Am I Guilty?: The gripping, emotional domestic thriller debut filled with suspense, mystery and surprises!. Jackie Kabler
They were staring again. I shivered, curling my fingers tightly around the handle of the pram, and walked quickly past them, my eyes not meeting theirs. It was two women this time, around my age, late thirties, standing outside WHSmith. I’d only stopped for a moment, to adjust my scarf, but I knew instantly that it had been a mistake. Never stop, keep moving. Keep your head down. Don’t give them a chance to recognize you. I was usually so careful, on the rare occasions I ventured out. Tried to avert my gaze from store assistants, cashiers, other shoppers, looking down into my purse or at the pram, so they didn’t get a good look at me. It was easier that way, safer. But today, with the scarf slipping, I’d risked it, just for a moment, stopping to wind the stupid thing back into place. Idiot. It was January, the sky a bleak grey, a biting wind whistling down Cheltenham High Street and whipping loose strands of hair across my cheeks, a crisp packet scudding across the road in front of me as I hurried past the shopfront, eyes fixed firmly ahead, not looking at their faces. I heard them, though, their voices sharp and full of disgust. Full of loathing.
‘It is her, isn’t it? Look at her. What a freak,’ said one.
‘Evil bitch, more like,’ said the other.
A sob caught in my throat and I walked faster, suddenly desperate to get home. I shouldn’t have come out today, I shouldn’t. I’d been feeling all right earlier, almost sprightly, after a good night’s sleep for the first time in weeks. Seven hours. Seven. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept for that long and it had done wonders, made me feel that today I could cope, that it would be fine to go out, get some fresh air, pick up a few bits and pieces in town before I started work. I did most of my shopping online now, but it had seemed silly to pay delivery charges when you only needed some cotton wool, wrapping paper, a pack of pens. And sometimes, it was fine. Sometimes I got away with it, and nobody recognized me, nobody stared or commented or shouted abuse across the street. Not often though, and not today, clearly.
It had started to rain now, fat drops spattering the clear plastic cover I’d put over the pram before going out. Beneath it, a white cashmere blanket was pulled up high, but I could picture Zander’s sleeping face, his ludicrously long lashes resting softly against his delicious pink and cream cheeks, see in my mind’s eye the gentle rise and fall of his little chest as he dreamed his baby dreams, oblivious. At the thought of him, my darling boy, I sobbed again, aching to hold him in my arms, look into his bright blue eyes, hear his adorable chuckle as he reached up to grab my hair, the chuckle that made everything bad in the world simply melt away.
I bent my head against the wind, wiping my tears away fiercely with one hand as I steered the pram round the corner onto the Prom, heading for home. Everything would be fine, I told myself. I’d get back, have a nice cup of tea, something soothing – camomile? – and then get to work. I didn’t really like camomile tea, but Isla said it always calmed her down, and Isla knew about these things. She was my best friend, one of the few who had stuck by me.
We were more like family really, me and Isla, discovering soon after we met all those years ago that both of us were only children who’d craved siblings, jokingly offering to be each other’s substitute sister, bonding quickly, irreversibly. From day one we hated to be apart for long, and it was the same even now, now that we were both all grown up with homes and jobs and responsibilities, and even though our everyday lives were so different. She was a real party girl, Isla, but she balanced out the excesses of her crazy work and social life, the boozy nights and junk food lunches, by being into all that healthy stuff too – Pilates, meditation, mindfulness, smoothies, funny teas. She’d only managed to persuade me to go as far as the tea, but she was persistent.
‘Yoga next!’ she’d said chirpily, when she’d rung me before bed as usual to check that I was OK. ‘We can have a private lesson, just the two of us, and I’m paying, so no excuses. It will do you good, Thea. Especially now. I know everything is horrible, but you need to chill out a bit. You’re too tense, and it’s not helping. I’m going to book it, and you’re coming, and that’s that.’
I hadn’t argued, didn’t have the energy. And Isla knew me better than pretty much anybody; so maybe she was right, maybe it would do me good. I had so much to do, my work more important than ever now that I was a single parent. I didn’t even have an assistant anymore, not since November, not since Flora had left, and I hadn’t got round to trying to find a replacement, not yet. I doubted I’d find anyone who’d work for me anyway. So, I had to carry on, even if it was just me now and the workload was overwhelming.
I’d let things slide recently, there was no doubt about that, and I needed to get the business back on track. The orders had slowed drastically for a while, last autumn. But they’d picked up over Christmas, and I needed to get on top of things again. I had to keep going, no matter how shitty I felt. I needed to show everyone that I could still do something good, something positive, despite everything. That I was still me, no matter what I’d done. Still Thea. Still Theodora Alice Ashfield.
I stopped outside GAP as the bloody scarf started to unwind itself again, one end trailing perilously close to the pram