Diane found herself waking at half past four, the sky still dark, her thoughts tangled and urgent. We must gather ourselves and vanish before the sun sanctifies everything, she muttered, a phrase that hung in the air like incense. The sting of shame settled over her like a heavy velvet curtain; why had all this happened? She felt foolishly exposed, as if the universe had peeled her skin back.
Once her daughter moved out to a flat ten miles away in Manchester, Diane ceased cooking dinners at home. Her routine became a parade of quick lunches at a snug little tea room near her workplace. One murky afternoon, as Diane sipped her Earl Grey and nibbled a scone, Mark slid into the chair across from her. Their words sparkled and promptly burst into a romance, as unnatural as a fox in a henhouse. Mark was somewhat younger, but his distinguished silver hair gave him a rugged gravitas, a dignified agedness that only English weather could bestow.
Marks courtship unfolded like an old film reel. He took Diane to charming eateries in Bristol, bestowed her with bouquets of bluebells, and led her for aimless evening strolls along misty riversides. Soon, Diane felt dizzy from longing; she anticipated each text as eagerly as a child waiting for Christmas morning, grooming herself at the salon in anticipation of every date. She was hopelessly enchanted, weaving fantastical futures in her mind.
She dreamt of their weddingher veil billowing, Marks waistcoat crispand a honeymoon in some sun-washed corner of Devon.
Roughly eight days earlier, Mark proposed a weekend escapade to a lakeside caravan resort. They agreed to set off Friday evening and return by Sunday. Diane was aflutter with excitement, envisioning Mark kneeling with a ring among the reeds at dusk.
Friday afternoon, Mark rang her: “Had a dram or two, so we’ll take your car.” “Alright,” Diane replied.
They met in the shadow of the office building. Mark was terribly tipsy, his words rolling from his tongue like marbles. Diane hoped the journey would sober him, but an hour later, they checked into the cabin Mark had reserved. He swung open the door as though revealing a new world. Diane stepped inside, feeling regal and remote.
After settling, they wandered to a coffee shop where gentle jazz floated through the air. Mark ordered brandy. “Fancy a nip?” “To unwind, it’ll be fine,” he insisted.
Dianes first husband had succumbed to drinka memory that made alcohol intolerable to her. Mark was well aware. Within an hour, Mark was sloshed and insistent, attempting to drag Diane onto the dance floor. She refused. He danced anyway, an unknown girl soon clinging to him. Their steps grew scandalous, so much so that a burly security guard asked them to leave.
Mark and the girl returned to Dianes table, downed the remaining brandy, and Mark slurred, “Darling, dont wait for me tonight.” The girl sneered, “Youre ancient compared to me,” then they departed arm-in-arm.
Appalled and silent, Dianes vision blurred with humiliation. She was snapped from her trance by a waiter offering an ice cream cone, “Compliments of the house!”
Tears spilled down her face as she tasted the cold sweetness. Her first impulse was to flee at once, but she lingered until dawn. Returning home, she bundled everything into the washing machinedetermined that no scent or remnant of Mark would haunt her flat. When she unzipped her bag, she discovered her blouse stained with Marks blood, outrageously surreal. Panic gripped her; if Mark had met a grim fate, shed surely be suspect, given her motive.
Desperate, Diane phoned her next-door neighbour, Catherine, who worked in the police clerks office. “Diane, have you lost your bearings? Its six in the morning.”
Sobbing, Diane explained as best she could. “Im coming over. Leave the door unlocked,” Catherine said.
Listening to Dianes scrambled tale, Catherine dialled someone briskly. “Morning! Whos on duty as an expert? Ill be round in half an hour. For Diane.” “Im terrified Ill be arrested,” Diane whispered. “Keep trembling, but hand me your blouse and Marks phone number.”
An hour later, Catherine called back. “No stressthe blood is from a pig, and your Marks a conman. Ill fill in the blanks when I arrive.”
Dianes mind tumbledwho was the real crook? When Catherine burst into the flat, she demanded: “You sold your parents cottage, so wheres the money? In your Barclays account? Is your mobile linked to the card?” “The cards tucked away in the wardrobe, not linked.” “Mark has the PIN, doesnt he?” “We joked about what years on the card.” “You need to freeze it right now.”
Diane saw the card had just been used to pay at a greasy spoon around the corner. “They planted the blood so youd lay low while they emptied your account. Lets file a report, quickly, before they realise youve blocked it…”
