Page 3 of Three Widows

‘Good name for a dog.’ Orla faked a smile. This conversation was boring the tits off her. ‘Éilis, how is your little fellow?’ Her Instagram feed was cluttered with photos of a white dog that might be a terrier.

‘Mozart is perfect in every way.’

‘I’d say your kids love him.’ Orla leaned forward, feigning interest. Éilis’s son was eight and her little girl was five. The perfect family, with their perfect dog. Ugh! ‘Did your husband name him?’

‘I got him after Oisín died. My therapist told me that having a dog in the house would be good for the children.’

‘To replace their dad?’

The looks on the women’s faces told Orla she had gone too far. ‘I’m kidding. Sorry. No offence.’

‘That was a little insensitive, if I’m honest,’ Éilis said, straightening her back. ‘You wouldn’t like me to talk about your Tyler that way.’

Orla fiddled with her glass and sipped her gin, willing tears into her eyes. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s just with Saturday being the anniversary of his disappearance… We talked about this before.’ She didn’t want to talk about it now.

‘It will help to talk about your life with him,’ Éilis said.

Was that a knowing glint in her eye? Orla wasn’t sure. Helena kept her head down. Probably wondering who was going to the bar. Her glass was empty.

‘You know we were married five years, and I’m sorry if I come across as insensitive to your situations, but I’ve been so confused since he disappeared, I’ve lost my social niceties. This is my only outlet, and it’s great to be with women who understand.’

She forced a tear and urged it to snake down her cheek, hopefully dragging mascara with it. Faking sorrow was a pain in the arse.

Helena reached over and took her hand. ‘You are one of us, Orla. Aren’t we glad to have her?’

Éilis opened her mouth slightly, as if the effort was too much for her, and said, ‘Sure we are.’

And like that, Orla knew she was off the hook. ‘Another Guinness, Helena? And what’s that you’re drinking, Éilis? Vodka?’

Éilis’s expression was like she had sucked an egg and it had lodged in her throat. ‘God, no! Nothing so vulgar. I’ll have another Chilean Sauvignon. White wine,’ she added, as if Orla was a total novice where alcohol was concerned.

She drained her gin and went to the bar. Relieved.

2

Entering her renovated split-level house, Éilis slipped off her shoes. It was chilly outside and the underfloor heating travelled from her feet up to her knees, warming her instantly. She paid Bianca, the sitter from next door who doubled as a nanny from time to time even though she had a summer job in Dolan’s supermarket. After the girl left, Éilis locked the door and fastened the safety chain in place.

In the kitchen, she plugged in her phone to charge and dropped her keys in the dish on the counter. She threw another log on the wood burner in the living room and shut the glass door quietly. There wasn’t a sound from upstairs. Roman and Becky were asleep.

She sat on her yellow two-seater couch and plumped up the orange and white velvet cushions. Colour soothed her and the house was dotted with pops of it. She used the remote to dim the lights and settled her legs beneath her, but feeling her eyes droop, she decided to go to bed before she could uncork a bottle of Sauvignon. That would be dangerous. She didn’t want to go down Helena’s route. She closed the damper on the stove and headed upstairs.

With her foot on the soft striped carpet of the top step, she paused. Was that a noise downstairs? Listening intently, she heard it again. The logs settling in the stove, perhaps? She’d locked the front door. Had Bianca locked the back patio door? She hadn’t checked. It was possible the teenager had gone out to the garden for a smoke.

‘Damn,’ she muttered, and headed back down the stairs.

Switching on lights as she moved through her red-painted galley kitchen, she walked into the open-plan extension with its high ceiling. She had never been one to conform to the sedate, so the walls pulsed with colour from a clutter of abstract paintings. If your life was dull, inject brightness into it, was her motto. Being an interior designer helped.

Tugging at the sliding glass door, she found it unlocked.

‘For God’s sake, Bianca.’

She locked it and stared at her reflection in the glass. A squeak behind her caused her to swing around on the ball of her foot. The gaping room was empty.

That was when she remembered she hadn’t seen or heard the dog since she’d arrived home.

‘Mozart?’ she called softly, not wanting to wake the children.

The dog didn’t come running like he usually did. Had Bianca let him out to the garden? He didn’t like the dark. He’d have come straight back in. She thought of bringing her phone upstairs, but it was still charging. She switched off lights as she went.

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