Rita pulled her arm away and said shakily,
‘I don’t know anything about psychics. I’ve never been to one. I think you’re mixing me up with someone else.’
‘I’m not dead,’ said Henry, leaning towards her.
What a strange thing to say, thought Rita. She tried to remember if someone had said that Henry had died. She didn’t think so.
She became aware of people looking at them. Henry was frightening her. Why was he saying he wasn’t dead? She looked pleadingly at passers-by who quickly looked away and hastened their pace. She gave Henry a tight smile and with false bravado said, ‘I’m so pleased.’ While being unsure of what she was pleased about. She flinched as a motorist sounded his horn. She hadn’t realised she’d stepped into the road. She wanted to run but what if he chased her?
‘Everyone can see me now, not just you,’ said Henry, his eyes staring into hers.
‘That’s great,’ said Rita.
People jostled past them and Rita felt her brown paper bag slip from her fingers. Henry bent to retrieve it and Rita took the opportunity to make a run for it. She heard him calling her name but didn’t dare to look back. She didn’t stop running until she reached the supermarket. Her ribs heaved up and down as she tried to get her breath. Her legs were as heavy as bags of potatoes. She looked fearfully behind her. There was no sign of Henry. Why had he spoken to her in that strange fashion? She didn’t like it when people talked about psychics. Why did Henry think she knew about them? He’d always seemed perfectly normal when he’d popped into the store. Rita had rather liked chatting to him. He was a bit odd with his constant talk of illness but apart from that he’d seemed alright. But he’s crazy, she thought. What will she do if he comes into the store again? I’ll be safe, she assured herself. He wouldn’t act like that in the store. Perhaps he is just unwell today. She mourned her turkey stuffing roll and blueberry muffin. Perhaps she’ll walk home with Daphne tonight. She often left the same time as Rita. She’ll pop to the meat counter and ask her to wait. Rita didn’t fancy walking home alone.
*
Henry looked at the abandoned turkey ciabatta and resisted the urge to squash it between his fingers. It’s not fair, he wanted to yell. Why doesn’t she remember? He couldn’t bear for it not to have been real. Those moments they’d shared had been precious. He could smell her bluebell perfume. It soothed his soul like nothing else could. He couldn’t lose Rita for so many reasons. She’d shared so much with him. They’d gone to his funeral together. How could she not remember? Perhaps it was too soon. He’d wait until Saturday. He’d died Saturday afternoon. He’ll visit Rita Saturday evening. Everything would have balanced itself out by then. Rita would be in her little bedsit and it would be like it always had been. He’d hurry to the department store and buy the perfume Rita liked. He’d give it to her on Saturday as a thank you gift. He and Imogen would sort things out. He’d forgive her, of course. What else was there to do? One couldn’t consider divorce. Far too much at stake with his retirement scheme, yes, that would be very complicated. He was partly at fault. But murder …
Henry checked his watch. He would be late. He threw the brown bag into a waste bin and strode quickly back to work.
Chapter Forty-One
Later that evening, Henry walked slowly along Mayberry Terrace. Prolonging that moment when his house would come into view. So far the day had been perfect. There had been no sign of five o’clock shadow Matt. Helen had even bidden him goodnight. All he needed now was to see the warm amber glow lighting up his living room window, to know that life was normal again. It was chilly. The stars were hidden by a wall of foreboding cloud. Henry shivered and remembered Rita’s warm little bedsit. He was sorry summer was over. He liked those nights when only a thin summer duvet was needed. Soon, he would see the house. He closed his eyes, took another step and then opened them. There it was, the warm amber glow. The lights were on. Imogen was home. The aromatic smell of Cajun chicken roasting in the oven greeted him as he opened the door. It was warm in the house, reminding Henry that he needed to look at the central heating. He threw his briefcase onto the hall chair. The kitchen door opened, and the delicious aroma wafted into the hallway.
‘Henry, is that you?’
‘Why, are you expecting someone else?’ he wanted to retort, but he didn’t. He hung his coat neatly in the hall cupboard and went into the kitchen.
‘Something smells good,’ he said, trying to make his voice sound normal. It was an effort. Henry wasn’t good at faking his feelings.
Imogen turned from the sink where she had been preparing runner beans.
‘It won’t be long,’ she said. There was a hint of accusation in her voice as though she were annoyed he’d arrived home a few minutes early.
Henry thought that if a stranger walked into their house now, what a picture of contentment they would see. They’d see Imogen, the epitome of domesticity in her pink gingham apron, smell the roasting chicken, eye up the perfectly laid table and think what a harmonious marriage they had. Henry should kiss his wife, that’s what the stranger would expect. Marital bliss, they’d think. That’s what this couple have. Imogen looked at Henry curiously. She’d sensed his hesitation. He’d always kissed her the moment he came in but tonight he couldn’t bring himself to. Imogen Frazer was an adulteress. Imogen Frazer had a deceptive heart. Imogen Frazer did not deserve to be kissed.
‘Aren’t you going to kiss me hello?’ she said as though reading his mind.
Brazen too, thought Henry. He wondered what the stranger would make of all this.
‘Is your stomach playing up?’ she asked with a small sigh.
It irritates her, my dyspepsia, thought Henry. Not like Rita who couldn’t do enough for him.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, making himself lean towards her. Her cheek was cold to his lips. She squeezed his hand. Hers were warm. Warm hands, cold heart, thought Henry. It wasn’t the right saying but it was what Henry felt.
‘I’ll dish up,’ she said, reaching for the oven gloves.
He needed to confront her. Have it out about Jim.
‘There’s some wine in the fridge,’ she said.
The oven door was opened and the smell that travelled out of it made his stomach rumble. He wondered what Rita was having for dinner. One of her luscious pies, no doubt.
‘Do you remember our wedding?’ he said.
The words flew out of his mouth. It was a stupid thing to say. Who wouldn’t remember his or her wedding? But he wanted her to feel guilty. He’d planted a seed. She’d visualise the day. Remember their vows and guilt would consume her.
