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

she thinks – but because I would hate for Adam to see it later and think badly of me for taking over Camilla’s club. She started it and she’d been running it for a number of years. When we first moved here and I opened Poppy’s Place she’d swept in one day, her golden hair flowing over her shoulders like glossy honey, her slim figure encased in black, skin-tight leggings and a leopard print tee, and asked if she could use the place once a month on a Wednesday evening for her book club to meet. She usually had it at her house, she’d said, but the group had become larger and their rowdiness had reached a level where it disturbed her one-year-old’s sleep.

I’d always kind of hoped she’d invite me to read their chosen book; sit with the other yummy mummies and discuss what they thought about it. Instead, I was on the periphery for two hours each month, serving drinks and cakes. But I got to know their names and who their children were. I heard their gossip and what was going on in each of their lives. It was an eye-opener; I had no idea so much went on in such a small place.

And still, Camilla didn’t accept me into her inner circle. The only time we’d bonded was over my cookie recipes, as she liked to bake too. Seems a lifetime ago now.

‘Are you giving them the choice of any of the bisques?’ Lucy asks.

‘Oh, er … no.’ I pop the poster under the counter. ‘I think just the medium-sized animal ones, thanks, Lucy.’

‘Righto,’ she says. As she goes into the back, I hear her break into song. I smile, but then a cloud descends. Yesterday had been so normal: happy, carefree. Today, things are different. A heavy weight is squatting inside me, waiting. A sense that something bad is on its way.

Four o’clock comes around quickly and I’m glad we did the majority of the prep in the morning, as it’s been really busy and I’ve been out over half an hour collecting Poppy, making a quick detour home to collect more cakes. I couldn’t be more proud that Poppy’s Place has taken off so well here. Bearing in mind I was a newcomer to a close-knit community, people have been keen to support me and the café. I glance over at the freshly baked cakes, muffins and cookies arranged in the glass display case next to the counter. They look and smell delicious. Some of them are from suppliers but I bake a lot of them myself at home – it’s my passion, and it’s a huge positive being able to fit my baking around Poppy and even involving her too. I’ve enjoyed experimenting with new recipes, and Poppy loves being my official taster. The feedback has been great – I even overheard someone saying I make the best cookies she’s ever had. Tom laughed when I told him. He said he’d never imagined me to be the homely, wifely type when we first met. I never decided if it was a compliment or a dig – but either way, being here, and running the café, has made me the happiest and most content I’ve felt in my life so far.

Poppy has been a little angel waiting for the kids to arrive, patiently sitting at the table nearest the counter, playing with the table-top café set I bought her because she wanted to be like Mummy. Luckily, Sally’s invited her to Molly’s party so at least I haven’t had to worry about finding a babysitter.

The bisque animals are lined up ready to be chosen by the kids and their parents; the eight tables are all prepped with different colour paints. There are brightly coloured balloons dotted around the café, and ‘Happy Birthday’ banners on the walls. I look over to Lucy, who’s tied her bandana in place and donned her apron. I feel like we’re about to be invaded.

‘We’re all set,’ Lucy declares.

‘Great. And thanks so much for all your help – as ever. Just think, in an hour or so it’ll all be over, and you can have a relaxing evening with Oscar,’ I say.

‘Oh, I love it, you know that. I’m in my element with the kids. Besides, Oscar is working late tonight – something about having to complete a car service and deliver another car somewhere and get a train back,’ Lucy says, waving her hand dismissively. ‘God knows what time he’ll rock up.’ Lucy isn’t a car person. She’s never owned one: she prefers to tear around the village on her trusty, rusty bike or take public transport. Mechanics are a mystery to her, and she often tells me she goes to sleep listening to her boyfriend rattling on about it. I think it’s pretty funny, although Oscar might feel differently.

‘Ah, the joys of owning your own business, eh? I can relate,’ I say. ‘He’s done so well taking over the garage from his dad, Lucy. Can’t have been easy for him.’

‘No, he misses him a lot. But you know, he’s worked hard without much help. His dad would’ve been proud.’

‘I’m sure he would, hun,’ I say, reassuringly, and then I plaster on a warm smile and open the door to greet the birthday girl.

The calm quiet of the café explodes – a noise bomb of deafening toddlers and parents competing to be heard. It sounds like a party of twenty, not half that. It takes about fifteen minutes to get everyone sitting down at a table with their animals. I do a quick headcount: one child down. Adam and Jess aren’t here yet – perhaps they cancelled. I ask Sally if everyone is here.

‘Oh, er … no, actually. One more to come – Jess and her dad aren’t here yet,’ she says, her eyes flitting around the café. She flings her arm up and waves suddenly at something behind me, and I turn to see Adam walking in with