couldn't. Her imagination stretched wildly – but she couldn't think of anything other than the blackmail bit – and Gillian was always so damned indiscreet. Was it a lover? A very wealthy lover who paid for Gillian's services? Nah. Not possible. Glen and Gillian were dopey about each other. So what else could be so appallingly awful for a vicar's wife?
Of course! A crisis of faith! Gillian could no longer sustain her belief in the ideals of the Church of England – and had joined some sort of religious splinter group. That would be pretty drastic – but would it necessarily generate an unhealthily high income? Not really. Not unless Gillian had set herself up as one of these new preachy women who appeared on cable telly and asked people to shower them with cash 'to strengthen their allegiance to the new church'.
That had to be it! Gillian had gone cult. It would certainly explain why she didn't want Glen to discover the source of her income. Such discovery would spell certain disaster.
Jemima exhaled loudly. 'I think I understand ... I think I
might
have guessed. And if I'm right – then, has Bathsheba got wind of it, too?'
Gillian turned pale and took another frantic swig. 'I think she may have an inkling, yes. Oh, it's such a relief – I'm so glad that you
know
at last. But you do understand now why Glen mustn't find out?'
'Absolutely.' Jemima nodded fervently and wished she hadn't. The mixture of Chardonnay and Beaujolais made her head spin. 'But isn't there anyone sort of holy you could discuss it with? What about your matey Bishop?'
'God.' Gillian blinked. 'Lovely as Derek is, I don't think he'd be at all the right sort of person to confide in. Anyway, he'd be honour-bound to tell Glen.'
'Would he? Don't they have a code of practice in the Church of England, then? I'd have thought it would come under the same sort of umbrella as the sanctity of the confessional.' She would really have to avoid mixing her drinks. She'd be tuning in to
Songs of Praise
before she knew it.
Gillian looked uncomfortable. 'I don't think so. I think an issue of this – um – nature would come outside that. The clergy are a bit of a closed shop.'
'Are they? Well, of course I don't have your inside knowledge, but if it were me, then in your position I'd try to discuss it with someone higher up. Someone a bit – well – closer to God, I suppose. Look, I don't blame you. With all these wars, and so much cruelty, and world starvation – it must make even the strongest Christian doubt sometimes.'
Gillian put her empty glass on the coffee table and stubbed out her cigarette on the cake plates. 'Jemima, sweetie, what exactly do you think my secret is?'
'Well, a sort of crisis of faith? A shift in beliefs? A sideways move towards the happy-clappies?'
'Christ.' Gillian pushed the pale hair behind her ears. 'I thought you said you
knew
.'
'Not knew, exactly. More, guessed. Why? Isn't that it?'
'No, it bloody well isn't.' Gillian bent down and hauled her handbag on to her lap. She rifled through the accumulated junk, and eventually extracted a few sheets of scrumpled paper which she shoved into Jemima's hands. 'Go on. Read it. I can't keep it to myself any longer. When you've read it you can tell whoever you like. It might come as a relief.'
Jemima straightened her glasses, her eyes skimming over the double-spaced pages. She thought her mouth might have dropped open but she wasn't sure. Maybe the mixture of wines had been more potent than she'd thought. She turned back to the first page and started reading again, this time more carefully. It didn't change the words. They were still the same.
Feeling completely stunned, she let the papers fall into her lap. She stared at Gillian in disbelief. 'Good God! This is totally pornographic!'
'Erotic,' Gillian corrected wearily. 'Still, at least now you know where the money comes from, don't you?'
Jemima nodded weakly. She did. Gillian Hutchinson, Mrs Vicar, sat in the summerhouse and wrote porn. Gillian Hutchinson was Bella-Donna Stockings.
Wearing her most businesslike outfit of long skirt and patchwork jacket, Jemima sat at the back of the village hall and wished Gillian hadn't told her. It was going to be difficult not to laugh.
Bathsheba and Bronwyn were already on the stage, flanked by Petunia Hobday and two or three camp followers. Glen was doling out kind words and probably causing menopausal mayhem. It was, however, reassuring that the hall was far from full.
Jemima also wished that Gillian hadn't chosen to wear the gold-and-green floaty frock with the matching long silk scarf wound carelessly round her throat. She looked far too beautiful. If Bathsheba even had an inkling about the dual identity, she'd surely go in for the kill.
After Gillian had made her confession, and they'd abandoned the wine for a stiff slug of whisky, and Jemima's head had stopped spinning, they had decamped to the summerhouse. Gillian had switched on the word processor, scrolling through the files, then sat back and left it to Jemima.
They were all there. Six Bella-Donna Stockings novels in their entirety. Starting with
Boys and Girls Come Out to Play
– and ending with
Spanky Panky.
Jemima still didn't know whether she was shocked rigid or stunned with admiration.
Gillian had taken over the controls again. 'This is the current one,
Bonds that Bind
– mind you, that's just a working tide, it'll probably be something else. And then, there's a rough synopsis here for the next one.' She'd pushed back her chair with a sigh and lit a cigarette. The blue smoke had curled idly through the still air. 'I've thought long and hard about this – well, you have to with Fishnets – no, sorry, bad-taste joke – and I can't see any other way than to carry on.'
'Without telling Glen?'
'I can't tell Glen. How the hell could I tell Glen? He thinks that it's the women's mags that keep me in Monsoon and our bank balance in the black. He's so
proud
of me. And, whether he's supposed to or not, he enjoys not being broke. And I'm contracted to another three-book deal. Even with the money I've spent on Bonnie Nuts and your mythical rent, if I gave up now he'd be in for a hell of a financial jolt –'
Jemima had scrutinised the screen over Gillian's shoulder. 'He'd get more of a jolt if he read that!'
'You're shocked, aren't you?'
'Of course I'm shocked. But not as in "Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells". I'm just amazed that you've got away with it for as long as you have. I'd only just got my head round you being a vicar's wife and looking like a
Vogue
cover-girl. To find that you write porn as well –'
'Erotica,' Gillian had corrected quickly. 'And I've always believed one should fully utilise one's God-given gifts.'
'Oh, come on. You can't get out of it like that. God gave you the writing talent, I'll agree, but he didn't make you write por – er – erotica.'
'God isn't blatant.' Gillian had looked quite affronted at this naivety. 'I discovered my gift quite by chance. I had to do a more juicy piece for one of my regular magazines and found I could write racy stories really easily. My editor suggested I should contact Fishnets for their guidelines – and I've never looked back. As far as I'm concerned, God gave me this opportunity, and it's made life easier for Glen and the boys – as well as harmlessly entertaining for the people who read my books. And if Bathsheba thinks that I'm a scarlet woman, then she should remember Jesus and Mary Magdalene.'
'I don't think that was the same thing at all, was it? Anyway, your books are – well – where on earth do you get your ideas from?'
'A vivid imagination and a happy sex life,' Gillian purred. 'After all, Agatha Christie spent a lifetime writing whodunnits – but she never actually murdered anyone, did she?'
'No – but –'
'And you know as well as I do that Fishnets don't degrade women. And I never go outside the teachings of the Church. I always have single heroines who are driven by love as well as lust – and they always get married in the end.'
In the face of this equanimity, Jemima had felt that there was absolutely nothing left to say.
The village hall was rumbling with anticipation. It was getting late. Most people had given up
Coronation Street
and the Cat and Fiddle to be there. They were eager to get started.
Matt had promised to pop in, but Jemima doubted that he would. Tina Maloret had arrived in the village that morning and had been closeted at Lancing Grange for discussions on Dragon Slayer's suitability for the Hennessey, or so Gillian had said. Matt, naturally, hadn't talked about it with her. She knew though that he'd had an unsuccessful week, with defeats at Hereford and Plumpton. There had been a group of Kath's stable lads in the shop the previous day muttering over not being able to afford the latest Stephen King, bemoaning the fact that their gambles had once again gone down the pan, and saying that bloody Matt Garside had lost his nerve.
Jemima had tried not to listen. She had so many problems of her own, and she felt totally unequipped to deal with Matt's.
Vincent, accompanied by Maureen, had promised moral support, and they were sliding noisily into the seats on one side of Jemima. The chairs on the other side remained empty. It seemed that no one else was prepared to risk Bathsheba's wrath by being seen to consort with the enemy.
'No Matt?' Vincent asked, after making sure that Maureen was comfy. 'I thought he'd be here to hold your hand.'
Jemima shook her head. Vincent's tone was a bit caustic, she reckoned. Didn't he like Matt? Funny, she'd never asked him really. No – he's discussing tactics with Kath.'
'Not at this time of night he isn't, duck.' Maureen frowned. Kath's an early-to-bed early-to-rise girl. Everyone knows that. She wouldn't be discussing anything with anyone after eight o'clock at night.'
Jemima pulled a face. Maybe she'd got it wrong. She'd have to ask him later. She leaned towards Vincent. 'Pity he's not here, though. You men look slightly outnumbered.'
Bernie Pugh and Ted Cox had been press-ganged in and were sitting in the front row looking like they were at a vasectomy clinic. Apart from them, the congregation – if that wasn't too flippant a description – was predominantly female. Maddy, who was now obviously pregnant and looking absolutely stunning; Suzy, back in the village just for the evening which was really sweet of her, Jemima thought; and Fran, she knew, were firmly on her side. Kath Seaward, Kimberley Small and Diana James-Jordan had also, rather surprisingly, promised their high-powered backing. Otherwise, she thought, staring at the faces, it was difficult to sort out the pros from the antis. She had a feeling that if they knew the true identity of Bella-Donna Stockings someone would have had to send out for riot police and tear gas.
Glen was calling the meeting to order. She avoided meeting Gillian's eyes. Screaming with laughter now wouldn't do either of them any good at all.
'Ladies!' Glen rapped smartly on the shabby table as he scanned the gathering. 'Oh, and yes – gentlemen. Let's have some silence and a short prayer for God's guidance.'
Heads bowed and mouths worked fervently.
'We all know why this meeting has been called.' Glen's tan was set off to perfection by the sweatshirt. 'And, while I agree wholeheartedly with your dislike of pornography, I hope that we can keep a sense of proportion this evening. We live in a democracy and, as such, should be willing to be tolerant of the requirements of others as long as they remain within the law.'