Page 1 of The Player

chapter

one

A summer breeze wakes me.It drifts through my window, rattling the wooden hurricane shutters and bringing with it the soft, sweet smell of the jasmine growing up the wall outside and the sound of Olympic-level gossiping.

“Well, I said to him, ‘Mr Waters, you should feel free to do what you want in your own garden, but I must inform you that I will be reporting the matter to the committee, and you will display those turnips at the village show over my dead body.’”

“Oh, Lucy,” her friend sighs, and I groan and pull the duvet over my head. Living in a Cotswold village might be a dream to many with its chocolate-box appearance and pretty houses, but it’s fucking hell on wheels if you hate people knowing your business. And no one knows as much as Lucy Scrimshaw. She lives two doors down from me, and her reach is immense.

After a few minutes, I venture out of the covers, but they’re still going strong.

“I tell you, I don’t care what she says. Molly Saunders has definitely had breast augmentation. They’re like two cantaloupes topped with cough sweets and always jiggling away under that angora jumper she wears. She should be ashamed. It’s tighter than astraitjacket.”

I give up and slide out of bed, making my way to the bathroom and starting the shower. Fastening my shoulder-length hair in a bun, I step under the cool spray and sigh in relief. It’s been one of those rare British summers where the hot weather has lasted beyond one solitary Saturday in May. It’s September now, and the heatwave shows no sign of dissipating. The nearby fields are bleached, and the flowers in the village are a riot of colour.

Usually, I rush in and out of the shower, trying to get it done as quickly as possible so I can get on with my busy schedule. Today, however, I soap myself with languid movements, and I’m astonished when my cock stirs. I look down at it.

“What woke you up?” I whisper and snort at my stupidity.I suppose it’s healthy to talk to the thing that’s made most of my significant decisions since I was sixteen, but it’s been in hibernation for such a long time, and it’s almost painful to feel the old, sweet desire rush through my body and thrum under my skin.

I fill my palm with shower gel and fist my cock, feeling it in my slippery hand—the hard core and soft skin. It takes an embarrassingly few strokes before I grunt and come over the tiles. I wash the come away, feeling dizzy and almost as if I’ve woken up from hibernation myself.

“I used to have more stamina,” I say to the room, and it seems to echo through the empty house.

The satisfaction lingers inside me, making me feel loose and limber as I dress in black pinstripe trousers and a black T-shirt and scrape my hair back in a topknot. Pulling some shoes on, I wander downstairs and into the kitchen.

This is my favourite room in my tiny cottage.It’s an extension that the previous owner put on the back of the house. The estate agent was rather apologetic over the fact that it had made the garden smaller, but that was a massive relief to meas I’m as likely to embrace gardening as Monty Don is to wear leather chaps and a pink cowboy hat. I’ve worn both in the past, and I smile at the memory.

The previous owner left two walls as exposed brick and opened the room up to the sandblasted rafters. Apart from that, it was an empty shell when I moved in. I installed a mixture of sage and cream painted cabinets and a pine worksurface and painted the remaining walls a light sage. I finished off with a breakfast bar and cream-coloured bar chairs, and the whole effect is one of light and warmth.

I make myself some toast and smear it with a liberal coating of lavender honey and then eat it leaning against the counter as I watch the news on the TV, enjoying the breeze coming through the kitchen window. Toast eaten, I pour some green tea into my travel cup, and, grabbing my keys, I make my way towards the front door. The picture in the silver frame on the bookcase stops me in my tracks.

I step closer and run a finger down the handsome face of my late husband in the frame. “Morning,” I say softly. “I know somewhere you’re laughing your fucking head off at me watching the news and drinking green tea.” I lean closer. “I even do yoga now, David,” I whisper. “That would make you laugh.” I kiss my finger and press it to his lips, where they’re curved in a smile that will never grow old and weary. “Have a good day.” I move away and then pause. “Something is different,” I say. “What is it?”

I realise with a sense of shock that the anger, grief, and then melancholy feelings that have been my companions for three years have gone. I examine myself as tentatively as if poking a wound, but there’s no need for caution. I feel hollow inside but also as if I’ve woken refreshed after a very long sleep.

I stare at David’s photo. “Well, what do you know,” I say softly.

My phone beeps its reminder that I’ve got a meeting in an hour, and I clear my head of the strange thoughts I’m having today and grab my keys.

Letting myself out, I groan as the two women on the pavement stop their character assassination of yet another poor villager and turn with welcoming smiles to me. I falter slightly under the power of their gaze.

“Good morning, Frankie,” Lucy says brightly. She’s in her forties, with dark hair and a long nose that exists to stick into other people’s business. “How are you this morning?”

“Oh, very good,” I say, locking the door and trying not to engage in eye contact too much. Once that’s done, it’s all over. She’ll move in and embark on a quest for answers from me that would put Jeremy Paxman to shame. “Hope you ladies are well.”

Unlike the people you’re talking about,I add silently.

“We’re good,” Lucy says before her friend can get a word in. “Enjoying the weather. It’s going to make the village open garden weekend a huge hit.”

Shit! The open fucking weekend.

“Oh yes,” I mutter, edging past them on the pavement. “It should be lovely for you.”

“And for you too, Frankie,” she says sweetly. “After all, I’m sure I have your name on my list as someone who is going to participate.”

I stop dead, which I know is a mistake as soon as I do it. “You do?”

She nods. “Oh yes. I’m sure I spoke to you about it.”

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