think. And then she realised that loud music annoying the neighbours was the least of her worries.
‘Hello?’ she cried, peering into the gloomy interior. But no one could possibly hear her puny voice over the incessant wail of guitars. For goodness sake.
She huffed over to the driver’s side and tapped on the window. It was dark, but she could make out her husband’s profile. What was he doing? He was just sitting there, facing straight ahead without even acknowledging her. He must be in a bad mood. Annoyed with her about something or other. Well that was rich, after everything.
She knocked angrily on the window once again. Still no response. The least he could do was get out and talk to her. She reached for the car handle and yanked open the door, and as she did so, everything seemed to slow down…
The music came at her like an avenging army. She suddenly couldn’t breathe. She was choking, coughing, wheezing. Her eyes watering. What was that smell? Fumes! And through her discomfort, her husband didn’t even turn to her. Didn’t speak. Instead, he tipped forward like a sack of potatoes, his head landing on the steering wheel, hitting the car horn. At the same time, an empty pill bottle rolled off his lap, bouncing onto the concrete floor by her feet.
Then, just like that – as her eyes streamed and her lungs squeezed – she realised he was never going to get out and talk to her. Not ever again. Because her screw-up of a husband was stone-cold dead. And through the shock and the horror, a new kind of anger began to grow.
One
Wednesday
TIA
‘Your Leo’s a real bundle of energy.’ Pip shields her eyes and stares out across the heat-hazed playground as my three-year-old son races around on his scooter with a couple of the other preschoolers, his brown springy curls streaming out from beneath his sun hat.
‘He never stops.’ I glance from Leo to Pip’s son Milo, who’s holding her hand and pressing himself into her legs. I smile down at her fair-haired child, wondering how two boys the same age can be so different. Glancing back at Leo, I’m all prepared for a possible wipeout and tears, my bag already stocked with antiseptic wipes and plasters. But for now Leo’s grin is wide, and his energy is at maximum.
Pip sighs and runs a hand through her short dark hair. ‘I wish Milo would join in more. He’s always glued to my side.’
‘He loves his mummy.’ I give her a smile before glancing down at my watch. ‘They’re late out today.’
‘I hope they’re not much longer,’ Emily huffs. ‘Maisie’s got a dental check-up at four. We’re going to be late. You guys looking forward to Saturday?’
Pip and I nod and grin. The Ashridge Regatta is the town’s social event of the year – a traditional family day where the adults relax, and the kids always have a blast.
‘Are either of you racing this year?’ Emily asks with a toss of her glossy hair.
‘Not this time.’ I shake my head regretfully, remembering the glory days where I used to win the ladies’ race on a regular basis. ‘Ed’s having a go at the pursuit race this year.’ My lovely husband isn’t a natural sailor, but what he lacks in technique, he makes up for with a bucketload of enthusiasm.
‘At last. Here they come.’ Emily points to the broad, dark-haired figure of their teacher, Mr Jeffries, followed by an orderly two-by-two crocodile of five-year-olds. I’m in awe of how he gets them to come out of their classroom so neatly, especially as he’s newly qualified. I can barely manage two kids. How he does it with thirty is a mystery.
‘Leo!’ I wave my son over from the far end of the playground, where he’s in a huddle with some of the other preschool kids, but he’s pretending not to hear me. Sighing and shaking my head, I scan the line of children. I can see Pip’s daughter Sasha and Emily’s daughter Maisie, but I can’t seem to locate Rosie. The three of them are normally inseparable. I call over to my son once again. ‘Leo!’ This time I manage to fix him with a come-here-right-now stare. His shoulders dip and he scoots over, spraying gravel as he comes to a stop. ‘Stay here. We’re going in a minute.’
‘Where’s Rosie?’ he asks in his little croaky voice that’s so cute I can never stay cross at him for long.