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

as soon as I open my mouth a torrent of foul language will gush out of it, which won’t help the situation at all and certainly won’t keep me in a good light – there’ll be no sympathy from anyone witnessing my outburst; it’ll likely confirm their suspicions of me. But some things can’t be held in – their behaviour is abhorrent, and they must be called out on it.

‘Hey!’ I shout. Blood rushes to my face. ‘What the—’

Before I can say anything further, I feel hands on either side of me, roughly turning me away from the flashing cameras.

‘Don’t,’ Adam says. ‘Let me.’ And he leaves my side and struts forward, approaching the journalists, seemingly unfazed by the long lenses being thrust near his face. Isn’t he worried he’ll be somehow linked to this shitstorm? To me? He’s been so reluctant to be seen with me in public before – afraid of the repercussions. Scared people would get the wrong impression. Surely he’s directly inserting himself into this now by confronting the press?

I don’t hear what he says; he’s speaking very quietly. Calm and assured, unlike me. I take a shaky breath in.

Within moments Adam is back by my side, the group dispersing.

‘What on earth did you say to convince them to leave?’ I remove my sunglasses so I can see Adam clearly.

‘Oh, I just reasoned with them. And said the nursery would sue each of them, individually, for taking pictures of their premises where any of their pupils might be snapped without permission.’

‘Good one,’ I say, managing a smile.

‘You’re shaking,’ Adam says.

I look at my trembling hands. ‘Adrenaline.’

‘I’m glad I turned up when I did. You looked like you were about to explode – and as much as it would’ve pleased me to watch those lowlifes get what was coming to them, I don’t think they’d have come off well, which means you wouldn’t have either.’

‘I was pretty angry.’

‘And rightly so. Bloody vultures.’

‘I was going to pop into the café on the way back because I promised Poppy some banana bread. Do you and Jess fancy joining me?’ I ask, then I remember. ‘Oh, God – sorry. They were meant to be having a play date – you’ll want to be making the most of the time on your own.’

‘No, actually. Why do you think I’m here?’

‘Oh, yes.’ I shake my head, confused. ‘I was supposed to be picking Jess up, not you.’

‘That was before I heard about the mob outside yours.’ Adam raises a brow. ‘I figured you might need backup.’

‘Thanks, Adam. I’m seriously grateful you stepped in when you did. That could’ve been a very ugly scene otherwise.’ I look around at Julia and the other yummy mummies. All of them are casting wary glances my way. ‘I need to do the rounds before the girls come out. Do you mind?’ I indicate towards Julia.

‘Absolutely – you go ahead. I’ll just be here, waiting. I don’t want to be a part of that. I’d rather face a pack of journalists,’ he says, giving a mock shudder.

‘Hah! You do make me laugh,’ I say, as I leave him sitting on the low wall away from everyone else. I do wonder why he doesn’t try and chat with the other parents. I know he says people treat him with kid gloves, that they avoid him because they still don’t know how to be around him following Camilla’s death, but I get the feeling it’s not them: it’s him. He doesn’t want to converse with the parents. It’s him hiding away avoiding them, not the other way around.

The nursery door opens within a moment or two of me approaching Julia and her posse. None of them have time to mention the scene moments ago, or to ask questions about Tom and how things are going. A quick ‘hello’ is as far as it gets, which works in my favour.

The walk to Poppy’s Place is laboured. Both the girls dawdle, stopping every few steps to gabble on about something they’ve seen, but it’s fine. It’s great to see Poppy being this friendly with another child; it’s reassuring. And anyway, Adam and I are happy to amble. The leisurely pace is restful in comparison to my earlier journey to nursery. I’ll take slow and uneventful any day.

‘How are you doing?’ Adam is walking in the road, and I’m on the pavement. Our heads are almost at the same level. I look into his eyes and see the same warmth and kindness which enabled me to open up to him before. I purse my lips together, contemplating. I turn to check where the girls are, and, happy they’re close but not likely to hear me, I take a breath and tell Adam about my visit with Tom.

Well, I tell him the basics, anyway. I daren’t share the entire truth.

‘Oh, Beth. I’m so sorry, that must’ve been really stressful. If that’s even the right word.’

‘It’s one word,’ I say. ‘Although stress wasn’t the overriding emotion. Honestly, Adam, the way he looked at me. Pleading eyes.’ I drag my hands over my face. ‘I don’t want to think about him.’

‘Change of subject then?’

‘Yes. Please.’

‘I can offer up the following topics for conversation,’ Adam says, turning and side-stepping alongside me. ‘Ready?’

I laugh. ‘Possibly not, but go on. I’m intrigued at least.’

‘Cheeky. I have in my arsenal: bedwetting trauma; dead pet trauma; work trauma,’ he puts his finger to his lips, ‘and … my pièce de résistance … getting stuck in a lift for three hours trauma.’ He stops to take a bow.

‘Oh, no! Really?’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘All of those ordeals – are you receiving therapy?’

‘You’re it.’

‘Oh, the pressure! In that case, I feel we should cover each topic in the order of severity. Which would you consider to be your most traumatic?’

‘Hard to say. The worst for Jess is the dead pet.’ His face takes on a serious expression.

‘Which pet? And does she know yet?’

‘Moby the goldfish. And no. I’ve managed to