Where
the hell is she?
It’s
gone half nine and a niggle of worry rumbles in my gut. A vision of Abi on a
hospital trolley flashes through my mind. I shove it away. I’m being silly.
Worrying unnecessarily. I’m sure she’s fine.
I
snatch up my phone and hit the redial button, willing her to answer, hoping for
a slurred apology and the sound of music thumping in the background. At least I
would know she was safe.
I
listen to a long hiss-filled silence, the blood gushing through my ears.
A
click.
Her
voice.
And for
a split second, I dare to believe I’m through.
‘Abi?’
‘You’ve
reached Abigail Pilkington-Hutton. I can’t take your call right now but leave a
message.’
I slump
in my chair and pinch the bridge of my nose as I ring off, my heart beating a
little faster and a little harder. A kaleidoscope of images of my wife’s body
dumped by the side of the road, bleeding, lifeless, her eyes staring blankly,
spiral through my head.
Stop
it.
I
refuse to be that husband. She’s perfectly capable of looking after herself.
She’s not a child. And yet, I can’t help but worry.
Of
course, the lasagne’s ruined. A fiery blast stings my face as I flip open the
oven door. I step back to let the curls of steam rush towards the ceiling and
peer inside despondently at the charred remains. Shavings of Parmesan cheese
are blackened beyond salvation and crusty tracks of meat sauce have bubbled up
and hardened over the sides of the ceramic dish. It’s as good as cremated, even
though I turned the heat down hours ago.
I slam
the door shut. Wasting good food irks me, especially when I’ve put effort into
cooking. It’s not as if it’s one of those vile cardboard-tasting ready meals,
straight out of a packet. It’s an authentic Italian recipe from a dusty old
cookbook I picked up in a secondhand bookstore in town. I used a pinch of
rosemary and cubes of pan-fried pancetta for the ragu and a sprinkling of
nutmeg in the bechamel sauce. A surprise treat to celebrate the end of Abi’s
trial.
I’ve
lost count of the number of evenings and weekends she’s given up working on the
case. The missed bedtime stories with the girls. The hours going through
witness statements “one more time”. After everything she’s sacrificed over the
last couple of months, I thought tonight we could spend some time together.
But
she’s not come home and her phone’s off.
1 comment:
Great cover, congrats on the release.
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