The Widows’ Club

‘No chance. Don’t get me wrong, I like the idea of love, and I’m over the moon for Tara and Iain, but it’s not for me, not any more. I prefer being in control of my own fate.’

‘I wish I could say the same.’

‘Oh, April,’ said Tara gently. ‘It’s early days and you have a lot to process.’

‘I know, and I can’t tell you how good it feels to talk about this at last.’ April paused and chewed her lip. ‘Will the rest of the group understand? Has anyone else gone through something similar?’

‘None of us had perfect marriages,’ Tara replied. ‘As much as I loved Mike, I spent a lot of time resenting him for stealing my dreams. I had every intention of moving to Paris until I found out I was pregnant. I’m not saying I didn’t love the life we made together, but there’s a reason I’ve created a little corner of Paris in Hale Village.’

Tara wasn’t sure if April noticed she had evaded the question, but Faith did.

‘And you don’t have to raise this in the group if you don’t want to. It’s none of their business, and besides …’ Faith reached over to squeeze April’s hand as Tara had done. ‘You have us.’

Tara couldn’t hold back her smile. She knew Faith would like April. ‘And it’s not as if the main group are ever short of things to talk about, so you’ll still have lots in common with them. You’re not alone, April. Not any more.’

RESPONSES

Petersj @Petersjhome

Replying to @thewidowsclub

I hope the police are investigating this so-called support group of yours. These were vulnerable people you were dealing with. The situation should never have been allowed to get out of hand.

Jodie @iamJPriestly

Replying to @Petersjhome @thewidowsclub

You’re out of order blaming the group. It’s been my lifeline and no one could have predicted what happened.

Leanne Thompson @LTReports

Replying to @iamJPriestly

Hi Jodie, I’m a freelance reporter and would love to hear your story. Can we meet?

Jodie @iamJPriestly

Replying to @LTReports

Fuck off Leanne

4 (#ulink_f20e3ef9-2064-5507-bc3e-b8d54f3e2be5)

The tap of stiletto heels ricocheted off the walls as Faith Cavendish surveyed the empty room. Behind her, she heard the soft wisp of socked feet and the scratch of pencil on paper.

‘Is that everything we agreed?’ she asked.

‘Looks like it,’ the man said, stuffing a tattered sheet of paper into his pocket. He was middle-aged, but his voice sounded older, with the telltale rasp of a smoker. ‘For a small fee, the lads could take those bags of rubbish too.’

Faith followed his gaze. ‘Those bags of rubbish are my husband’s clothes,’ she said, ‘and I’ll decide what to do with them in my own good time. We agreed a fee and I expect payment in full, no deductions.’

The man gave her a broad grin, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. It was a shame because he might be attractive if he were to take better care of himself, not that Faith was interested. The antique dealer’s only appeal was that he had offered the best price for furniture that had been in the house longer than she had.

‘I authorised the payment not ten minutes ago, Mrs Cavendish. It should be in your account if you’d like to check.’

Faith let him wait as she used her phone to access her account. Her balance looked satisfyingly healthy. ‘Fine, we’re done,’ she said.

As she led the way back out onto the landing, there was an echo to the house that hadn’t been there before. Three of the five bedrooms had been emptied during the course of the day, leaving only her bedroom and the home office untouched. She had convinced herself that she wouldn’t notice the difference, but she did. The house had been plundered.

Faith strummed her fingers on her crossed arms as she waited for the dealer to lace up his battered brogues at the front door. She regretted insisting that he and his workforce remove their shoes before entering the house. She wanted them gone, but this remaining invader showed no sign of leaving when he straightened up.

‘If you change your mind about the other pieces we talked about, let me know. I have a buyer who would snap up that dining table.’

‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

‘Or if there’s anything else I can do,’ he said. His grin suggested there was more than a business deal on offer. ‘I’m sure it’s a difficult time for you, but once you find a new place, give me a call.’

He raised his eyebrows expectantly. Faith had given him a sob story about losing her husband and needing to move out to clear his debts and the fool had swallowed it, hence the generous quote. He thought he’d sized her up; a lonely widow in need of a man to save her. How wrong he was on all counts.

She could tell him that she was more than capable of taking care of herself, that she had spent most of her life being happily independent before Derek swept her off her feet, but Faith didn’t explain herself to anyone. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve already found a place,’ she said. ‘I’m moving to Marbella.’

His grin disappeared. Outmanoeuvred, the would-be Romeo stepped outside, but as he crossed the drive, he took one last cheeky look over his shoulder. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to send me an invite when you’re settled in Spain?’

Refusing to dignify the comment with a response, Faith was about to shut the door when a woman stepped through the gates the dealer had been closing behind him. Faith’s stepdaughter, Ella, was in her late twenties but had none of the nonchalance of youth. Her back remained stiff as a board as she gave the antique dealer, the van, and then Faith a curious look.

‘You’re moving to Spain?’ she asked.

Reluctantly, Faith opened the door wider and invited Ella inside before the neighbours could hear any more of their conversation. Despite the tall shrubbery and expansive gardens, someone had been snooping: Ella’s arrival on the day a removals van was parked out front was no coincidence.

Derek had warned Faith that his divorce had been acrimonious but his ex-wife’s bitterness was something to behold. Rosemary had been particularly aggrieved that her ex-husband had kept the family home despite her agreeing to a generous divorce settlement and plundering funds that would one day cost Faith her widow’s pension. One or two neighbours had remained loyal to the first Mrs Cavendish, and Faith guessed she had Mr Newton next door to thank for Ella’s arrival. A wronged wife of twenty-odd years was always going to out-trump the usurper widowed after only six.

Faith placed her hands on Ella’s shoulders and air-kissed her on both cheeks. With a reassuring smile, she said, ‘I told him I was leaving the country just to get rid of him.’

Ella’s shoulders remained tense. ‘And who was he?’

‘An antique dealer. I thought it was time to declutter.’

‘You’ve been getting rid of stuff?’

‘I’ve emptied some of the bedrooms, that’s all.’

Ella’s eyes grew wide as her gaze travelled up the sweeping staircase. One of the emptied rooms had been Ella’s bedroom although she hadn’t stayed a single night in the house since the divorce. Derek had let her take everything that was hers and it had remained a rarely used guest room ever since.

‘Sorry, should I have warned you?’

‘I know it’s your furniture and you have a right to do what you want with it,’ Ella replied, ‘but …’

‘You don’t have to tell your mum,’ Faith replied, feeling a swell of sympathy for her stepdaughter, caught in the middle of a battle that was already won as far as Faith was concerned.