The Widow

The Widow Read Free

Book: The Widow Read Free
Author: Fiona Barton
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her grief. I can feel the sympathy of friends at my loss, gathering my family around me. Then the secret thrill.
    Me, the grieving widow. Don’t make me laugh.
    Of course, when it actually happened it didn’t feel nearly as real. For a moment, his mum sounded almost as relieved as me that it was all over, then she put the phone down, weeping for her boy. And there were no friends to tell and just a handful of family to gather around me.
    Kate Waters chirps up about needing the loo and making another cup of tea and I let her get on with it, giving her my mug and showing her the downstairs cloakroom. When she’s gone, I look around the room quickly, making sure there’s nothing of Glen’s out. No souvenirs for her to steal. Glen warned me. He told me all the stories about the press. I hear the toilet flush and she eventually reappears with a tray and starts up again about what a remarkable woman I must be, so loyal.
    I keep looking at the wedding picture on the wall above the gas fire. We look so young we could’ve been dressing up in our parents’ clothes. Kate Waters sees me looking and takes the photo off the wall.
    She perches on the arm of my chair and we look at it together. September the sixth, 1989. The day we tied the knot. I don’t know why but I start to cry – my first real tears since Glen died – and Kate Waters puts an arm round me.

Chapter 3
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
The Reporter
    K ATE W ATERS SHIFTED IN her chair. She shouldn’t have had that cup of coffee earlier– what with that and the tea, her bladder was sending distress signals and she might have to leave Jean Taylor alone with her thoughts. Not a good idea at this stage of the game, especially as Jean had gone a bit quiet, sipping her tea and gazing into the distance. Kate was desperate not to damage the rapport she was building with her. They were at a very delicate stage. Lose eye contact and the whole mood could change.
    Her husband Steve had once compared her job to stalking an animal. He’d had a glass too many of Rioja and was showing off at a dinner party.
    â€˜She gets closer and closer, feeding them little bits of kindness and humour, a hint of money to come, their chance to give their side of the story, until they are eating out of the palm of her hand. It’s a real art,’ he’d told the guests round their dining-room table.
    They were his colleagues from the Oncology department and Kate had sat there, wearing her professional smile and murmuring, ‘Come on, darling, you know me better than that,’ as the guests laughed nervously and sipped their wine. She’d been furious during the washing up, sloshing suds over the floor as she threw pans into the sink, but Steve had put his arms around her and kissed her into a reconciliation.
    â€˜You know how much I admire you, Kate,’ he’d said. ‘You’re brilliant at what you do.’
    She’d kissed him back, but he was right. It was sometimes a game or a flirtatious dance, to make an instant connection with a suspicious – even hostile – stranger. She loved it. Loved the adrenalin rush of getting to the doorstep first, ahead of the pack, ringing the bell and hearing the sounds of life inside the house, seeing the light change in the frosted glass as the person approached and then, as the door opened, going into full performance mode.
    Reporters had different techniques on the doorstep; one friend she’d trained with called it his ‘last puppy in the basket’ look to get sympathy, another always blamed her news editor for making her knock on the door again, and one had once stuffed a pillow up her jumper to pretend she was pregnant and asked to use the loo to get in.
    Not Kate’s style. She had her own rules: always smile, never stand too close to the door, don’t start with an apology, and try to distract from the fact that you’re after a story. She’d used the

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