How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints) by Kathy Lette (top 10 novels to read TXT) 📗

espresso snorts out of her nostrils. ‘We’ll just keep that little gem to ourselves, shall we? And did you or did you not tell Billy Boston that the good thing about having an ex-con as a lover was his advance weapons training?’

Jazz goes pale. ‘Yes, but . . .’

‘Boston maintains that you plotted with him to have your husband murdered, in order to cash in on his life insurance as your savings had dwindled, partly because of your profligate spending on toy boys.’

‘No! Because David mortgaged our house without my knowing!’

‘To do his good works in Africa. I don’t think there’ll be much of a sympathy vote there, Jasmine, somehow.’

‘Sympathy? And will there be no sympathy for me, for trying to save my bloody marriage after everything he’d done to me? Good God! Do you have any idea what courage that took? Just before Christmas, David said that he wanted to put all his infidelities and betrayals behind us and get on with our life together. At first I didn’t think I could work through the cycle of grief and anger. But eventually, I had to admit that there must have been reasons David had the affairs. Right? I mean obviously, the marriage wasn’t giving him something he needed. I realised that how a couple resolves the trauma of infidelity depends on how much you loved each other in the beginning and how much you both value your shared past. David is the only man I have ever truly loved. He’s the father of my only child, for God’s sake. We needed to get Josh out of an unhealthy relationship he was having . . .’ (she doesn’t use Hannah’s name, I note) ‘. . . so we planned a family holiday to Australia. And what I found was that my new emotional realism actually benefited our relationship. It really did. It helped restore my dignity and peace of mind. And David was genuinely contrite. He’d been under so much pressure. A business venture he was bank rolling in Africa was going wrong. I was resentful. Oh, all the terrible things we said to each other,’ she shuddered. ‘Well, we put it all behind us. We were so looking forward to a reinvigorated next thirty years. And now, if he’s gone . . .’ Her voice catches in her throat. ‘How will I ever find a sense of purpose if David is dead? But I have to be strong to help Josh through this. My feelings are so raw. The pain will never go away. How can it? Every day it just gets harder, but we have to live in hope that David will walk through the door. If I fear the worst, then there’s no hope left. And I do have this hope, in a tiny corner of my heart, that he’s going to call and I’ll hear him saying “Hi, darling. I’m in Darfur,” on some medical mission he forgot to tell me about, or . . .’ She drops her head into her hands.

Jasmine’s solicitor puts a consoling arm around her client’s shoulder. ‘Look, you’re not on trial yet. We just have to convince the judge that you won’t flee the country, commit a similar offence or interfere with a witness.’

As Quincy prepares to leave, Jazz cadges a cigarette.

‘The chaplain here suggested I give thanks for what I’ve got in life.’ Despite the No Smoking rule, the match flares and Jazz puffs manically. ‘But what have I got, Cassie? Imprisonment for something I didn’t do, debts up the wazoo, a lesbian cellmate . . .’ Quincy is sucking the liquid centre from a sweet with a wet slurping sound which makes Jasmine shudder. ‘The whole country thinks of me as a murderess and I’m supposed to be burying my husband, a feat made more difficult by the fact that he may still be alive somewhere. Oh yes, I’m feeling fantastically fucking thankful at this point.’

In the hours I have left before the bail hearing this afternoon, I vow to do my best to help my oldest friend. And there is only one person I can think of to turn to . . .

The anticipation and dread I feel at seeing his indolent smile makes my heart race. We agree to meet in the Boom Boom bar. Walking from the tube cold gusts of air sweep like a searchlight back and forth across my face, and I interrogate myself about my real motive for being here.

When I tell Trueheart of Jasmine’s plight, he erupts into an insolent laugh. ‘So, lemme get this straight. You want me to testify that Billy Boston’s lyin’? Grassing up a mate is a serious crime in my world, babe. So,’ there’s a halfsmile on his face, ‘what exactly would be in it for me?’

As he unscrews the cap on his Coke bottle the muscles of his forearm twitch and fan out across his skin in a most unsettling way.

‘You don’t seem to be taking this conversation seriously,’ I reprimand him. ‘Her bail appeal hearing is this afternoon.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ he replies flippantly, before leaning over and, with cocky insouciance, unbuttoning the top of my blouse. Breezy and off-hand, he is full of overmedicated mischief. ‘Real serious like.’

‘Actually, I’m hopeless at sin. I’m much better at syntax. Maybe I could just tweak your dangling participle or something?’

‘Think about it, babe,’ he suggests as I leave for court.

And I do think about it, striding past St Paul’s, towards the Old Bailey, heart galloping. What is holding me back? I am a single woman now. And Trueheart could audition for Denzel Washington’s body double. Perhaps getting him into my bed would get Rory out of my head, and me into an orgasmic spasm?

In the area around Fleet Street and St Paul’s Cathedral, the streets are full of mottled buildings of diseased appearance. The Old Bailey, with its clean, cold stone and imperious fluted columns is the ominous exception. Sleek sharks, otherwise known as reporters, circle outside, skittish, lunging, irascible. Solicitors and lawyers deal out business cards like a hand