How to Kill Your Husband (and other handy household hints), Kathy Lette [books to read to increase intelligence .txt] 📗

that her future is teetering, like a tightrope walker, a court usher bustles up to the prosecutor with a faxed page on official notepaper. Speed-reading, his face elongates with amazement and his cottage-cream complexion curdles.

‘My lord, word has just come from the South Australian police that the torso of David Studlands has been discovered in the belly of a Great White Shark. It says here that the Fisheries Office have been hunting Great Whites because of an upsurge in attacks,’ he reads aloud. ‘The man-eater containing the torso which has now been identified as Doctor David Studlands, was as wide as a car and twenty-three feet long. It is impossible to say what triggered the attack as it was not whale migration season. The victim was in the water at dusk, the most dangerous time. Sharks can also detect the most minute amount of blood and a used tampon has been found in the back pocket of the victim’s swimming shorts.’

There is a cry, and I look across to see Jasmine fall down in a dead faint.

There are many good things about being female. One is that you are escorted off sinking ships first. Another is that you don’t have to readjust your genitalia in public. And the third is that you can scare male bosses, policemen or aged judges with mysterious, gynaecological disorders or the mere mention of the word ‘tampon’.

The judge’s curiosity overrides his embarrassment and he breaks with protocol to ask Jazz, who is crying quietly in the dock after a half-hour recess to cope with the shock of the news of her husband’s death, for an explanation regarding the ‘feminine hygiene product’.

‘It’s proof, that’s what it is. Proof of just how well David and I had been getting on,’ Jazz whimpers. ‘We were frolicking around in the shallow water by the rocks. David wanted to have sex. I had my period. And, well, I didn’t want to leave the tampon in the ocean. I mean, it could have been picked up by a wave and hit some poor swimmer in the face. So David gallantly offered to put it in the back pocket of his shorts. That’s how intimate and loving we were, my lord. Afterwards, I was tired and wanted to swim back. David said he’d join me later for a sunset cocktail, but while I was showering, I suspect he snorkelled out beyond the headland where we’d been warned not to venture. He was like that – so fearless. A true hero. And well . . . you know the rest.’

The entire courtroom is staring at her now. I can’t believe that Extreme sports enthusiasts, otherwise known as ‘organ donors’, haven’t taken up ‘Used Tampon In Pocket Whilst Swimming in Shark Infested Waters’ as the ultimate risk-taking thrill.

‘We’re English,’ Jazz suddenly cries out. ‘We didn’t know that sharks feed at dusk. We also didn’t know that they can detect the most minute amount of blood.’

She breaks down again. Tissues are produced and a glass of water fetched.

I glance anxiously at Jazz’s lawyer. I am not sure if this latest revelation has helped her case or not. Jazz has only been arrested for attempted murder, thanks to the evidence of Billy Boston. Now there’s a body, has this increased or decreased her chances of freedom?

The kerfuffle behind me is Quincy Joy, striding back through the courtroom door. I watch her whisper into Jazz’s barrister’s ear. He rises magisterially.

‘My lord, Ms Jardine’s solicitor has been approached by the witness who wants to withdraw and has been advised to go to the police to verify this. As the Crown’s reliable witness has proved unreliable and withdrawn his statement and the remaining evidence being hearsay and speculation, I’m sure you will agree that the Crown Prosecution must drop all charges.’

Jazz looks in my direction. I gaze back. All I can think is that Trueheart must have decided that he does need his dangling participle tweaked after all.

An hour passes as I wait by the old cell door for the police and the prison to confirm that Jazz is not in custody on any other charges. When her release forms are finally signed, she appears. I wonder how many times a prison officer has flung open this door for two women to collapse into each other’s arms, laughing and crying simultaneously. We are both awash with relief.

‘Thanks for offering to put up the bail money, Cassie,’ Jazz snivels. ‘You truly are a great friend.’

‘Actually, it wasn’t me. I’m skint as usual . . . It was Hannah.’

Jazz looks dumbfounded for a moment, before slipping back into her usual abrasive banter. ‘Actually if I’d known that I would have preferred to stay in prison. I mean, look at me, sweetie. I’ve lost a stone in weight, I’ve detoxed from alcohol and taken up reading again. A short stay in a low security prison could be the new ashram.’

On the way out of the Old Bailey to a bar on Fleet Street for a celebratory drink, Quincy takes my arm. ‘I believe you owe your old man a kind word.’

‘Who – Rory?’

‘Yes. I accidentally let him know Billy Boston’s bail address. And apparently he paid him a little visit – along with a Rottweiler, a Doberman, a Great Dane, a jar of venomous spiders and a bag full of pythons.’

‘Rory did that?’

I am flummoxed. During this adventure in the Old Bailey, a place of notorious corruption and vice, I have met two police officers who were courteous, and Jazz has told me her barrister had said menacingly that he was called Graham and how anxious he was to keep down her legal costs. So, perhaps my preconceptions were wrong about other things too – like whether or not a low-down rotten mongrel husband could tranform into a Knight in Shining Armani?

But there’s no time to dwell on this conundrum. After a few celebratory glasses of champagne, it is suddenly 8 p.m. I have to let the babysitter go, clean up the kitchen, defrost tomorrow’s meal,