Page 30 of Dissection of a Murder
“Sienna.”
“That’s the one,” she says. “Wasn’t keen on their wedding. December, it was. Freezing cold. I don’t remember going to your wedding.”
“No, Audrey, we didn’t have any guests.”
“I didn’t see your parents there. Have I met your parents?”
“No, Audrey,” I say softly. “You haven’t.”
Audrey has always been a bit of a mother figure to me. Before her memory started to go, we used to watch musicals when they came to Newcastle. She used to look so glamorous for a night at the theater. She’d flounce in, dripping in sparkly jewelry and a fabulous dress.
“Does he know you’re hiding something from him?”
It takes me a second to register what she’s said. The cup of tea I’m about to take a drink out of brushes against my bottom lip, before being carefully placed back on the table.
“What?” I ask, smiling.
“I know what it is,” she whispers, staring right at me. Sometimes when you look at Audrey, she appears to be a million miles away, but right now, she seems completely lucid. Every word coming out of her mouth is said with intent. “You can trust me; I won’t tell him. But I know your dirty secret.”
I do a little laugh to mask the awkwardness.
“I’m not hiding anything, Audrey—”
“Yes, you are,” she interrupts. “You can’t fool me. I see everything.”
Pressure builds inside my chest, like a stormy sky just before the thunder starts. I’m suddenly very aware of my heart, which feels about to break free from my rib cage.
She doesn’t know. How could she possibly know?
“Your hair,” she says, deadpan. “You’re not naturally as blonde as you are in that photo. I know you dye it. I won’t tell him. Our secret.”
I stare at her, allowing my body to return to its normal state.
“You’ve got me there!” I laugh, as my body regulates back to a calmer state.
She winks and goes back to eating her food, talking about an old lunch box she saw onAntiques Roadshow.
After supper, I do a bit of clearing up around the house. We pay for a cleaner to come once a week, but I always do a quick tidy.
“Can you pick up a new jigsaw for us to do?” she asks.
“Of course. I’ll bring a new one next Friday.”
“Why aren’t you coming on Tuesday?” she asks, confused.
“I always come on Friday. I bring you fish and chips, bring you some flowers, we do some jigsaws, then I leave around 10-ish. That’s our routine.”
She stares at me, allowing the words I’ve said to chew over in her mind.
“Have you always done that?”
She’s getting worse. I nod my head, placing my hand on hers.
“I have, yes.”
“Are you sure?” she asks, frowning. “I’m sure you never used to…”
I hate leaving her like this.
