Page 56 of Perfect Wives
As Georgie peers into her parcel, Tasha moves slowly back to the sofa, collapsing down before wrapping her arms around her legs, hugging herself tight and crying quietly.
‘I’ve got two things,’ Georgie says, pulling out the first item, holding the narrow white box up for us to see.
Tasha gasps again. ‘My dad’s sleeping pills,’ she says. ‘Keira must’ve taken them that night in the pub. Remember how I showed them to you?’
‘There’s this too,’ Georgie says, and this time she holds up a silver key. ‘It must be Jonny’s house key. How the hell did she get hold of this?’
We fall silent again. Neither Tasha nor I can answer Georgie’s question. I can’t drag my eyes away from the bloody top on the floor.
‘Your turn, Beth,’ Georgie says.
My mouth turns dry as my eyes shift to the white dishcloth on my lap. I peel back the edges. Inside is a plastic carrier bag. It rustles as I open it and peer inside.
‘What is it?’ Tasha asks.
Fear scrapes its way up my throat. I’m trying so hard to stay calm for the baby, but I can’t. I’ve wanted this pregnancy for so long – years filled with the lonely ache of wanting. I saw myself taking long walks in the mornings and spending the afternoons baking and knitting tiny cardigans, talking to my baby girl. All those years, I never thought the weeks of my pregnancy would pass with my neighbour dead and a police investigation hanging over us. What if the fear – this constant hum of worry – affects my baby’s development or leaks into her personality?
You really shouldn’t call the baby a girl,the voice whispers.You’ll only be disappointed if it turns out to be a boy.
But I feel deep in my soul that she’s a little girl. As clear as the knowledge that she is already more important to me than the air I breathe. I think of Alistair and Henry. Our perfect family. Our perfect life.
And a little baby girl who needs me.
She needed me to do everything I could to make sure she was conceived. And so I did. Keira’s comment in the playground the day after we found out Jonny was dead lingers in my thoughts.
‘Sure it’s not twins? You’re big for three months.’
The words creep into my ears again, cold and taunting.
Of course it’s three months. Three months makes the baby Alistair’s. But four months ago, Alistair was ill with stomach flu. It knocked him out for weeks. It’s another small white lie I tell. Always planning the midwife appointments on the days I know Alistair has lectures and meetings he can’t get out of.
A white lie that’s worth the guilt that sits so hard in my chest for deceiving my kind, trusting husband. Because I was perfect. I was doing everything right. But Alistair’s sperm count was still low. We were told a natural conception wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t likely either. And so in March, I went to a fertility clinic to use a sperm donor. It was the only way to give Alistair the second child he wanted as badly as I did.
Even if it meant a lie.
Then, of all the thousands of people who live in the city, the thousands more that visit every day, it was my neighbour who saw me on the street after my appointment.
Jonny.
I lied about my reasons for being there, but Jonny knew. Now he’s dead, and sitting on my lap in a white dishcloth is the knife used to kill him.
Strangers on a Train WhatsApp Group
Wednesday,15 October, 4.08 p.m.
Keira
There’s more bloodstained clothing tying you to Jonny’s murder. You think I sent everything? Think again.
Keira
Either kill my ex tomorrow – or I give the police the recording of you planning Jonny’s death, and the rest of the evidence they need to charge all three of you.
Keira
Oh – and don’t even think about destroying the ‘gifts’ I sent. I’ve hidden a few extra items in Jonny’s house. Missing a glove, Georgie? A scarf, Beth? You ladies really should be more careful with your belongings on nights out!
Keira
