Without planning to, I find myself in the town centre and sit outside a café, too hot to carry on walking. I slide the menu from its holder. I’ve eaten an apple and a piece of toast today. It’s no wonder I feel sick all the time.
“Can I take your order, madam?” I hate being called madam. It makes me feel much older than my thirty-six years. “It’s last orders now. We’re closing up at five.”
Last orders. It’s like being in the Black Bull. I wish. No, I don’t. “I’ll have a toasted teacake and a chamomile tea please.” It might calm me down.
“Will that be all, madam?” I want to shout at him. Don’t call me madam. He thrusts the payment machine in front of me and I present the card for our joint account.
“I’m afraid to tell you that it has declined the transaction.” His voice is loud enough for a couple walking past to look at me, and three people at the next table. He rips the receipt from the machine. “Would you like to try an alternative method of payment madam?”
“There should be money in that account.” I flush to the roots of my hair as I fish around in my purse and pull out the card for my current account, which normally doesn’t contain more than pocket money. Most of what I had left should be in the joint account. I was happy with our financial arrangement. With my drinking being as it has been, Rob liked to keep hold of the purse strings and monitor what I was spending.
Luckily, my personal account payment works, and the waiter leaves me alone.
I feel lost without my mobile phone and wonder how long the police will have it for. Surely not for long. Luckily, I’ve still got my Kindle Fire, which I slide from my handbag. At least I can get onto the internet and check our joint account. But it’s so long since I was on it I can’t remember the login details. I flick through to Facebook and try to ignore the thirty plus notifications that are there. At first glance they are the condolences everyone feels compelled to leave, most saying the same thing and I can’t bear to read them right now. There’ll be time when we get to the funeral to face all that.
For now, I’ve got to hold it together. And not give into drink. I click onto Rob’s profile page to see if he’s friends with this James Turner. He is. I click to the page, disappointed to find it inaccessible apart from when he’s changed his profile or cover photo. I need to find some contact details for him.
All his pictures relate to cars or football matches. He’s about the same age as Rob. There’s some information on his about me page. Lives in Manchester. Self Employed. Supports Manchester United. James Turner doesn’t sound interesting. I think again of the huge transaction in the bank statement I found in Rob’s office – I hope to God my money is safe.
The words if you don’t have my money by 6pm, there will be consequences, swim back into my mind. I must do some more digging around in Rob’s office. I’ve got a bad feeling in my gut about this. And the mortgage company. And our joint account.
* * *
I’m devouring every news report and every bit of social media.
When his body has been released to the undertakers,
I will know I’m in the clear.
Chapter 21
Mum raises her eyes from her phone. Her face is pinched with fury as I walk towards the garden table. “Where the hell have you been?”
“I told you. I needed some time to myself.”
“You’ve had all bloody day whilst Jack’s been in school.” She looks awful. I’m not used to seeing Mum without a face full of make-up. Even her hair is a sweaty mess.
“Where’s Jack? Is he OK?”
“I sent him to his room. His noise was driving me to distraction.”
I feel guilty now for leaving him. She’s hardly granny of the year. I turn back towards the house. I need to keep busy and out of Mum’s way. “I’ll put some dinner on. Chicken and salad if that’s OK?”
“Don’t take advantage of me again Fiona. I’ve done my time. With you. If I wanted to look after children, I’d open a nursery.”
Ignoring her, I walk across the patio.
As I chop salad, I hear her through the open window. “Please Shane.” She’s crying. In my garden. I hope the neighbours aren’t in their gardens, listening to her. “We’re wonderful together. She can never give you what I can.”
Pause.
“But they’re getting older,” she wails. “And before long, they’ll leave home, and what will you be left with? Her?”
Pause.
“No, you don’t love her. If you did, you would have come nowhere near me. Happily married men don’t have affairs.”
Pause.
“I wish I’d never told you now. I can’t believe you’re making threats like that.”
I wonder what he’s threatening her with. It definitely sounds as though she’s better off without him. And not just for Dad’s sake.
“Do you know how that makes me feel? After everything we’ve shared. I can’t believe you’re treating me like this. You bastard!”
“Mum, enough!” I stride through the conservatory doors towards her. “You’re not using that kind of language in my garden.” Her phone is still lit up on the table. She reaches into a bag and pulls out a bottle of wine.
“Get us a glass, will you? The plan now is to
