Page 54 of We Live Here Now
She’s in the kitchen when I come downstairs with the small overnight bag. I wasn’t entirely honest with her when I said that I had to stay in Taunton tonight. Yes, we do have a client dinner meeting, and yes, the boss has booked our team into the Travelodge in case the snow dump happens as expected,buthe did say I could duck out and stay at home, given Emily’s situation. I said no. A night away from Larkin Lodge is just what I need. Maybe this headache will clear. It always feels better when I’m somewhere else. I should really get someone to check for a minor gas leak. That would explain my headache and odd times of confusion and maybe some of Emily’s strangeness too.
“Yeah, fine. I’ll go to the book group in the pub.”
We barely look at each other. She turns away and faffs around wiping a side down, avoiding looking at me.
“I got an email from Dr. Canning’s secretary earlier,” she says, and my eyes dart involuntarily to her pills on the side. “He’s going on holiday and needs to bring my next appointment forward. Pain in the ass really, but we’ll have to go to London.”
“Better to be early than late, I guess.” Everyone’s lying, even the good doctor. He must think she’s getting paranoid or he’s protecting my involvement in the discussion, or both. I have a flutter of something akin to excitement that I don’t understand—I don’twantto understand.
“And after you called him, I guess he was always going to bring it forward.”
I look back at her pills again as her passive-aggressiveness rankles. There are a lot of them.There are enough of them.“I was worried about you. You know that.”
“I know. I get it.”
If she gets it, why does she need to mention it at all? Trying to put me in the doghouse again. The useless weak husband who’s always going behind her back. Will that come up in the divorce too?
“I’m leaving in half an hour or so. I can drop you at the pub on my way and maybe someone can give you a lift back. Then you don’t have to drive in snow if it comes.”
I’m glad she wants to go. The vicar already thinks she’s losing her marbles, so it’s a win-win situation for me. If she behaves normally, he’ll think she’s faking it, and if she mentions any more strangeness in the house, that’s more fuel to my fire.
I go back into the lounge while she busies herself doing nothing in the kitchen, still pondering her pills. Antianxiety pills. Pills to help her sleep. There are plenty that she could use to kill herself. I didn’t increase the life insurance this time; it’s the same policy we’ve had forever. Nothing suspicious there. I stare into the flames, and under the crackling wood I hear the hum of a beehive.
If Emily overdosed, my debts would immediately come to light and make people suspicious, for sure, but they would never be able toprove it.On top of all her paranoias about the house, maybe finding out about my problems would be seen as sending her over the edge. Has she consulted a divorce lawyer though? That could go against me. The flames lick the back of the grate, hungry, the heart of the fire almost white with heat. Everything could go against me. But they would have toprovethat I did something. And I have plenty of evidence that she’s mentally unstable.
I take a deep breath and then have a moment of joy as my body thaws out, as fast as an ice cube dropped in boiling water. The house is warm, and so am I.
Maybe I’m going to kill my wife.
It’s a strange and surreal thought, but it doesn’t fill me with horror.
69
Emily
“I’m not sure we should stay out too long,” Paul says to our small gathering at a corner table in the quiet pub. “No one wants to be driving the lanes in a blizzard.” It’s quiet in the pub, and outside, while the snow isn’t falling heavily yet, the flakes are getting thicker, sticking to the windows, creating an oppressive claustrophobia. There’s a claustrophobic atmosphere around this table too. The only people who’ve showed up are the vicar and Sally and Joe, and I couldn’t feel more uncomfortable if I tried.
I take a large sip of my red wine and watch Sally and Joe over the top of my glass. One of the girls he was painting at the studio is behind the bar, and she glances over at him occasionally with such longing I’m sure he must have slept with her. If Sally notices, she doesn’t mind. They’re sitting side by side, his hand on her thigh. His is a guest appearance, not a normal book group member, but he decided to stay when he saw I was here. Despite what he said at the party, is he thinking I’ll be his next conquest?
“I didn’t really enjoy the story.” I break the silence. “It was a bit grim.” I’d quickly finished “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” while Freddie had got his overnight bag together earlier. I wanted to see Sally, and the book club was the perfect excuse. She’s funny and charming and beautiful and has no idea that the man beside her murdered her. No wonder she was getting headaches in the house. She’s been separated from herself for a long time now and perhaps her body could feel it.
“And a bloody monkey,” Paul adds. “All very clever, but really? Not exactly satisfying.”
He hasn’t said a word about what happened at the party, and I’m glad. I’m trying my best to appear perfectly normal, and he seems to be believing it.
“It’s a classic though,” Sally adds. “First of its kind and all that. Although I’m not sure those ‘best twist you’ll read all year’ book blurbs on Amazon could get away with the killer being an escaped gorilla.”
“We should try something lighter next. Perhaps a rom-com. Cleanse the palate.” Paul glances sideways at me, clearly worrying that all the talk of murder might send me back to my paranoid suggestions. I was premature in thinking he’d forgotten what I’d said. Still. We’ll be moving soon and I’ll never see these people again.
“Good idea,” Sally says. “Murder stories stop me sleeping.”
“Are you okay, Emily?” Joe’s studying me, concerned. “You’re a bit pale.”
“Sorry, I do have a bit of a headache.” It’s surreal sitting opposite them. Perhaps he’s even persuaded himself that killing his wife was all a dream. They’re happy, anyone can see that. Happier than they were when she was constantly jealous back in the days Merrily Watkins described.Thatpart of Sally Freemantle is stuck in my third-floor bedroom.
“Maybe it’s something in the house,” Sally says quietly, her brow furrowed. “I got a terrible headache there.” Joe leans across and kisses her, soft and sweet, and she looks so joyful and so does he. A quiet, perfect love, if unconventional. And all it took was a little murder. It’s hard to believe when I’m out of the house and she’s so clearly alive and well. Maybe the book is the rambling of a madman, and maybe Mrs. Tucker found it and read it and then dreamed Gerald’s death. Maybe Fortuna never killed him at all.
Too many maybes. Joe’s still looking at me thoughtfully as I pull my coat on and say my goodbyes, and I have a moment of panic that he can see right into my head.
