AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I was twenty-nine, and starting to tire of the noise and frantic pace of London, and Pete was two years older and had been thinking of moving somewhere more rural for years. We were both single, and when Pete heard of a great job going at a Gloucestershire accountancy firm, it seemed like a good time to up sticks. I’d lived in the Cotswolds before, in my teens, and I knew how beautiful it was. I fell in love with my lovely modern townhouse in the smart Montpellier area of Cheltenham as soon as I saw it. A three-storey building on The Grove, a sweeping tree-lined street, its big open-plan living area downstairs opens onto a pretty little paved courtyard at the rear, which in turns backs onto the landscaped gardens of Grove Court, an upmarket apartment complex. Upstairs, the elegant first-floor lounge (the estate agent’s details called it a ‘drawing room’) has floor-to-ceiling windows and a beautiful polished maple wood floor; and on the top floor, the master bedroom – mine, naturally – is huge, with en suite dressing room and bathroom and doors opening onto a roof terrace which gets the morning and afternoon sun.
The house is mortgage-free – my late father left me a substantial sum, as did my grandmother – but Pete still pays me the going rate to rent one of the three other airy bedrooms, and while I still have plenty of cash in the bank I’ve always been a worrier when it comes to money, so it’s nice to have that monthly sum coming in, especially as being a freelance crime writer isn’t always the most reliable source of regular income. Pete bought himself a place in Cheltenham too, last year: a smart one-bed apartment in a Regency building just off Royal Crescent. But he rents it out, to a colleague at work, and the arrangement suits us both. Maybe the arrival of Megan on the scene will change things one day soon; maybeI’lleven meet someone special one of these days, who knows. But for now, we’re happy with how things are.
I don’t date much; there’ve been boyfriends, on and off, but it takes a while for me to let men get close. I have scars, you see. My left ear and cheek, my right wrist. I was burned in a fire many years ago, the fire that killed my father. I’ve healed well, but people still stare. Edward Cooper in the office, that police officer today … You get used to it, but I still hate them – the curious looks, the pity I sometimes see in people’s eyes, the unasked questions. Pete never stared though. He didn’t even seem to notice; it was me who brought it up, weeks after we met, and he looked surprised, as if seeing those bits of me for the very first time.
‘What, you expect me to believe you’ve never noticed half of my left ear is missing, and what’s left looks like a shrivelled sprout?’ I laughed, and he laughed back, peering at the side of my head.
‘Honestly, I really didn’t!’ he said. ‘I mean, your hearing’s obviously not affected?’
I shook my head. I’d been lucky there.
‘And OK, I did sort of notice that bit of rough skin on the side of your face, and the mark on your wrist, but … well, you’re beautiful, Mary. All that fabulous hair and gorgeous dark eyes. What do a few little scars matter? Does my childhood appendectomy scar ruin my incredible six-pack? I think not.’
He pulled his white T-shirt up and flashed his tanned stomach, and I rolled my eyes.
‘Any excuse, Chong! Put it away!’
But the exchange had made me happy, my confidence soaring. As the years have passed, I’ve become less self-conscious, more accepting of my appearance, realising that apart from my cheek, my flaws are easy enough to hide, but I still don’t like being looked at by strangers. I don’t even liketalkingto strangers sometimes, which is a definite disadvantage in my job.
And, I think now, reaching for my glass again,I might have to add receiving gifts from strangers to that list too, after this. Who sent that bloody diary? Are people really going to die? Am I going to die?
I take a large mouthful of wine and put the glass down again.
Stop it, Mary. Don’t freak out over this.
Pete’s right.Ifthe threats in the diary do start to become reality, andifI think the Mary in the diary really is me, then I can just … leave, can’t I? I have friends abroad, I have money, it’s not going to be a problem.
And what a story.
I’ve been complaining about everything being too quiet for weeks. And now this has literally landed right in my lap. It’s a crime writer’s dream, isn’t it? I wriggle a little in my seat, adjusting my feet on Pete’s lap, and he glances at me and smiles, then turns his attention back to the TV screen.
Yes, I think.It’s a crime writer’s dream. Exactly the sort of thing I’ve been wishing would come my way.
And I try to ignore the little, faraway voice in my head that’s whispering something so softly I can barely hear it. I know what it’s saying though.
Be careful what you wish for.
