Reluctantly, I pull to a stop again, because it doesn’t
seem right to drive off and leave her. But neither do I
want to put myself at risk. When I think about it, she
hadn’t seemed distressed when I’d driven past, she hadn’t waved frantically or given any indication that she needed help, so maybe somebody – her husband or one of the breakdown services – is already on their way. If I broke down, Matthew would be my first port of call, not a
stranger in a car.
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As I sit there dithering, the rain picks up speed, drumming urgently on the roof – go, go go. It makes my mind up for me. Releasing the brake, I drive off as slowly as I can, giving her one last chance to call me back. But she doesn’t.
A couple of minutes later, I’m 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’ve 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 was planning to go
The Breakdown
15
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
except 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
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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
a life of 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.
SATURDAY JULY 18th
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