by Ingrid Best
Feeling the draught upstairs, she climbed the ladder and swung the loft door shut before edging her way downstairs. He had already taken the boxes down, but never was one for finishing a job.
In the kitchen she reflected on her husband’s sad accident while she sipped white wine and varnished her nails. They had been separated for over a year, and he had lived with his mother until she died a few months ago, leaving the inheritance to be shared amongst her three sons. After her death they had decided to make a fresh start. He agreed to pay off the mortgage and put the house in joint names, while she finished her relationship with the Welsh actor and stopped reading The Guardian and writing to the Death Row prisoner.
You just never know what a day holds, she mused, as she removed her wedding ring and poured herself another glass of wine.
Ingrid Best lives in Hounslow.