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Authors: Milly Johnson
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not made for being poor and struggling,’ she said, removing his hand from her arm with careful pincered fingers, as if it were diseased.
‘Nicole. I love you,’ he said, unable to fully comprehend he was hearing this. She was going to turn around in a minute and say, ‘ha ha, not really.’ But in the seven
years he had known her, he suddenly realised, he had never heard her once make a joke.
‘You’ll get over it,’ she said in her elocution-lessoned voice. ‘Don’t try and stop me leaving. I’m going home to my parents. If you follow me, Dad will set
the dogs on you; and when they’ve finished with you, if there is anything left to arrest, he’ll call the police. My solicitor will be in touch. Let’s make it quick and painless,
shall we? It’s over, Will. You can go down with your ship but don’t expect me not to catch a lifeboat.’
He didn’t follow her. He poured himself a scotch and sank onto the huge cream leather sofa, imagining her moving about, packing her suitcase, taking her jewellery out of her safe. There
was no point in fighting for her. She wasn’t doing this for effect, so that he would bounce upstairs and seduce her into staying. He knew her too well. Nicole’s idea of roughing it was
there being no lobster option on a business-class flight menu. She didn’t even bother to say goodbye an hour later when he was half-wrecked on single malt, tears cutting down his cheeks. She
just climbed into the sports car that daddy had bought her last year instead of an Easter egg and drove off, viciously spitting gravel in his direction.
Chapter 12
By some miracle the
Barnsley Chronicle
had not reported what had happened at Martin’s funeral. There had been some armed robberies in the off-licence chain The
Booze Brothers, which had grabbed the headlines for two weeks. The first report covered the actual robbery, the second the arrest of the culprits after one of the thieves had pasted his own
Crimestoppers
photo on Facebook, adding the caption ‘Fame at Last’. Carla was only glad to know there were idiots like that in the world to keep what potential press interest
there might have been in her fully occupied. By an even bigger miracle, it had also bypassed the
Daily Trumpet
, the sensationalist South Yorkshire newspaper and the most inept publication
in the history of mankind. Carla had checked it every day for a week and a half after the debacle, by which time she would have qualified as being ‘old news’ and unworthy of column
inches. Most of the
Daily Trumpet
was taken up with apologies for stories it had wrongly reported in the past few days. By rights, it shouldn’t have made any money, but it had
acquired a certain cult status with its readers who purchased it merely for the errors and pushed the privately-owned business into decent profit.
A letter had arrived from Julie’s solicitor demanding that Carla vacate the property by the last day of June. Carla didn’t know if she should see a solicitor as well. She felt numb
and, for the first time, very hungry. She tipped three Weetabix into a bowl then realised that the two-pinter of milk in her fridge had the lumpy consistency of old yogurt. She walked to the shop
down the road for some fresh and a loaf and a tub of butter. It was the first time she had done any shopping since before Martin had died. The Weetabix tasted bland and unappetising in her mouth,
despite her ravenous hunger, but she forced it down. Before that, she couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. Her jeans were hanging from her.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t even know what day it was. How long was it until the end of June? Where would she go? How could she pack up and leave – she
barely had enough energy to brush her teeth. She wished Theresa was home; then again she wished she wasn’t. She didn’t want Theresa to walk through the door all full of smiles and
sunshine and for Carla to fall on her sobbing. She
‘Nicole. I love you,’ he said, unable to fully comprehend he was hearing this. She was going to turn around in a minute and say, ‘ha ha, not really.’ But in the seven
years he had known her, he suddenly realised, he had never heard her once make a joke.
‘You’ll get over it,’ she said in her elocution-lessoned voice. ‘Don’t try and stop me leaving. I’m going home to my parents. If you follow me, Dad will set
the dogs on you; and when they’ve finished with you, if there is anything left to arrest, he’ll call the police. My solicitor will be in touch. Let’s make it quick and painless,
shall we? It’s over, Will. You can go down with your ship but don’t expect me not to catch a lifeboat.’
He didn’t follow her. He poured himself a scotch and sank onto the huge cream leather sofa, imagining her moving about, packing her suitcase, taking her jewellery out of her safe. There
was no point in fighting for her. She wasn’t doing this for effect, so that he would bounce upstairs and seduce her into staying. He knew her too well. Nicole’s idea of roughing it was
there being no lobster option on a business-class flight menu. She didn’t even bother to say goodbye an hour later when he was half-wrecked on single malt, tears cutting down his cheeks. She
just climbed into the sports car that daddy had bought her last year instead of an Easter egg and drove off, viciously spitting gravel in his direction.
Chapter 12
By some miracle the
Barnsley Chronicle
had not reported what had happened at Martin’s funeral. There had been some armed robberies in the off-licence chain The
Booze Brothers, which had grabbed the headlines for two weeks. The first report covered the actual robbery, the second the arrest of the culprits after one of the thieves had pasted his own
Crimestoppers
photo on Facebook, adding the caption ‘Fame at Last’. Carla was only glad to know there were idiots like that in the world to keep what potential press interest
there might have been in her fully occupied. By an even bigger miracle, it had also bypassed the
Daily Trumpet
, the sensationalist South Yorkshire newspaper and the most inept publication
in the history of mankind. Carla had checked it every day for a week and a half after the debacle, by which time she would have qualified as being ‘old news’ and unworthy of column
inches. Most of the
Daily Trumpet
was taken up with apologies for stories it had wrongly reported in the past few days. By rights, it shouldn’t have made any money, but it had
acquired a certain cult status with its readers who purchased it merely for the errors and pushed the privately-owned business into decent profit.
A letter had arrived from Julie’s solicitor demanding that Carla vacate the property by the last day of June. Carla didn’t know if she should see a solicitor as well. She felt numb
and, for the first time, very hungry. She tipped three Weetabix into a bowl then realised that the two-pinter of milk in her fridge had the lumpy consistency of old yogurt. She walked to the shop
down the road for some fresh and a loaf and a tub of butter. It was the first time she had done any shopping since before Martin had died. The Weetabix tasted bland and unappetising in her mouth,
despite her ravenous hunger, but she forced it down. Before that, she couldn’t remember when she had last eaten. Her jeans were hanging from her.
She didn’t know what to do with herself. She didn’t even know what day it was. How long was it until the end of June? Where would she go? How could she pack up and leave – she
barely had enough energy to brush her teeth. She wished Theresa was home; then again she wished she wasn’t. She didn’t want Theresa to walk through the door all full of smiles and
sunshine and for Carla to fall on her sobbing. She
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