Free Semi-Sweet by Roisin Meaney

they sprawled in front of a television, the way she and Patrick
     used to do? Was she telling him about her day while he poured her a glass of wine?
    If he looked out he’d see the van, with the shop name written clearly on the side. He’d know she was there, he’d realize she
     must have discovered Leah Bradshaw’s identity.
    The street was quiet, most workers gone home and cozying up for the night. Hannah glanced around, saw a few scattered pedestrians,
     a man dismounting from a bicycle, a dog sniffing at a lamppost.
    She’d never had a massage. The idea of a stranger’s hands moving over her naked skin, however competently, had never appealed
     to her. The subject had never come up between her and Patrick; neither had ever looked for one, none had ever been offered.
     Wasn’t it odd, then, that she’d thought of getting him a massage when his back had been bothering him? Had she seen an ad?
    Or maybe Patrick had suggested it. The idea jumped suddenly and unpleasantly into her head. No, surely he wouldn’t have done
     that. But she couldn’t remember exactly what had prompted her visit to Indulgence.
    She regarded the salon again. She could come back when it was dark, lob a rock through the window, and drive off quickly.
     The notion came out of nowhere, filling her with a shocked thrill. She could get a can of black paint and fling it at the
     pretty lavender walls. Nobody would know. She could wear gloves so there was no evidence to point to her. She could—
    A nearby door opened. A man and a boy appeared on the path and walked in the direction of the van. The man smiled briefly
     at Hannah as they passed.
    What was she doing? What was she thinking? Was she completely mad? She put the van into gear and drove badly, her blood racing,
     all the way home.

 
    I really want to pamper her this year.”
    Geraldine’s hand hovered over the plate of assorted biscuits. She shouldn’t—a biscuit was the last thing her midsection needed—but
     Lent wasn’t far away, and she’d have to do without them then. “God knows the poor thing could use a treat.”
    “What about a gift certificate? You can’t go wrong.”
    “Ah, no, not a gift certificate.” Geraldine selected a pink wafer—not her favorite, but practically no calories, apparently.
     “Stephen thinks we should pay for someone to paint the outside of her house. I know it could badly do with it, but where’s
     the pampering in that?”
    “Mmm—and anyway, who would you get to do outdoor painting in February?” Alice watched a woman wheel a baby buggy along the
     rows of shoes and boots. “How old is she going to be?”
    “Thirty-three, can you believe it?” Geraldine finished the wafer and took a shortbread finger. A finger couldn’t hurt, even
     if it was loaded with butter. “I never thought she’d get to that age and still be single. How old was Ellen when she got married?”
    “Twenty-eight.”
    “There you go. And she has three now.”
    “That’s right.” Ellen was Tom and Alice’s only child, living for the past decade in Australia. “Wish we saw more of them.”
    The customer picked up a black patent boot, and Alice put down her cup. “I’ll go.”
    The shop was quiet in February, the winter buying mostly over, too early for anyone to want sandals, no big occasions coming
     up that would call for new shoes.
    Except Valentine’s Day, a week from Sunday. A couple of men had bought gift certificates in the past few days, and some women
     had come in looking at heels. Geraldine would get her usual card and box of Thornton’s chocolates, provided she made some
     reference to the fourteenth at least twice over the coming week.
    “Are you doing anything for Valentine’s Day?” she asked when Alice returned, having sold the boots and a pair of half-price
     slippers.
    Alice considered. “Cooking pork chops, probably. You?”
    “Roast beef, more than likely.” Geraldine gathered up the plate of biscuits and the two empty cups.