The Dead Ex(20)

When rescheduling, I’d deliberately not mentioned my hospital stay. Now I’m nervous. My hands begin to sweat. She lives in town, so maybe someone has told her. I can almost imagine it: That aromatherapist with the red hair who lives in one of those converted flats? Found her having a fit under the bench on the seafront, they did.

‘Fine,’ I reply tersely.

‘I’m still having my migraines,’ she says. And then I realize that her ‘How are you?’ was simply a matter of courtesy.

Immediately I snap into professional caring mode. ‘Let’s see what we can do, shall we?’

Lavender, of course. Citrus scent. Clary sage. Jasmine. My chosen middle note, my top and my base, as I learned during my training. Now blend. She lies back on my couch, her head in my hands. I massage the oils into her temples in a slow circular motion. ‘Lovely,’ she breathes. ‘You’ve got such a deft touch. Have you always been able to do this?’

I stiffen. Even though this woman has been here before, she’s never asked questions about my past. She’s just taken it for granted that the black-and-white framed certificates on the wall are a measure of my competence.

‘Not always,’ I say hesitantly.

‘So what made you become an aromatherapist?’

I swallow the tension in my throat. ‘I went to one when … when I needed to tackle some of my own issues. I found it calming. And then I decided to train as one myself.’

‘Fascinating,’ she murmurs, eyes still closed. ‘What were you doing before?’

I can’t tell her the truth. ‘Just running a home, actually.’

‘Don’t undersell yourself.’ Her voice is gently admonishing. ‘I was a full-time mum until my youngest went to uni.’

I have a sudden vision of rosy cheeks and a soft brown floppy fringe. A strong nose. Freckles. That wonderful baby smell.

‘How old are yours?’ she asks.

My hands slip.

‘Ouch!’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘My left eye.’ She sits up. ‘Your finger went right in it. The oil is stinging.’

I’ve never done that before.

She leaves without making her next appointment. That’s two clients I’ve lost in the space of a few days. One thanks to the police. The other due to my own stupidity.

I try telling myself that it’s not the end of the world. I still have other clients on my books. Even though I haven’t been here long, I’ve had some good responses to my adverts and through referrals. This is a small seaside town. People talk. That’s good and bad. What if the last client spreads the word about her eye? How many onlookers had spotted the ambulance at the bench?

It’s not going to be long until my secret is out once more and I’ll have to move. Again.

Because the truth is this. No one really likes the thought of someone who can – at a minute’s notice – go ‘crazy’. That’s what he said to me when it first happened.

David. The man whom I have every right to hate. The man I could easily destroy if I wanted. And maybe now’s the time.

I walk across to the desk where I keep my important papers. I open the file marked ‘Bills’. It’s still there, hidden between the neatly filed copies of receipts, in case I ever need it. Should I have told the police? Probably. But although I’m angry with David, it’s Tanya I really blame. She’s the bitch who lured him from me. I suspect she was there all the time, even before the E word stole my life.

And this piece of paper implicates her too.

Is David’s disappearance connected? There’s only one way to find out.

I feel myself babbling on in my head. Typically, after a seizure, we’re unable to function very well. It can be hard to speak or understand things around us. Memory is impaired and there’s a general sense of confusion. Getting back to ‘normal’ may take hours or days. Often we sleep for most of the time. Certain artists with epilepsy claim they find their condition ‘useful’ because it gives them ‘an awareness of an altered state’ before, during and shortly after.

Yet right now the effect on me is different. I just want to do something. And right now, that means having it out with the woman who stole my husband.

I lock the windows, which are rattling in the wind. Turn off the music. Pack my meds – even though I might not take them – in my small case with a change of clothes in case I get an incontinent seizure. Put on my red jacket.

I’m at the door now. I open it. And jump.

‘What are you doing here?’ I demand.

Detective Inspector Vine looks down at my bag in a movement clearly designed to be casual but which is more of a risk-assessment. ‘Going somewhere?’

‘To see a friend,’ I retort with more confidence than I feel.

‘I need to show you something first.’

He is waving a file in his hand. The sergeant – the same one as before – is at his side.

‘May we come in?’

It might sound like a question, but it isn’t. I could refuse him entry – he hasn’t mentioned a search warrant – but if I do, it makes me look guilty.

I find myself being almost marched to my own kitchen table. He opens the brown envelope. There’s a photograph inside.

I stare at it. The image looms in and out. Eventually, I manage to speak. ‘Where did you get this from?’