Page 11

FIVE

FRAN

‘ Ja , Hans, do it, what a sehr funny idea!’

Did they stumble upon that by accident? I sometimes wonder if scientists are paid to think of the craziest and weirdest thing to do – if it yields some kind of useful result to society, then that’s just an added bonus. Bunch of sick puppies.

I balanced the stick on the side of the basin and perched on the loo facing away from it, just in case pregnancy tests suffered from any kind of performance anxiety.

I waited for the standard three minutes, a frustratingly short period of time, but somehow also not long enough.

Not enough time to run down and make a cup of tea, but not long enough just to sit there and do nothing.

Instead, I plucked the packaging out of the bathroom bin and read the instructions on the back, this time looking at all the different languages, too.

That led me to wonder whether, to the untrained ear, the instructions in French could potentially sound sexy?

Mettez l'embout absorbant directement sous le jet d'urine. Laissez sous le jet pendant au moins 7 à 10 secondes pour avoir un résultat correct.

God, I bet whispering that sensually into Gareth’s ears would send him berserk – provided he had no idea what I was actually saying.

I wasn’t certain about the test this time, but I was more certain than last time and definitely more certain than the first time, which reassured me a little.

I glanced over at Mep, who had trotted into the bathroom like it was just another part of his empire.

Since we had moved, he often wandered into our en suite and made himself very comfortable by the towel heater.

It might seem a bit weird to go to the loo with your cat there.

However, most who’d criticise probably hadn’t had a cat like Mep.

By the time you’d have finally shooed him out just so you could relieve yourself, you might as well have driven to the local supermarket to use the facilities there.

And for those thinking, Why not just close the door?

– you try urinating while a cat makes a sound resembling metal being thrown into an industrial blender on the other side of the door.

It’s hardly conducive to a relaxing wee.

I peered up to look at the test. The line had begun to fade in. Line, singular. I snatched it up and in one fluid movement, tossed it in the bin with a clatter to join the others. Mep glanced over and arched his neck forward to sniff it.

‘Trust me, Mep, you wouldn’t want to try that,’ I said to him as I hoisted up my tights, flushed the loo, and brushed out the creases in my dress. I glanced at the mirror, making sure that I still looked somewhat nice and presentable.

I had often been thinking I was pregnant recently.

It turns out that basically anything and everything is a sign of pregnancy.

Your yoghurt tastes different today? Pregnant.

You feel more easily bloated? Pregnant. You’re having a really great hair day?

Pregnant. I had started to wonder if it would be easier to count the signs that I wasn’t pregnant at this point.

I knew it had only been a few months, but I just thought it would have happened by now.

It was 19.56; Gareth had four minutes before he was officially late to pick me up for dinner.

So far, we’d had no phone calls, no texts, no form of communication since 16.

03, when he had given me an update on his late lunch as well as telling me that he wanted to go to IKEA at the weekend.

Frankly, he sounded like the epitome of a domestically morbidly basic husband.

I, of course, had replied by stating that I didn’t think he’d ever had such a good idea in his life.

I paced downstairs, taking a glance at O’Neill’s house from our landing window.

A light was on; I could just about make out the small beam of illumination stretching across his own landing carpet.

Was that his bathroom light? I remembered that I had been incredibly vigilant not to touch anything, so either he must have left it on, and I didn’t notice, or perhaps his carer had flicked it when she had presumably gone looking for him around the house.

The thought took hold of me for a second.

Had it been me? Did I need to go in and turn off the light? Was my fingerprint on the switch?

I closed my eyes and took a small, short breath, trying to calm the anxious and erratic thoughts scrambling over each other in my mind.

Most cases were solved within the first forty-eight hours, and here I was, without suspicion, on day five.

Last time, I had got away scot-free, so who was to say I couldn’t do it again?

I pushed the thoughts out of my head, distracting myself with the anger rising in my gut. I took my phone out of my handbag and keyed in a text as I dawdled into the kitchen downstairs: a very simple, very blunt:

Where are you?

In the early months of dating Gareth, I’d grown accustomed to his straightforward texts.

Gareth, however, had quickly learned that if my text contained only a few words and no smiley faces, I was pretty mad.

As I hovered my finger over the ‘send’ button, I felt like I was gripping onto the pin of a grenade, poised to pull it and brace for the detritus.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the blade – the blade.

My hypothetical fury at my husband began to slowly ebb away as I felt myself being pulled towards the murder weapon that I had hidden in plain sight.

I approached the rack tentatively, plucked the Nesmuk knife from it, and carefully studied it in my hands, recalling how it had felt when I’d used it to jam it directly into O’Neill’s eye.

God, it had felt good. The same kind of satisfaction as pulling a thorn from your skin, but in reverse, I suppose.

I continued to loiter around the kitchen and then went into the hallway, still holding onto the knife, reminiscing as if it were some sweet nostalgia I was reliving.

The way it had pierced his skin, the way it had crunched when it collided with the frontal bone of his skull.

I imagined just how incredible it would feel to use the same knife to kill Clark, but I guessed O’Neill would have to do for now.

But then something caught my eye for a moment. I had frenziedly washed the knife again and again, but only now did I notice a clear, distinct notch on the top of the blade. A segment of the knife was clearly missing.

Before I could inspect it, my very smartly dressed, patchy-bearded husband swung open the door with a resounding smack,. The knife was quickly tossed into my handbag as subtly as I could, landing neatly in between the moisturiser and the alcohol gel.

‘Sorry, my love, am I late? I’m not late, am I?’ he said in between his breathy pants.

‘No, you’re not late,’ I said, the frustration vanishing in an instant, my face inadvertently blushing. He gestured for me to follow him. I kept my handbag tightly between my arm and ribs.

‘The waiter,’ Gareth mumbled somewhat unintelligibly behind his menu, his gaze scurrying across the room and his body slowly sinking deeper into his chair.

‘What?’ I asked, squinting at him and edging my seat a few inches closer to hear what exactly he was whispering. I followed his eyeline to the waiter who had shown us to our table. I didn’t recognise the guy. Maybe he said something weird that I hadn’t noticed?

‘The waiter,’ Gareth maffled again. His gaze bounced downwards, and his face began to lightly redden. I could see him looking around, wondering if anybody had noticed.

‘Oh, he’s not hitting on me, if that’s what you think he’s doing,’ I said with a scoff, waving my hand dismissively and pushing my handbag a bit further underneath the table.

I had noticed the waiter’s wandering eyes, though. He was probably only about twenty-one, and I had decided to dress to the nines for date night, so I could hardly fault him for a quick glance.

‘No, no, not that. He’s wearing the same shirt and tie as me. The exact same shirt and tie.’

I looked at Gareth: very light blue pinstripe shirt, navy tie in a Windsor knot.

I looked at the waiter: very light blue pinstripe shirt, dark blue tie in a four-in-hand knot.

My face of bemused bafflement split into a cackle at poor Gareth, who was trying to see just how small he could make himself in his chair.

‘Do you want to borrow my dress?’ I asked him, guffawing as I reached across the table and lightly pushed the menu away from his face. ‘You may get stopped on your way to the bathroom by someone asking about their soup, though.’

‘I’m just going to leave my jacket on,’ Gareth grumbled, as he began to sheepishly pull his blazer over his shoulders.

‘Did you change at work?’ I asked, grabbing a piece of the complimentary bread and popping it into my mouth.

‘I did. I had a feeling I wouldn’t have time to have a shower at home.’

‘And how was work? Give me the rundown, come on,’ I said, prompting the sixty-second debrief. ‘Solve any murders?’

‘Work as usual, really. Vivian, I think, may be slowly warming up to me, but that’s a bit of a work in progress.’