Every Woman For Herself: This hilarious romantic comedy from the Sunday Times Bestseller is the perfect spring read. Trisha Ashley
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as she had been when I went out: on her back in her furry igloo, with her head hanging out of the opening and her ears on the floor. She didn’t wake up even when I started clattering unwanted cooking-ware in the boxes.
It was as I was standing on tiptoe on the very top of the high kitchen steps, unhooking the cast-iron frying pan from the ceiling rack (so convenient for Matt, who never cooked, so inconvenient for me, who did), that I was seized extremely familiarly from behind.
‘All alone at last?’ gloated a horribly familiar voice. ‘You can’t know how long I’ve wanted to get my hands on these!’ And he squeezed painfully, like an over-enthusiastic fruit tester.
These were, I fear, the last words ever spoken by Angie’s husband, Greg. Had he known, perhaps he’d have thought of something a little less trite: but then, everything he uttered was straight out of a Victorian melodrama, so perhaps not.
Startled and off-balance, I couldn’t stop the weight and momentum of the pan I’d just grasped from swinging down and connecting with his head.
What an odd, strangely meaty, but hollow noise it made against his skull! A sort of watermelon-hit-by-a-cricket-bat sound that I don’t think I’ll ever forget as long as I live.
It was only the smaller frying pan, but unluckily he must have had a very thin skull. Mind you, even with a two-handed swing I would probably have dropped rather than swung the bigger pan. Bad luck all round.
As I stepped carefully down, Greg twitched like a dying insect at my feet, then lay still.
Not dead yet? Not dead?
Someone let out their breath in a long exhalation, and when I looked up, Miss Grinch was standing in the doorway, her choppy fingers to her skinny lips, as Shakespeare has it. An empty milk jug hung from the lax fingers of her other hand.
‘I mustn’t have locked the door,’ I said inconsequentially. ‘I’m always careful, especially when I know Greg’s home – but it was awkward with all those boxes.’
Naturally Miss Grinch would have been so consumed with curiosity she’d followed Greg in. Probably tiptoed up the hall right behind him.
‘Is he dead?’ she enquired, stepping into the room just as I dropped the pan from nerveless fingers. (It landed on Greg’s foot with a crunch, but he was beyond caring by then.)
‘Did he fall, or was he pushed?’ I quavered.
‘Not that he doesn’t deserve it, behaving in such a disgusting way to a defenceless woman,’ she said severely. ‘Find a mirror and hold it to his lips.’
I began to giggle helplessly: ‘A mirror? Why would he want to see himself at a time like this?’
‘Pull yourself together, girl,’ she snapped. ‘A mirror will mist up if he’s breathing. Here, I’ll do it.’
She unhooked the small pine square from the wall under the clock. ‘You phone 999.’
I managed that, even though my fingers felt even deader than Greg looked.
‘Ambulance – accident – emergency!’ I babbled. ‘There’s no mist on the mirror!’
‘Where are you speaking from, please?’
‘This is Miss Grinch,’ that lady said, taking the receiver from my hand. ‘I don’t think there’s any rush. He’s dead.’
She gave my name and address to the operator, then added, ‘We just need the ambulance, no police. This is such a nice neighbourhood, and none of the Grinches have ever been mixed up with police.’
‘Except the one who stole Christmas,’ I said helpfully.
Of course, we did get the police, much to Miss Grinch’s indignation, but never did I think I would be so glad to have a nosy neighbour!
Were it not for Miss Grinch I was sure I’d have been facing a murder charge, but she described how she’d followed Greg right into the house and had seen the whole unfortunate accident.
If Greg hadn’t suddenly assaulted me just as I was reaching down the pan, with no idea that I wasn’t alone, it would not have occurred.
The frying pan was impounded, but I wasn’t, although I felt so guilty at having taken a life I’d have gone without a struggle.
Flossie finally awoke at one point during the noisy and exhaustive débâcle, took a look out of her igloo and retired back in, until everyone was gone except Miss Grinch and me. Flossie was easily confused by loud voices and big feet.
Later, Miss Grinch gave me a small glass of colourless fluid and insisted that I drink it. I was positive she said it was gin and laudanum, but surely that couldn’t be right?
Whatever it was, it put me out like a light.
Late that night Angie came to the door and beat on it, screaming hysterically, ‘Bitch! Whore! Murderess!’
The last was the only one I felt truly applied.
Fortunately I was sitting in the upstairs bay window, sleep being something I’d lost the hang of, and my legs had gone too numb to go down, otherwise sheer guilt would probably have made me go and let her in.
After a while lights went on in several neighbouring houses, including Miss Grinch’s, and shortly after that a police car coasted quietly up and removed Angie.
There was a faint, receding cry of, ‘Pigs! Pigs! Arrest the murderess!’ and then the street slowly sunk back into dark silence.
I’d been wondering how I could break the news of the accident to Matt, but in the end I didn’t have to, because Angie did it for me.
He phoned to inform me tersely that henceforth all communication would be through the solicitor, and then put the phone down.
I suppose murdering his best friend was a pretty irreconcilable marital difference.
Miss Grinch continued to be my comfort and guide throughout this nightmare. I didn’t know what I’d have done without her, which was a far cry from the way I felt about her before she became the star witness for the defence.
She was now my bestest friend. Not so much a mother figure, as an acidulated spinster figure – everyone should have one, but they are a dying breed.
Em would have come to stay for a few days, but Father’s latest mistress was still infesting the house.
The housekeeping was, and always had been, Em’s preserve, and she wouldn’t stand interference, let alone a takeover bid. Outright war had been declared.
Normally this would all have interested me extremely, especially since one of the combatants was occupying the hallowed ground of my bedroom, but now I moved through the days like an automaton. I signed everything the solicitor sent me; Matt, true to his word, having ceased personal contact.
I’d be lucky if I even got the duck now.
Miss Grinch, like Anne, urged me to get my own solicitor and a better deal, but so far as I could see there wasn’t anything but debts and an absent husband, and I didn’t want half of either of those.
Anyway, I didn’t feel I deserved anything any more.
All I could think of was that ghastly thud as the pan connected with Greg’s head, and I was tortured with wondering whether I could have prevented it: I mean, when I hit him, I wanted to hit him – so was it really an accident? Was there a moment when I could have diverted the fatal downward swing?
I didn’t think so, but I wasn’t sure. And I felt like a murderess – I had killed someone.
Miss Grinch didn’t understand that. She