The Widows’ Club. Amanda Brooke

Чтение книги онлайн.

       8

      The buzz of the hedge trimmer set Faith’s teeth on edge as she set about cutting back the leylandii conifers that had grown at least another foot since her gardener, Leon, had tackled it earlier in the year. The hedge divided the land at the rear of the property from that of the neighbours, and she liked it to be high enough to shield her from prying eyes without leaving the rest of the garden in shade. Leon had made the job look easy.

      It was Derek who had employed him, and Faith had continued with Leon’s services for as long as she could, but sacrifices had to be made and she had taken the difficult decision to cut back his hours. For appearances’ sake, Leon continued to maintain the front gardens, but Faith was no stranger to hard work and could take care of the rest. If by chance Mr Newton caught a glimpse of her cutting back the conifers, he would see only a figure dressed in black, wearing a baseball cap. He would never presume it was the second Mrs Cavendish.

      If anything, pruning the hedge was a novel form of exercise, and Faith had convinced herself it was fun until the rotating blades of the trimmers snagged on a gnarled branch and she lost her balance. She stretched out her arms instinctively to stop herself from falling off the stepladder, and her grip on the trimmers loosened. With her finger still on the trigger, it arced forward and the whirring blades narrowly missed slicing into her thigh. She held back the cry for fear of being overheard, but the near miss left her shaken. She wept angry tears as she hacked at branches that she would not allow to defeat her.

      When the job was done and the cuttings cleared away, Faith returned to the house, grabbed a bottle of Chablis from the kitchen, and dragged herself upstairs. She filled a deep bath and added a generous measure of her prized Jo Malone bath oil, because today she deserved it. Stripping off the cheap supermarket clothes she had been wearing, Faith sank beneath the suds and felt her old self return.

      With Brahms playing in the background and her wine within easy reach, Faith leafed through a travel brochure. For as long as she cared to remember, planning a holiday was her way of surviving the pre-Christmas frenzy, and a couple of travel reps had been in touch already, having noticed their most loyal customer had yet to book her next trip. Faith had kept them dangling and there was no suggestion that she might forgo a holiday next year. It was something Faith had yet to admit to herself.

      A two-week cruise around the Norwegian fjords took her fancy and as she folded the corner of the page, her phone rang. Her thumb hovered over the red decline button as she took a sip of wine. With an exasperated sigh, she accepted the call.

      ‘Hello, Ella,’ she said affably.

      Faith’s stepdaughter had made numerous attempts to call her over the weekend but irritatingly hadn’t left a voicemail. Her persistence, combined with Faith’s curiosity, had finally paid off.

      ‘I’m glad I caught you at last. I was getting worried.’

      ‘Ah, sorry about that. I treated myself to a little pamper weekend with friends,’ Faith said as she put down her glass and flexed her hand. Her attack on the garden had cost her a couple of broken nails, and her skin had acquired a roughness she didn’t like. With the money she had saved today, maybe she could afford a spa.

      ‘I hope you had a good time,’ Ella replied after a slight hesitation, as if she detected the lie.

      Faith wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Bloody Newton had a telescope trained on the house, but no matter. A fib told with confidence was far more compelling than whispering truths.

      ‘Who knew a few days’ relaxation would be so exhausting?’ Faith said with a yawn. She lifted a leg out of the water and watched rivulets of scented oil glide over her skin and caress her tired muscles. ‘It’s probably my body’s reaction to all that pummelling and prodding. Those Swedish massages are brutal.’

      ‘I can imagine,’ Ella said, possibly convinced. Possibly not. ‘As long as you’re looking after yourself.’