Mimi Godsell could do her job in her sleep. Not because it wasn't challenging; on the contrary. Trying to lead a tour group was like herding cats. No. It was because she was so good at what she did. She knew the village history backwards -- and that was just the bits she didn't embellish to get extra tips from the double-wide men with the sunburnt wives and sticky offspring. The way to grab people's attention, and distract them from their social media accounts, was to lure them into a scandal of epic proportions.
Josey bounced her leg on the floor. The speaker had promised to cut a long story short, but that was an hour ago and he had not yet reached the crescendo of his address.
"This is insufferable." Aurora hid her face behind the programme.
"Being eaten alive by a shark is insufferable. This is just boring."
I check my phone again. There's a part of me that wishes I wasn't so hell-bent on being early for appointments, coffee dates and work. I know I am missing out on that frisson of excitement that comes from just beating the clock with seconds to spare. I study the menu again. I already know what I want; I come here often and order the same thing every time. I know what you're thinking: that there's a certain neatness and predictability to my life. Of course you're right. But you'll forgive me for being prepared, for wanting to anticipate what every day brings as a way to try and manage the fact that my life is something of a tornado and I am hanging onto passing debris to survive.
Louis crumpled the paper. The ink was smudged from the number of times he checked the address. He memorised the block letters from the moment he received the note, but found checking the scrap reassuring. By his calculations, it would take him fifteen minutes to walk to the depot. He had to time it perfectly: too early would make him seem eager; too late, and they would think he was disrespectful.
Have you noticed how things are louder when you sleep? How the clock that ticks benignly in the lounge suddenly sounds like the countdown of a bomb strapped to your chest? Perhaps that's why husbands and wives had separate bedrooms back when: all that snoring and grinding of teeth is bound to get on someone's nerves.
"So it's you," she said. "The Norah Singleton."
I swallowed.
"Do you two know each other?"
"Not exactly," I said.
"Oh, I know her all right. She's been flirting with my Henry for years."
The refuse truck shuddered the sash windows as it passed Will's front door. He waited for the last of the diesel fumes to dissipate before starting the timer on his watch. Mrs Phillips' Basset Hound regarded him with watery eyes as he pounded past the daffodils and around the mailbox. There was a bite in the air, not that he noticed. His head was full of yesterday's disaster.
