She didn’t have the first idea what to say – what would anyone say? – so agreeing seemed the best way to get the woman to leave. Teddy made Paula promise faithfully several times that she would meet them there.
But of course she wouldn’t go. Paula’s grieving! And in hiding from the press! She’s barely left the house since John died, hardly even left her bed. All she’s done for weeks is ‘Netflix and Chill’ – as Seb used to say. Although the last time she said that in front of him he got all pale and said she was using that expression wrong and no one even says it anymore. Then he said she also uses the aubergine emoji all wrong. So who knows? Either way, she’s not ready to face the world yet – never mind socialising with strangers. She needs the world at large to calm down a bit, to forget about her, and for her to process what’s happened with John and the lottery win. No one could deny it’s a lot, for goodness’ sake!
So what would possibly possess her to go meet strangers in the middle of nowhere? Not just strangers – quite possiblymurderousstrangers! It would be ridiculous to go. Why would she even consider it?
Curiosity, maybe.
And maybe to ask where Teddy gets her hair done. After all, it wasveryshiny and swishy – like a Timotei advert! – but that might just be an American thing. They all have nice hair on the Netflix shows she ‘chills’ with.
‘Are you still with us, Paula?’ The counsellor is smiling and his eyes are soft on hers. But Paula can see irritation twitching the corners of his mouth.
She’s failing at grief counselling.
‘Yes!’ she replies too loudly, her face reddening. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry,’ he says nicely. ‘Can you share with us what was going through your head?’
‘Er . . .’ She reaches for an answer. She can’t exactly tell them that she was wondering whether to meet up with a woman with a silly name and nice hair and a confusing accent, so she could ask said woman’s friend if she also murdered her husband.
Instead, she offers, ‘Just . . . John. I was thinking about John.’
The three of them stare at her and it is clear from the crackly silence that they don’t believe her.
The counsellor leans forward, his glasses sliding down his nose. ‘Have you ever lost anyone before, Paula? What did grief look like for you previously?’
Paula looks down at her hands. ‘I lost my mum and dad,’ she mumbles at last. ‘Quite a long time ago now. My dad first, then Mum not so long after, too. But that was fifteen years ago now. Ages ago.’ She glances up anxiously at Tilly and Seb. ‘But we weren’t close, so it wasn’t . . . I didn’t . . . It wasn’t anything like it’s been for us since John died.’
‘We never even met our grandparents,’ Tilly adds helpfully. ‘They weren’t very nice to Mum, were they?’ Paula looks away.
‘We don’t need people in our life like that!’ Seb says defiantly and Paula’s heart squeezes at his loyalty.
The counsellor asks Tilly and Seb about their own experiences of loss, and Seb starts to talk about their cat, Moby. Paula tries hard to listen as her son describes the small rescue centre they got her from, and how Moby spent the first six months hissing at anyone who tried to get close.
It’s all very sweet, but Paula can only manage a few minutes of focus before her thoughts return to Teddy and the others. To these women she hasn’t met. That shecouldmeet.
But of course she won’t! She won’t go and see them tomorrow. It’s ridiculous.
But what if she did? There is something gnawing away in Paula’s stomach, a part of her that wants to go, that’scompellingher to go and see Teddy again. To meet these women, to join this club.
Because maybe they might understand? How strange if they really were both lottery winners like her? What if they really had both lost their partners?
Maybe they’d understand. Maybe she could talk to them. Instead of blurting speeches down the phone to strangers on the NHS advice line.
She gives herself a small shake. Teddy was probably joking. Surely she was playing a prank. Paula will probably turn up at this random address tomorrow and find nobody there. It’s just that American sense of humour. Those sitcoms Tilly was always watching as a teenager, they were full of . . . eh, women saying they’d killed their husbands? Oh, never mind.
‘Mum?’
It’s hardly likely to be true anyway. Teddy didn’t really seem like the type to murder her husband. Not that Paulaknows whattypethat would be. She’s never met any murderers before. That she knows of. Because you just don’t know what people might be hiding, do you? She’s hidden enough over the years. John has too. Just look at the notebook.
She looks down at her hands again now, taking in the small bones moving under the thin skin. Maybe she would go. Just to see. Just to—
‘Mum?’ Paula jerks her head up, glancing anxiously around at her children. Tilly is looking at her penetratingly. With expectation. Seb is staring at her, too. But his expression is blank. He gets the same look on his face when he’s playing those video games for hours on end. Paula’s eyes travel up to the permanent dent in his unwashed hair, where a headset sits for days on end.
‘Mum,’ Tilly repeats, a hint of impatience. ‘Gerald asked you a question.’
She frowns. Gerald? Who on earth— Ah, right, of course. She looks at the grief counsellor.
‘Sorry! Just . . . you know, thinking about . . . John. Again.’
