Chapter 8
Savannah
Thirty-six hours earlier
“You’re a machine!” her colleagues liked to say, when, bleary-eyed, they logged on at nine to find a slew of emails from Savannah.
But she didn’t see it that way. She was efficient and disciplined.
That’s all. She worked hard, and had the lifestyle to show for it.
She played hard too, no doubt about that. Otherwise, what was the point?
At nine, two packages arrived. She already knew what was inside one—silver ballet flats—and recorded herself opening them.
Her Instagram followers liked pretty much anything she put up, but shopping hauls and makeup reels always got the biggest response.
The other package was from Cult Beauty, containing the retinol she regularly used, but, she realized, looking at the invoice inside, it wasn’t actually for her.
As she taped it back up, a ping on her email announced that the Sézane jumpsuit she’d ordered had been delivered too, only it hadn’t.
The “proof of delivery” photo showed her package sitting behind a pot of pink hydrangeas.
Savannah had two faux bay trees on her porch and no pink flowers of any kind.
She let out a sigh. The package had gone to the other Oakpark.
Again. She shot off an email to the courier company, reminding them for the umpteenth time that if they just used the Eircode, none of this would happen.
The jumpsuit, cream and flowy, was for a barbecue at her mother’s next weekend.
Her mother would say cream was impractical and that she looked like a runaway bride.
Savannah would drink too much white wine and seethe inwardly then feign a headache and leave early.
Her mother particularly loved a wedding barb.
The only time she had ever been happy with her daughter was on Savannah’s wedding day.
And she had never forgiven the divorce. Savannah glanced at her wedding photo on the kitchen shelf.
Her ex was getting married again, according to his sister.
Not that they were in direct contact, Savannah and her sister-in-law, but they did still follow each other on Instagram.
Maybe, eventually, Savannah would marry again too.
And, just to annoy her mother, next time she’d elope.
At one, she put together a prawn salad. The dressing she wanted to use—a substitute in her online grocery shopping—contained traces of nuts.
For god’s sake. She sighed and left it unopened.
Why could these people never read her notes about substitutions?
She decided to eat lunch in the garden, stopping at the back door to pluck sunglasses from the shelf.
Only they weren’t her sunglasses. She frowned, confused at first, then realization dawned.
Popping them on, she checked how they looked in her reverse camera.
Cute. Too big for her face, but cute. She took a selfie, sent it with a text that read “might keep these!” and got on with her lunch.
By three, she was contemplating a crisp glass of white wine.
She was trying not to drink during the day, but in weather like this…
normal rules didn’t apply. She went inside for a small glass of wine, glancing at her wedding photo as she passed the kitchen shelf.
It stopped her for a moment, thinking. About her ex, about the past and about the future. About moving on.
By half three, she’d poured herself one more small glass of white.
Who knew how long the sun would shine? She imagined sitting indoors next week, staring out at rain, wishing she’d had the wine.
Of course, she didn’t know then there wouldn’t be a next week.
This time tomorrow, Savannah Holmes would be in a morgue.