A Fatal Flaw. Faith Martin

      Mrs Christine Dunbar sighed over a large bunch of russet chrysanthemums that stubbornly failed to form into the shape she wanted, and began re-arranging them, somewhat impatiently, in a large cut-glass vase.

      She was a rather handsome but large and fleshy woman, who was never seen out and about in public without wearing her corset. Her tightly waved, rather brassy blonde hair was always hardened into submission by a lavish application of hairspray, and her face was always made up with the latest and finest cosmetics. Only her rather boiled-gooseberry blue eyes caused her real concern, but, as her practically-minded mother had always told her, there was very little she could do about those.

      Her grandfather had been a Tory politician for many years, and once, in his glory days before the Great War, had even been a member of the cabinet. And it was from him that, as an only child, she had inherited the large, whitewashed mansion just off the Woodstock road where she now lived. Sited firmly in the prestigious area in the north of the city, it boasted a large, well-tended garden, and a double garage.

      Finally having beaten the blooms into submission, she carried the now perfectly arranged vase into the lounge and placed it on top of the grand piano. Neither she nor her husband could play the instrument, not being particularly musical, but it had stood in pride of place in the room, probably since Queen Victoria had reigned.

      Her husband, sitting on the sofa and perusing the London Times, barely noticed her presence as she took a seat on the sofa opposite him, and reached for an embroidery hoop, containing her latest needlework.

      She enjoyed making religious mottoes, usually surrounded by a flower border, which she then donated to the local church bazaar.

      Now she looked over a rather fine pink peony that she had almost finished, and regarded her husband, Robert, without any obvious signs of enthusiasm.

      In many ways, she believed, she had rather married beneath her. And yet she couldn’t deny that in many other ways, her choice had been a wise and inspired one.

      Robert was not, she admitted to herself without any undue sense of worry, a particularly handsome man. Of average height at five feet seven inches, he was now, at the age of 52, going slightly bald on top, but kept his hair nicely dyed black, which went with his nearly ebony-coloured eyes. The matching moustache was similarly obsidian, but his chin was undeniably weak. Her husband liked to dress well though, and at times, it sometimes occurred to Christine to wonder (rather uneasily and with a sense of rare self-awareness) if he might not have a better sense of fashion than she did. He was one of those men who radiated an immense sense of energy. The kind of man who was used to getting things done but also seemed full of humour and bonhomie; but that, as she very well knew, was merely a front for his rapacious nature.

      Of which she approved enormously.

      For although Robert had been born of distinctly lower-middle-class parents (his father had been a chemistry teacher at a second-rate boys’ prep school) his ambitions had always been first-class. And she, on the market for a husband who could keep her in luxury, had been perspicacious enough to sense that he had the brains and the determination to succeed in life.

      As, indeed he had. He had taken her not immodest dowry and turned it into a very profitable company producing jam, honey and marmalade to the discerning palate, nationwide.

      Of course, it was ‘trade’, and as such, rather below what she was used to, but Christine had made it a point never to set foot in the actual ‘works’. What’s more, she had grimly ignored any behind-the-hand sniggering that might have gone on in her set during the early years of her marriage. It was now an immense source of satisfaction to her that, as income tax began to bite so hard and many of her friends had to tighten their belts or sell off the family heirlooms, she had been able to carry on spending as much as she had ever done.

      It was just annoying that the ‘works’ had been allowed to intrude so rudely in her life in recent weeks.

      Normally, whenever her husband discussed his plans for expanding the business or crowed over his latest scheme to bring Dunbar products more firmly into the public eye, Christine barely listened.

      But this latest venture of his was causing her no end of anxiety.

      When he’d first proposed establishing Miss Oxford Honey in a bid to make their own brands as famous as those of Oxford Marmalade, Christine had been almost speechless. Her conservative soul had shrivelled at the thought of something so utterly down-market as a beauty contest, and she could imagine the sniggering starting up all over again.

      Surely, she’d protested to her husband, he had been in jest?

      And just as surely, she’d come to learn that he was not. For whilst he had become used to acceding to her requests in the normal run of things, he was adamant that ‘work’ was his domain, and in this one area he would not be dictated to.

      Eventually, therefore, she’d been forced to back down. But that did not mean that she was totally defeated. Instead, she’d magnanimously and cunningly offered to lend a hand herself, and ‘help’ him run the whole event.

      In this way, she’d pointed out cannily, he wouldn’t need to neglect the routine work, or the vital day-to-day running of the business, whilst still being able to make use of his brilliant marketing strategy.

      In reality, of course, she’d only done it to ensure that her husband would have as little to do with it as possible, because… Well, as Christine had been forced to face, rather early on in her marriage, Robert had a bit of a roving eye.

      It was annoying, of course. And when she’d been younger, overwhelmingly painful. But over the years, and by constantly telling herself that it was nothing really hideously embarrassing, she’d managed to ignore it. Well, mostly.

      After all, many of the women in her set had to put up with men who strayed, especially wealthy men; men who were used to a certain amount of power and status. It was just their way. So long as it was handled discreetly, everyone could pretend it wasn’t happening. And Robert, she had to admit, was always very careful indeed to be discreet. As he should be!

      For a second, her rather unattractive face contorted with pain.

      Although Christine had no qualms about letting her husband manage her money and capital, she’d been wise enough to keep it all under her own name. Which meant that Robert had lived for the nearly twenty-five years of their marriage well aware of which side his bread was buttered, and that keeping her sweet was definitely in his own best interests.

      But she was, by nature, a deeply suspicious woman (and subconsciously at least, a very insecure one), so it hadn’t taken her long to discover his succession of mistresses. These he kept in a discreet flat in High Wycombe, where Dunbar had a second factory, and which required Robert’s ‘input’ once or twice a week.

      This arrangement she’d been forced to accept with grace, as a woman of her intelligence and sophistication had been trained to do.

      And she didn’t – well, not really – believe that he would ever be so crass and stupid as to let himself get mixed up with some working-class dolly bird who had delusions of becoming a fashion model or some such thing, on the back of winning a local beauty contest.

      Even so, it was a fact of life that Robert liked pretty women. And when men reached middle age… well, they could often get a little bit silly. The thought of letting him run free among so much temptation had definitely been enough to raise her hackles.

      Luckily, she had a very good spy-in-the-camp in Grace Farley, whom she’d persuaded her husband to put in charge as the ‘face of Dunbar’s’ during the running of the event. And she could always make sure Grace did as she was told. And, of course, she could rely on good old Patricia Merriweather to help her keep her errant husband on the straight and narrow.

      A widow herself, the old lady knew how the world worked all right, and of course the Merriweathers were one of Oxford’s ‘old’ families, whose ancestry went back even further than her own.

      Yet, still, Christine felt vaguely uneasy about the whole thing.