The Serial Killer's Wife by Alice Hunter (best romantic novels to read .txt) 📗

games with him, or we’d all set off for a walk, or maybe go to Westgate shopping centre in Oxford and have food out. None of this will be on the agenda this time. Maybe next weekend, though? the small voice in my head asks.

‘Oh, thanks, Lucy,’ I say, as I see she’s set up a table for us already.

‘You’re welcome. Hey there, Poppy!’ Lucy reaches a hand down and ruffles Poppy’s hair affectionately. ‘How’s my favourite princess this afternoon? Good day at nursery?’

Poppy giggles. ‘Good day, thanks, Luce.’

I grin. It’s so great to hear Poppy laugh, and I love how she calls Lucy ‘Luce’ – it’s adorable. I’m grateful to Lucy for being so upbeat – she’s being her usual cheery self, despite what I divulged earlier. It’s almost as though that conversation never happened. I wish I could paper over the last few days as easily.

‘Excellent – glad to hear it. I’ve got some special animals waiting to be loved,’ Lucy says, taking Poppy’s hand and leading her to the selection she’s put out.

I make myself a latte and pour orange juice for Poppy, put two chocolate chip muffins on plates and take them to the table. Poppy dons a pink flowery apron and begins painting. She’s incredibly independent, especially for a three-year-old, and doesn’t wait to be told what to do. This is good, in part, but I’m guessing it might be a tad challenging in the not-too-distant future. I sit, quietly watching Poppy as I eat. She glances over as she reaches for a new colour, says, ‘I’ll eat mine when I’m finished, Mummy,’ then returns her expression to one of intense concentration, brows furrowed. She’s so precious, so innocent. I can’t bear to imagine her ever feeling upset. Hurt. Abandoned.

I push those thoughts away, and while she’s busy painting, I quickly flit around the café picking up a used mug and neatening the table that’s just been vacated. Anything to help stem the flow of negative thoughts. It’s almost four; not long until closing time. How will I fill my evening once we get home to the cottage? Poppy will be in bed at six, and by six thirty I’ll be sitting eating a microwave meal for one, as I haven’t been bothered about cooking or shopping this week. The telly will have the usual crap on; nothing interests me at the moment. Maybe I’ll just go to bed.

‘Well, hello there.’ The silky-smooth voice catapults me from my musings. Adam is standing just inside the doorway, Jess’s face peeking out from behind his legs.

‘Hi, Adam,’ I say as I walk over, then, bending down to her level, ‘and hello, Jess. Poppy will be so delighted to have a friend to sit with and paint animals. She’s over there,’ I point to the back of the café, to Poppy, who is deep in creative thought as she jabs the paintbrush, distributing green splodges all over the bear. A glowing sensation swells inside me as I see the tip of her tongue poking out of her bow-like mouth, her eyes screwed up in concentration. Jess comes out from behind Adam and walks over to Poppy. I’m pleased she appears less shy than last time.

‘You okay?’ Adam cocks his head, his eyes seeking mine. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look very tired.’

‘Great. Roughly translated as “you look like shit”, then?’ I offer a tentative smile, afraid I’m about to cry and embarrass myself yet again.

‘No, not at all. If I thought that, it’s what I’d have said.’ He smiles and laughs. ‘You know me.’

Only, I don’t know him. But currently he’s the only person I feel fully at ease with. For some reason I trust him, and an overwhelming sense of calm comes over me when I’m in his company. Then I remember I used to have the exact same sense with Tom, and that’s not working out well for me right now.

Still, there’s no harm in chatting with Adam while the girls paint. They look good together: almost like siblings, they’re so similar. My womb aches. Tom and I haven’t discussed having another baby since Poppy arrived. Beforehand, we often talked about having a family: Tom used to inform me he wanted two or four children. ‘Definitely not an odd number,’ he used to say. I was adamant that in that case I’d be happy with two. Now, I wonder if we’ll even have that. I’m not desperate to have another yet, though. Up until recently I’ve been very happy with the way things are.

‘Penny for them.’ I hear Adam’s voice and turn towards him.

‘Sorry. I’ve been to the station today to give a statement and I found out the detectives from homicide command have taken Tom to London to continue questioning him. I’m a bit preoccupied.’

‘I expect you are. I’m sorry, Beth. I can’t imagine how stressful it is for you, waiting like this. How much longer can they hold him?’

‘Until Saturday evening. They have until eight p.m. I believe.’ I let out a juddering breath and look into Adam’s eyes. ‘What if they don’t release him? What the hell will we do if they charge him, Adam?’ Desperation clings to each word.

‘Honestly? All you can do is cross that bridge if it comes to it, Beth. It’s the only way to get through this. It’s how I cope, anyway. Literally hour by hour, day by day. I don’t tend to look forwards into the future, it’s too scary. That’s when I lose control. I was given some helpful advice: if you can’t change it, let it go. Otherwise you’ll be consumed by worry.’

‘And if I could change something?’

Adam frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Never mind,’ I say. ‘Right, you’ve been without a drink for too long. Such dreadful service,’ I say, brightening and finally moving into the shop. ‘What can I get you?’

Adam regards me for several seconds before responding. ‘A lemonade, please.’ I turn and head to the counter, but I can feel