Retracing my steps back to the bookcase, I run my index finger along the spines until I find what I’m looking for, about chest height.
Detective Featherton: A murder sewn tight,by Robin Osbourne.
I tried to search for her on social media when I was still in the kitchen, but this house has zero signal. I didn't even know her last name, but I did know that she'd just published a crime novel. Phin had mentioned it when I’d taken him to Cornwall, feeling bad because he didn't dare call her without giving away something was wrong. A pang of guilt now strikes me, because I hadn't cared at all whether he checked in with his friend, I’d just needed him to get sober.
Pulling the fresh copy from the stacks, there's a number of the same book, some with different covers and at least a full row of the same as in my hand. A sense of pride washes over me as I stare at her accomplishment. I bet it was so much hard work to not only write a book, but get published too. I knew Phoenix would have bought each of these copies, so that she got the money. Before tucking the book under my arm, I dust my fingers over the sleek cover, chuckling as I read the blurb.
When Detective Featherton meets the Stitching Society of Primrose Folley, a sleepy Yorkshire village that holds centuries of secrets, he never expected to uncover them with the help of three pensioners. Not only are they great at a cross-stitch, but they help thread together a web of lies that has Featherton truly entangled.
Thistle doesn't know what to make of the young, eccentric Detective. He dresses like her late husband and doesn't own a television. But as the leader of the Stitching Society, she needs to put her best cane forward and help unpick the lining that the village needs to be set free.
This sounds fantastic and exactly what I need in order to get to know Robin better.
Chapter six
Robin
Igive Phoenix the silent treatment for a good hour before I forgive him, passing my glass for a refilled. We’re sitting back outside on the patio as Lil sweeps out into the afternoon sunshine, a shallow plastic box in her hands. She gives it a shake and chunky objects clang together inside.
“Ok Darlings, it's time to hand over those phones! We don't want any cheating in the murder mystery.” Her lips flatten together as she gives us a knowing look, because yes we totally would. I don't protest handing her my phone, but as I take it out of my pocket and click the screen out of habit, I’m met with the photo of Wren on the dunes. As my fucking screen saver. My heart practically falls from my body as I smash the phone to my chest, Lily frowning at me.
“Robin Osbourne, you hand that device over right now. We need to start getting ready.” She shakes the box at me again.
I can feel the heat scorching my cheeks and chest as I blush, slowly moving my finger to the button on the side, to switch it off inconspicuously. She cannot see my phone screen or else she may serve my head up on a platter for dinner. I can’thave anyone make assumptions about us, especially not her or Willow, so I need to figure out how I can stay away from him until the weekend is over.
Even if it was just one night like I overheard in the library, it’s obvious she’s still hung up on him. They're both on another level of gorgeous so of course they would have had sex. I don't want to feel self conscious right now, but I'm very aware I’m not in the same league as the women he would go for. I might have high cheekbones that I think are ok, and curls that thankfully do stay tame, but I've made a living from something that doesn't require my body to be in shape. I can sit in comfortable clothing, hair not washed and write. That's what I like to do. I’m outgoing in other ways with friends I've made through being a writer in York; other women I see regularly for events around the city, classes, days in the gardens which is my favourite place to go. I've grounded my life to feel safe, like I can finally breathe all on my own which I've never been able to before.
Wrens is a famous singer.A rockstar. One that I don't think even remembers propositioning me this very same week. I’m starting to think that maybe the entire thing might have been a joke, if it wasn't for the bouncer creeping me out so much. Wednesday wasn’t correlating with the man that yes, was flirting with me in the library, but gave me space when I clearly wanted it.
I really liked flirting…
Peeking down to make sure the phone screen was dark, I practically launched it into the box, glad to be rid of it for the weekend. Flashing perfectly straight teeth, she collected her brother's phone too and gestured with her hand for us to rise and follow her into the house to get ready.
MY room doesn’t have an en-suite attached, so after scraping my hair into a claw clip and dashing down the short hall to the bathroom opposite Cardinal’s room, I quickly shower. Phin hadn’t been joking when he said he wasn’t giving me my luggage. In fact, he’d cherry picked out my make-up bag, hair products and a small satin pouch that I kept my favourite pieces of jewellery in. He hadn’t even brought me a pair of shoes, which didn’t matter, because sat on my bed is a pair of black wedges, alongside a dress that I can only describe as scandalous. Holding it up to myself, black sheer fabric cascades down to the floor, sparkles embedded into both the corset style bodice and the flowing parts. It’s held up by dainty straps and from what I can tell, there is a silky under layer to it, but it looks like it'll cling to every curve. Completely out of my comfort zone, I just stand there totally frozen, blind panic taking over.
Unable to ignore the inevitable, I go through the motions of getting ready. I do my makeup with a smokey eye, comb my hair and add some product before pinning one side, so it looks like I have finger waves around my ear. I add my jewellery and put on the shoes, all whilst still sitting in a white towel. Not wanting to look at the dress again yet, my attention falls onto a new red envelope sat on my pillow.
A PARTY TO DIE FOR IS UPON US!
Your character:
Mrs Wilson
Wife of a rival club owner.
Her marriage is far from perfect and her gangster husband speaks with his fists.
My heart sinks. Did my ex boyfriend just compare me to Myrtle fucking Wilson? I'm pretty sure Corbin has never read The Great Gatsby, and whilst I’m more of a crime fiction girlie, I did study the novel at university. For me, it's all about a good murder mystery novel. I fell in love with Agatha Christie, and as I grew into a teenager I found it hard to read anything else. The only time I had read anything other than crime fiction, was on my English Literature course. I did have some favourites from famous literature pieces, so I had a more than a basic understanding that I was all wrong for Myrtle Wilson.
I decided to ignore the part where I’m someone's wife, but I assume I'll have a partner in the game. It could work to my advantage depending on who it is, a cold dread spreading through me as I pray it’s not Corbin.
A slick sheen coats my palms as I cling to the towel, stepping closer to the dress laid on the bed. The sun is already starting to fall further along the wooden floors in my room, the noise of chatter and a drum beat drifting from outside my window. Excitement crackles in the summer air and I want to peer out and see who's already down there on the patio, but maybe a towel isn't the best attire to do so in.
“It’s just a dress, you can do this. Just a very, sheer dress. With sparkles.” I breathe, repeating my mantra and dropping the towel.
SLIPPING in the wedges, I catch myself on the stairs railing, drawing out a long breath to steady myself. Laughter bubbles downstairs and from the sounds of it, they're getting set up for band karaoke already. The odd bang against drums, a stroke of guitar strings floats from afar and I’m thankful the festivities will be outside because I need fresh air quickly.
After putting the dress on, I just stood in the mirror, admiring how beautiful the dress was but it showseverything. The silk underlayer is as sheer as the sparkly draping fabric, meaning through the bone structure of the bodice, you can see all my skin. My underwear is thankfully black, but I'd put bets on you being able to see it the moment I stepped into the light. The biggest problem I faced was that because Phin hadn’t gifted me with the rest of my luggage, I didn't have a bra, nor could I find my cardigan I’d ditched on the patio. Wrapping my arms around my chest to hide the peaks of my nipples, I continued slowly down the stairs until a mop of black hair comes into view at the bottom.
