Susan Steadman’s aim was to get around the supermarket as quickly as possible. This wasn’t her shop of choice; if it were down to her, she’d be up the road in Waitrose. But since her husband Damien had lost a well-paid job in media management, she’d had to make cutbacks.
The first time she’d come into this particular supermarket, she’d worn a scarf and a high-collared coat just in case any of her neighbours saw her. She’d picked up a few items and immediately removed all the packaging when she’d returned home. As time went on, she had returned.
The main thing was that everything was cheaper. Damien panicked every time she arrived home with the shopping. ‘How much have you spent?’ he would yell at her across the kitchen island. ‘You’ve got to cut back, Susan. Cut right down. It’s what I’m doing in every department. I’ve reduced the golf club membership to weekends only. Who knows where all this will end?’
It usually ended in another of their violent rows. The result was that, often with sunglasses covering a bruised eye, Susan made much more regular visits here and bought all her fresh produce. She didn’t dare tell Damien she was visiting a bargain supermarket but after she’d spent hours converting ingredients into a vegetable parmigiana or a cauliflower and tofu korma, no one was any the wiser where they had come from. Damien just shovelled it down, belched and retired to the sofa.
She didn’t like to spend long in the supermarket. The worst thing was being spotted by a member of the book club. That would not do. Richenda Michaelson-Smythe ran the book club like a minor branch of the Waffen SS.
Susan always shopped from a list and she worked fast. Making her way past two women who were gossiping at the end of an aisle – something about bottles of Prosecco – she paid for her goods and wheeled her trolley into the car park. The back window of her car was open a tiny crack so that Mercedes, her beloved russet-coloured cockapoo, didn’t suffer while Susan braved the crowds.
Groceries packed into the boot, she pushed the trolley to one side. There were people who came to collect them who needed the work. She climbed into the driving seat. She hated this car; they’d had a nice Lexus, which had been a dream drive, but this second-hand Audi was another of Damien’s economies.
‘I got a wonderful deal on the Lexus. This is a splendid car,’ he told her over a home-made lasagne one night, served with a cheap bottle of wine that Susan had decanted. ‘It’ll do all the shopping runs you need, and my airport trips, and it does mean we’ve got nine grand in the bank from the part exchange.’
Cheap doesn’t necessarily mean good, thought Susan. She threw her bag onto the passenger seat. Mercedes stuck his head through the gap between the seats, anxious for a little affection. Susan was not in the mood. ‘Down please, Mercedes. Not now.’
She pressed the ignition button, pushed her foot to the pedal and engaged gear. Mercedes shot forward through the gap between the seats. The car seemed to be moving backwards. At speed.
Before Susan had time to process the fact that reverse wasn’t the direction she wanted, there was a huge crashing noise. She panicked and, instead of moving her foot to the brake, she caught the edge of the accelerator. The sound of metallic scraping increased as the car made a desperate attempt to pick up speed, crushing the car behind it into a brick wall.
Susan knew that this wasn’t her day.