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Chapter Forty-Nine
Petra’s footsteps weren’t quite cantering as she came through the door at half past eight that night. I’d been starting to worry about how late it was getting, but I presumed she would be at the pub with her colleagues, like they often did on the last day of term. Or draped around Stella McBride, my mind supplied unhelpfully, although without much heart. Since seeing Petra crying in her office, my gut had been telling me that there was no affair going on there. Petra just wasn’t that type of person.
Eventually I heard her key in the door and felt an adrenaline-filled frisson of pure excitement.
“I’m home,” she called out, heading towards the kitchen.
“Good evening!” I called back, making my way down the stairs. “Well done! You made it! You’re free!”
We met in the kitchen.
“At last,” she said, submitting to a kiss on the cheek. Her voice was dull once again, and the excitement faded a little, but I figured that the last day of term had taken it out of her. She had left her basket in the living room, and on my dash past it I’d seen a number of items in it. Mostly of the wine and chocolate variety, if past years were anything to go by. Gifts from parents and children alike. She was so universally loved, and I felt immensely proud of her.
“No more early starts until September,” I said. “Six weeks of living your best life. You made it, my love!”
“I did,” she said, but now her tone caused me to cast a second glance at her. She looked back at me, her eyes glassy, and I squinted.
“What? What’s wrong? Shitty parent at work?”
“No. Nothing at work. It was a good day. I just… I need to tell you something, and I know you’re not going to like it.”
“Okay,” I said sceptically, without feeling anything. “Shall we sit down?”
“Mm,” was all she said as I pulled out our chairs at the kitchen table. She sat down, but in the event I preferred to stand, resting my forearm on the back of a chair in an effort to make my body language casual. She didn’t even meet my eyes, but clasped her hands in front of her and took a deep breath.
“Jean, I’ve started smoking again.”
A bomb detonated in our kitchen.
Silence.
I felt my pulse accelerate.
Dread flooded my stomach and all the strength drained away from my legs, forcing me to clutch the back of the chair for support.
“What?” My voice was flat. Deadly. It didn’t belong to me.
“I just couldn’t handle it.” Petra ran her fingers through her hair. “The stress. Of work, and what was happening to us. I’ve only had a few a day. At work, and only on the weekdays, almost never on the weekend. I’ve used it to cope.”
“So that’s why you’ve lost weight,” I said numbly. “And drowned yourself in perfume.”
“I didn’t want to stress you out. Knowing that I’ve been smoking.”
“Where do you even get them? The cigarettes? There’s nowhere in the village that sells them!”
“Stella gets them for me. Stella McBride, the music teacher. She lives in town.”
Stella bloody McBride.
“So you’re not having an affair with her.”
“What? An affair? Fucking hell. No, absolutely not. I would never do that to you. She just buys my cigarettes, and I reimburse her. She gets it. She… understands the need.”
“The need?” I repeated in a hollow voice. “The need to what? Kill yourself? Because that’s what you’re doing, Petra. Every puff is one step closer to the grave. You know what happened to my sister. You know what that did to my family. Why would you do that to me, Petra?”
My shout surprised me as much as her, deep and from the chest as if I was belting a note.
“I’m sorry.” Her face crumpled. “I just couldn’t cope. The craving never really leaves you. And I couldn’t handle it, the constant scratchy feeling, not on top of everything else.”
