People have got exactly what was coming to them and I’ll finally be able to have what I deserve.
I’m just not sure why I’m crying.
The pile of peeled, bone pale potatoes sits on the counter in front of Ruth. “We’d better get these in water,” she says, “or they’ll go brown.”
“Sure.” Jayne locates a pan, fills it, the water out of the tap surprisingly cold. She puts it on the hob and turns on the heat.
They’ve fallen into an awkward silence, broken only by the sound of the rain and the clatter of the pan lid as the water comes to the boil.
Everything feels messy to Jayne, suddenly. She’s seen more complicated emotion in Ruth these past few minutes than she has in months. Years, maybe. Ever? Is it something that’s happening in her life? The letter’s undeniably a stressor for all of them, but surely it shouldn’t have knocked Ruth for six like this.
Ruth is struggling to know what to do with a strong impulse to share her feelings. It feels wrong, terrifying, and possibly humiliating, but necessary, as if she can’t help it. If anyone will try to understand, Jayne will. She might be straitlaced, she might even be boring (an accusation Toby has made in private), but Ruth knows Jayne to be level-headed and kind.
Ruth looks at her friend and Jayne breaks the silence.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “If things have been difficult since Alfie was born.”
And Ruth knows she’s going to share. “Jayne,” she begins, “I—”
“Hi,” Emily says from the doorway. Her eyes flick from Jayne to Ruth and back again. “Am I interrupting something?” Her hair’s wet. She scrunches the ends of it with a towel.
“No,” Jayne says.
“No!” Ruth speaks over her; she sounds a little manic, her voice too loud. “Of course not. How are you feeling? Have you warmed up? Would you like a cup of tea?”
“I was wondering if either of you have a hairdryer?”
“Isn’t there one upstairs?” Ruth asks.
“No,” Emily says.
“Because you wouldn’t be asking if there was. Sorry. I’ve brought one.”
“Can I grab it from your bag?”
“No! I’ll get it for you.”
“Sure,” Emily says. “Thanks.” Ruth, she thinks, is exhausting. And why doesn’t she want me to go in her bag? Does she think I’m going to steal something?
As they head upstairs, Jayne notes how swiftly Ruth morphed into mother hen mode. It was as if a switch had flicked in Ruth’s mind, reverting her to what Jayne thinks of as normal Ruth. But perhaps it’s not normal at all. Perhaps “normal” Ruth is a coping strategy. Jayne feels guilty that she might not have noticed fault lines when she should have.
The pan is billowing steam now, its lid rattling urgently, catching her attention. Jayne adds the potatoes and turns down the heat a touch. There’s no extractor fan in this little kitchen. She supposes it would be impossible to install one beneath or between the heavy beams. The windows are misting up quickly. She cracks one open, and the wind immediately bullies its way through the small gap. She shuts it, makes a cup of tea, and sits amid the thickening fug.
Should I be worried as Ruth and Emily are? she wonders. Be rational. Think it through. What would Mark say? She imagines him raising his eyebrows, asking what all the fuss is about. Don’t get sucked into their paranoia, Jayney, he would say. You know better than that. She agrees.
The answer is that she should keep her cool and the reason for it is that Edie isn’t capable of killing another person. The idea’s ridiculous. Edie’s been at the heart of the gang for two decades. She’s the glue that holds them together, the sun they orbit.
And it’s not just about Edie. Toby, Mark, and Paul have beenlike uncles to Edie’s daughter Imogen all her life, even before Rob died.
Why would Edie hurt any one of them?
Jayne has always kept her distance from Edie as much as possible. They’re such different people. It’s as if I’ve studied her, she thinks. Like a specimen of the sort of woman I’ll never be. What have I learned? That Edie is funny, and charismatic. That she’s beautiful and sexy, but also sharp and intelligent. She takes offense.
Jayne thinks of the letter. “I didn’t come along because I know I’m not welcome,” Edie wrote. A typical dig at them. I’m missing out and it’s your fault. It’s chagrin and exactly the sort of thing Edie might say to manipulate the men.
So,shouldthey be worried about the letter?
No, Jayne thinks, the intention of this letter is to hurt me, Ruth, and Emily. Maybe because our husbands are not dead, because we get to go on couples’ weekends as couples, not as a widow. Edie’s hurting and she wants us to know what it might feel like.
