‘Well, I’d say that depends entirely on your definition. See, I’m no’ the one screechin’ like a fish wife.’
‘Finola.’ My name sounds like an admonishment. I feel myself physically cringe, though it’s worth mentioning the sound of my name usually makes me cringe. ‘Finola, love,’ she repeats, this time my name more a plea. ‘You’ll not be wanting people to get the wrong idea. You’re in the wrong emotional space to be ‘hooring yourself to the likes of him.’
‘What?’ My head whips around, because if anyone is in the wrong here, it would be me.
‘I have your card marked,’ she says folding her arms and shooting Rory an icy glare. ‘I recognise you now. Your ma was a homewrecker, tempting that poor man away from his sick wife, but you’ll not be messing with my friend!’
‘Malady, I mean, Melody—’
‘It’s true!’ she yells. ‘My granny said so. She was the poor woman’s nurse ‘till she died!’
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rory replies, lifting our hands to his chest, curling his larger ones around mine. ‘So why don’t you just piss off.’
‘And let you take advantage of a poor, defenceless widow? No chance.’
He stares down at me, his gaze watchful and confused—demanding an explanation. An explanation I can’t offer, because I literally cannot speak; shock, anxiety and fear weighting my tongue.
‘Give it a rest, Mel,’ Natasha says, pushing her way into the room. ‘She might be poor right now, but she’s no’ defenceless.’ She shoots me a supportive smile. ‘The kettle’s boiled, by the way.’
‘No, but she’s grieving!’ Malady screeches.
‘Not divorced?’ I doubt anyone but me hears him ask.
I still can’t reply as Nat interjects in her bestGodfathervoice, ‘Marcus Pettyfer sleeps with the fishes,capisce?’
‘Is that you’re married name?’ interjects Malady. ‘Why does it seem familiar?’
‘Put a cork in it,’ scolds Nat as Malady brings a hand to her mouth.
‘Oh my God,’ Malady spits through splayed fingers, and instinctually, I know what she’s about to say next. ‘Pettyfer, the Sheikh’s petty thief! That’s what they called your husband, didn’t they?’They.She means the press. ‘He stole millions—you had wardrobes full of designer shoes and handbags! And you drove around in a Rolls Royce while your cleaning ladies hadn’t been paid in six months!’
‘I didn’t know,’ I protest. ‘They didn’t say. Not until afterwards, not until he was dead. I didn’t kill him!’ I actually squeak when I realise what I’ve said, my expression crumpling as Rory’s silver gaze turns to steel. ‘I—I didn’t, despite what the newspapers said. I told you, you wouldn’t want to know,’ I almost wail.
‘Oh, fuck.’ Nat’s whole body seems to sag. ‘You haven’t told him?’
‘Had you any plans to?’ Rory asks quietly, my hands still in his.
‘I didn’t know how. This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.’ He looks almost physically hurt and my heart sinks. ‘But it does. Oh, Rory, it really does. Rory, please. You’re hurting my hands.’
His fingers relax. Not so welcome is his action of loosening them. Or of his taking a step back.
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Nat fumes, turning on Malady. ‘If you’d kept your neb out, this wouldn’t be happening.’
‘Me? She’s the one whose affairs with rich sheikhs caused her husband to top himself.’
‘Where the hell are you spouting this shit from?’
‘It was in the newspaper,’ she replies, affronted.
‘From the reliable source of news whose yesterday front page readAn Oompa Loompa Let Me Suck On His Willy Wonka?You know Jack shit, you stupid cow. You’re a joke, and so’s your fucking marriage.’
‘I’ll not let you talk to me like that!’ Malady puffs out her chest like an indignant hen.
‘Why not? Everyone else does. D’you think the whole village doesn’t knowmy Lloydonly works so many hours because he can’nae stand his wife?’
‘And I’ll thank you to keep my husband out if this.’
‘Sure, why not,’ Nat says, throwing up her hands, her voice becoming louder. ‘And yet, I still wonder if he knows his wife has had more fingers inside her than a ten-year-old bowling ball!’
