Read Online In Too Deep by Samantha Hayes - Free Book Online Page B

to me.
    ‘It
was
,’ Susan replies, her smile broad and white. ‘But thankfully they didn’t hold it against me.’ The laughter subsides and the pair turn to me. I have no idea what theywere talking about, just that I don’t feel right, that something has made me uneasy and I don’t know what.
    ‘Are you OK, Mum?’
    ‘I’m fine,’ I say, sweeping my hair from my face. Cooper’s soft body leans against my ankles, grounding me. ‘Your blouse, Susan. It’s so pretty.’ I only compliment her so as not to sound awkward, even though it has the opposite effect.
    And it’s not the blouse I actually meant to comment on, it was something else. I just don’t know what.
    ‘Thank you,’ she says, beaming. ‘My husband bought it for me. Not bad, eh, for a man who loathes shopping.’ Her chin lifts a little, exposing her long neck, her angular jaw.
    ‘Between you and me,’ she says, leaning closer, ‘I think it was a gift of guilt. His work trip had run over . . .
again
. . . and he picked this up for me so I couldn’t possibly get mad at him.’ She looks down at the fabric, running her fingers across the sleeve. ‘It’s from Dubai,’ she adds, almost proudly, as if she’s tempting me to ask what he does for a living.
    I don’t, because talking about other people’s husbands isn’t high up on my list of achievable tasks right now. Paula, my counsellor, said that will come in time. That I mustn’t rush it. That I must be kind to myself and take everything slowly. As it is, I feel as though I’m wading through treacle from the moment I wake to the moment I go to sleep. I don’t think I could function any slower, more cautiously, more detached, if I tried.
    ‘Well, it really suits you,’ I say. Tiny birds are printedat all angles and in all colours, spattered on her body as if she’s been caught up in a flock.
    But suddenly it seems wrong, almost distasteful, as does everything about her, even though logically I know it’s not. She’s stylish and kind and friendly. What is it, then, that pulls at me so? Why can’t I relax and enjoy chatting with her?
    And then I realise what it is that’s been nagging at me. But by the time I’ve thought of the right words, Susan has told us that she’ll see us later and has walked off.
    ‘Hannah . . .’ I whisper, grabbing her arm. ‘Did you see it?’ My eyes feel as if they’re going to burst out of my head. Across the room, I watch Susan speaking to one of the staff before she leaves.
    ‘See what?’
    ‘The pen Susan was holding.’
    Hannah shrugs and shakes her head casually. There’s a flash of colour on her cheeks, but it’s quickly gone.
    ‘No. What about it?’ she says, fussing Cooper.
    I take another sip of wine, knowing what she’ll say if I mention it – that I’m mad, that I’m doing ‘that thing’ again where I’m reading something into nothing. That everywhere I look, if I really want to, I’ll see bits of Rick, as if he’s been blown into a million pieces and I’ve been left behind to gather them all up.
    And I’ve told myself that I will. Even if it takes the rest of my life, I will piece him back together.
    ‘It was nice, that’s all,’ I say, trying to backtrack. Idaren’t look at Hannah, don’t want to read her expression.
    But I can’t help wondering if she noticed it too. Susan was holding a silver filigree pen, similar, if not identical, to the one I gave to Rick a couple of anniversaries ago.
    And it’s our anniversary on Monday.
    It’s a sign, I feel sure.
    Lower Buckley is a classic Cotswold village – all toffee-and-biscuit-coloured stone cottages, a willow-fringed green with a heart-shaped pond, and a dozen ducks that come waddling up to us the moment they see us approaching.
    ‘Hold him,’ I say to Hannah, but Cooper is too old and lazy to pay much attention to the noisy birds. His tail swings in a wide arc, nearly knocking into one of them as they surround us. We go over to the bench and sit down, some of