In our first year together we were averaging 3.1 encounters per week – which is impressive. By our third year, it was down to an acceptable 2.3. By our fifth year, a lacklustre 1.4. That we’ve dropped off is no surprise – the unstable chemical compound finds stability. Lust becomes duty. Life takes over.
More noticeably, the last twelve months have shown a severe falling off. I’d presumed this was due to the bereavement and other stresses, but it could also indicate extracurricular interests.
There are also certain days when the overall frequency of sex drops off completely. I have cross-referenced with our calendar to account for absences and other issues (death of fathers, surgery, children, holidays, urinary infections, guests staying in next room to ours), and there is still something to note. For instance, in the last twelve months, we’ve never made love on a Sunday or Friday. Stephen goes to the supermarket on Sundays and the gym on Fridays, but it may be more than that.
It upsets me to find out that we’ve entered into negative equity. In the last twelve months, we had sexual intercourse less than once a month, and for the last few months it is probably not even statistically true that we have had sex at all.
Currently, I’m more likely to die of a shark attack than have sex with my husband.
Chapter53Identity
Monday, 23 December
Eyes swivel and glance, then look away quickly. Some brave souls raise their phones and snap surreptitiously. On the icy pavement, couples part and pushchairs move aside. I’m enjoying being out with a Muswell Hill celebrity. Cait, however, who is the subject of all this furtive interest, is hiding her face in a thick scarf, which makes her look even more criminal.
Despite Cait’s gloom, the shop windows are festive and bright and I’m a little smug that my Christmas preparations are almost complete. Presents all wrapped, Christmas pudding prepared, deliveries of consumables locked in with Ocado, and I’ve ordered a goose from the Hampstead Butcher as a change feels right. Picking up the turkey is Stephen’s sole contribution to this annual event, but he makes such a song and dance about arriving home with the bird as if he’s killed and plucked it himself that, this year, I’m getting it delivered.
Cait’s moaning that her stint in prison has put her preparations behind, but the truth is, Cait is very last minute, arrest or no arrest. And she’s not the only person with challenges this Christmas – but you don’t find me making a fuss about dealing with two murders, the reappearance of my first husband,Madeleine’s reluctance to die, and the fact that police are stalking me. Thoroughness can sometimes feel close to persecution, and I’ve made an official complaint about DS Birch.
Hollis’s accusation about Stephen is still rumbling in the back of my mind. I’m not a suspicious person, but Stephen’s coldness and absence (he’s been at his mother’s bedside for days at a time) is now even more distressing – I like a warm body in my bed, not a cold shoulder. One husband is pushing me away, and the other is trying to drag me closer.
‘I don’t want to be away for long,’ Cait says. ‘It took an hour to get here and I want to spend every second I can with the girls.’
‘I know, but I’ve got some really good news,’ I say with a big smile.
‘What? You got your house?’ says Cait, which is really generous, to think of my problems when she’s got so many of her own.
‘No, I’ve not quite managed that yet. It’s about Owen’s killer. I think I’ve found him!’
‘What?’ shrieks Cait, and stops in the street. It causes all kinds of mayhem on the pavement and a minor pile-up outside M&S.
‘Yes,’ I say, and then notice even more people staring at Cait. They’ve clearly seen through her disguise. Fortunately, people are too polite to shout ‘Mummy Murderer’ but they do shield their shopping from her rather noticeably.
‘Who is it? When did you find out?’ she says, oblivious to the crowd and their prurient interest.
‘All that matters is that I’ve actually found him,’ I say quietly.
We dart into Crocodile Café and find a corner seat. The young woman serving has a pleasingly round face with rosy cheeks, like someone you’d expect to see serving apples in a medieval fair.
‘Just take me through this slowly,’ says Cait. ‘And don’t leave anything out.’
‘I went to the meeting with MonkeyWarrior. It was at a café in Islington. I waited until the contact arrived.’
‘How did you know it was him?’
‘He was wearing anI killed OwenT-shirt,’ I say.
‘Ha-ha.’
‘Well, stop interrupting! He was alone, he looked shifty, andwhen I followed him, he went to his car and I recognized it. It’s quite distinctive. I was desperately trying to remember where I’d seen it.’
‘And?’
‘I’d seen it in your road. I can’t remember when exactly, but it was definitely before the fire.’
‘That’s evidence, Lalla. Should we tell the police?’
‘No! We should make sure first. We can’t let the police mess this up.’
