Chapter 1 #2
Nadeeka and Scott had been renting when Maya was born, but by the time Nish came along they had bought 10, Cedar Walk, a three-bedroomed semi with space in the garden for a trampoline and a veg patch.
Technically, Scott still owns half. The financial agreement thrashed out in the divorce stipulates that the house can’t be sold until both children are in secondary school, which gives Nadeeka another five years to save enough to buy Scott out.
The money Jamie gives her each month to cover his share of the bills goes straight into what Nadeeka calls her ‘freedom fund’.
She parks behind the police car. Bloody PC Harrington.
Presumably he overruled his female colleague – because how dare a police officer show some compassion towards a woman in distress?
– and broke some speed limits of his own to get here before her.
Fine. Let him give her a bloody ticket for running a red light.
She’s got more important things to worry about.
But the uniformed officer standing by the car isn’t PC -Harrington, and now she sees there is blue and white tape across her open front door and her feet slow of their own accord, as though they already know what’s behind it.
Blood thrums in her ears, her pulse loud and insistent, and, as the police officer is telling her she can’t go inside, Nadeeka shakes her head to clear the confusion.
This is her house. Of course she can go inside. She lives here.
‘You live here?’ The officer blinks rapidly.
He’s young, Nadeeka realizes, barely into his twenties, with peach-fuzz cheeks and the remnants of teenage acne.
She realizes, too, that he doesn’t know how to deal with this turn of events, which suggests that whatever has brought the police to her door is very bad indeed.
She rips at the tape.
‘Wait! You can’t—’
But Nadeeka is already in the little hall where her daughters’ coats will hang when their father drops them home, and where Jamie’s coat is now, and even in the grip of her panic she feels the bittersweet stab of vindication.
She was right. Jamie hadn’t been at work when she phoned.
But she can’t process what this means, because there’s a man in a suit standing in the doorway to the lounge, and beyond him . . . beyond him is—
‘Oh, my God.’ Her voice cracks.
The dating apps had been the hell Nadeeka’s single friends had warned her about.
A lawless wasteland of incels and perverts; of older men looking for younger models; of men with kids who wanted women ‘without baggage’.
Nadeeka had terrible dates with men who wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she had dates where she thought she’d felt a spark, only to be ghosted the next day.
For eighteen months she had diligently shaved her legs every other Saturday afternoon and curled some life into her hair, before pasting on a smile to go halves on another expensive dinner.
‘Are you Ms Prasanna?’ the man in the suit is saying. He’s well-built, several inches taller than her, with grey flecks in his brown hair and the hint of a belly.
Nadeeka’s eyes are fixed on the lounge carpet.
On her first date with Jamie, she’d laughed so hard she got a stitch.
He had seemed quiet – even a little awkward – when she’d arrived at the bar, but, as the date had unfurled, so had Jamie.
He had made up stories about the people around them.
See that woman with the notebook? She’s a taxidermist, trying to figure out the best way to stuff a canary.
That couple? He’s just told her he’s having an affair with their tennis coach, but she’s not sad about it because – plot twist – she is, too.
He had shared these absurdities deadpan, and Nadeeka had noticed how he’d watched her to see how they landed, sensitive to whether she was having as good a time as he was.
She had noticed, too, the little things.
The way he’d asked the barman how his day had been, and actually listened to the answer.
The way he’d moved their wine glasses to make it easier for the waitress to set down the many dishes of tapas they’d ordered.
The way he hadn’t once looked at his phone.
Afterwards, Jamie had walked her home and kissed her goodbye, and she had almost broken her no-sex-on-a-first-date rule.
It hadn’t only been the spark when their lips had touched, but the warmth spreading through her as he held her, new and yet wholly familiar.
Like coming home. Nadeeka had braced herself for disappointment – Jamie had been too good to be true – but when she woke up the next day he’d already messaged her.
Is it uncool to ask if we can do that again soon?
‘Jamie?’ she whispers now.
‘You’re James Golding’s partner?’ The man in the suit takes a step towards her.
‘Jamie . . .’ she says, and this time it’s barely a moan, barely even a breath.
They had deleted the dating apps together – the twenty-first--century equivalent of declaring they were ‘going steady’.
‘We’re so lucky,’ Nadeeka had said, thinking of friends still on the dating merry-go-round.
‘No, not lucky.’ Jamie had opened her hand; traced a finger along her heart line. ‘We were always meant to be together; it just took a while to find each other.’
‘Ms Prasanna.’ The man in the suit has wire-framed glasses and a thick moustache which covers his top lip. ‘My name is Detective Inspector Burton. We were called to a disturbance and, when we arrived, we found your partner—’
‘Is he . . .’ She can’t finish.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Detective Inspector Burton says.
She can’t hear what he says next, but she doesn’t need to, because the answer is on the silvery grey carpet, now flooded with crimson. The answer is in the eyes staring blindly towards her.
Jamie is dead.