Was it definitely a gun?
Or did my nerves make me think it was one?
Christ. What if it was just a mobile phone? Or a dog lead?
I didn’t want to go and check on him.
He was dead. I knew he was dead.
What if I didn’t find the gun?
I couldn’t move. I had to move. Another car could turn up at any moment. There was no talking my way out of this one. Police would be called. Questions would be asked about what, exactly, I was doing here. I took a flashlight from my bag on the passenger seat and got out of the car.
I walked up to the man. He was tall with dark hair. Leaning down, I felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. Unsurprising, considering the large amount of blood that was pooling onto the road. I reached for his right shoulder and tugged him over onto his back.
I stared down at the man’s face, and stepped back with a start. I recognized him. I took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of my nose.
I’d just run over my wife’s ex-boyfriend.
Part Two
Self-Sacrifice
Self-sacrifice is a part of your journey. Helping others enriches your life. Don’t look at what you’ve given up, focus on what you’ve given…LIFE! You’re a mama now. What kind of selfish monster could even think about what they’ve lost when looking at all they’ve gained!
—Bells Brightley, parenting blogger (@MindfulMamaBells) and bestselling author ofHow to Be the Best Mom You Can Be: Helping You to Help Them
Things I’ve sacrificed since becoming a mother? Sleep, perkier tits, bottomless brunches, international travel whenever I feel like it, sleep, champagne breakfasts, all-nighters that were actually fun, sex in unusual places, sleep, a vintage two-seater car, being blissfully unaware what breast pads are, getting through a day without handling someone else’s shit, that light, carefree feeling of only having to worry about myself and my needs…I could go on.
—Hazel Matthews, mother
Chapter Twenty-Six
Haze
We were an hour intodrinks-nibbles-party-planning, and I was doing great. I had not offended anyone. I’d smiled in the right places, and had even succeeded in not rolling my eyes at Araminta’s worry that the party did not have enough gluten-free dairy-free options. There were five of us here, our little ones all the leading stars of the play. I did feel a little smug. Little nods that my daughter was as spectacular as I thought she was always helped morale.
Frederica, resplendent in a flowered trouser suit, leaned toward me and started firing questions at me about my house. She kept going on about whether the garden was north-facing, and did it get morning sun, as those were the best gardens. I told her I didn’t know, as I didn’t own a compass, which she frowned at.
The two other women were called Devrika and Sasha, and they were huddled together mainlining prosecco as one talked about how much she hated her husband. I was realizing this wasn’t so much about party planning as it was group therapy.
Women needed one another in a way that men didn’t. They needed to share everything they were going through, to ask each other for advice on all the little things right up to the really big ones. I was still relatively new to the sisterhood, but I was a fully signed-up member now. After decades of being out on the fringes,I’d grown to realize how important female friendship was. I just didn’t want any more of it. Jenny was enough for me.
“You’re an artist,” Frederica announced.
“Yes.”
“I like your stuff. It’s very angry. How is your husband’s business going? It’s still quite new, isn’t it?”
“He’s doing great.”
She seemed to know a lot about us. If we were getting to know each other, I could have free rein on questions too.
“Why do you put your life online?” I asked.
“Why wouldn’t I? Curating images of how I’ll always be remembered? I want the highlights reel at my funeral to make people jealous.”
Was this a friendship interview? Us circling each other, working out if we met each other’s criteria? I mean, clearly she didn’t meet mine. I wasn’t about to choose to hang out with someone who used the hashtag “#handbagsaremypassion.” I liked pretty things too, but they were decorations, not a calling.
