LITMIR.BIZ

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woman. Probably multiple times. How long had it been going on? Where? In their bed or somewhere else?

      David’s throat made a rattling sound and Grace examined her response with a mixture of awe and curiosity. Was she seriously considering not resuscitating him?

       My name is Grace Porter and I murdered my husband.

      No, not murder. Murder was premeditated. This was more…opportunistic.

      If he died she wouldn’t even know who to call to break the news. She’d have to look around her at the funeral and try to identify the one woman who was crying as hard as she was.

      Dimly registering the clattering and panic around her, Grace stared down at him for what felt like minutes but was in fact no more than a few seconds.

      This was the man she loved. They’d had a child together. She’d assumed they’d grow old together.

      If he was bored with his life, why hadn’t he said something?

      The injustice of it almost strangled her sense of duty. He hadn’t even given her a chance to fix things. He’d made the decision for both of them. How could he do that?

      As sirens sounded in the distance, David made a choking sound and then his eyes closed.

      Grace woke from her inertia.

      She couldn’t let another person die even though it felt as if that person had stabbed her through the heart.

      She knelt down beside him, felt for a pulse, checked his breathing and then put her hands on his chest and started compressions.

      One, two, three—Damn you, David…damn you, David…

      She counted as she pumped and then pinched his nose and breathed air into his mouth, trying not to think about those lips kissing another woman.

      The first thing she was going to do when she got back home was change the sheets.

      The sound of sirens grew louder. She willed them to hurry. She didn’t want him to die. That would be the easy way out for him, and Grace didn’t want to give him the easy way out.

      She wanted answers.

Audrey

      Thousands of miles away in London, Audrey was in the middle of studying for a chemistry exam when her bedroom door burst open.

      “Which dress? Green or pink?” There was a note of wild panic in her mother’s voice. “The green shows more of my cleavage.”

      Audrey didn’t turn her head from the screen. Why didn’t her mother ever knock? “I’m working.” And every word was a struggle. Whoever had put her brain together had done a crap job.

      There were days when she totally hated her life and this was one of them.

      “It’s Valentine’s Day. You should be out on a date. At your age I was already a party animal.”

      Audrey knew just how much of a party animal her mother was. “My exams start in May.”

      “You mean July.”

      “I’m done by the middle of June.” Why did it bother her that her mother didn’t know that? She should be used to it by now. “These exams are a big deal.”

      Audrey felt sick about them. She was terrible at exams. It didn’t help that the teachers kept saying that the results would affect their whole future. If that was really the case then her life was already over.

      Everyone else in her class had parents nagging them.

       Are you doing enough work?

       Should you be going out on a school night?

       No, you don’t need fizzy drinks and pizza.

      Audrey longed for someone to show her that much care and attention. Any care and attention. She longed for her mother to stroke her hair, bring her a cup of tea and say a few encouraging words, but her mother did none of those things and she’d given up hoping for it.

      She’d been six years old when she’d realized her mother was different from other mothers.

      While her friends’ parents hovered outside the school gate, Audrey stood alone, waiting for a mother who frequently didn’t show up.

      She hated being different, so she began making her own way home. The school had strict rules about only releasing a child into the care of a known adult, but Audrey found a way around that. If she smiled and waved a hand in the vague direction of a group of mothers, they’d assume hers was among them. She’d slip through the crowd and once she was out of sight she’d make her way home. It wasn’t far and she’d memorized the route. Turn at the red post box. Turn again at the big tree.

      Day after day Audrey let herself into the empty house, unzipped her schoolbag and struggled with her homework. Every time she pulled her book out of her bag, she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Her handwriting looked as if a demented spider had hurled itself across the paper and she could never quite organize her thoughts in a way that made sense written down. Teachers despaired. She’d despaired. She tried hard, achieved nothing, stopped trying. What was the point?

      When she’d tried telling her mother she found reading difficult, the suggestion had been that she watch TV instead.

      Finally, after years of handing in messy work and missing deadlines, a teacher who was new to the school had insisted Audrey was tested.

      Those tests showed her to be severely dyslexic. In a way the diagnosis was a relief. It meant she wasn’t stupid. On the other hand, she still felt stupid and now she also had a label.

      They gave her extra time in exams, but everything was still a struggle. She needed help, but when her mother came home from work she usually fell asleep on the sofa.

      For years Audrey had believed her mother was just more tired than other mothers. As she’d grown older and more observant she’d noticed that other people’s parents didn’t drink a bottle of wine or two every evening. Sometimes her mother was late arriving home, and then Audrey would know she’d started her drinking early. She had no idea how her mother managed to hold down her job as an office manager, but was thankful that she did.

      Functional alcoholic. She’d done an internet search once and found the perfect description of her mother.

      Audrey told no one. It was too embarrassing.

      The happiest days were when a school friend invited Audrey for tea or a sleepover. Audrey would watch other mothers, and occasionally fathers, fussing over home-cooked meals and homework and wonder why her mother didn’t know that was the way it was supposed to be done. She tried not to think about their empty fridge, or the empty bottles stacked outside the back door. More embarrassing were the men her mother brought home from her after-work drinking sessions. Fortunately, since meeting Ron, that had stopped. Audrey was pinning all her hopes on Ron.

      “Your exams are done by June?” Her mother leaned on the edge of the desk, creasing a stack of papers. “I had no idea. You should have told me.”

      You should have known. Audrey tugged at the papers and moved them out of harm’s way. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

      “What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m interested. I’m your mother.”

      Audrey was careful not to react. “Right. Well—”

      “You know I’ve been busy planning the wedding. If you’re done by the middle of June, then that means you’ll be around all summer.”

      Not if she had anything to do with it. “I won’t be here in the summer. I’m going traveling.”

      It had been a spur of the moment decision, driven by a deep-seated

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