Джеффри Арчер - Cat O'Nine Tales

When Bob invited Carol and me to join him for dinner so that he could introduce us to Fiona, whom he described as the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with, we were both surprised and delighted. We were also a little perplexed as we couldn’t recall the name of his last girlfriend. We were fairly confident it wasn’t Fiona.

When we arrived at the restaurant, we saw the two of them seated in the far corner of the room, holding hands. Bob rose to greet us and immediately introduced Fiona as the most wonderful girl in the world. To be fair to the woman, no red-blooded male could have denied Fiona’s physical attributes. She must have been about five foot nine, made up of thirty inches of leg, attached to a figure honed in the gym and no doubt perfected on a diet of lettuce leaves and water.

Our conversation during the meal was fairly limited, partly because Bob spent most of the time staring at Fiona in a way that should be reserved for one of Donatello’s nudes. By the end of the meal, I had come to the conclusion that Fiona would end up costing about as much, and it wasn’t just because she read the wine list from the bottom upwards, ordered caviar as a starter and asked, with a sweet smile, for her pasta to be covered in truffles.

Frankly, Fiona was the type of long-legged blonde whom you hope to bump into, while perched on a stool in a hotel bar, late at night and preferably on another continent. I am unable to tell you how old she was, but I did learn during dinner that she had been married three times before she met Bob. However, she assured us that, this time, she had found the right man.

I was only too happy to escape that night and, as you have already discovered, I didn’t waste much time making my wife aware of my views on Fiona.

The marriage took place some three months later at the Chelsea Register Office in the King’s Road. The ceremony was attended by several of Bob’s friends from St Thomas’ and Guy’s — some of whom I hadn’t set eyes on since our rugby days. I felt it unwise to point out to Carol that Fiona didn’t seem to have any friends, or at least none who were willing to attend her latest nuptials.

I stood silently by Bob’s side as the registrar intoned the words, ‘If anyone can show lawful reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, then they should declare that reason to me now.’

I wanted to offer an opinion, but Carol was too close at hand to risk it. I must confess that Fiona did look radiant on that occasion, not unlike a python about to devour a lamb — whole.

The reception was held at Lucio’s on the Fulham Road. The best man’s speech might have been more coherent if I hadn’t consumed quite so much champagne, or if I’d believed a word I was uttering.

When I sat down to indulgent applause, Carol didn’t lean across to congratulate me. I avoided her until we all joined the bride and groom on the pavement outside the restaurant. Bob and Fiona waved goodbye before stepping into a white stretch limousine that would take them to Heathrow. From there, they were to board a plane to Acapulco, where they would spend a three-week honeymoon. Neither the transport to Heathrow, which incidentally could have accommodated the entire wedding party, nor the final destination for the honeymoon, had been Bob’s first choice. A piece of information I didn’t pass on to Carol, as she would undoubtedly have accused me of being prejudiced — and she would have been right.

I can’t pretend that I saw a lot of Fiona during their first year of marriage, although Bob called from time to time, but only from his practice in Harley Street. We even managed the occasional lunch, but he no longer seemed to be able to fit in a game of squash in the evening.

Over lunch Bob never failed to expound the virtues of his remarkable wife, as if only too aware of my attitude to his spouse — although I never at any time expressed my true feelings. I could only assume that this was the reason Carol and I were never invited to dinner at their home, and whenever we asked them to join us for supper, Bob made some unconvincing excuse about having to visit a patient, or being out of town on that particular evening.

The change was subtle to begin with, almost imperceptible. Our lunches became more regular, even the occasional game of squash was fitted in, and perhaps more relevant, there were fewer and fewer references to Fiona’s pending sainthood.

It was soon after the death of Bob’s aunt, a Miss Muriel Pembleton, that the change became far less subtle. To be honest, I didn’t even realize that Bob had an aunt, let alone one who was the sole heir to Pembleton Electronics.

The Times revealed that Miss Pembleton had left a little over seven million pounds in shares and property, as well as a considerable art collection. With the exception of a few minor bequests to charitable organizations, her nephew turned out to be the sole beneficiary. God bless the man, because coming into an unexpected fortune didn’t change Bob in any way; but the same couldn’t be said of Fiona.

When I called Bob to congratulate him on his good fortune, he sounded very low. He asked if I could possibly join him for lunch, as he needed to seek my advice on a personal matter.

We met a couple of hours later, at a gastro pub just off Devonshire Place. Bob didn’t talk about anything consequential until after the waiter had taken our order, but once the first course had been served, Fiona was the only other dish on the menu. He had received a letter that morning from Abbott Crombie & Co, Solicitors, stating, in unambiguous terms, that his wife was filing for divorce.

‘Can’t fault her timing,’ I said tactlessly.

‘And I didn’t even spot it,’ said Bob.

‘Spot it?’ I repeated. ‘Spot what?’

‘How Fiona’s attitude to me changed not long after she’d met my aunt Muriel. In fact, that same night, she literally charmed the pants off me.’

I reminded Bob of what Woody Allen had said on the subject. Mr Allen could not understand why God had given man a penis and a brain, but not enough blood to connect the two. Bob laughed for the first time that day, but it was only moments before he lapsed back into a maudlin silence.

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I asked.

‘Only if you know the name of a first-class divorce lawyer,’ Bob replied, ‘because I’m told that Mrs Abbott has a reputation for extracting the last drop of blood on behalf of her clients, especially following the latest law lords’ ruling in favour of spouses.’

‘Can’t say I do,’ I responded. ‘Having been happily married for sixteen years, I fear I’m the wrong man to advise you. Why don’t you have a word with Peter Mitchell? After all, with four ex-wives, he ought to be able to tell you who’s the best advocate available.’

‘I called Peter first thing this morning,’ admitted Bob. ‘He’s always been represented by Mrs Abbott — told me that he keeps her on a permanent retainer.’

During the next few weeks, Bob and I returned to the squash court regularly, and I started beating him for the first time. He would then join Carol and me for dinner afterwards. We tried to steer clear of any talk about Fiona. However, he did let slip that she was refusing to leave the stage gracefully, even after he had offered her half of Aunt Muriel’s bequest.

As the weeks turned into months, Bob began losing weight and his golden locks were turning prematurely grey. Fiona, on the other hand, seemed to go from strength to strength, taking each new hurdle like a seasoned thoroughbred. When it came to tactics, Fiona clearly understood the long game, but then she had the advantage of having experienced three away victories, and was clearly looking forward to a fourth.