She was sensible, solid, everyone in the village said so. No oil painting, mind, but a good wife, mother, knew how to budget, housekeep. They weren’t saying that about me though. Divorcee, couldn’t be trusted, wouldn’t be trusted. Beverley, my new neighbour, told me this on day one. And so our friendship began.
One Christmas, listening to the radio, callers estranged from families, she said, “They’re the lucky ones.”
When Beverley stepped out of her life and disappeared I was less surprised than others.
Later, a solicitor’s letter informed me Beverley had died alone, penniless.
It’s what she would have wanted.