And then … they had killed Riz. One of Stuart’s ex-boyfriends whom we would never know.
Correction: I would never know. Because I was fucking done with it all.
I switched on the news on Thursday morning after coming in from my run. “It is going to be positively scorching today. But not as hot as tomorrow, when it could be the hottest day in England since records began,” the presenter said. “But, right now, all eyes are on Central Dorset, for the by-election that has gripped the country. Voting opened at 7 a.m. and by around midnight, we should know who will win this race, which has seen so many dramatic moments over the past month.”
The TV went off. My phone started buzzing. It was Verity.
Two weeks of silence. I … I needed to answer this. It was for work. It was my career. It was important. I stared at the phone and let it go to voicemail. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
Slumping down on my sofa, I admitted it to myself. I was exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, physically, spiritually, financially (unlikely, but I’ll throw it in there), fucking exi-bloody-stentially. The only kind of exhausted that I wasn’t right now was sexually. Frankly, the first man who turned up on my doorstep would get jumped on.
Eventually, I stood and got dressed. I had put off the inevitable long enough. Time to go be a good citizen.
St Candida Church was probably the prettiest place that I’d ever cast a vote. It was also definitely the most media-focused. Of course, since British laws meant that you couldn’t report about an election on the day of it, I’m not sure what they were doing here, but there were several journalists asking people questions as they politely filed in and out of the church to vote.
Across the road, watching like a Greek chorus were three women. Technically, they were an Irish, Polish, and French chorus. Rita Parkinson, Ewa, and Cytrine all greeted me warmly.
“I’ve just voted,” Rita said. Irish citizens were allowed to vote, but Cytrine and Ewa couldn’t.
“We came to gawp,” Cytrine said.
Ewa gestured to the sky. “It is nice day for gawping.”
“Anyone that I need to avoid in there?” I asked Rita quietly.
“No,” she said. “Guy voted by post; he told us. There’s going to be a bit of a scene around midday when Suzy and all the other candidates are going to lay a wreath in Sittingston. But that’s it.”
I nodded and left the ladies to get on with their double toils and troubles and joined the queue. “Hello, love,” Roz Staines, proprietress of the village shop, said as I sidled up behind her in the line. In one hand, she held an apple she was eating and in the other a celeb gossip magazine. Using her time effectively.
“Morning, Roz.”
“Gosh, I can’t wait for this all to be over, don’t you agree?”
“You have no idea.”
Nigella came up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are we discussing tactical voting strategies? I say we all write in the Monster Raving Loony Party.”
Roz chortled.
Nigella put her arm through mine. “How are you?” she asked.
“I feel a hundred years old.”
Nigella looked at me for a few seconds then she patted my arm. “I think you need a holiday.”
“Oof, don’t we all?” Roz said. “Wait, is that bloody Odette talking to the reporters?”
We shuffled closer just in time to hear Odette’s views. “It makes one wonder if we should even have democracy. I was reading a fascinating column in theDaily Mailthe other day about whether we should have tests before people can vote. Especially people on benefits.”
“Dear Lord,” Nigella said. She turned to me. “Have you heard from Sonia today?”
“Not a peep.”
Nigella looked as if she was going to say something. But then she frowned. “What on earth is he doing here?”
I turned to look in the direction her eyes were focused. The car that had driven me to Sittingston a few weeks ago was now pulling up beside the church. Out of it got Errol Mottley. He was unshaven, his tie was loose, his shirt was crumpled, and his immaculate suit looked like he’d slept in it.
“Christ,” I said. “Hide me.”
