Read Online The Widow by Fiona Barton - Free Book Online

alone a posh hotel. I stand there, in my old trousers and T-shirt, looking at my feet in my cheap flip-flops while all the form-filling goes on. They put me down as Elizabeth Turner and I look at Kate.
    She just smiles and whispers, ‘This way, no one will find you. They’ll be looking for us.’ I wonder who Elizabeth Turner really is and what she’s doing this afternoon. I bet she’s going through the racks at TK Maxx, not hiding from the press.
    â€˜Any bags?’ the woman asks and Kate says they’re in the car and we’ll get them out later. In the lift, I look at her and raise my eyebrows. She smiles back. We don’t speak because there’s a porter with us. Daft really because there’s nothing to carry, but he wants to show us our rooms. And get a tip, I suppose. Room 142 is mine, next door to Kate in 144. The porter makes a big show of opening the door and ushering me in. I stand and look. It’s lovely. Huge and bright with a chandelier. There’s a sofa and a coffee table and lamps and more apples. They must have some sort of deal with Sainsbury’s or somewhere to have so much fruit around.
    â€˜Is this all right?’ Kate asks.
    â€˜Oh yes,’ I say and sit down on the sofa to look at it all again. Our honeymoon hotel wasn’t as posh as this. It was a family-run place in Spain. Still that was lovely, too. We had such a laugh. When we got there, I still had bits of confetti in my hair and the staff made a big fuss of us. There was a bottle of champagne waiting – Spanish stuff, which was a bit sickly – and the waitresses kept coming up and kissing us.
    We spent our days lying by the pool, looking at each other. Loving each other. Such a long time ago.
    Kate says there’s a pool here. And a spa. I haven’t got a swimsuit – or anything, really – but she asks my size and sets off to get me ‘some things’.
    â€˜The paper will pay,’ she says.
    She books me a massage for while she’s out.
    â€˜To relax you,’ she says. ‘It’ll be lovely. They use essential oils – jasmine, lavender, that sort of thing – and you can go to sleep on the table. You need a bit of pampering, Jean.’
    I’m not sure, but I go along with it. I haven’t asked how long they’re keeping me here. The subject hasn’t come up and they seem to be treating it like a weekend break.
    An hour later, I’m lying on the bed in a hotel dressing gown, practically floating I feel so relaxed. Glen would’ve said I smelled like a ‘tart’s boudoir’ but I love it. I smell expensive. Then Kate knocks and I’m back where I started. Back to reality.
    She comes through the door with loads of carrier bags.
    â€˜Here you go, Jean,’ she says. ‘Try these on to see if they fit.’
    Funny how she keeps using my name. Like a nurse. Or a conman.
    She has chosen lovely things. A pale blue cashmere jumper I could never have afforded, a smart white shirt, a floaty skirt and a pair of tailored grey trousers, knickers, shoes, a swimsuit, luxury bubble bath, and a beautiful long nightie. I unpack it all while she watches.
    â€˜I love that colour, don’t you, Jean?’ she says, picking up the jumper. ‘Duck-egg blue.’
    She knows I love it too, but I try not to show too much.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I say. ‘I really don’t need all this. I’m only here overnight. Perhaps you can take some of it back.’
    She doesn’t reply, just gathers up the empty bags and smiles.
    It’s well past lunchtime and they decide to have something to eat in Kate’s room. All I want is a sandwich but Mick orders steak and a bottle of wine. I look afterwards and the wine was thirty-two pounds. You could get eight bottles of Chardonnay for that at the supermarket. He said it was ‘effing delicious’. He uses the F word a lot but Kate doesn’t seem to notice. Her