Free Watching You by Michael Robotham Page B

on by the fact that Marnie’s best friend had once been a prostitute.
    So they married and Penny put away her condoms and slutty lingerie and became the corporate wife: beautiful, doting, and expensive to keep. Motherhood wasn’t quite so seamless. She fell pregnant unexpectedly and complained for the duration about stretch marks, water retention, and being “too fat to fuck.” She gave up smoking (ish) and drinking (ish) and demanded a Caesarean because “the Kegster doesn’t drive a big enough car for me to need a bigger garage.”
    Since Abigail was born, Marnie and Penny haven’t seen as much of each other, but they still talk on the phone every few days, less and less about Daniel, whom Penny calls a “shitty husband” and a “fuck-up” for abandoning his family.
    Penny’s legs are entwined, one foot hitched behind an ankle. She notices the bottle of painkillers on the counter. “Ooh, blue ones and yellow ones. Lucky old you!”
    Marnie doesn’t laugh because it hurts. She changes the subject quite suddenly, as though afraid that she might lose the courage if she doesn’t act immediately.
    “I’m going to have him declared dead.”
    Penny is holding the wine glass to her lips. She lowers it again. “Can you do that?”
    “I have to do something.”
    “What about Hennessy?”
    “If I get the insurance money, I can pay him back.”
    “You go, girl!” Penny slurs. “It’s about time.”
    Marnie gazes across the table, not wanting to ask. “I don’t have any money.”
    Penny’s fingers are fidgeting on the stem of her glass. She begins speaking rapidly, stumbling over words.
    “The Kegster has me on a tight leash at the moment. There wasn’t a Christmas bonus last year. He said I couldn’t give you any more money.”
    “Of course,” says Marnie, “I understand.”
    “I would if I could.”
    “I know.”
    “I feel terrible.”
    “Don’t.”
    The atmosphere has changed. Warmth has been swept away by guilt. Penny blinks, her eyes less bright, and looks at her watch. “The nanny leaves at five. I should get home.”
    At the door they touch cheeks. Penny’s long slender fingers make a peculiar gesture, moving sideways and up as though imparting some sort of blessing.
    “He didn’t deserve you,” she says. “If he comes back, I’ll kill him personally.”
      
    Marnie searches for the business card that the lawyer gave her, fearing she may have lost it. She tips the contents of her bag onto the table. The card is stuck to a sweet wrapper.
    Craig Bryant
    G.K. & Associates
    Barristers and Solicitors
    34 Bank Chambers
    Pryce Street, London
    “Should you ever need a lawyer,” he had said to her in the cab. She needs one now.
    They meet at the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street, a landmark pub from the days when printing presses rumbled in nearby basements and convoys of liveried trucks took bundles of newspapers on a race around the country to news-stands and corner shops. Daniel brought Marnie here once and spoke in hushed, almost reverential tones about the famous journalists and writers associated with the pub, like Dickens and Twain and Tennyson. There were other names she didn’t recognize but they rolled off Daniel’s tongue as though she should have known them.
    “This place is older than European settlement in Australia,” he said. “Makes me realize that we have no history.”
    “Give it a few more centuries,” she told him.
    Alone at a table, Marnie glances at the door, practicing what she’s going to say to Craig Bryant. She sees him first. He’s standing on the far side of the road, holding up his mobile phone as though taking a photograph.
    Tall and loose-limbed, the lawyer is dressed in the same dark suit but today has a tie the color of a cut watermelon. Crossing the road, he jinks between traffic and acknowledges her with a smile. Wide. White. He’s like a model in a commercial for toothpaste, minus the toothbrush and the jingle.
    “So who did you kill?” he