Fuelled by that thought, I dress and leave the house. My throat is tight as my car draws closer to the centre of Bramblethorpe, passing people who waved when I first moved here but soon learned not to when I didn’t return the gesture.
When I slow at an intersection, I spot Jim Marshall in the distance. His faithful dog, Bernie, trots alongside him. Despite having never interacted with him, Jim is one of the few people in Bramblethorpe I can name, but only because Katherine and Natalya have shared so many stories about him.
Thanks to his fiery temper and prolific career as a professional boxer fifteen years ago, Jim is well known around here. Half-hated, half-feared, his territorial attitude towards the farm he runs alone after his wife left him is legendary. He has a reputation for setting up booby traps to warn trespassers away. It’s even rumoured that he once threatened a group of teenagers with a shotgun because they were camping on his property.
Usually, I never pay attention to gossip, but whenever I see Jim’s scowl and the bulky outline of his physique, his rumoured aggression is all I can think of.
With no other car approaching the intersection, I set off more quickly than I would if Jim and Bernie weren’t there. Minutes later, I reach the safety of the high street.
I’m psyching myself up to enter the village store when my sister calls. Knowing that if I let the phone ring out, it would be the fourth of Beth’s calls I’ve ignored this last week, I force myself to pick up.
‘Beth, now isn’t a good time,’ I say.
‘Why not? You work from home inventing stories. You have all the time in the world.’
Once upon a time, my sister’s mock ignorance about what I do for a living was something we laughed about. Today, it’s only insulting.
‘I’m not at home,’ I reply.
‘Really? But you’re always at home.’
Insult number two nestles like a knife between my ribs. ‘Well, today I’m not.’
‘Where are you?’ Beth asks, fighting to be heard over my nieces squabbling in the background. A single parent to a thirteen-month-old and a three-year-old, Beth assures me she has the hardest job in the world. I don’t doubt her assertion, but it’s a job I’d kill for.
‘I’m out running errands,’ I say, picking at the leather of my steering wheel.
‘I’m glad you’re out of the house. And is everything okay? Is today a good day?’
I force a sigh. ‘Beth, you don’t need to check up on me. What do you want?’
‘Okay, grumpy, I won’t keep you long, but Mum and I were thinking we should meet for lunch next weekend.’
Inwardly, I groan. It’s hard enough keeping up the pretence with Kamal that I’m working on my book, but add Mum and Beth to the mix and I have a nightmare on my hands. All Mum ever says is how her book club is eagerly awaiting the next one, as if that doesn’t pile on the pressure.
‘I’ll check with Kamal, but I think we have plans,’ I lie.
‘Well, we’re flexible. If you’re with Kamal Saturday, we can do Sunday.’
‘Sorry, it’s a whole weekend event.’
Beth pauses. ‘If I call Kamal, will he say the same thing?’
There’s something about her tone that ruffles me. ‘What did I say about not checking up on me?’
‘What you’re calling checking up on, some would say looking out for.’
‘I’m the big sister. It’s my job to look out for you, not the other way round.’ When a beat of stung silence rings out on the other end of the line, I wince. I don’t mean to snap at Beth. I don’t mean to snap at anyone. I just can’t seem to help myself.
‘Janine—’
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?’ I say, even though we both know that I won’t.
I hang up before I hear Beth’s reply. It takes me a second to get myself moving afterwards, with some small, niggling part ofmy conscience warning me that how I just spoke to my sister was not okay.
When I enter the village shop, the bell above the door dings to announce my arrival. Not that the cashier notices. She’s too busy chatting to another middle-aged woman, a customer who has already paid for her shopping but is in no hurry to leave.
‘Apparently Alexa walks out on him all the time. Terrible, isn’t it? There’s obviously something wrong with her mental state,’ the customer says. I flinch at her cutting analysis, but keep listening.