Then Nigel left her.
For a younger woman.
On Christmas Day.
Bastard.
Everyone agreed that Nigel was making a fool of himself, he was being an idiot, embarrassing—“a total wally” was a common phrase. And they were right but that didn’t make it any less heartbreaking. Heartbreak, actual heartbreak, in her midseventies. She was prepared for grief—with Nigel’s diet she’d thought it inevitable that he’d go first—but heartbreak? It was ridiculous.
Emily was her name. Fiftyish, blond, pretty but in a way, Catherine thought, that you could tell she put rather a lot of effort into it. What galled Catherine most was how Emily reducedher.Catherine had been blond and pretty in her day, still got compliments now, but that wasn’tallshe was. She was a doctor and a mother and bloody good company, actually. All this time, despite everything she’d achieved, had she been nothing more than a trophy wife to Nigel? Sure, they’d had fun together, good conversations, some lovely children, some lovely holidays, but ultimately once the wrinkles had set in and the hair had gone gray, had she lost her value in his eyes? Like one of his stocks?
Bastard.
So Sheldon Oaks had seemed like a good choice. She didn’t want to be alone, didn’t want to be the old lady on the street everyone smiled at but never spoke to. Didn’t want to be a burden on her children. Jack, her eldest, had suggested here, and Catherine wasn’t too proud to see that it made sense. Still in London, near two of her three kids, pleasant, close to theaters and whatnot and with its own little community.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Margaret, waddling up to the table and putting down her handbag. “We bumped into each other in the foyer and there was an electrician fixing something and Geoffrey started explaining to him how to rewire a plug and why British plugs are the best in the world.”
“They are,” said Geoffrey, sitting down. “Nothing will make you more patriotic than an American socket. Evening, Catherine.”
“Evening.”
They ordered and ate. Cod for Catherine, chicken for Margaret, lamb for Geoffrey, a bottle of sauvignon blanc between them, of which Geoffrey had the bulk.
Belinda’s performance in the hall was the first topic of conversation.
“Did you know that they were an item?” asked Catherine.
“I’m not sure they were,” said Margaret. “Not exclusively, anyway. Belinda seems to have worked her way through every gentleman here.”
“Not this one,” said Geoffrey proudly.
“I bet you would, though, wouldn’t you?” said Catherine.
“Please. My years of carnal desire have long gone.” Then, after a pause for consideration, Geoffrey conceded, “Yes, probably.”
“Urgh, honestly,” said Catherine. “You disappoint me.”
“Is she on our list of suspects, do we think?” said Margaret.
“You can start a list, if you like, but I’m telling you now, Carol did it,” said Geoffrey.
Catherine frowned. “That seems like a rush to judgment. I can see why she’s a suspect, a big one, but we don’t actually have any evidence, do we? Geoffrey, I felt a little sorry for her when you spoke about her in the hall.”
“Trust me. When you were in the game as long as I was, you learned to spot the murderer. All we have to do now is construct a case against her.”
“And how many convictions did you have overturned, Geoffrey?” asked Margaret pointedly.
Geoffrey mumbled.
“Say it a little louder, Geoffrey. I don’t think Catherine heard you.”
“Eleven.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’m going to withhold judgment for a little longer,” said Margaret.
Marco, the waiter, arrived.
Geoffrey, affronted, got in one childish jab. “She did it.”
