At my husband’s insistence, I undertook driving lessons. My hands perspired on the steering wheel, I frequently forgot which pedal to press, and the beeping from the car’s sensors only served to confused me more.
We had married on my eighteenth birthday. Derek was considerably older than me, but we enjoyed three amiable years together before I killed him.
It had been his idea for me to hone my driving skills by reversing into our garage, so he was partly responsible for his own demise. We lived in a large, detached house with a double garage, but Derek never threw anything away, so there was not as much space in the garage as you might imagine. Benches were piled high with cardboard boxes. Old chairs were stacked in one corner and rolls of carpet leant against the walls at precarious angles. The whole place was littered with worthless clutter. I hated it and would have been quite happy to leave the car outside, on the gravel drive.
Whilst practising, with Derek’s guidance, I felt the rear of the car rise as a wheel bumped over something. I assumed it must be one of the rolls of carpet, or a cardboard box tumbled from its precarious perch, but it did make a strange noise. I was angry with Derek for making me do things I did not enjoy, and the car made a crunching noise as I struggled with the dam thing to get it back into first gear. He wouldn’t buy me an automatic, even though he could have easily afforded to. I When I eventually managed to engage the gear, the car lurched forward and I felt another, slightly softer, bump.
Turning off the engine, I got out to investigate. Derek’s body lay crumpled on the floor.
As I edged towards him, I heard someone scream. It was me. Dropping to my knees, I turned Derek onto his back. When I placed my hands on his chest to attempt resuscitation, there was no resistance, he was little more than a squidgy bag of broken bones.
By the time a neighbour responded to my cries for help, tears had caused my mascara to run, and my hair had come loose from its neat chignon. My knees had been grazed by the concrete floor and my tights torn.
For weeks afterwards I wore sombre colours and never allowed a smile to crease my face. Even Karen, Derek’s mother, forgave me – and she was the judgemental type. In accordance with Derek’s will, I inherited the family business, along with the house and the pretty cottage in which Karen lived. If she had doubts about my account of that day’s events, she never voiced them to me.
Once Derek’s funeral was over, I went away for a few days to recuperate and plan my future. Karen kindly agreed to house-sit and take care of Derek’s cat.
The sushi had only been in my fridge for a couple of days, maybe a week, I don’t remember precisely. I explained all this to both the doctor and the police. The post-mortem concluded that Karen had suffered from anaphylactic shock. She died, chopsticks in hand, at my beautiful antique dining table.
Everyone assured me it wasn’t my fault, and that Karen was always far too impetuous. The term greedy was mentioned by someone. Tears once again ruined my makeup, but I have always tended towards displaying my emotions – when the occasion calls for it.
Another funeral was arranged. It was a more modest affair. Karen didn’t have a large circle of friends, and there was no sense in spending money on a lavish wake so soon after Derek’s – many of those attending would have been the same mourners.
I had never been fond of Derek’s cat, a long-haired Persian monstrosity called Brompton – and I’m sure he never liked me. Sadly, Brompton had finished off the sushi. We buried him with Karen so they could keep each other company.
Karen’s small cottage sold quickly. I never considered letting it out and had no use for it myself. The proceeds of the sale funded the addition of an indoor swimming pool at the rear of my house. The design included sliding glass doors and a roof that could be opened to the sky on sunny days.
Planning permission had been problematic. The chair of the committee visited me on site, on more than one occasion. He was a charming man, but his wife didn’t understand the constant stress his position caused him. I mentioned that I had trained as a physiotherapist. Even though I had only completed three weeks of the nine-month course, I suggested massage might relieve some of his problems. He was most grateful for my efforts, and very understanding about my planning application.
It made sense to sell the family business, after all, there was no longer a family to run it. Derek had been an only child, and had never previously been married, or even in a serious relationship. We hadn’t been blessed with children, although we had planned to start on that path quite soon. Unfortunately, I suffered frequent migraines during our short marriage, and Derek was always very understanding.
It came as a surprise to discover just how valuable the business was. There was something of an auction over the assets and warehousing facilities. With the proceeds of the sale, I bought a villa on the Mediterranean coast, situated on the edge of a golf course, and just a short stroll from the beach.
My immediate neighbour at that villa turned out to be a very pleasant gentleman, a widower whose only daughter, Sadie, rarely visited him. I never met her in the three years I lived there. Gerald and I often chatted in his garden, over a glass or two of wine. In the shade of a jacaranda tree, he would tell me, in some detail, about the round of golf he had played that day.
He professed to being lonely, and said he enjoyed our conversations. Our consumption of wine did, on occasions, get a little out of control. His face was often flushed by the time we bade each other goodnight. He always held my shoulders and planted a soft kiss on my forehead. I would stretch on tiptoe, he was several inches taller than me, and kiss his cheek before we parted. He told me one evening that he regarded me as his surrogate daughter.
One warm summer evening, Gerald died of a heart attack. He had been arguing with his daughter on the telephone, his biological daughter, as he had come to call her. Before she rang, Gerald and I had been sampling a new red wine he had discovered. He stumbled a little as he stood. The phone was in the lounge, so I took his arm to steady him, and was by his side during the ensuing conversation. His daughter was angry about something the family lawyer had hinted at, but I didn’t get the full gist of the conversation. His face reddened even more during a particularly heated exchange, he gasped, the phone fell from his hand and Gerald collapsed on the tiled floor.
I did my best, but Gerald’s daughter was squawking on the phone, causing me to panic, and driving all knowledge of what I should do from my head. By the time I recovered my composure, Gerald had passed away.
I was somewhat surprised to be included in Gerald’s will, but we had become very close. He was such a sweet and generous man. In the end, he proved more generous towards me than he did towards his biological daughter. I realised that was what the telephone call and ensuing argument had concerned.
Over the following weeks and months, she made quite a fuss, trying everything she could to get me disinherited. But Gerald’s friends at the golf club rallied to my defence. One of them, fortuitously, was a retired lawyer.
My life in that villa, the other residents, in fact the whole complex did not quite feel the same after Gerald’s death. A retired couple bought his villa, and I did not take to the wife. I am a practical person, always reading to adapt to new situations, so I also sold my own villa, and moved back to my original house. I was, by then, a reasonably wealthy woman, but one always worries about the future.
A few weeks later, on impulse, I booked a berth on a cruise to the Norwegian fjords. I suspected it would be predominantly older passengers and thought there might be someone interesting on board, someone who might appreciate my company. It would also provide an opportunity to reassess my situation in peace and quiet.
As I boarded, a steward informed me I would be dining at the captain’s table that night. He escorted me to my first-class cabin, which had a large balcony and was even more spacious and luxurious than I had anticipated. At dinner that evening, the company was charming, especially the captain. After the main course, I stole a glance at the adjacent tables. Not too far away, I noticed a familiar face. It was Gerald’s daughter. Her photograph had been on prominent display in his villa when I first met him. She caught my eye. I smiled and nodded politely, assuming she wouldn’t recognise me.
Later that evening, there was a knock on my cabin door. I had asked a steward to bring me a small glass of hot chocolate and had left the door to my cabin unlocked. My life was about to change yet again while I was enjoying the wonderful view from my balcony.
I will never know for sure, but I strongly suspect they were Sadie’s hands, or maybe her partner’s, that closed around my ankles and lifted me off the deck. Despite fiercely gripping the handrail, I found myself cartwheeling over the balcony rails and plunged into black, icy water.
Fortunately, the ship was about to dock, and my screams were heard by several people on the open deck. Rescue from that cold, dark world was swift. But the fall had been from a great height, and several small vertebrae in my back were fractured. My consultant warned me that I might never completely recover.
The cruise company and their insurers wanted to agree compensation as quickly as possible, I assume to avoid unwanted publicity about potentially unsafe guard rails. The sum agreed with my lawyer was substantial and covered the cost of a full-time physiotherapist.
Jeremy was younger than me. He was an advocate of hydrotherapy, and it was a blessing I had splashed out on installing that swimming pool. During my treatment, Jeremy lived with me – so much more convenient for both of us. It was his skill and patience that helped nurse me back to full health.
We became close and married two years to the day after we first met. But before we wed, I made him aware of my will. In the event we didn’t have children, most of my assets were gifted to a cat rescue centre. I still felt guilty over the fate of Brompton.
Within a year I gave birth to a beautiful daughter. The pregnancy was something of a surprise to me, and I suspected that Jeremy may have tampered with my birth control pills. He doted on our daughter, and his affection for me diminish proportionately. A not very satisfactory situation.
One Sunday, a few days after our daughter’s second birthday, I was lazing in the pool, balanced on an inflatable armchair which Jeremy had purchased for me. It had proved a pleasant novelty on a hot day, to sip a mojito with my feet dangling in cool water.
Despite all Jeremy’s efforts, I had never become a proficient swimmer, and was somewhat concerned when the armchair started to deflate. I called out for help, and Jeremy appeared promptly. We had a telescopic pole by the pool, to which a net could be attached for retrieving leaves, or any other flotsam. He extended the pole and held it out to me. I grabbed it, but Jeremy didn’t pull me to the side of the pool. Instead, he guided me to the deep end.
As the chair exhaled its last breath, I suspected mine wouldn’t be far behind. My most recent will left everything to my daughter, the cat charity had never been a serious intention. Until she turns twenty-five, Jeremy will be in control of my daughter’s assets. In panic, my fingers remained locked around that pole even as it pushed me, ever deeper, beneath the water.