The Breakdown - B A Paris

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out of the woods and heading towards home, a beautiful old cottage with climbing roses over the front door and a rambling garden at the back. My phone beeps, telling me that the phone signal has kicked in. A mile or so further down the road, I turn into our drive and park as close to the house as possible, glad that I’m home safe and sound. The woman in the car is still on my mind and I wonder about phoning the local police station or the breakdown services to tell them about her. Remembering the message that came through as I drove out of the woods, I take my phone from my bag and look at the screen.

      The text is from Rachel:

       Hi, hope you had fun tonight! Off to bed now as had to go straight to work from the airport so feeling v jet-lagged. Just wanted to check you got the gift for Susie? I’ll call you tomorrow morning xx

      As I get to the end I find myself frowning – why was Rachel checking to see if I’d bought Susie a present? I hadn’t, not yet, because with the run-up to the end of the school year I’d been too busy. Anyway, the party isn’t until tomorrow evening and I’d been planning to go shopping in the morning to buy her something. I read the message again and, this time, the words ‘the gift’ rather than ‘a gift’ jump out at me, because it sounds as if Rachel is expecting me to have bought something from the two of us.

      I think back to the last time I saw her. It had been about two weeks ago, the day before she’d left for New York. She’s a consultant in the UK division of a huge American consultancy firm, Finchlakers, and often goes to the US on business. That evening, we’d gone to the cinema together and then on for a drink. Maybe that was when she’d asked me to get something for Susie. I rack my brains, trying to remember, trying to guess what we might have decided to buy. It could be anything – perfume, jewellery, a book – but nothing rings a bell. Had I forgotten? Memories of Mum, uncomfortable ones, flood my mind and I push them away quickly. It isn’t the same, I tell myself fiercely, I am not the same. By tomorrow, I’ll have remembered.

      I stuff my phone back in my bag. Matthew’s right, I need a break. If I could just relax for a couple of weeks on a beach, I’d be fine. And Matthew needs a break too. We hadn’t had a honeymoon because we’d been busy renovating our cottage so the last time I’d had a proper holiday, the sort where you do nothing all day but lie on a beach and soak up the sun, was before Dad died, eighteen years ago. After, money had been too tight to do anything much, especially when I’d had to give up my job as a teacher to care for Mum. It was why, when I discovered shortly after she died, that rather than being a penniless widow, she was in fact wealthy, I was devastated. I couldn’t understand why she’d been content to live with so little when she could have lived in luxury. I was so shocked I’d barely heard what the solicitor was saying, so that by the time I managed to grasp how much money there was I could only stare at him in disbelief. I’d thought my father had left us with nothing.

      A crack of thunder, further away now, brings me sharply back to the present. I peer through the window, wondering if I can make it out of the car and under the porch without getting wet. Clutching my handbag to my chest, I open the door and make a dash for it, the key ready in my hand.

      In the hall, I kick off my shoes and tiptoe upstairs. The door to the spare bedroom is closed and I’m tempted to open it just an inch to see if Matthew is asleep. But I don’t want to risk waking him so instead I quickly get ready for bed, and before my head even touches the pillow, I’m asleep.

      I wake the next morning to find Matthew sitting on the edge of the bed, a mug of tea in his hand.

      ‘What time is it?’ I murmur, struggling to open my eyes against the sunshine streaming in through the window.

      ‘Nine o’clock. I’ve been up since seven.’

      ‘How’s the migraine?’

      ‘Gone.’ In the sunlight his sandy hair looks golden and I reach up and run my hands through it, loving its thickness.

      ‘Is that for me?’ I ask, eyeing the mug hopefully.

      ‘Of course.’

      I wriggle into a sitting position and sink my head back against the pillows. ‘Lovely Day’, my favourite feel-good song, is playing on the radio downstairs and with the prospect of six weeks’ holiday in front of me, life feels good.

      ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking the mug from him. ‘Did you manage to sleep?’

      ‘Yes, like a log. I’m sorry I couldn’t wait up for you. How was your journey back?’

      ‘Fine. Lots of thunder and lightning, though. And rain.’

      ‘Well, at least the sun is back out this morning.’ He nudges me gently. ‘Move over.’ Careful not to spill my tea, I make way for him and he climbs in beside me. He lifts his arm and I settle back into him, my head on his shoulder. ‘A woman has been found dead not far from here,’ he says, so softly that I almost don’t hear him. ‘I just heard it on the news.’

      ‘That’s awful.’ I put my mug on the bedside table and turn to look at him. ‘When you say not far from here, where do you mean? In Browbury?’

      He brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, his fingers soft on my skin. ‘No, nearer than that, somewhere along the road that goes through the woods between here and Castle Wells.’

      ‘Which road?’

      ‘You know, Blackwater Lane.’ He bends to kiss me but I pull away from him.

      ‘Stop it, Matthew.’ I look at him, my heart fluttering behind my ribs like a bird trapped in a cage, waiting for him to smile, to tell me that he knows I came back that way last night and is just teasing. But he only frowns.

      ‘I know. It’s horrible, isn’t it?’

      I stare at him. ‘Are you serious?’

      ‘Yes.’ He looks genuinely puzzled. ‘I wouldn’t make something like that up.’

      ‘But…’ I feel suddenly sick. ‘How did she die? Did they give any details?’

      He shakes his head. ‘No, just that she was in her car.’

      I turn away from him so that he can’t see my face. It can’t be the same woman, I tell myself, it can’t be.

      ‘I have to get up,’ I say as his arms come round me again. ‘I need to go shopping.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘Susie’s present. I still haven’t got her anything and it’s her party tonight.’ I swing my legs from the bed and stand up.

      ‘There’s no hurry, is there?’ he protests. But I’ve already gone, taking my phone with me.

      In the bathroom, I lock the door and turn on the shower, wanting to drown out the voice in my head telling me that the woman who’s been found dead is the one that I passed in my car last night. Feeling horribly shaky, I sit down on the edge of the bath and bring up the Internet, looking for news. It’s Breaking News on the BBC but there are no details. All it says is that a woman has been found dead in her car near Browbury in Sussex. Found dead. Does that mean she committed suicide? The thought is appalling.

      My mind races, trying to work it out. If it is the same woman, maybe she hadn’t broken down, maybe she had stopped in the lay-by on purpose, because it was isolated, so that she wouldn’t be disturbed. It would explain why she hadn’t flashed her lights, why she hadn’t asked for my help – why, when she’d looked back at me through the window, she hadn’t made any sign for me to stop, as she surely would have if she’d broken down. My stomach churns with unease. Now, with the sun streaming in through the bathroom window, it seems incredible that I hadn’t gone to check on her. If I had, things might have ended differently. She might have told me she was fine, she might have pretended that she’d broken down and that someone was coming to help her. But if she had, I would have

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