Free Bloody Mary by Ricki Thomas Page A

feminine touches Sophie had instilled in the room. Thriving plants were dotted around, framed certificates on the walls, a neat and tidy desk, a large photo of a man who I presumed must be Darren.
    He started the conversation, and after a few questions he began to write notes on an A4 pad with a fountain pen. Then he asked me why I thought I had grounds for a divorce, so I explained that we’d been apart for years, and a divorce had never seemed necessary.
    Still jotting notes, Mr Gordon asked how long we’d been separated, and when I took a guess at ten years he chuckled, stating that the courts would have no problem with granting a divorce. But I pointed out that I had no idea where Kev was nowadays, and his optimistic grin briefly lessened a little.
    This was all taking too long, so I decided to start the next part of my plan: the wheezing started up again. Once more his expression turned to concern, and I asked if he could get me a glass of water, so he picked up the phone. Panicking, I stopped him before he could dial. “Oh no, don’t let that poor receptionist get it, she had enough trouble with me before. You pop and get it, love, save her the trouble.”
    With a bemused expression, he shrugged, and left the room. I wasted no time. I delved into Sophie’s top drawer, searching for anything that would let me know more about her personal details. I swiftly slid the address book, a diary, and a repeat prescription into one of the carrier bags, and slipped back into my seat just as Mr Gordon returned.
    The rest of the appointment was redundant to me, the motive I’d come for had been accomplished, but I went through the motions to avoid raising suspicion. Getting a divorce made no difference to me because I had been lying when I said I didn’t know where Kev was. Because I was the one who left his body in the skip when I disposed of him, useless piece of rubbish that he was.
     
    I’d taken the bus from the town centre to the hospital, and now, as I was walking towards the reception area I was regretting having bought so much shopping, dragging all these cumbersome carrier bags around was tiresome. As soon as I reached the front desk, I dropped them wearily on the floor. The smiling woman asked if she could help, and I asked which room Sophie Delaney was in.
    Retrieving the bags, the brief rest from carrying them having replenished me slightly, I made my way through the corridors to the ward, a nurse showed me to Sophie’s room, and I stepped in, ready to have some fun at Harry and Beryl’s detriment.
    She regarded me blankly as I walked towards her bed, the overhead television chattering to itself, and I thankfully dropped the bags back down. Her expression went from indifferent to curious as I slumped into the chair by her bed. “Can I help you?” Her voice was soft, well spoken, just like her father. I wasn’t ready to speak yet, finding it odd, coming face to face with the spawn of the man I would love until the day I died.
    She was beautiful, not in the conventional sense, by any means, but there was a glow about her. Obviously the bruising and scabs were still apparent, but it was something about her eyes, deep pools of brown exposing a gentle soul. Her hair was long with corkscrew curls, a golden colour, bottle blonde, I guessed, from the root growth. It was difficult to believe that this strong-featured woman could have been borne by the timid and tiny Beryl. But then again, Harry was her father, and he had been a striking man when I knew him.
    She was beginning to get annoyed, quite understandably. She didn’t know me from Adam, this fat piece of scruffy trash sitting beside her when she was vulnerable and in hospital, but, and I have to be honest here, the inclination to reach out and hug her, hug the product of my Harry’s loins, it was overwhelming. It was confusing, because I was there purely to hurt her to hurt him. To hurt Beryl. What was I going to say?
    Sophie reached for the control