Excerpt

Prologue

Driven by adrenaline, my hands won't stop shaking as I turn off the alarm I'd set for three-thirty am and consider what I'm about to do; part two of my plan. I suck on my top lip, trying to get some saliva into my dry mouth. Pushing back the duvet, I reveal the black DKNY top and J. Crew trousers, chosen so I look hot if arrested. I imagined Monique's voice should I face the police dressed in 'Value' jeans and so assembled an 'attractive assassin' combo. My armpits feel damp, and my heart races to the point that I can feel its thud within my neck. I'm reminded of old movies when the monster moves slowly before attack. I breathe deep, this is self-defence, remember? My hands shake so much, I can barely tie the Converse I slip onto my feet, and for a moment I surrender. I lay down on the floor in child's pose, trying to regulate my breathing. It does no good. I must go now. I pull my wavy blonde hair back in a bun, grab my bag, slide on my D&G sunglasses and exit the house.

Behind the wheel of my faithful Nissan Micra, I drive to the bitch's estate and park around the corner, leaving the car obscured by a row of garages. Then I glance around checking for potential witnesses. Though I see no-one, I can hear the inebriated screams and laughs of people on their way back from nightclubs. I walk casually to her house; my posture straight so should anyone see me they wouldn't question my being there. As I arrive at the front garden I appraise how immaculate it looks, planted with symmetrical bedding, all oranges and purples. Box hedging as neat as a newly cut fringe ensures my cover from the rest of the estate. She must either love gardening herself or pay a fortune for someone to keep it so pristine. As someone who has grown vegetables from seed and tended to them like an expectant mother, I hesitate before I put on the rubber gloves. Can I really do this? Are things really this bad? As I consider past events, I feel my jaw clench and my teeth grind. She deserves everything she gets. I reach down, my fingers gripping the neck of the plants and I lift and smash them onto the path where the soil parts from the roots and spills out like spewed guts. I'm horrified to feel a grin that I cannot stop form on my lips. I carry on, full of energy, until the bedding plants are no more and the piled-up soil resembles a grave of the newly buried. I move onto her dustbin, retrieving food waste which I push through the letterbox, imagining the smell on her return: putrid and decaying.

Next, I open my bag, extract weed killer, and pour it over the meticulous green lawn. I try and dribble it to spell out the word 'bitch'. Give it a few days and yellowing dead patches will hopefully reveal my handiwork. I re-check that no-one watches me and move around the back of the house. A screwdriver from the front pocket of the bag is used to disable the security light in order to prevent its on and off SOS. Pre-dawn light allows me to write 'whore' in carefully disguised font across her white PVC back door. For my finale, I empty fake vomit out of a plastic container, covering her patio furniture, silently thanking the person who posted the recipe on Pinterest.

Back in the driving seat, I punch a fist in the air before I burst into tears. I turn down the visor and peer at my reflection, seeing the reasonably happily married woman turned revenge seeking missile. Ground down and exposed to my rawest state. Right now if you looked closely, I feel you'd see every part of me, each individual cell. Be able to look within the membrane to the protoplasm. See what's underneath ...