‘I know, but why? Why does she want to hurt me and not Phil? Christ, he’s the one who broke us. And I’m killing myself here. I can’t see what more I could do for them, but she just keeps rebuking me.’
He took a sip of his wine and pinned me with his dark gaze. ‘Because she loves you. And it’s always difficult to forgive the ones you love the most.’
He got to his feet. ‘What you need is a good night’s sleep. Forget the dishes for once. Go to bed.’
‘But I can’t. I still have to prep for my arancini…’
I usually cooked all the ingredients the night before so they would be at room temperature the next morning when I actually formed my rice balls.
‘I’ll help you,’ he offered.
‘You? But you’ve been working all day.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, clearing the table and starting on the dishes.
‘But—’
‘This offer is only valid for the next thirty seconds, so quit your whining and get a move on, Nina.’
What could I say? The bloke was an angel. ‘You, Jack, will make some woman very happy one day.’
He made a face. ‘Maybe. If the right girl came along.’
‘Oh, she will,’ I called over my shoulder as I stepped into my larder. ‘She’d have to be an idiot to not appreciate you.’
I grabbed my ingredients and with Jack’s help, began turning raw meat into money.
All the while we worked, cooking and seasoning and frying, Jack was silent but cheerful, humming softly to himself, and it rubbed off on me. It was comforting, knowing I wasn’t the only person up at this ungodly hour when the entire village lay snuggled up in their warm beds.
When he left a couple of hours later, whispering a goodbye and patting me on the shoulder, I realised that he, Emma and I represented three failed marriages, literally, in a row. We should have called our Meadowbank Lane Divorce Row instead. Which sounded a lot like Death Row, I mused, my tired mind wandering as I climbed the stairs, listening to the house, silent but for Minnie and Callie snoring by the Aga. Ben had long gone to bed, and Chloe was probably Snapchatting away with Chanel, or even to her dad about what a monster I was.
So I crept up into the nook in the eaves that I had the gall to call a bedroom when the ceiling was so low not even standing wardrobes would fit. I’d had to buy the kind that you’d find in a baby’s nursery. The floorboards were wonky beyond trendy, and in November the window casings let in the Cornish winter with a vengeance. No amount of draught excluders could stop the cold air from creeping in.
Apart from a dresser and a bed under which I stored every book I’d ever read, there was room for little else, but I loved my bed nook because of the window overlooking the back garden. I crawled under the covers and, exhausted, waited for sleep. Sometimes it hit me like an HGV, and sometimes I’d stare up at the ceiling, trying to spot the micro cracks that let the rain in. Jack had done a good job with what he had, but had warned me it would soon need replacing. As if I had anything to spare for that.
I sighed, realising I had already entered my sleep routine, i.e. worrying and wondering whether I had put the clothes in the dryer, prepared the kids’ lunches, and how much getting the fridge repaired would cost.
How I longed to fix all of the unfixables of this house that seemed to hold together by virtue of my night-time prayers. How I longed to make my children’s house safe and warm and welcoming.
I’d always done as much as I could to put them first, but not without an argument from Phil, like the time he’d wanted to have a cellar dug out for a man cave to kit out with a giant flat-screen TV for himself and his beer-drinking buddies, rather than put double glazing in the kids’ bedroom windows. Obviously I had nipped that one in the bud.
And just as I was about to fall asleep, the fridge started barking again, waking the dogs who decided to join it in a howling concerto.
4
Crime And Punishment
In the morning, I called in an electrician who, after a look around, assured me it was safe.
That afternoon, I swung by the Post Of ice. Alf had had a bad spell where he kept getting confused, and his doctor had made him undergo some tests for dementia. Everyone rallied to help him keep his shop open, especially Bev, Carol and Deirdre.
They knew everything about everyone, but they were also the kindest, most generous souls you’d ever meet. When Phil left, they had been among the first to arrive with blankets and home-made meals.
‘Morning, Alf! Morning, ladies!’ I called at the sight of all four of them confabulating behind the counter as usual.
‘Ah, Nina!’ they all chimed in unison. ‘Care to join the committee for the End of Summer festival?’
I stopped, despite being in a super rush (and super foul mood). Any way that I could pay back the kindness that the community had shown me all these years was always welcome.
‘Sure, what do I have to do?’
‘Sing with us,’ Bev said.
Every year they tried that one on. ‘Forget it.’ (I can’t carry a tune to save myself.) ‘But I’ll cook.’
‘Goody!’ Deirdre clapped her hands. ‘Your famous Sicilian arancini?’
‘Sure, with pleasure.’
‘Excellent! Carol, add her to the list. This year we’re being hosted by the Northwood Academy.’
‘What?’ Carol said.
‘The list! Add her,’ Bev said, miming the gesture of writing. ‘There’s the chairperson now,’ Bev said with a snort. ‘My, if those heels were any higher she’d be cleaning skyscrapers in New York!’
I turned around, just in time to be ambushed by the Village Snob. One of my most heart-felt activities was avoiding people like her.
‘Darling Nina!’ cooed Vanessa, the head of the Northwood parents committee,
