Picture this. We were in the depths of the Australian covid lockdown. Alcohol consumption was high, morale was low. The highlight of each day was tossing a tennis ball back and forth over the fence with the neighbor’s child (to clarify, that was the highlight of my day. The kids were inside watching Netflix).
On this day, it was 8:50 am and my kids were due to start online learning at 9:00. My two older kids had lost their logins and passwords (again), and my middle child had just remembered she was supposed to have created a Bush Ranger costume and was looking at me expectantly, and my three-year-old had just found my favorite red Colorstay lipstick and was painting her face with it. I, meanwhile, was due to go on an important Zoom call and wasn’t wearing pants.
Here’s the fun part— my husband was suddenly missing.
He had, I’d noticed, developed a habit of going missing at precisely this time of day. Later I’d discover he’d urgently needed to mow the lawn or check the letterbox or stand in the front yard perusing the sky for UFOs. Obviously.
This day I found him in the garage, filming himself practicing his golf swing.
That was the moment that I decided to write a novel about marriage and murder*.
I hope you enjoy it.
*No husbands were harmed in the writing of this book. The same can not be said for golf clubs.