Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Nowhere to Go

It took only three nights for her to get caught - three nights that had gone pretty much the same way. First, she'd knock on his door, and he'd shout to her to leave. She'd come in, muttering some sort of an excuse: that she was dropping something off, or that she'd forgotten something. He'd be sitting on the floor, and she'd help him onto the sofa. She'd notice that he'd tried to clean something up himself earlier - and that he'd look worse than before. He was also getting more and more vexed with each day, but at the same time, his anger was aimed at her less and less, never reaching the level of the first night. She assumed he didn't drink - and that the pain was getting worse. She'd scrub, he'd scold her for not wearing gloves. When she used bleach, she'd open the windows. She could see how violently he shook, wrapping into his blanket tightly, but he wouldn't let her close them until all of the smell was gone. She'd cajole him into eating, he'd grumble but try. He was awfully thin, and there was no colour in his cheek and his lips. The third night was the first time when he looked like he hadn't taken a shower just before she came. He kept shifting on the sofa, and his hands wouldn't stop moving on his lap, scrunching the afghan that she'd washed the night before. He ate even less this time, and she could feel that he couldn't wait for her to go. Still, he didn't demand her to leave, or insult or try to scare her. She finished the work she'd planned as quickly as possible and left. He didn't acknowledge it - or possibly he just didn't notice.

She carefully closed the door to the Ferguson cottage behind her, and the light went on, making her flinch and squint.

"So, where exactly have you been sneaking to?" Sally asked.

She was leaning onto the door frame, her arms crossed. Anya straightened up, quickly going through her options in her mind.

"Aren't you quick?" Sally continued, looking Anya up and down. "You've only just come to Fleckney, and you've already gotten yourself a fella. It's a bloke, innit? Martin had warned me, you know. We reckoned you'd been the reason for the divorce, since Dom's always been a sissy. Too wet to cheat or treat a bird poorly."

Anya kept quiet, trying to ascertain what lie would get her in least aggro.

"So, who is it?" Sally's voice was rising. "It's James Whitlaw, innit?"

The shrieky notes in the last question told Anya everything she needed to know.

"No!" she exclaimed and shook her head. "No, it's not him. It's–" She dropped her eyes to the floor in fake shame. "I can't tell you. He's... married."

"So, I was right," Sally scoffed. "You're shagging around. You're jammy Martin is away, he wouldn't have gone that easy on you. You've got a daughter, Anya! Shouldn't you think of her before everything else? We didn't take you two in for you to whore yourself around. People will talk! We don't need our family to be dragged through dirt."

Anya gritted her teeth, still hiding her face. It had been more than ten years since she had the luxury to tell someone to sod off - but the temptation hadn't been that strong in ages. All the fear, and worries, and tiredness of the last few weeks boiled up inside - but she pushed them down and lowered her head even more.

"I'm sorry, Sally," she said. She needed to defuse the situation. She'd think of a new plan later. "I'll stop. I haven't thought of how it might reflect on you and Martin."

"Well, you should've. Get some sleep. And take a shower before it. I don't want any pox in my house."

Sally made a disdainful noise, turned around, and left towards the stairs.

Anya only started crying when she was almost done with her shower. And then she burst into laughter and had to press her hand over her mouth. Somehow being accused of being a scrubber by Sally Ferguson seemed like the most hilarious thing to her for a moment - and then another sob wrenched through her, and she bent in half, biting into her index finger to stay quiet.