Some of the names were work contacts who seemed puzzled she was contacting them. Some went so far as to say, Who?

There were also those who didn’t answer. She wasn’t spending more time trying to contact them. She sent a message:

Sorry to inform you my beloved husband, Peter Fellowes, was killed in a terrible accident on Friday. Funeral arrangements will be sent when available.

It took almost an hour to get through the list.

Her own contacts were simple. Her boss at work. She didn’t bother phoning, sending her a version of the message she’d sent Peter’s friends, adding:

I’m devastated and not sure when I’ll be back.

It was a lie, of course, Allison knew exactly when she’d be going back. On the tenth of never. She had sufficient savings to last until Peter’s largesse was delivered into her waiting hands. It was safer to lead a quiet life for the next few months, anyway. She didn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea.

She’d wait a few days, then ring the office and explain she was simply too distraught to return, wasn’t sure when that situation would change and rather than inconvenience the office, she felt it was preferable to hand in her notice. Allison practised the words in her head. They made her sound quite noble. She imagined her boss’s expression and smiled. Harriet wasn’t anyone’s fool. She’d guess she wasn’t hearing the full truth, but her hands would be tied in the face of the poor grieving widow.

It was mid-afternoon before she was satisfied she’d informed all, or certainly sufficient people. Tomorrow, she’d contact her solicitor and leave all the official things to him.

She brought up her favourite playlist on Spotify and increased the volume so the music blasted through the house. With a roll of black plastic refuse sacks in her hand, she went upstairs, ripped one off the roll and shook it open. Humming along to the music, she worked methodically and emptied Peter’s clothes from the chest of drawers and the wardrobe until there were four bulging bags slouched on the spare bedroom floor. She knotted the top of each and stood back, satisfied with what she’d achieved. Poor Peter, soon there’d be little indication he’d lived there.

She’d left his bedside locker till the end. Books he’d never got around to reading, one he’d never finished. A two-year-old diary. An unopened packet of condoms, well out of date. Random keys. Pens with logos from meeting and hotels. A rather battered coaster. She picked up this last and looked at it. Recognition dawned with a twinge of guilt and a lash of sorrow. It was from the wine bar they’d gone to the first night. He’d kept it to remember. How much he’d loved her.