Is a death in the family the chance for a new start?

When Myrtle's husband, Austin, dies on the bus one morning, everything seems to freeze. But in reality Myrtle has been frozen for nearly forty years, locked into an emotionless marriage. So if the barriers have been lifted, why does she still feel trapped?

Her daughters are a mystery to her - one prickly and defensive, the other with a closely guarded secret. And thanks to Austin's cold presence, friends are a rarity. How is a widow supposed to find herself when she's alone and unconfident of her place in the world?

But hope might rest with Gianni, the kind stranger in whose arms Austin died. And when nosy neighbour Dorothy discovers Myrtle's sad news, she also refuses to let her wallow. But Myrtle will never move on until she's dealt with her past and the reason for her devotion to Austin. The truth must out, even though the consequences might prove devastating for Myrtle and her daughters …

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Myrtle looked down at her spreading wet feet as she stood in the shower and wondered if there had been any way of knowing that when Austin had left that morning he would not return. That when she had reluctantly leaned forward to accept his kiss on her right cheek, it was to be their final farewell. The hospital had called some time after eleven. Austin, she knew, would have preferred her to be more precise about the time but she was not a person who had lived easily within the confines of precision. What she did know was that immediately after she had left a message for Gillian she had proceeded to the bathroom and taken a shower. It was all she could think of to do.

‘Sandwich cut in triangles – brown bread, cheese and piccalilli, crusts off – six grapes, a yoghurt, small spoon, napkin folded in a triangle, carton of juice,’ Austin had said, as he checked the contents of his Tupperware box meticulously before closing it and smoothing the sides anti-clockwise with his right hand. Austin had left for work that morning, as he always did, at ten minutes past seven – smart, exact and distinguished in appearance. As he turned and crossed the threshold, leaving his wife behind, he had winked at her in the self-assured way only he knew, patted the stylish, structured hat that covered his head, then proceeded to close the door firmly behind him. His routine was as reassuring as it was unnerving, Myrtle had always felt. It created a kind of rhythm, and the silence between each slow beat of a single drum brought as much unease as anticipation.

Austin had been a man of extreme habit, there was no denying it. Myrtle had known that before she married him. This had brought a predictable tempo to their life – a continuum of events that meant Myrtle had always known exactly how things stood. There had been times, though, when she had worried something might have been omitted from his regularity and it had caused her to fret momentarily – times when she had wondered whether he would forget to close the curtains in the orderly and symmetrical fashion he always did before they left the house, whether he would fail to press down the door handle systematically three times to ensure the door was truly locked, or whether he would inadvertently put the cheese on the wrong shelf in the fridge. But Austin’s entire circle of life was so committed to the religion of routine that she need not have feared it would ever be broken. So there Myrtle stood, that rainy Thursday.