Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116999 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 585(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
My plan for living my best life isn’t going all that great. I did potter for a while, rearranged some furniture, cleaned, dusted some shit, but that got boring awfully fast. I’ve kept up with shopping and cooking, mainly because if I don’t, I’ll die of starvation. I’m yet to plant anything. In all honesty, I think I may have become a hermit. Even worse, I think I like it. There’s something oddly satisfying about the quiet. It’s calming. Peaceful. I don’t miss the busy schedule, the fake smiles and faker platitudes that surround my working life.
I’m not even missing my family, who I’m also taking a break from since Emmett appointed himself the gatekeeper of morality and decided to give me a lecture on homewrecking. Josie called a few days ago, full of concern and wondering if I knew why Rebecca Walker hadn’t been answering her calls. Because I’m clearly insane, I explained in detail why I’d be the last person who could provide that answer. Apart from revealing psychic powers and reckoning she ‘knew’ something was going on between me and William after spying on our brief encounter at the farm shop way back, my sister-in-law tried to be understanding. Sympathetic even, despite the split loyalties she shares with William’s wife.
Unfortunately, I didn’t receive the same warmth during the follow up phone call from my own brother.
Fuck him.
Fuck everybody.
I’m doing just fine on my own.
My house is too big, though. I’ve never noticed that before. It’s cold sleeping alone in such a large bedroom, and it’s incredibly lonely eating at a table big enough for ten. The huge TV seems excessive for one set of eyes, the settee appears bare with only my arse perched in the corner, and the pool feels like a waste of water for a single body.
Maybe I’ll get a dog.
Seven o’clock on a Wednesday evening and I’m considering going to bed. My legs are stretched out across the settee, trying to use some of the excess space, and Netflix has been asking me if I’m still watching whatever’s on for the last half an hour, but I haven’t got the energy to reach for the remote to click yes. It’d be a lie, anyway. I wasn’t watching beforehand, too busy wondering how long it must have taken the missing spider to create the web that’s currently hanging between my lightshades.
Maybe I could get a tarantula.
That might not make a good pool buddy, though.
A tarantula and a dog?
The doorbell snaps my attention from the web, and my following huff morphs into a groan, knowing it will be Andy. He’s the only person who’d turn up this time of day. It’s my own fault, I think as I roll off the settee and to my feet. I should’ve answered his bloody texts. On the wall beside the cabinet, I unlock the gate, not bothering to check the security camera. It’s bad enough I’ll have to see his face in the flesh in a minute’s time.
I’m certain I look a complete mess as I head to the front door. I’ve been wearing the same joggers for three days, T-shirt for two. There’s a pasta stain below the neck, but at least it’s only from tonight and he’s seen me in worse shape. Like the night he found me in bed crying into William’s fucking jacket like an absolute lovesick wanker. Not my finest look.
Andy knocks. I pout like a crabbit child. And then I open it.
“For fuck’s sake, I was gonnae answer—” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat. What in the hell… “Rebecca.”
“You remember me.”
I doubt I’ll ever fucking forget her. “What are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
Stunned, I step aside in silence. She hops past me, two crutches clanging against the floor, and into my house. William’s wife is in my fucking house. I gesture a hand towards the end of the hall, directing her to the living room. Her head bobs up and down, eyes taking in the décor and furniture as she walks. “Lovely place,” she says.
What? What the hell is happening? “How did you find me here?” I ask. William’s never been here, doesn’t know where I live.
“I spoke with Andrew Cobbe. I got his details from a friend of Will’s. They used to work together, and I know of Andrew’s connection with Will…and with you.”
Fucking Andy. Suddenly, the barrage of texts make sense. He’s been fishing, trying to find out if I’ve heard from her.
“I realise I have no right to ask Andrew to keep that from you, but I told him I’d appreciate it, nonetheless. May I sit?” She points to the settee.
I nod, but don’t sit myself. “Why?”
“Because I wanted an honest conversation with you, Laurence. Not planned or rehearsed.”
“No, I mean…why are you here?”
She takes her crutches, stacking them neatly next to her. “To talk about William…and you.”