Deep Water by Mark Ayre (best big ereader TXT) 📕

Abbie held Ollie close and wondered how long she would be made to wait before she could raise a gun and put a bullet between Angel's eyes.

Twenty-Four

Hope and the scent of bacon clung to the air downstairs. Both hit Abbie as she left the bottom step and turned towards the kitchen. That and the whistling plus the sizzle of fat in a pan.

Alice was in the kitchen. A vast skillet contained numerous rashers of bacon, sausage links, and eggs. The oven was on, and there was a pot of beans beside the bacon. Also on the go was French toast, mushrooms, black pudding.

"Abagail, wonderful," said Alice. On the round table straight out of Arthurian legend were bottles of ketchup, brown sauce, BBQ sauce, plus dispensers for salt and pepper. Alice had been removing a plate from the cupboard and leaned down to get another. "Care to join me?"

Abbie moved towards the hob, looked into the various pans, took in that wonderful scent of bacon and tried not to let the hope in the air ruin it.

"Presumably, you were expecting me,' said Abbie. "Me and half the south coast."

Alice laughed. Without waiting for a proper answer, she had taken a second plate from the cupboard and placed both on the table before returning to grab cutlery.

"I'm a woman of few bad habits," she said. "But we all have some, and this is one of mine. I go overboard on breakfast. Luckily, for the last four decades, at least one of my children has always lived beneath my roof; and all of my children have healthy appetites. Breakfast like a king is more of an edict than a suggestion in my house."

Alice placed the cutlery on the table then came to the stove, hustling Abbie aside as she did.

"Breakfast like a King is one thing, but this is enough to feed a King, his family, and all his courtiers. I'm no vegetarian but poor livestock."

"Calling them livestock certainly gives you away as a carnivore," said Alice. She turned some sausages, flipped some bacon. After turning off the beans, she started removing long, ceramic dishes to serve the food.

"Let me help," said Abbie, but Alice almost shoved her away.

"I won't hear of it. Sit down. Right now."

It was a tone with which an intelligent person did not trifle. Bemused, Abbie nodded and stepped away, taking a seat as Alice began to serve the sumptuous breakfast onto the dishes.

"When I was first married, my husband—master is more appropriate—made my role abundantly clear. I would bear and raise his children, keep the house clean and tidy, and appear on his arm at events. I would not sleep in his bed but must rush to it the second that he decided he needed to use my body for whatever purpose, regardless of my own condition or opinion. And, most importantly, I would prepare for him, every morning, a full English breakfast."

"That sounds awful," said Abbie.

"Quite. Especially at the beginning, when I didn't know what a full English was. But it gets worse. My husband often held breakfast meetings. There always had to be enough food to sate the appetite of every person at the table. The catch? I was never told when such meetings would take place or how many attendees to expect. I had to be ready for every eventuality."

“It all sounds awful," said Abbie. "And you were practically a kid. Must have been traumatising."

Alice turned, the dishes now laden with food. She was smiling as she placed them on the table, but there was a flicker in the eyes. Reliving her time with her first husband had to be taking a toll.

"Incredibly," she confessed. "For some reason, it's the breakfasts I fixate on. Of course, I remember the bastard shoving my face into the carpet when I missed a spot during cleaning; or twisting my arm so far behind my back I thought it was going to snap when I didn't say the right thing at the right time at a dinner party; or pinning me to his bed, laughing as I cried and begged him to be gentler." Alice paused, then shook her head, shaking free the memories as they threatened to overwhelm her. "Yet, despite those horrible things, it's almost always the breakfasts. He would often throw food in my face if the flavour wasn't to his high standards. Once or twice he burned me on the hob or scalded me with boiling water. When I was pregnant with Adam, he said it made him sick to look at me; the thought of touching my flesh repulsed him. But he was a man with needs; I had to accept that he would bring home mistresses—more than accept. Understandably, I was to cook them breakfast in the morning. Sometimes, he'd introduce me as his live-in-maid, sometimes as his wife. It depended on the woman."

Alice took the seat next to Abbie and took a breath. Abbie placed a hand on the older woman's arm and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

"Happy birthday," she said, "by the way."

Abbie hoped to break the tension but knew it was a risk. For a second, Alice said nothing, then she burst into a fit of laughter.

"I didn't mean to get mired in the misery," she said. "I only raised it because, despite the horror of that first marriage, I took some wonderful things when I escaped. Adam and Angel; my second husband, who was my first husband's attorney; the money, which is always nice; and full English breakfasts." Alice waved a hand over the food in front of them. "I found when I was cooking breakfast, I could disappear into the task. I loved the smell and that there's quite a lot of skill in something which at first glance seems so simple. I became the master of the full English, as you're about to discover. Please, help yourself."

The invite was a blessing. Breakfast smelled incredible, and after