remember exactly.”
She remembered exactly. Eight months ago, early summer, when Patrick’s back had been stiff after he’d dug up the hedge.
“Do you know her?” Geraldine asked. “Did you get something done there?”
“No…I bought a gift certificate for a massage. A present for someone.”
A back massage, Hannah had said. A gift. She remembered Leah Bradshaw, remembered recognizing her vaguely from school, but they’d have been in different years.
“How did you hear?” she asked her mother. “Who told you?”
“Oh, just some old gossip at bridge with nothing better to do,” Geraldine said. “I can’t for the life of me see why he’d prefer
her. Even if you are my daughter, there’s no comparison. Some men need their heads examined.”
Some men obviously preferred their women blond and petite, with the kind of boyish figure—small breasts, slim hips—that Hannah
had always envied. Nails short and beautifully shaped, painted pale pink. Hannah had noticed the nails as Leah took her sixty
euro and wrote “back massage” on the gift voucher, which was colored lavender like the walls of the reception area.
“Her mother plays bridge with me,” Geraldine said. “Fiona Bradshaw. I don’t think you know her. Not someone you’d warm to,
bit of a cold fish.”
I like the color of your hair, Leah had said to Hannah. Very rich…and a lovely shine to it.
“You’re better off without him,” her mother said, “although I know that’s not much comfort now, love.”
See you again, she’d said as Hannah had turned to leave the salon. Thanks a lot, take care.
“I felt I should tell you,” Geraldine said. “I didn’t want you hearing it from someone else. You didn’t mind me saying it?”
Had Patrick known her already? Had Hannah innocently bought him forty-five minutes alone with his other woman? Had they laughed
about that as Leah massaged his naked, oiled skin, her slender body leaning over his? Or had they bothered with the massage
at all? Maybe they’d found something more interesting to do with each other.
Or—worse, much worse—had Hannah introduced them? Had she been the one who’d brought them together? The thought stopped her
in her tracks, the awfulness of it.
“Are you still there?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Hannah answered. “Still here.”
Confidence shattered, heart in bits, utterly miserable, but still there.
“You don’t mind that I told you? You’re not cross with me?”
“No, of course not…Look,” she said, “I have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Leah Bradshaw. Was it better to have a name and a face? Did that make it any easier? Or was it worse to know exactly who had
stolen Patrick from her? She flipped her phone closed and slid it into her pocket before grabbing the shopping cart again
and pushing it toward the yellow van. What did any of it matter, when he was still gone and she was still alone?
As she unloaded the cart, piling bags into the back of the van, a man passed her wearing a navy jacket and a dark green woolly
hat. A rucksack that looked heavy was hanging off one shoulder. “Hello,” he said. “Nice evening.”
“Hi,” she answered, unsmiling because a smile was out of the question.
He seemed vaguely familiar. He unlocked a nearby taxi and slung his rucksack onto the backseat before getting in himself.
He must have driven her somewhere, not that she took taxis too often.
As she negotiated the little van out of the car park a few minutes later, she turned abruptly back in the direction of the
town and drove through emptying early-evening streets until she came to Indulgence. She pulled in to a space across the road
and sat, engine idling.
She studied the prettily painted frontage. The downstairs windows were dark, the salon closed at this hour. On the first floor,
a light shone faintly from one of the two tall, narrow windows.
Were they inside now? Was she cooking dinner for him—or were
She remembered exactly. Eight months ago, early summer, when Patrick’s back had been stiff after he’d dug up the hedge.
“Do you know her?” Geraldine asked. “Did you get something done there?”
“No…I bought a gift certificate for a massage. A present for someone.”
A back massage, Hannah had said. A gift. She remembered Leah Bradshaw, remembered recognizing her vaguely from school, but they’d have been in different years.
“How did you hear?” she asked her mother. “Who told you?”
“Oh, just some old gossip at bridge with nothing better to do,” Geraldine said. “I can’t for the life of me see why he’d prefer
her. Even if you are my daughter, there’s no comparison. Some men need their heads examined.”
Some men obviously preferred their women blond and petite, with the kind of boyish figure—small breasts, slim hips—that Hannah
had always envied. Nails short and beautifully shaped, painted pale pink. Hannah had noticed the nails as Leah took her sixty
euro and wrote “back massage” on the gift voucher, which was colored lavender like the walls of the reception area.
“Her mother plays bridge with me,” Geraldine said. “Fiona Bradshaw. I don’t think you know her. Not someone you’d warm to,
bit of a cold fish.”
I like the color of your hair, Leah had said to Hannah. Very rich…and a lovely shine to it.
“You’re better off without him,” her mother said, “although I know that’s not much comfort now, love.”
See you again, she’d said as Hannah had turned to leave the salon. Thanks a lot, take care.
“I felt I should tell you,” Geraldine said. “I didn’t want you hearing it from someone else. You didn’t mind me saying it?”
Had Patrick known her already? Had Hannah innocently bought him forty-five minutes alone with his other woman? Had they laughed
about that as Leah massaged his naked, oiled skin, her slender body leaning over his? Or had they bothered with the massage
at all? Maybe they’d found something more interesting to do with each other.
Or—worse, much worse—had Hannah introduced them? Had she been the one who’d brought them together? The thought stopped her
in her tracks, the awfulness of it.
“Are you still there?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Hannah answered. “Still here.”
Confidence shattered, heart in bits, utterly miserable, but still there.
“You don’t mind that I told you? You’re not cross with me?”
“No, of course not…Look,” she said, “I have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Leah Bradshaw. Was it better to have a name and a face? Did that make it any easier? Or was it worse to know exactly who had
stolen Patrick from her? She flipped her phone closed and slid it into her pocket before grabbing the shopping cart again
and pushing it toward the yellow van. What did any of it matter, when he was still gone and she was still alone?
As she unloaded the cart, piling bags into the back of the van, a man passed her wearing a navy jacket and a dark green woolly
hat. A rucksack that looked heavy was hanging off one shoulder. “Hello,” he said. “Nice evening.”
“Hi,” she answered, unsmiling because a smile was out of the question.
He seemed vaguely familiar. He unlocked a nearby taxi and slung his rucksack onto the backseat before getting in himself.
He must have driven her somewhere, not that she took taxis too often.
As she negotiated the little van out of the car park a few minutes later, she turned abruptly back in the direction of the
town and drove through emptying early-evening streets until she came to Indulgence. She pulled in to a space across the road
and sat, engine idling.
She studied the prettily painted frontage. The downstairs windows were dark, the salon closed at this hour. On the first floor,
a light shone faintly from one of the two tall, narrow windows.
Were they inside now? Was she cooking dinner for him—or were
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