Forcing a smile, I accept the bouquet. ‘They’re a pretty waste, at least. Thank you.’
I notice the moment Kamal wonders if the thawing between us might mean a hug is on the cards. It’s the same moment I head to the kitchen to put the poppies into a vase. A masterstroke of mistiming, the way all our movements seem to be these days.
Pushing past my accidental snub, Kamal follows me. ‘What’s for dinner?’ he asks.
‘Right now, nothing,’ I admit, cringing as I’m forced to admit I haven’t started it yet. With the countryside move taking us further away from Kamal’s work, cooking is the one job I insisted on having.
‘Don’t worry,’ Kamal says, grinning as if my lapse in self-appointed responsibility is something to be pleased about. ‘We can make dinner together. An impromptu date night.’
‘Kamal, please. You look exhausted and—’
‘I’m fine. Come on, let’s see what we can conjure up together.’
Knowing from Kamal’s chipper tone that he won’t budge, I drop the poppies into a vase and watch Kamal hunt for ingredients. Guilt nags at me with each movement, the feeling growing when Kamal stifles a yawn.
‘So, how many words did you write today?’ he asks while analysing the contents of the fridge.
‘Almost two thousand.’ These days, I don’t even flinch when I lie to my husband.
‘That’s incredible! You’ll be at the finish line in no time. I can see the headlines now: “S. K. Atherton has done it again!”?’ Kamal’s shiny eyes stare ahead as if looking into a brilliant future that only he can see. ‘Were there any tricky scenes to iron out?’
‘Oh, it was just another day at the office.’
‘Does that mean, “I’m so done with these fictional people, can we talk about something else?” or am I reading your tone wrong?’
‘Exactly,’ I reply, feigning a grimace.
‘Fine by me, but if you need a sounding board for gruesome crimes or witty comebacks, you know I’m always happy to help. How was your writing group?’
‘It was all right,’ I reply noncommittally. ‘Poor Katherine got another rejection from a publisher, though.’
‘Oh dear. I hope she took it better than the last. Shall we do a stir-fry?’
‘Stir-fry’s great,’ I reply, opening a cupboard to grab a chopping board. ‘To be honest, we spoke a bit about writing, but most of the conversation was taken up by talking about a woman from the village they think is missing.’
‘Alexa Clarke?’
My eyebrows arch as Kamal joins me on vegetable prep. ‘You’ve heard about her?’
‘It was all anyone could talk about in the village store,’ Kamal replies. ‘Then again, I suppose we live in arguably the sleepiest place in the north of England. I wouldn’t be surprised if until today, the biggest story in Bramblethorpe was a chicken escaping a coop.’
I laugh. ‘You’re right, a missing woman trumps a lost chicken,’ I reply, but my smile soon fades. ‘What were people saying?’
‘Lots of stuff,’ Kamal says, sinking the blade of his knife into a mushroom. ‘Mostly that she’s left her husband and disappeared, leaving him frantic.’
‘Her husband is worried. I saw him today at the café. He looked awful.’
‘Poor guy. He must be going out of his mind, although half the village is practically ready to arrest him for murder.’
My spine ices over at those words. ‘They think he’s killed her?’
‘Can you blame them? The situation is a little odd. Alexa Clarke hasn’t been seen by anyone since Saturday, but her husband hasn’t even called the police. Apparently, her car is at the house, too. Franny Henderson drove by to check it out. Weird, don’t you think?’
Again, my body reacts viscerally as I imagine the worst. ‘Maybe, but we don’t know anything bad has happened.’
‘We also don’t know it hasn’t. Put it this way – if this was the storyline of your next book, I’d be itching to read it. Penned by you, it would only end in the most gruesome of murders.’ Kamal grins, unaware of how much the idea of Alexa being hurt makes me want to vomit.
‘This isn’t a book, though,’ I point out.