“I’m going to get some cameras set up around the house, to see what you’re doing, and maybe we can get to the bottom of what’s causing you to put on so much weight.”
“You’re going to watch me in the house?”
“I’m just going to keep an eye on things. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation for your weight gain, and once we know what it is we can deal with it.”
Yes, there was a simple explanation and that was the problem. Not only would he find out about the snacks, but he would find out about Mrs. B’s stealing, and it would be the end of her employment.
“You’re putting cameras in all the rooms?” I asked.
“All the ones you use, to start with.”
And if I started using other rooms, those as well, no doubt.
“But you’ll be able to see what I’m doing all day,” I said.
“You’re not doing anything you wouldn’t want me to see, are you?” he asked. “You know I’m only doing it for you. For your health.”
I looked at the scene in front of me: houses, lampposts, garden walls. There was nothing I could drive the car into that would reliably kill James and leave me unharmed. I continued driving safely down the road; we would both reach our destination in one piece.
The truth was, I was never going to kill him. I loved to daydream about it, but in reality, I didn’t dare. I would get caught and spend the rest of my life in prison, of that there was no doubt. If I wanted to be out of this marriage, I would have to leave.
Before it had felt like failure to leave with nothing, no fortune, no children, no house, no money, but right there and then, it suddenly felt like freedom. Faced with having my every move monitored, none of it mattered. I was ready to leave. And I still had the cryptocurrency to come in the future; I only had to manage for a decade or two. It seemed easy in that moment. By the time we got to the party, I was riding high on the joy of a good decision well made.
The venue was a house on the nice estate on the outskirts of town, where all the properties were set far back from the road, with drives you could turn a lorry around on, mature trees hiding the house from public view, and large gardens stretching back to the fields beyond. The houses weren’t on the scale of ours, but they were better maintained,every room was usable, none had damp patches spreading across the ceiling or hundred-year-old wallpaper hanging off the walls.
I turned the car into the drive, packed with other cars, and circled around looking for a space, but it was already full. I turned the car to leave the drive and park in the street.
“You can get in there,” James said, as he realized what I was doing.
I looked to where he was pointing. “It won’t fit there,” I said.
“There’s loads of room, fold the mirrors in.”
“If I have to fold the mirrors in, it’s too small. How are we going to get out? With my enormous backside? I’d get stuck. They’d need to get a crane to hoist me.”
“It would be a memorable night, though,” James said.
We parked in the leafy avenue outside, James harping on all the time that there was plenty of space on the drive.
As we approached the house, I could see exactly what kind of party we were getting ourselves into. People stood stiffly against the walls in formal dresses and penguin suits, holding drinks to their chests, hardly moving as waiting staff offered canapés and more drinks. This wasn’t the kind of do where people had a drink and a boogie, it was a networking event, where business people guffawed loudly at jokes that weren’t funny and swapped business cards while their spouses and partners loitered until they could go home.
We rang the doorbell and waited until a suited gentleman let us in and herded us into the chamber of doom, where no music played and little was said.
But it was early. Whiskey, port, cognac, prosecco, and wine flowed. Someone asked for a schooner of sherry and caused quite a kerfuffle; a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream was eventually pulled out from the depths of a cupboard and dusted off.
“Mineral water, please,” I said when my turn came.
“Still or sparkling?”
“Sparkling.” After all, this was a party.
When I turned round with my drink, James had vanished, leaving me standing on my own. I looked around, wondering if there was anyone there I knew from the village and if that would be a good thing or a bad thing, but the people here were all new to me.
“Are you Mrs. James?” A tall, stocky woman with a 1980s backcomb and a home counties accent appeared beside me, a bottle of wine tucked under her arm, a glass of the stuff in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. “Are you James Dixon’s wife?” she clarified, and I nodded.
“I’m Margery, your charming hostess.”
I smiled. “Lovely to meet you. Yes, I am Mrs. James: Daisy.”
