A Bloody Merry Murder

Formatting note: In the @gemma_costwolds_mum post epigraphs at the start of each chapter, anything in between brackets () is in the published book stricken through, but we were not able to replicate that format here. Thank you.

Prologue

How she loathes this time of year.

As hundreds of strangers are about to invade her kitchen, Gemma resentfully glares at the expanse of darkness outside the full-width glass doors. Standing there, she knows she is totally visible to the outside world, but being exposed is something she is very used to. She can’t shake the thought that the black pool of anxiety has spread from the pit of her stomach into the garden. No sign of the moon or stars to light the lawn beyond the wooden deck. Just the endless night.

The clocks went back last week. It gets dark earlier every day and even the daylight is barely sufficient to take good pictures. And let’s not mention what November does to her complexion. So much time and effort spent on maintaining her sun kissed glow. Thank goodness for fake tan and LED ring lights.

For the umpteenth time, she checks her expensively coloured blonde wavy hair and ‘took ages to look like barely there’ make-up in the imposing gilded mirror she carefully selected to decorate her kitchen family room. It is one of her favourite objects in her home and, along with meticulously curated Jo Malone Pomegranate Noire candles, will provide her with a glamourous vignette background on screen in a few minutes.

She has done so many Lives on Instagram; they have become second nature to her. And yet, this one is different. She triple-checks her phone settings, satisfied the battery is full. She sighs as she tears off a sheet of kitchen paper to wipe the marks her clammy hands have left on the screen. A lot of effort has gone into this evening, and she knows she can’t fuck it up.

If she is honest with herself, it has felt like an uphill struggle lately. She knows she could give it all up and get a ‘normal’ job like all those school mums she only ever sees at the school fete or at birthday parties. But, from her previous career, she knows just how boring these office jobs can be, and she enjoys being able to pick Charlie up from school at 3pm, rather than leaving him at After School Club.

Also, she would hate to admit it to anyone, but the high from being recognised never gets old. Not sure you can get much of that from being a supply chain manager or an accountant.

And yet, Gemma is tired of it all sometimes. She draws a deep sigh and thinks of her comfy bed where she would like nothing better than to curl up with an episode of Bridgerton.

But her life is not a delightful period drama full of suitors and muslin ballgowns. She has a job to do, and she will do it right, even if it feels like selling her soul to the devil at times.

She is grateful for the few minutes of quiet to collect her thoughts before starting the Live event. Charlie and Matthew left around 6pm and the house feels weirdly empty. How can she feel so lonely when she will be talking to hundreds of followers in less than 90 seconds through the magic of Instagram?

Her heart skips a couple of beats as a loud bang startles her out of her thoughts. Stupid Bonfire Night. Someone is about to receive the full wrath of the Upper Huxley Resident’s Association. Everyone knows that fireworks are only allowed during regulated hours (6-7pm) on Guy Fawkes Day and (6-8pm) on Straw Man parade day. All that for pets.

She poises herself on the brown leather bar stool at the kitchen island and downs the glass of Chardonnay she poured ready for casual sipping on camera. Damn. She is not usually much of a drinker, but tonight she needs to calm her nerves. She refills her glass, checks her lipstick has not bled, and that her cleavage is only showing the right amount.

With a last glance to the clock on the oven, she puts on her best smile and, with a shaking hand, presses the Live button.

‘Showtime!’

Chapter 1

@gemma_cotswolds_mum Morning friends! Thank you all so much for the wonderful love for little me in my tiny Cotswold village. I’ve had so many new followers recently so let me introduce myself yet again (because people are too lazy to read bios). I’m a proud mum of my Charlie and married to the impossibly handsome Matthew. On my page, you’ll find a bit of fashion, a bit of cookery, parenting, and my (fruitless) attempts at self-improvement. #humbling #mumsofuk #healthylifestyle #motherhood #honestmum #youdoyou (#slowpostingday)

Mary

Tuesday

‘Poison!’ My voice is dripping with frustration and general exhaustion. I’m unprepared – again! – and trying to buy some time. Think, Mary, think! I close my eyes, wipe the nervous sweat that has appeared on my forehead with the back of my right hand and try to conjure up the contents of the cupboard. I just can’t remember what’s there! As quietly as I can, I sneak out of the utility room and back into the kitchen. They will smell weakness if they think the decision hasn’t already been finalised and that’s just suicide.

‘I’m so hungry!’ They haven’t seen me yet as they can’t be bothered to look up from the fast-paced game of snap they are playing on the dinner table.

‘Ummm ...’ Shit! Failure. Game Over. I made the fatal mistake of whispering it too loudly and they heard it. They will have clocked the uncertainty. I slowly pivot on my left heel to face them and there are four blue eyes staring right through my skull.

I summon certainty and confidence that I’ve never felt before, stare straight back at them and, with the blind conviction of a cringy Hollyoaks heartthrob, dramatically announce ‘Spag. Bol.’ I enunciate the two, already shortened, syllables for theatrical impact. It is such a cowardly choice – spaghetti bolognese is a firm Lamb family favourite.

Ben throws a fist pump into the air and Charlotte beams her approval. They are placated. For now. Crisis averted. For five minutes, at least. I turn back to the cupboard and google ‘how to defrost beef mince quickly.’ A cursory review of my Google history would tell you everything you need to know about how disorganised my life is.

I pride myself on the fact that I refuse to be one of those mums that makes three different meals every evening: pride that dances dangerously with smug. The cutlery and plates have been set (after a fair few times of asking) and I place the sauce and pasta in their separate dishes on the table and take my allocated seat (nearest the fridge, of course). I scan the faces quickly to see who might express gratitude, if not for the dinner, then at least for not having cooked roasted vegetables or, even worse, anything with aubergine! My optimism fades almost immediately as the requests begin to come in as though I’m a minimum wage short order cook in some roadside American Diner!

‘Mummy, did you make me rice? You know I don’t like pasta.’ Charlotte.

‘Mummy, you forgot the ketchup!’ Ben – who is a strictly ‘no sauce, only ketchup’ kind of kid.

‘May, could you please grab the Tabasco? You know I like it HOT!’ Tom, with a rude wink that leaves me keener to kick him in the shins than rumble in the sheets! Twat.

‘Oh, for feck’s sake, you lot! It’s spag bol! Just fecking EAT IT!’ I scream – luckily only in my head – as I turn back to the fridge. And that’s what I get for my smugness. Here’s all the parenting advice you’ll ever need: Do whatever you want, raise your children with your values, but Don’t. Be. Smug. You can bet it will bite you in the fecking arse!

As I place the items on the table with just enough passive aggressiveness to make myself feel slight better, I feel that not only am I the only one in this house who eats normally, but I have also clung to my ‘strongly held principles’ by only my heavily gnawed fingernails. When there is drama about which fork Ben has been given, I am sorely tempted to issue notice that ‘the character of Mum will be played by a different sucker today’, thanks very much.

Before this chaotic version of my life, I was a travel writer, more Phuket and Nairobi than Fuck-it and Bath-Robey. I was getting paid to hang out in the coolest bars in Koh Samui and watch the Northern Lights display in Tromsø. I don’t want to say I was cool because that seems like a saddo thing to say but – I was. The coolest. And, whilst it wasn’t the original plan at all, I learned how to do it all by myself. But what I’ve learned in this new version of me is that the Anthropology and Geography students I used to hang around with were missing out. If they thought that wearing yellow on Monday to pay homage to the king like they do in Thailand or stories about Norse Trolls were fascinating, they should come watch Lorna peddle terrible cakes at the school gates or Gemma ‘work the crowd’ at a PTFA meeting. They would find this display of social fuckwittery utterly enthralling. I, on the other hand, do not.

The most interesting thing that’s happened in Upper Huxley lately is the arrival of a new family who moved to the village in the middle of term (cue not-so-hushed whispers and the revving of gossip engines). As if that wasn’t enough, the Mum, Rowena, with her long, naturally curly hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and wide engaging smile, is supermodel beautiful, but naturally, almost like it’s by accident – the type of beauty that is infuriating to those who feel the need to work so hard at it.

Anyway, this is my life now and I do love Upper Huxley as a settled adult, even if it feels a little pedestrian sometimes. My days are driven by the rhythm of kids, work, eat, sleep, repeat. Over the course of the evening, the children both get bathed and bedded (this happens every evening but still never seems a sure thing). Norman gets walked (luckily, as a farm lab, he’s not bothered by the fireworks, even if they are out of regulated hours!) and he and I snuggle on the sofa in front of the wood burner whilst I read the latest Kate Morton and Tom watches an old Dad’s Army rerun.

Tom’s work mobile begins to vibrate and his obnoxious ringtone cuts through the quiet. Just another ‘day at the office’ for him – and my night, by association. As a policeman’s wife, I’m used to the constant interruption and him always getting pulled away, but it’s still annoying. He speaks to whoever is on the other end with a serious, clipped tone, and one-word answers that make me look up from my book. Finally, an ‘I’ll be right there. ETA 20 minutes max.’ and rings off. Something is wrong.

‘What is it?’ I can see the concern on his face.

‘It’s Gemma Hatherley ... she’s dead.’

Chapter 2

@gemma_cotswolds_mum Morning friends! Getting up in the morning (is only slightly less hellish) has just become so much easier since I started juicing with my @juicemaster. Even Charlie absolutely loves (playing with all the freaking buttons until it spits out spinach juice all over my floors) it. #ad #healthylifestyle #juicingislife #healthybodyhealthymind

Rowena

Wednesday

It’s only 8.26am, but, as I am leaving the house for the school run, I can already see fifteen WhatsApp messages and several notifications from Instagram. Common theme: ‘Isn’t Upper Huxley the village where you moved to?’

I’m sure it’s Karma, catching up with me after I endlessly repeated to our London friends my rehearsed ‘We want to give our children a wholesome childhood like the one we both had. Free from crime and traffic. In a place with a nice community, in the country.’

Shut up, Rowena. I cringe as the memory of these conversations. New repetitive intrusive thought unlocked. The intent remains partially true, of course. But surely, it was like telling our friends that they were not making the right big choices for the sake of their children.

Truth is, I haven’t had to wait for my friends’ messages to hear the tragic news. I was up at 3am with a whingey Eloise and during my night-time scrolling as I fed her back to sleep, my Instagram stories were full of people reporting it.

It seems like Instagram was quick to take down any traces of the Live feed in which @gemma_cotswolds_mum was killed during an attack by an intruder. As a result, I, thankfully, didn’t see the actual footage but the whole internet was ablaze with talks about the tragedy and there was no going back to sleep for me. Thoughts of a murder on our doorstep were enough to keep me wide awake despite my exhaustion, along with the memories of the handful of interactions I’d had with Gemma at school. The first time I spotted her on the playground, my initial reaction was to think, for a second, that we were acquainted in real life. But even if she hadn’t been so familiar to me, I couldn’t have missed her. She had a glossy shine to her and simply stood out on the playground. Everything about her was "very’. Very tall, very blond, very stylish, very expensive, very slim. And very popular. The few times we spoke she was never alone, always with an entourage of mums. My heart sinks further, imagining their shock and sadness waking up to the news this morning.

As I push the pram down the (totally charming on a non-traumatic day) wooded lane to school, my phone pings with an email from the school Headteacher. Mrs Mearle is informing us of the tragic news, requesting privacy for the grieving family, and letting us know that teachers will deliver age-appropriate communication to the different classes. And there I was fretting about our London friends’ reactions to this sad business, when, all along, I should have worried about how Alfie is going to feel hearing the news. At the age of 5, my little boy has luckily never had to face the scary subject of death, and I suddenly feel the crushing weight of mum guilt for my terrible parenting skills. I know I am thoroughly unprepared to answer the questions he will have tonight. I will need to turn to my go to website, gentlerparenting.co.uk, for advice before pick up; once I have rung the plumber to fix the boiler that decided to die on us overnight, that is. Short of a recommendation, I have had to pick one online. I considered for a while the one whose logo is orange, i.e. my favourite colour, but decided to go with the one called Harry Something, his first name being that of my favourite cousin, which felt like a much stronger sign.

If I was still in London, such a shocking morning would definitely call for a pumpkin spice latte on the way home as emotional reward. No such luck here, and homemade coffee will have to do.

Entering the school playground via the double gates topped by a wrought iron arch forming the words ‘Infants’ feels like going through a time machine, as, behind the 19th century Cotswold stone facade, Upper Huxley Community Primary School boasts all the latest sport equipment, a little wooded area, a kitchen garden, and a modern glass extension. On Alfie’s first day the PTFA ‘welcoming party’, with the late Gemma at its helm, were very keen to tell me about how their multiple fundraising initiatives had enabled the school to finance not only the purchase of 20 new iPads but also the creation of the little Forest School area. I couldn’t help wondering why a village school would need to create a mini forest on their grounds, when there is an actual one only about 300 metres away, but I kept my reservations to myself.

Today, the playground is buzzing with parents (96% mums, 3% grandparents, 1% dads) huddled together in hushed solemn chatter.

My mission this morning is simple: drop Alfie while avoiding eye-contact with anyone. I’m desperate to run home with the increasingly upset Eloise, but also, deep down, I’m not sure how to behave. As a newcomer who barely knew Gemma in real life, I would hate to impose on anyone’s grief or be seen as a voyeur or gossip.

I successfully slalom around mum groups, inadvertently catching some ‘How awful’, ‘I cannot believe we won’t see Gemma again’, ‘The poor kid’, ‘Live on Instagram’’…

As I think I’ve got away with it and turn into the little lane leading back to our house, I jump out of my skin as the pram collides with somebody’s legging-clad legs. The explosive cocktail of sleep deprivation, a distraught baby, and the news of a possible murderer on the loose has completely shredded my nerves and I let out an embarrassing shriek.

I vaguely recognise the petite blonde woman as a mum from school, but I cannot remember if our kids are in the same year.

‘I’m so sorry,’ we both blurt out, but I keep moving as fast as I can towards my front door as, by that point, Eloise is hysterical and probably needs a top up of Calpol.

Getting her out of the pram in the hallway, my heart sinks as I feel the dampness on her back. She is covered in yellow poo all the way to her shoulders. Her winter suit is ruined, and I want to cry too. But I can’t, can I? I am the responsible adult and the only one in this house who can deal with it.