04 The Burning Girls by C J Tudor

Author:C J Tudor
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2021-02-09T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

—

We lose. Badly and predictably. A dour-faced group of men in wellies and Barbour jackets calling themselves (rather ironically) The Jolly Farmers win, although I suspect the fact that there were a suspiciously large number of questions about tractors may have helped.

However, unexpectedly, I do have fun. Rushton and Clara are good company and Mike is drily amusing. I start to relax a little.

“My round.” Mike stands.

“Pint of Speckled Hen for me,” Rushton says. Clara gives him a look. “Well, maybe just a half.”

Mike glances at me. “Same again?”

I consider. I’ve had one large glass. I should probably have a soft drink or…

“Okay,” I hear myself say.

He nods and heads to the bar. I realize I could do with using the loo.

“Just popping to the ladies.” I squeeze out from my seat.

They are tucked behind the bar. A slant-ceilinged room with two loos, a small washbasin and mirror. I’m just flushing when I hear the door from the bar open. I emerge and find myself face to face with Emma Harper. For some reason, I have the distinct impression that she has followed me in here. We smile at each other in that awkward way you do when you bump into someone in a toilet.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

I turn on the tap to wash my hands, expecting Emma to disappear into one of the cubicles. She doesn’t. She comes and stands beside me, smoothing her hair in the mirror. Up close, in the harsh fluorescent light, there’s shiny tightness to her skin—a facelift? Fillers?—and her nose has the chiseled sharpness of a nose job. Not that the lighting is doing my doughy complexion any favors. I turn the tap off and reach for the paper towels.

“I didn’t expect to see you in here,” she says. Her voice sounds a little slurred.

“Clara invited me. For the quiz.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes.” I screw up the towel and chuck it in the bin. “Even though quizzes aren’t really my thing.”

“Me neither, but it’s something of a village tradition.” A lopsided smile. “Simon’s big on tradition. They all are around here.”

“You’re not from around here?”

“Me? No. I met Simon at uni in Brighton. We lived there for a few years. Moved back here after we married.”

“Oh, why was that?”

“The farm. His father was retiring. He wanted Simon to take it over.”

“Right. And you were okay with that?”

“I didn’t have much choice. I was pregnant with Rosie—and what Simon wants, Simon gets.”

The bitterness is hard to miss. Alcohol, the great truth serum.

“What about you?” she asks.

“Oh, I’m settling in.”

She takes a lipstick out of her pocket and starts to apply it. “You seem to be getting on well with Mike.”

“I try to get on with all my parishioners,” I say steadily.

“I suppose you’ve heard about what happened, with his daughter?”

“Yes. And I’m sorry. The death of a child is a tragedy. For everyone.”

She stares at me in the mirror. Her pupils are constricted. The hand holding the lipstick shakes slightly. Maybe it’s more than a few drinks.

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