The Serial Killer's Wife by Alice Hunter (romantic novels to read txt) 📕

is rarely inclined to socialise and hasn’t really got involved in village life at all since we moved here. That’s what living in London for too long will do to you – he’s become de-skilled in the art of making friends. When I first met him, seven years ago, he’d been the life and soul, oozing charm, wit and intellect. But the London scene doesn’t require effort like he’d need to put in here, in a small village. I must try and organise a dinner party; push him along a bit. It would help me, too – I work such a lot at the café I’ve been rubbish at ‘putting myself out there’. But I’m hoping to change that with my new book club.

After Tom finishes his eggs and pops his plate and mug in the dishwasher, he kisses Poppy goodbye first, then comes to me, wrapping his arms around my waist, pulling me in close as he plants his lips on mine. His deliciously soft, full lips. As rushed as our mornings are, I savour this moment. Drink him in. He grabs my bottom and squeezes hard, immediately stirring up my excitement.

‘I could take you right now, against the worktop,’ he breathes heavily into my neck, peppering it with more sensual kisses.

‘You could. But I think our daughter might have something to say about that,’ I whisper, breathlessly.

Poppy is too engrossed in moving her breakfast items from one segment of her plastic plate to the other, mixing the toast soldiers with the banana slices, then stacking the halved strawberries on top, to notice what we’re doing. But he pulls away anyway, and takes a deep breath.

‘God, what you do to me, Mrs Hardcastle.’ He laughs at his usual joke, causing the corners of his piercing blue eyes to crease. ‘Fancy sending me off to work in this state,’ he says, taking my hand and pressing it against his crotch. ‘You really should finish what you’ve started. What am I meant to do with this?’

I laugh. ‘Oh, behave! You’ll cope.’ I go to remove my hand, but he holds it tight against him for a moment longer.

‘Right. Well, clearly I’m going to have to. I’ll be on my way, then. Maybe we can pick it up from here when I get home.’ And he’s gone, leaving me slightly breathless, my back against the worktop. Poppy makes a grab for Tom’s iPad, which he’s left in the middle of the table.

‘Watch CBeebies?’ she says, her hands outstretched.

‘Ooh, hang on.’ I snatch a wet wipe and quickly dab her hands with it. ‘Don’t think Daddy would want sticky little fingers on his screen.’ In actual fact, Daddy wouldn’t want her to use it at all. He’s very protective over his iPad, but it’s so convenient for keeping Poppy entertained, and I’ve been using it myself a bit more recently too when he’s not around. I hand it to her to use while I get ready.

* * *

Just over an hour later, Poppy is dressed, her little In the Night Garden rucksack packed, and she’s waiting patiently at the front door for me to gather my things. She wiggles side to side, singing something to herself that I can’t make out. Bless her. She doesn’t love going to nursery, but she’s okay once she gets there. She hasn’t particularly warmed to any of the other children; at least, she never seems to mention any by name. I think she takes after me at that age – slow to trust. Maybe I still am. I grab my keys and the pile of posters from the hallway table.

‘Oh, wait a moment. Where did you put Daddy’s iPad, sweetie?’ I glance around the hallway and then quickly peer into the kitchen, but don’t spot it.

‘Er … I put it in … er.’ Poppy gives a shrug.

‘Never mind, I’ll find it later.’ I haven’t got time to search now. ‘Okey-dokey my little Poppy poppet, let’s go!’

When we step outside, I take her hand. ‘They’re very pretty, Mummy, aren’t they?’ she says, pointing at the flowers in the garden with her free hand. I’m unsure what any of them are, but she’s right – they are beautiful: purples, blues and pretty pinks. Trailing white flowers frame the doorway, giving it a homely and happy feel. It was what drew us to this large cottage when we decided to move to Lower Tew from London. Immediate kerb appeal. With its picture-postcard thatched roof and striking red bricks, we fell in love with it almost as quickly as we’d fallen in love with each other.

I first set eyes on Tom at the Sager + Wilde bar in Bethnal Green on the night of my twenty-fifth birthday. I felt a spark of energy as he moved through the people sitting at the outside terrace to get to my table. Another at his confidence when he ignored my friends and spoke just to me, taking my hand and kissing it. There was a spark when we saw this cottage, too. It was meant to be.

I believe in sparks.

‘They are lovely, Poppy,’ I say, bringing my attention back to the moment. ‘I must find out what they are.’ It’s only been two years, I add to myself. Two years, almost to the day, since we moved in, and not long afterwards that I began my pottery café business – a dream I would never have thought possible when I was working as a recruitment consultant in the heart of London. I can’t believe how everything has aligned so we can have this life. It’s very nearly perfect.

But there’s always something more, isn’t there? Something else to strive for. Perfection is a state which is always at least one step ahead of where you already are. A completeness that’s not really achievable. Flawlessness rarely is.

‘Morning, Lucy,’ I call as I walk into Poppy’s Place half an hour later. I’d wanted to call it ‘Poppy’s Pottery Place’, but Tom said it was alliteration overkill.

I hear