Excerpt
A Serial Killer's Guide to Marriage
Chapter OneThree months earlier
Haze
I really was very lucky.
I looked around our brand-new, expansive kitchen. Bespoke wooden cabinets, marble countertop, an electric five-door AGA. A family painting of three stick figures holding hands stuck to the stainless-steel fridge doors.
I grew up in many different places, but I never had a home. I grew up with many different people, but I never had a family.
Now I finally had both.
Don’t f*** it up.
I stared at the wall nearest the window as I chopped grapes at the island. Four different shades of white were painted on it. The paint codes for each option underneath. Decisions, decisions.
“Neeeeowwwwwwwww!” Fox walked into the kitchen, holding a giggling Bibi with her arms out like an airplane. He was in the suit he was wearing when we first met. It was thirteen years ago this June. The American stranger who came to my rescue in Paris. I felt a stab of something. I wasn’t sure what.
“And crash landing!” Fox dropped Bibi into her highchair at the oak dining table, where a bowl of porridge and banana was waiting for her.
“Pawgee!” said Bibi as she picked up her plastic spoon.
“Porridge,” Fox corrected, sitting down next to her. “She’s twenty-nine months old, she should be up to two hundred words by now. At last count, she was only at a hundred and seventy-three.”
I shrugged. “She’ll get there.”
Fox observed me slicing. “Don’t forget: to stop the risk of choking, the grapes need to be cut vertically. Not horizontally.”
I paused. And altered my slicing direction. The knife was sharp. I was cutting them faster and faster.
At forty-three, Fox was only six years older than me, but he had aged much worse. Yes, his dark blond hair still had no streaks of gray. Yes, he was still annoyingly handsome and wrinkle-free. But . . . Jesus. He kept sounding like an old man. Maybe the passport I thought was his real one was also fake. Maybe he was actually a youthful-looking sixty-year-old.
“She’s definitely behind on her talking.” Fox cleared his throat. “Studies show a baby sibling can help toddlers develop faster.” He looked up at me over his cup of coffee.
My knife faltered and slipped.
“F***!” I lifted my left index finger, a streak of blood now coloring the end of it. I stood there staring at it as it dripped onto the white chopping board.
“F*****.” Bibi laughed.
“Language, Hazel!” Fox slammed his coffee down on the table. Wow, using my full name—he really was mad.
“What?” I shrugged. “Now she’s at a hundred and seventy-four.”
Our home was a four-bedroom detached house in a gated community in Sunningdale. Here, the nice mummies, whom
I mostly managed to avoid, had many ways to deal with the stress of running a perfect home and raising perfect children. They focused on Pilates, day-drinking, Net-a-Porter, and the local spa, where Jonas and his tight shorts massaged away any tension in their upper backs.
I had my own way of dealing with stress, but that was not allowed anymore.
It had been one thousand, one hundred and sixty-nine days.
Tonight, we were having a few of the neighbors over for dinner. We had somehow joined a rota of entertaining one-upmanship and tonight was our turn. When Bibi was at nursery, I went grocery shopping. I always went to the same smaller but slightly out-of-the-way independent shops. Supporting local businesses and killing more time. I remembered the names of all the people behind the counters and granted each one an inane pleasantry about the weather. A smile was so fixed to my face, my cheeks began to ache.
I picked up Bibi, dry-cleaning, and flowers for the table. Once home, I put Bibi down for a nap. I stood over her crib, stroking her hair as she fell asleep.
“I love you more than anything in this world.” I leaned closer to her. “I’ll never let anything happen to you.”
Don’t f*** it up.
Next to Bibi’s room, a spare bedroom had been converted into a makeshift art studio. Sheets covered the beige carpet. I sat on my stool, paintbrush in hand, as I stared at the blank canvas in front of me. Eventually, I dipped the brush into the red paint and did one little line in the center of the canvas. And then another and another, until a stick figure looked back at me. I drew a sad face on it. I stared at it for a moment and then pushed it off the stand. Picking up my phone, I accidentally lost an hour watching Instagram reels. Then another fifteen minutes editing photos of myself to see if fashion’s latest choppy fringe would suit me.
When Bibi woke, I got her out of her cot and held her close, breathing in her sleepy neck.
I let her loose on my abandoned canvas. I took photos of her as she handprinted black and red all over it: #mummybondingtime. When we got bored of that, I parked her in front of Peppa Pig as I prepared dinner. This involved placing clean baking trays onto the drying rack, spreading crumbs onto a chopping board, and ripping the deli and patisserie boxes into little shreds to go into the bottom of the recycling bin. Faking it in the bedroom—unacceptable. Faking it in the kitchen—commendable.
The three couples arrived within minutes of each other.
I watched Fox slice the beef fillet. It was very rare. He cut it with precision. He barely even seemed to notice how the bright red of the steak gently wobbled as he sliced into it.
I took Mark by the arm and brought him over to Fox.
“Isn’t he perfect?” Fox looked up at us, large knife in hand. I waited a beat as he took in Mark and his fine suit and large, gaudy Rolex. “He brought us your favorite red.”
“Perfect is a bit much,” guffawed Mark.
Fox wouldn’t meet my eyes as he chuckled with Mark over the expense of having such a fine palate. There was no hint he remembered what the two of us used to do with men who looked like Mark.
Dinner followed the usual script. I sympathized when Raquel droned on about the difficulties of getting planning permission for their basement extension. I nodded along with Nick and Caro at the horror of interest rate rises affecting mortgage payments. I crossed fingers with Georgie for little Arthur getting a coveted school place. I sneaked a glance at the clock: 10:37 p.m. The final home run before the chorus of “Oh, look at the time!”
“I do worry that there are three Florences in Florence’s class,” sighed Raquel. “You’re lucky Bibi is such an unusual name.”
“She’s named after my grandmother Sabina.”
“How lovely. Were you close?”
“Oh yes.” I took a glug of wine. “She was the only member of my family who wasn’t a total cunt.”
Raquel’s mouth dropped open.
I stood up. “Anyone for more raspberry pavlova?”
After the last couple was air-kissed goodbye and the dishwasher was fully loaded, we collapsed onto the sofa. Fox was a little drunk. I was a lot drunk. I put a hand on his thigh. He smiled and pulled me to him. I reached for his belt buckle. He stopped me with his hand.
“What?”
“Bibi plays on this sofa.”
“I’ll clean it,” I murmured as I pushed him back on the sofa.
“It’s . . .” He sat upright. “It’s dry-clean only. So you know, bit of an effort to—”
I unbuttoned my silk shirt. “We could put a towel down.”
He pressed at the sofa cushion. “And it’s quite soft. Probably not good for my back.” He patted my arm. “Our bed is just upstairs.”
By the time the routine of locking up, checking on Bibi, removing makeup, and getting undressed had been completed, Fox was asleep. I got into bed beside him and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his light snores. I wanted to scream.
