The Faithless - Martina Cole [2]
Paradise Lost (1667)
John Milton, 1608–74
For the love of money is the root of all evil
1 Timothy 6:10
Chapter One
1984
‘Come on, Jimmy, have another one. I’m celebrating.’
Jimmy Tailor grinned; he had an easy-going nature that some people took advantage of. He was a big man, big in all ways – over six feet and well built. Before his marriage he had been a body builder, and he still held traces of his former physique.
‘Nah, better get home, Cynthia’s waiting for me.’
It was Friday night and all his pals were going to have a few more pints before meeting their wives and girlfriends later on in a wine bar in the West End. He would have loved to have joined them, but he knew that Cynthia wouldn’t come.
‘Fucking hell, Jimmy, you’re married, mate, not joined at the hip.’
This from his best friend Davey Brown. Davey thought Jimmy was a mug and that he should put his foot down with Cynthia, but Davey didn’t understand her. No one did it seemed, except him. He smiled, but it was a tight smile. ‘We’re saving, what with little Gabriella and all.’
‘’Course, mate, you get yourself off.’ Davey seemed immediately sorry for his jibe.
Jimmy left the pub a few minutes later, reluctant to go if he was honest, but even more reluctant to stay where he was. He walked along the road, feeling the cold hit him, making his face sting and, pulling up the collar of his overcoat, he made his way slowly home.
Chapter Two
Cynthia Tailor was pleased with herself. Her house looked lovely and festive – just how a home should look at Christmas time, from the scented pine tree, decorated in what she felt was a tasteful manner – no tinsel and no coloured lights – to the neatly wrapped presents underneath it. It couldn’t be further away from the house she grew up in, with the dirt, the smell of frying bacon, and the garish, cheap hanging garlands. She shuddered inwardly as she thought of her mother’s house. She had escaped from that life and there was no way she was ever going back.
Cynthia’s sitting room was painted a pale cream, and the carpet was a thick Axminster. It had cost the national debt, but looked wonderful against the walls and the luxurious chocolate-brown velvet curtains at the windows. She knew her home was beautiful, and she never tired of cleaning it, or enhancing it. This was the first step on the ladder for them; they would go on from here, make their money on this place, and get bigger and better houses each time. She sighed with contentment at the thought.
James was a decent man, boring in some ways, but she knew that with his accountancy job in the city they would always be all right for money. And he was expecting some big news about a promotion any day now. Cynthia had come from a council estate in Hackney, and she had been determined from a young age that she wouldn’t be staying there for longer than she had to. Now here she was, with a lovely semi in Ilford, and the chance to go onwards and upwards.
She walked out into her kitchen, and checked on the casserole she had bubbling on her new halogen hob. The kitchen was like something from a magazine, all white doors and stainless steel sinks. It was Hygena, and she knew it was far too good for the house, but she saw it as an investment. James had balked at the price but she had won him over. He always saw the sense of her arguments in the end; after all, she was the one stuck here all day, and she was entitled to have what she wanted around her – at least that was what she thought, anyway. And she had her ways to make sure he knew who was the boss under this roof.
She heard her daughter’s cry and, sighing, she left the kitchen and made her way up the stairs.
Gabriella was a handful, and this was the only bugbear in her otherwise perfect life. She should be clean at night by now. The other kids at Gabriella’s playschool were all clean, so why was her daughter so late?
She went into the child’s room. It was decorated as a girl’s bedroom should be decorated, with pale pink walls, and cream carpet. Cynthia