A Twist of the Knife Read Online Free PDF Page A

wife, Karen, had walked out on him two months ago, blaming the time he spent on the Internet, telling him he was more in love with his computer than her.
    Well, actually, sweetheart, with someone on my computer . . .
he had nearly said, but hadn’t quite plucked up the courage. That had always been his problem. Lack of courage. And, of course, right now this was fuelled by an image of Joe who could punch a front door down with his bare fists.
    A new email from Margaret lay in his inbox.
‘
Twenty-two hours and seven minutes! I’m so excited, I can’t wait to meet you, my darling. Have you decided where? M. xxxx’
    ‘Me neither!’ he typed. ‘Do you know the Red Lion in Handcross? It has deep booths, very discreet. Went to a real-ale tasting there recently. Midway between us. I don’t know how I’m going to sleep tonight! All my love, Michael. xxxx’
    *
     
    Margaret opened the email eagerly, and then, as she read it, for the first time in one year, two months and three days she felt the presence of clouds in her heart.
Real Ale
? He’d never mentioned an interest in real ale before. Real ale was a bit of an anoraks’ thing, wasn’t it?
Midway between us
? Did he mean he couldn’t be bothered to drive to somewhere close to her? But, worst of all . . .
    A pub???
    She typed her reply. ‘I don’t do pubs, my darling. I do weekends in Paris at the George V, or maybe the Ritz-Carlton or the Bristol.’
    Then she deleted it.
I’m being stupid, dreaming, all shot to hell by my nerves
. . . From downstairs there came a whoop from Joe, and then she could hear tumultuous roaring. A goal. Great. Big. Deal.
Wow, Joe, I’m so happy for you.
    Deleting her words, she replaced them with ‘Darling, the Red Lion sounds wickedly romantic. 7.30. I’m not going to sleep either! All my love, M. xxxx.’
    *
     
    What if Joe had been reading her emails and was going to tail her to the Red Lion tonight, Michael thought as he pulled up in the farthest, darkest corner of the car park? He climbed out of his pea-green Astra (Karen had taken the BMW) and walked nervously towards the front entrance of the pub, freshly showered and shaven, his breath minted, his body marinated in a Boss cologne Karen had once said made him smell manly, his belly feeling like it was filled with deranged moths.
    He stopped just outside and checked his macho diver’s watch. Seven thirty-two. Taking a deep breath, he went in.
    And saw her right away.
    Oh no.
    His heart did not so much sink as burrow its way down to the bottom of his brand new Docksider yachting loafers.
    She was sitting at the bar, in full public display – OK, the place was pretty empty – but worse than that, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter lay on the counter in front of her. She’d never told him that she smoked. But far, far, far worse than that, the bitch looked nothing like the photograph she had sent him. Nothing at all!
    True, she had the same red hair colour – well, henna-dyed red at any rate – but there were no long tresses to caress; it had been cropped short and gelled into spikes that looked sharp enough to prick your fingers on.
You never told me you’d cut your hair. Why not???
Her face was plain, and she was a good three or four stone heavier than in the photograph, with cellulite-pocked thighs bared by a vulgar skirt. She hadn’t lied about her age, but that was just about the only thing. And she’d caught his eye and was now smiling at him . . .
    No. Absolutely not. No which way. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
    Michael turned, without looking back, and fled.
    Roaring out of the parking lot, haemorrhaging perspiration in anger and embarrassment, switching off his mobile phone in case she tried to ring, he had to swerve to avoid some idiot driving in far too fast.
    ‘Dickhead!’ he shouted.
    *
     
    Margaret was relieved to see the car park was almost empty. Pulling into the farthest corner, she turned on the interior light, checked her face and her hair in the mirror,