The Husband Who Refused to Die by Andrea Darby

Author:Andrea Darby [Darby, Andrea]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Matador
Published: 2016-11-24T04:30:00+00:00

CHAPTER 17

In the end, I pull a sickie. Far from stopping the white lies, they spring to my lips far too readily; the guilt of being untruthful to Pete adding to the stress of seeing Ashley.

We agree to meet in an old-fashioned tea shop in Cherlsbury, with a façade that belongs in a Dickens’ novel, a basket bicycle leaning against the bowed white window, customers framed in its leaded squares.

Ashley’s late this time, and I’m jumpy with each chime of the café door. Yet it turns out I’ve got worked up for nothing. He strolls in, all smiles and, although a little stilted at the start, conversation soon flows, with much less awkwardness than we’d left by that fountain, and no mention of regrets in relation to the incident that rendered us both unable to utter a whole sentence immediately afterwards.

It felt like two old friends catching up, albeit one’s holding a new patent handbag in one hand and hopelessly trying to grip a grudge firmly in the other. Imogen’s right – again – its good to talk more, to revisit our student days and fill in a few details about our lives since, adding colour to the quick and rough sketches we’d drawn for each other.

Ashley thinks his audition, for an autumn production of As You Like It, went well, though competition was fierce.

Sadly, our time together’s cut short. We’re sat in the sunny window seat, elbows constrained by the compactness of the pine table and delicate, fine bone china, and the volume of our voices by the proximity of customers, when Ashley gets a call – a last-minute request to do a voice-over for a sick friend. He dallies for ages.

‘You can’t turn it down,’ I say.

Ashley screws up his nose, tells me it’s for a national TV advert for injury lawyers.

‘Oh my God, of all the people!’ I exclaim.

‘Ha, only joking – it’s a solar panel ad for local radio.’ He adopts a pompous broadcast voice. ‘Are your bills going through the roof …?’ I laugh, pinching my nose to suppress another hay fever sneeze.

Ashley turns serious. ‘I guess the money’s good for very little effort. It’ll help pay a few bills, maybe keep the rust bucket on the road a little longer. But I don’t want to mess you around – go so soon.’

‘Don’t worry – honestly.’ I’m not sure I sound convincing.

I’ve brought the letter I keep hidden in my jewellery box. I’m not sure why; perhaps in case he’d planned to hit me with bad news, so I could respond with a vengeful, emotional stab. It doesn’t feel right, but I can’t stop myself. I pull it from my bag, ignoring the voice urging me to resist, the surge of dread.

‘Do you remember writing this?’ I hand the sheet across the table, pen now faded in the deeper creases left by constant folding and unfolding. A wobbly smile forms as I follow his eyes along the opening words: To My Leading Lady.

He scans in a stretched silence and I shuffle uneasily, tugging at my tunic.

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