Page 16 of The Black Trilogy

The day after the dance found Carol and me at the parish council meeting, which wasn’t so much a meeting as a bunch of self-important idiots bickering.

“I’m not on the council myself, dear,” Carol said. “But the Women’s Institute has an outing there each month. The arguments can be quite entertaining. It’s a bit like Jeremy Kyle but with better refreshments.”

She was right. It was all I could do to stop myself from smacking their heads together after an argument about whose turn it was to organise the litter patrol for the Best Kept Village competition.

I hated to admit it, but Carol’s distraction technique had some merit. With all the activities she organised to fill my days, I didn’t have time to dwell on more painful subjects. Still, I couldn’t help wishing for something more interesting to do. The old guys were kind, but I felt out of place being the youngest by thirty years, and I could easily live without discussions over the best brand of incontinence pad. Perhaps if they drank less tea, they wouldn’t need to worry about that. Yes, I was English, but I was sick of flipping tea. My palate craved a decent espresso, but asking for one would have been sacrilegious around here.

And while I could cope with my waking hours, the nights gave me more problems. Rather than sleeping, I’d lie awake for hours, thoughts tumbling through a mind filled with darkness. How had my life turned into such a mess so quickly? And more importantly, what was I going to do about it?

CHAPTER 7

I SAT UP in bed, sweat dripping off me. The mattress was damp, the outline of my body dark against the maroon sheets. Had I cried out in my sleep? I’d certainly screamed in real life when it happened.

Once again, I’d relived my husband’s death, the moment seared into my mind like the climax of a horror movie. I’d have done anything to rewind the film.

Calm, Ash. Calm. I tried to slow my breathing as I listened for signs of movement in the house, but the only noise was a car on the road outside. Good, I hadn’t woken Carol.

I rolled out of bed, my steps silent as I crossed to the window and looked out on the moonlit world. Sleep wouldn’t come again that night, I knew from experience. It would just be me and my wayward thoughts until morning, and as always, my husband was on my mind.

Always a planner, he’d organised what would happen if one of us died young, but now I realised that had just been paperwork. I’d been left with his share in a security business, his house, his cars, even a jet, but I’d also gained a gaping chasm in my chest, because a part of me died with him.

There were so many things I wished I’d said. Above all, I should have told him I loved him, really loved him, in the way I’d pretended not to for fear he wouldn’t feel the same way. I’d have sold my soul to the devil to be held in my husband’s arms one last time. He’d been the person who kept me sane, and now I’d lost my freaking mind.

Lucifer wasn’t dealing, though. My husband was gone, and I was still here.

Which meant I needed to plan. I couldn’t risk going home yet, but with cash dwindling, getting a job was a priority. A job that wouldn’t lead to my name popping up in any databases, and one that didn’t require a reference.

That left two options: low-paid, manual work or something illegal. The latter would certainly pay better, but I didn’t want to walk down that road at the moment. Not because I had a problem with breaking the law—the world ranged from black to white, and I’d always walked on the dark side—but because I didn’t trust myself not to get caught, not with my head screwed up the way it was.

By morning, I’d set myself a time limit to start looking for work. One week. One week to get my head in order. One week of living in a bubble before I had to rejoin the real world. One week, and the clock was ticking.

Little did I know that luck would be on my side for once. Only two days had passed when Carol informed me of another outing.

“The horticultural society committee’s meeting tomorrow morning, and Vera’s making her chocolate fudge cake. You don’t want to miss that.”

“Could you bring me a slice back?”

She gave me a dirty look over her glasses.

“Okay, okay. I’ll come.”

What could I say? I was a sucker for dessert.

The village hall held the ubiquitous long table, a variety of old people, a tea urn, a table of plants with handwritten price tags, and—hallelujah—the promised chocolate cake.

Without Toby on my back, I was eating too much junk food, and I didn’t have the energy to work it off. At this rate, I’d be straining the seams of my newly purchased yoga pants and reciting the number of the local takeaway in my sleep. It was a slippery slope to the life of a couch potato, and I stood perilously close to the edge.

I took a seat next to Carol and tuned out as the conversation turned to gardening. My horticultural knowledge covered three areas—what I could eat to survive, which plants had healing properties, and those I could use to poison people. The characteristics of a prize-winning dahlia passed me by.

A huff from Carol brought me back to the present.

“Fenton Palmer doesn’t know his aster from his elder.”

The man at the head of the table sighed. “But he’s agreed to sponsor the show, so we have to let him be on the judging panel. We’ve booked the hall, and now we just need to agree on the classes.”

Oh dear. Eight voices got louder and louder as the committee began arguing. They must have been getting tips from the parish councillors, because nobody wanted to listen to anybody else, and they couldn’t agree on anything.

While fascinating to watch, my nerves were wearing thin. If this discussion kept up, I’d miss lunch, and Carol had promised sticky toffee pudding for dessert. Fingers tapping, I waited for the next gap in the conversation, which took such a long time to appear I began to think the manned probe to Mars would arrive back sooner, and that hadn’t even taken off yet, for crying out loud.

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