Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 160356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 802(@200wpm)___ 641(@250wpm)___ 535(@300wpm)
The reason Noah was killed.
Fucking hell.
I hate them both.
“Kiera mentioned something about work, how we met, when, and—”
“Get to the fucking point, Dominic.”
“Mindy put two and two together and deduced we’d had an affair. She’s given me the chance to tell you before she tells you herself.”
“Right.” I’m waiting for the unbridled rage to send me into a spin, or even the lump in my throat to appear. But all I feel is . . . numb. He knows what tomorrow is. Or is he too wrapped up in his happy little family now to remember? “Is that all?”
“What?”
“I said, is that all?” I walk to the door and swing it open. Mr. Percival is in the corridor, holding his walking frame with one hand and a bulging shopping bag with the other. I quietly scorn the old boy, taking the bag. “Anyone would think you want to injure yourself,” I say, starting to walk him to his door. Dominic emerges from my apartment, his face blank and yet riddled with perplexity, as he quietly leaves.
Mr. Percival cranes his neck. “Who’s that, dear?”
“A ghost,” I murmur, and he laughs, elbowing me in my arm.
“Stop playing games with me.”
I turn a mild smile onto him. “I don’t know who that is, Mr. Percival.”
“You don’t?”
I shake my head. “What on earth have you got in this bag?”
“Oh, the Christmas market’s on,” he says, casting one last look over his shoulder, but he doesn’t push. “I got us gifts.”
I get him inside his apartment and turn to shut the door. Dominic is motionless by the glass door that leads to the street. “What did you get me?” I ask, turning away, knowing that will be the last time I see my husband.
“Here, let me show you.” Mr. Percival claims the bag back and pulls out a bottle of wine. “Orange wine. It’s all the rage, apparently. I thought you might like to try it.”
I accept the bottle, grateful, not only because I need a drink, but because maybe I can get so drunk, I don’t wake up for the whole of tomorrow. “Want to share it?” I ask, encouraging him on.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“I don’t date, Mr. Percival.”
“Then how do explain Dec Ellis?”
“Him?” I laugh, and the absent lump starts growing. “I haven’t dated him.” I’m struggling to get my words out. “I skipped dating and just fell in love with him instead.”
“I thought as much.”
“You did?”
“Go big or go home, dear.” He chuckles. “And of course, he’s coming for dinner and birthday cake tonight!”
Not happening. I will not celebrate a man who possibly used me and is feeling fucked that his gig is up. “He’s not coming now.”
“Oh. That’s a shame.”
“It’s okay. I’ll eat the cake myself.”
Mr. Percival takes a moment, obviously reaching the right conclusion. “About that drink,” he says softly.
“You know, do you mind if we defer until tomorrow? I don’t think I’ll be much company.” The mention of Dec has apparently kick-started all the feels.
“A problem shared is a problem halved, dear.”
“I won’t burden you with my tragedies.” I dip and drop a kiss on his wrinkly old cheek. “Thank you for the wine.”
“Welcome, dear,” he says, thoughtful, as I let myself out. “You know where I am.”
I get inside my apartment and close the door, taking in the newly spruced-up space, before wandering to the kitchen. The table is laid for two. Ingredients I need to make a coq au vin are on the counter, the chicken in the fridge with wine. Wine that I carefully selected to match the meal I was making, rather than wine for the sake of getting mindlessly drunk.
Which is what it will be used for now.
He was having an affair. My baby is dead because he was having a fucking affair.
I didn’t plan for it to happen. It just . . . did.
Such utter fucking bollocks. When will the blows stop coming? I thought Dec was healing me. I never dreamed he could be using me.
He’s slashed his offer, and then I found out he’s seeing you. Coincidence?
No. Probably not.
“God damn it,” I yell, slapping the counter. Why now? Why this month? This week? This fucking day?
I set the orange wine on the counter and pull out the chilled white from the fridge, retrieving my newly bought corkscrew to remove the cork. No screw caps in sight. I pour a large glass and sip it as I put away the ingredients, then head into the lounge to the cabinet by the window. The framed picture of my boy sits there alone, tilted ever so slightly so he can see the snow.
It comes over me like a tidal wave, my muscles giving way, folding me down to the floor.
And I sob.
Silently.
I sob my fucking heart out. “I don’t want tomorrow to come,” I say to him. “Mummy doesn’t want to do this anymore.” Wake up each morning and have that brief moment where everything’s okay before reality swoops in and reminds me of what I’ve lost. And the agony starts all over again. A never-ending cycle of pain, momentary relief, and realisation, setting off the pain again. Dec provided respite. My job was a distraction. The pain was dulled. Not gone—it will never be gone—but it was manageable. Just. Neither Dec nor my job can help me anymore.