The first person who said we must be pleased was a neighbour carrying a bag of bottles to the recycling point.
By Wednesday afternoon, Celia’s arrest had become street news. I had gone out for milk; the neighbour stopped me before I reached the corner.
“Relieved, anyway,” the neighbour amended when I didn’t answer.
“It’s more complicated than that.”
She nodded as though I’d offered a polite phrase rather than the most accurate description I possessed.
At home, Beth was waiting with Rachel. She had asked whether she could sit somewhere that wasn’t full of messages from people wanting a reaction. Rachel had driven her and planned to stay.
Rachel took three mugs from the cupboard while I put the kettle on.
Beth looked exhausted.
“Someone said this must be closure.”
Rachel made a noise of disgust.
“I told them an arrest isn’t a cupboard door.”
Beth laughed briefly, then began crying. The change was so sudden that I almost reached for an explanation. Rachel simply moved the tissue box nearer.
For several minutes we sat with her. She did not cry in a way that told us which loss she meant. Martin’s death, the marriage she had left, Celia’s betrayal, the possibility that a person who had helped her had also killed him. The feelings did not arrive wearing labels.
When she could speak, she said she was relieved not to be waiting for another message asking what she’d told the police. She also felt guilty about the relief.
“You can want contact to stop,” Rachel said. “That doesn’t decide the case.”
Beth nodded.
“Tom and Poppy won’t be back until evening,” I said. “We have the house.”
Rachel went to buy lunch after checking what Beth would eat. While she was out, Beth asked whether I thought Martin would have used Celia’s money problem against her indefinitely.
“I don’t know.”
“I think he would.”
She stared at her cup.
“That still doesn’t mean he deserved to die.”
“No.”
It was important she could say both without somebody insisting one cancelled the other. She had spent enough of her marriage being told which version of a man she was permitted to acknowledge.
We talked about what she wanted from the next few days. She would keep her professional commitments that were already manageable, decline unnecessary social invitations and use the support available to her. She did not want a gathering of the women to discuss how everybody was coping.
“I can barely cope with my own coping,” she said.
I promised not to organise one.
When Rachel returned, we ate sandwiches at the table. Beth managed half of hers, then saved the rest. Nobody praised her for eating as though she had passed a test.
Priya messaged to ask whether Beth needed anything. Beth checked the supplier payment on her phone, remembered she hadn’t ordered tape and asked Priya to collect two rolls on her way home.
After Beth and Rachel left, I walked to the gate. Andrew was across the road, speaking to a member of his family. He saw me and gave a small nod. I returned it without approaching.
There was no side of the pavement on which all the suffering belonged to the right people.
That evening, Tom brought Poppy home asleep in the car. We carried her upstairs and removed her shoes without waking her. I folded the blue-buttoned cardigan and put it beside the bed.
Downstairs, he asked how Beth was.
“Not one thing.”
“No.”
We sat quietly for a while. Somewhere outside, somebody tested fireworks too early. The sharp sound made me jump, then feel foolish.
Tom took my hand.
I let him, grateful for a comfort that did not require me to declare what the day had resolved.