“I don’t know if Drexler gets enough credit. There’s a lot of Hitler and Göring, you know, but Drexler did an awful lot of the groundwork for them in the early years. You understand, when I say ‘credit,’ I don’t mean—I’m notpro-Nazi—I happen to think, and you can quote me on this, I happen to think that the Nazis were dreadful. Absolutely dreadful.”
“I understand,” said Catherine, resting her head on his shoulder. And she did understand. Geoffrey Standing was a lovely man who just needed to feel loved. Maybe she could do that for him. She couldn’t see his face, but she felt sure that Geoffrey was happy to have her body so close to his.
After a while, sometime around the annexation of Czechoslovakia, Geoffrey nodded off. Catherine, who hadn’t been paying much attention to the program, took out her phone. Margaret had replied to Catherine’s message asking to meet tomorrow instead with a simple—or was it a curt?—Ok.Was this really happening? Were she and Geoffrey about to pair off and leave Margaret like the gooseberry? No. Catherine couldn’t let that happen. Perhaps, now that Polly was to be put away, Carol would be reintegrated. Although Catherine had to wonder just how comfortable she really was being friends with the author of those diaries.
She fiddled around on her phone. An email had arrived from Nigel. Nigel? She hated herself for feeling a flutter of nerves. Nothing could have prepared her for what the email contained.
Dearest Catherine,
I do hope we can be grown-ups about this. I’ve told the children and they’re all delighted for Emily and me. The long and the short of it is that we’re getting married. I suggested inviting you but Emily, understandably, didn’t want competition in the room. Not that, beautiful as you are, anyone could be competition for Emily, the love of my life. Seeing as this leaves you the only person in England who’s free on that particular weekend, how would you feel about looking after our dogs?
Best wishes,
Nigel
Catherine threw her phone across the room.
Geoffrey was still asleep but Catherine had to do something with her instant rage. She needed somewhere to put it.
“Catherine?” Geoffrey had woken up to find her hand on his crotch. He looked at her, stunned but overjoyed. “I…I really…Catherine, I’m afraid I need a little medical assistance. I have some pills in the bathroom.”
“Take one. Now.”
Catherine and Geoffrey carried out her revenge sex on his bed. The television still on, they could hear a detailed description of the Saar Offensive coming from the living room.
Catherine put her back into it, like digging the garden, hoping the physical exertion would take her mind off the news. But it couldn’t. Maybe one day she could fall in love with Geoffrey, but it could never be the same. She was too old; he was too old. The older you got, the more distinct you got. You became who you were. She could never give herself to another man like she had with Nigel.
Catherine was heartbroken.
No. That wouldn’t do. Catherine needed to get out of her head and into her body. All that swimming, all that yoga, what was it for if not for this? She pushed herself to her limits, stretching them both into a position never before performed by a couple of their combined age.
Living in central London for years, as she had, Catherine was familiar with the mating call of foxes. You’d often hear it at night as they prowled the bins—an ugly, terrifying shriek. For the first time in her life, Catherine now heard that sound coming out of the mouth of a human.
“Argh! Aaaaargh! Jesus H. bloody Christ! I think I might have pulled my calf!” rasped Geoffrey.
Catherine rolled off him and they stared at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry, Catherine. That was terrific, it really was. I’m just a little out of practice.”
“That’s all right, Geoffrey. I got a little carried away. Why don’t you see if you can sleep it off?” said Catherine.
Catherine felt guilty. She’d used Geoffrey’s body as a repository for her anger, and it hadn’t worked. She’d given the poor man an injury, but the rage hadn’t faded. Her eyes narrowed. There was only one person who could help her now: Carol.
Thirty-Seven
Carol was onher fourth episode ofWomen Who Kill. Or perhaps her fifth? You used to have to wait a week for a new edition of your favorite TV program. Now, if you didn’t move, they just kept coming. She couldn’t sit there all day. Maybe she’d get up and try out one of the many Sheldon Oaks facilities she’d never bothered with. Just one more episode.
A knock at the door startled her. Something about the sound suggested the person on the other side was in a rush. This was no jaunty playful knock, rather the knock of a person who wanted something. Now. Carol opened the door, slowly.
“I need you to tell me how to kill someone.”
Carol grabbed Catherine’s arm and pulled her into the flat, checking the corridor was empty before closing the door.
“Tea?”
“No, thank you.”
“Take a seat.”
