Now she was doing more and more things alone, including having sex with herself, often when she came home from a shift at the police station and needed to relax.
They’d been married for thirteen years, so was this their second dose of the seven-year-itch, arrived early? Olivia turned on her side and tried to get back to sleep again but she was all too aware of the wetness streaking her thighs, of the fact that Adam Neave was inadvertently responsible. It was understandable, really, as she was being encouraged to make a connection, to flirt with him. She was also playing the part of a woman five years younger than her real self, as the police psychologist was sure that Neave would be drawn to younger women, seeing them as easier to manipulate. Fortunately they’d allowed her to use her own first name as she’d struggled to answer to the other names which they’d tried out.
Had he similarly dreamed about her? The police psychologist had warned her that he would want to act out his fantasies, that he might pounce at any moment. They’d said that he was a predatory individual, but, in the wet dream that she’d just had, he’d merely been masterful. She had to remind herself that he was at the charismatic stage and trying to get her into his corner, that he would become increasingly inappropriate as time went on.
Marc muttered something in his sleep and Olivia stiffened, wondering if it was another woman’s name. They’d been through so much in the past thirteen years that she couldn’t wholly blame him. Life hadn’t worked out the way that they’d planned.
Suddenly feeling closer to him, she turned on her side and slid her arms around his waist for a second time, wincing momentarily as her hands traced a roll of fat. He’d had such a lovely body when they married, had kept so fit.
‘Want to make out?’ she murmured, using the words that she’d used when they were in their teens.
She had a momentary suspicion that Marc was awake as his breathing stilled, then he let out another snore. Could he fake such a noise? It was an ugly sound and she felt her desire subside. No one could blame her for being attracted to Adam, she thought; after all, he was sexual, handsome and intelligent. But she had no intention of ever acting on her stupid lust. She was a professional, paid to lure him out of his complacency and she would never lose sight of her original goal.
FOURTEEN
‘Tilly’s gone AWOL so I wondered if you could check your garage and shed. She loves dark hiding places.’
John blinked at Mrs McLellan, his neighbour, for a moment then realized that she was talking about her cat.
‘Oh, she can’t be in either – we haven’t been able to get into the garage for weeks as Adam’s lost the key. And we only ever go into the shed to get the lawnmower and, as you can see, we haven’t found time to cut the grass!’
‘Well, if you hear anything . . . She normally only goes into your garden and the one on the other side. She’s such a homebody. My husband was so upset when she didn’t come home last night that he couldn’t sleep.’
‘She’s a lovely animal,’ John said. She was too, very affectionate. If he ever had a home of his own he’d want a similar cat.
The woman left and John fetched his deckchair from the utility room and settled down in the back garden. He was doing so most Sundays now that summer was here. He felt more relaxed after a sunbathing session and knew that he looked better with a tan. Maybe he’d even gain a little much-needed weight with all of this lying around; considering the amount of exercise that he did, his muscles had failed to bulk up and he could fit into the smallest size of men’s jeans.
Was that a feline cry? He looked in the direction of the sound but saw nothing. It came again and he realized that it was coming from the garage. Looking closer, he could see Tilly pawing at the dusty glass from the inside and looking increasingly panicky.
How on earth . . .? John walked all around the building until he saw the hole in the back of the roof. She must have squeezed through, jumped or fallen down and now couldn’t find her way back again. He went and alerted the McLellans and they all rushed back to the securely locked garage.
‘It must be stifling in there. Can you get in?’ Mr McLellan asked.
‘I can, but I’ll have to break down the door. The key’s missing.’
‘I’ll happily pay for any damage,’ the older man said. ‘She’s the best cat we’ve ever had.’
‘I’ll take a run at it and hit it with my shoulder,’ John muttered doubtfully, remembering the cop programmes that he’d seen where detectives easily effected an entry. He walked backwards for a few seconds before racing towards the heavy-looking door. Seconds before he connected with it, he heard a shout.
‘What the fuck?’
All three of them jumped and swirled around. It took John a few seconds to recognize his landlord. He’d never seen the man look so wild-eyed before.
‘Adam! Tilly’s trapped in the garage so I’m breaking in.’
‘No need. I found the spare key the other day,’ Adam gasped. ‘Forgot to tell you.’
He appeared to be breathing heavily, as if he’d speed-walked there.
‘You’ve got perfect timing,’ John said admiringly as Adam fished out his key ring. He noticed that the McLellans looked discomfited, presumably because Adam had sworn.
‘How did she get in?’ the therapist asked.
‘Through a hole in the roof.’
He opened up, the cat shot out and Adam made to relock the garage.
‘Hang on. I’ll get the other deckchair out.’
‘No need – I already did,’ Adam replied.
‘Do you want to get some more of that rice out of the freezer? I thought that I’d make chilli con carne tonight.’
‘We’re out of rice, I’m afraid, but we can have pizzas on me.’
‘Thanks, Adam,’ Mr McLellan said. ‘I’m glad that we didn’t have to force an entry.’
Mrs McLellan, who was holding a purring Tilly, waved the cat’s paw at them as she walked down the path.
John felt a momentary sadness that he hadn’t been the hero of the day, a genuine action figure. Adam, he concluded, was one of life’s more valiant characters, whereas he was just an average guy.
‘Beth’s busy with someone but I’d be delighted to talk to you,’ Adam said, ushering Olivia into the other room at the drop-in centre. He’d suggested to two of his more depressed patients that they call in here and talk about their long-dead fathers, then he’d made sure that he turned up late so that Beth had to deal with them – that way he’d been able to get the pretty and hugely vulnerable Olivia all to himself. He’d enjoy running his hands all over her petite body and penetrating every orifice on multiple occasions, just as soon as she was free of that horrible bump. Why did women make themselves undesirable for several months in pregnancy, and – for those who didn’t lose their baby fat – for years afterwards? At least this one wasn’t eating, would soon look svelte again.
‘So, how have you been?’
‘Lonely.’
Good.
‘Have you managed to make any new friends?’
‘Well, I joined a national group for widows of my age but there’s no one in my area and as I can’t drive . . .’
As usual, she made her eyes so wide when she looked at him that he was surprised that she didn’t get dizzy. She was seriously cute.
He kept his voice low, knowing that women found this more attractive. As a boy, he’d had a slight lisp but had worked hard to overcome it, to sound more masculine.
‘Do you take the bus to your antenatal classes?’
Their conversation was desultory but he could sense the sexual tension between them.
‘I used to but, since Zak died, I keep sleeping in and turning up halfway through.’
‘Sleeping too much or too little is very common.’
‘Is it?’ Olivia looked relieved. ‘I thought that it was just me.’
‘Do you also find that your concentration’s gone?’
‘Totally! I can read but I can’t watch TV for more than
fifteen minutes as my mind keeps wandering. And it’s so hard to sit still . . .’
‘And you’re also more accident prone?’
‘Tell me about it.’ Olivia rubbed the bare knees peeking out from her denim dress and he belatedly noticed that they were marked with both newly red and older yellow bruises. Widows lived in a daze, bumped into things all the time.
‘Are you managing to eat now?’
Beth had told him that the girl was still vomiting, a sign that her upset system was producing too much stomach acid.
‘I am, but I don’t enjoy food anymore.’
‘That’s also common.’ He gave her one of his most sympathetic and understanding looks.
So far, the petite brunette was a textbook widow. She’d also have no libido for months and would find it difficult to fall in love if she did start a new relationship. Not that he cared . . .
‘I keep having these dreams in which I pull him away before he can cross the road.’
‘They’ll fade in time. Trust me, it does get easier.’
‘You’re widowed?’ She looked at him curiously.
‘Sadly, yes. My wife became depressed and committed suicide.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Olivia said. ‘That must have been shocking.’
She looked as if she meant it, was a typical bleeding heart. Why did some people care so much about others? He’d seen the same traits in his parents and brother but had never felt it himself. He had no desire to see his adoptive parents, except when he needed money, yet they called repeatedly. This week, Nicholas had left three messages on his answerphone, all saying that their mother was pining for him, that this was his last chance to please her before she died. He’d ignored the calls, would get in touch in his own good time – in other words, on a day when there was no prime pussy around.
What was it that this piece of ass had just said? Something about his wife’s death being shocking. She was looking at him expectantly so he gave her his best manly look, the one that he practised in front of the mirror. ‘It was over a year ago, and, as they say, the first year is the worst. I’ve learned to cope.’
‘Was that what made you become a counsellor?’
‘Well, I was already a therapist, specializing in child psychology, but after Helen’s death I took a bereavement training course.’
‘I might like to do that one day,’ Olivia said tremulously.
‘Leave it for a while so that you have some perspective.’
They hadn’t let him train immediately, had told him that he had to go through his own grieving process, but had accepted him after six months. He’d waited another few weeks before starting to date as he might be under surveillance and had to convince the police that he was desolate. Widowers statistically started dating sooner than widows, and those who were bereaved under the age of fifty, or who were childfree, often started after six to eight months.
‘Oh, I won’t rush into anything, Adam. I’ll wait and get more of an idea of the work when I reach the top of the NHS waiting list.’
Damn, he didn’t want her to see another therapist. She might attach herself to them, could stop coming to the monthly drop-in sessions. He wanted her to bond solely with him.
‘Off the record,’ he said casually, ‘If the NHS has too big a backlog of widows, it sometimes sends some of them to private therapists like me. Problem is, it pays at a lower rate so we can’t spend the same amount of time as we do with our private clients. You’d be better off seeing me privately.’
‘How much would that cost?’ Olivia asked then winced visibly at his reply.
‘It seems a lot, I know, but it gets you back to work more quickly, gets you earning. Plus, you’re probably entitled to a one-off bereavement payment from the government and could pay for it with that.’
Olivia nodded. ‘The registrar at the Deaths Office gave me a form, something to do with Zak’s national insurance payments, but I’ve never got round to filling it in.’
‘Then do it tonight. In the meantime, why don’t we schedule a few sessions at my office and you can pay me when you have the money?’ He felt almost guilty at the look of gratitude which swept across her face. Within seconds she’d whipped out her journal and he’d accessed the diary that he kept within his mobile phone.
‘See you next week,’ he murmured as she left the centre clutching his business card, having arranged to visit his home office. A few months from now, he’d be seeing a lot more of her as he stripped off her bra and pants.
FIFTEEN
‘
. . . and the company is refusing to pay out,’ the woman concluded tearfully.
It was, Beth thought sadly, a familiar story. Life insurance companies declined one percent of claims each year, leaving a thousand people without collateral at the time when they were least able to fight back.
‘What reason did they give you?’ Beth asked.
‘That he’d ticked the non-smoking box when he filled in the form but had later started again. But it’s madness because he was a passenger in a car which was involved in a pile-up on the motorway. What does his smoking have to do with it?’
‘I worked for a life insurance company when I was younger but gave it up because I found their practices unethical,’ Beth admitted. ‘I remember one woman died of pneumonia and the company refused to pay her husband because her medical records showed that she hadn’t told them that she’d had surgery on her ankle thirty years before. All the company has to say to refute the claim is that medical information wasn’t disclosed – they don’t have to prove that it’s linked to the death.’
‘It’s criminal,’ the widow said.
‘It may well be. Some people claim that they’re rushed through the completion of the forms by the insurance companies, that it’s a deliberate ploy to catch them out.’ She studied the woman for a moment, wondering if she was strong enough to fight her case. ‘You can contest their decision, take it to the Financial Ombudsman. It can take two or three years to get the money but he finds in the customer’s favour in over two thirds of cases so your chances are good.’
The widow hesitated. ‘Yes, I will fight. Jack paid into that policy for years so that, if the worst came to the worst, I’d get the mortgage paid off.’ She looked squarely at Beth. ‘So, what happens now?’
I cancel my coffee with Matthew, Beth thought. She put her hand on the woman’s arm. ‘I’ll talk you through the process. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I just have to make a quick call.’
Hurrying to her office, she phoned Matthew’s mobile to cancel their meeting here, in the cafe, at 3 p.m. He was on a call-out to Weston this afternoon and had suggested, at short notice, that they meet up. They’d managed to do so twice before when he had local customers and he’d called in at her house.
Matthew lived in Clevedon, a half-hour drive away, but she much preferred it when they stayed at her place as she was happiest when surrounded by her own belongings. He didn’t have a hairdryer and there wasn’t a plug for the bath so she had to settle for a shower. He didn’t even have a lock on the bathroom door, ironic given his job . . .
‘It’s me,’ she said when he answered. ‘Sorry, I can’t make this afternoon after all. I’m with a widow who needs further information.’
‘Drat. I’ll miss you.’
Try as she might, Beth couldn’t say that she would miss him too. Was that the price of bereavement, that you remained in love with a dead man so weren’t capable of loving anyone else?
‘I’m still on for tomorrow night, though.’ She didn’t want him to think that she was losing interest.
‘Good. Apparently they’re a great group.’
She knew that he’d bought two tickets for the concert weeks before, not long after they’d started dating. He’d been keen from the very start.
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
She was, too. It was nice going on dates again at night, almost like returning to her years as a student. Admittedly, at thirty-five, she needed
more sleep than she had at eighteen, but the fun of getting dressed up and drinking a little too much vodka were the same.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said as she returned to the table.
‘It’s me that should be sorry, making you change your arrangements.’
‘Not at all. It was just a vague offer of coffee –’ she gestured around the cafeteria – ‘and there’s no shortage of that here!’
‘Still, I should probably have come to your home office or proper place of work to talk about Jack’s death. Maggie said that you do formal counselling?’
‘At the bereavement drop-in centre, but you’ve just missed our last monthly session. It’s the first Monday of every month at 10 a.m.’
She gave the woman the address.
‘Would I be able to bring my son along? He’s been playing up since his dad died.’
Beth nodded enthusiastically, realizing that Adam would be the ideal person to help.
‘One of my colleagues specializes in child psychology as well as all kinds of bereavement, so I’ll make sure that you get to spend the session with him.’
‘Bye, darling,’ Matthew murmured into his mobile before reluctantly returning his attention to his work. He quite understood that Beth couldn’t see him this afternoon, not when she had another widow to counsel. She was the sweetest, most philanthropic woman that he’d ever known. She did lots of informal counselling for patients’ relatives who came into the hospital cafe after losing their loved ones as well as working in the bereavement drop-in centre for free as a volunteer. It was good to know that not everyone put profit before people; he himself was always doing favours for his friends.
Beth had a cute face and a perfect body and she didn’t seem to care that he was ten years her senior. She was perfect. If only his wife had been as caring, he’d never have had to get divorced. She’d demanded a separation, claiming that he criticised her endlessly, that she could no longer do anything right in his eyes, that he was distant. But what did she expect when she’d gained weight and lost interest in socializing and in their sex life? In contrast, he’d eaten healthily and always kept himself in first-class shape.
Extinction Page 7
