Jane Corry

Dead Ex by Jane Corry
BIBLIOGRAPHIC DETAILS PRINT: © 2/5/2019; 978-0525561194; Pamela Dorman Books; 368 pages; unabridged. (Hardcover info from Amazon.com)
DIGITAL: © 2/5/2019; 9780525561200; Penguin Books; 364 pages; unabridged. (Kindle info from Amazon.com)
*AUDIO: © 2/4/2019; Books on Tape/Penguin Audio; Duration: 12:00:00; unabridged. (Audio info from Amazon.com)
FILM: Not that I know of.

SERIES: No

Major CHARACTERS: (Not Comprehensive, and not wanting to give a story away, I don’t get too explicit in my descriptions of who the characters are.)
Vicki Goudman – Protagonist. Aroma Therapist
David Goudman – Ex husband of Vicki
Scarlet Darling – Daughter of Zelda. Petty thief
Zelda Darling – Mother of Scarlet. Petty thief and drug addict
Patrick Miles – Former co-worker of Vicki
Jackie – Vicki’s former co-worker and Maid of Honor
Francis – Former co-worker of Vicki
Nicole Goudman – Daughter of David from a previous marriage
Tanya Darling – David’s co-worker and current wife
Helen – David’s student apprentice
Gareth Vine – Detective Inspector
Sarah Brown – Sargeant
Camilla – Social Worker

SUMMARY/ EVALUATION:
SELECTED: I was in the mood for a Janye Entwistle narration and this was the first one of the results in Libby.

ABOUT: A woman with epilepsy learns that her ex-husband has been reported missing by his current wife and she is a prime suspect for suspected foul play. Her memory is poor due to the epilepsy and/or its treatment, so she can’t be sure herself whether she has anything to do with his disappearance and is secretly as concerned as the detectives as to the whereabouts of her ex-husband, and her role in it.

OVERALL IMPRESSION: Curiosity-driven, I found this to be a great page-turner. The inter-weaving and gradual unveiling of each character’s history is masterful.

AUTHOR:
Jane Corry. She doesn’t have a Wikipedia entry, but she tells about herself on this page: https://www.femalefirst.co.uk/books/jane-corry-blood-sisters-1064473.html
Inside the book, “About the author”: “Jane Corry is an author and journalist, and has spent time as the writer-in-residence of a high-security prison for men—an experience that helped inspire My Husband’s Wife, her bestselling debut thriller, as well as her second thriller, Blood Sisters. The Dead Ex is her third thriller.’

NARRATOR(S):
Jayne Entwistle. She doesn’t have a Wikipedia page but tells about herself on this page: https://thejayneshow.net/bio/

GENRE: Fiction; Mystery

TIME FRAME: Contemporary

SUBJECTS:
Missing Persons; Prisons; Foster Homes; Murder; Delinquency; Epilepsy; Miss-carriage; Dysfunctional families

DEDICATION:
“For my husband, who makes me laugh every day, and to my wonderful, talented, loving children. Also to my “babies,” who light up my life.”

SAMPLE QUOTATION:
1. “VICKI 14
February 2018
I unscrew the lid, inhale the deep, heady smell—straight to the nostrils—and carefully measure out three drops into the glass measuring jug. Pure lavender. My favorite. More importantly, perhaps, this clever little remedy is renowned for its healthy level of esters, otherwise known, in my business, as “healing properties.”
Healing? Who am I kidding? Nothing and no one can save me. I might look like a fairly average woman in her forties, but deep down, I’m a walking time bomb.
It could happen any second. You might wait for weeks, maybe months: all quiet. And then, hey, presto, along it comes when your guard is down. “Don’t think about it,” they advised me. Easier said than done. Sometimes I liken it to an actress coming off stage to be consoled on her performance even though she can’t remember a single damn thing
Standing on my tiptoes, I reach up to the shelf for a second bottle and add ylang-ylang, or “poor man’s jasmine.” Second-best can be just as good. Or so I tell myself.
Now for petitgrain. I take down the third vial carefully, remembering the lesson in which I learned that the contents are made from the leaves of the bitter orange tree. Blend with grapefruit? Possibly. It depends on the client.
When you’ve got what I have, you have to find ways to minimize damage. But at the end of the day, if something goes wrong, the ultimate price is death. The oils need to be treated with respect in order to reduce the dangers.
I love aromatherapy. Its magic is both distracting and calming.
But tonight isn’t about me. It’s about my new client. Though she’s not a fellow sufferer, her face bears similarities to mine, with those soft creases around her eyes, suggesting laughter and tears, and the slightly saggy, soft-looking pouches underneath them, which she has tried to hide with a light-reflective concealer.
Silently, I admire her peach lipstick. I no longer bother with it myself. I used to always wear “Beautiful Beige” to make a point about being feminine. The woman before me has blond hair, tied back loosely with the odd wisp escaping. What I’d give for a color like that! The “freckly redhead” tag from school days still stings, but David had loved it. “My very own beautiful Titian,” he used to say.
Both my client and I wear brave smiles that say, “I’m fine, really.” But she’s not, or she wouldn’t be here. And nor would I.
“I just need something to help me relax,” she says. “I’ve had a lot of stress.”
It’s not my job to be a therapist. Even so, there are times when I want to interrupt and tell my own story to show these women (I’ve never had a male client) that they aren’t alone. Of course, that wouldn’t be wise, because it might scare them off. And I need them. Not just for my business But to prove myself.
Time to go over my client’s medical history. “Are you pregnant?”
I have to ask this question even though her disclaimer form states that—like me—she is forty-six. It’s still possible. She gives a short laugh. “I’ve already answered all that. Why do you ask, anyway?”
“There are some aromatherapy oils that aren’t suitable for expectant mothers,” I say. I move on swiftly. “Do you have high blood pressure?”
“No. Though I feel I should have. Can this stuff affect that, too?”

She glances with suspicion at the bottles lined up above us with all the colors of the rainbow trapped inside. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. For a minute, I’m aged nine, in the small northern mining town where I grew up, reciting them to the teacher. Some patterns you don’t forget.
“No, but it’s good for me to know The oils are like medicine.” I hear my tutor’s words tripping out of my mouth. “Very good for you when used appropriately.”
We run through more details. She’s declared on the form that she has no medical issues. Yet, for some reason, I feel apprehensive.
“Would you like to change?” I suggest. “I’ll leave the room for a few minutes to give you privacy.”
She’s clearly nervous. Then again, so are many of my clients who’ve never had this kind of treatment before. As I go, I see her glancing at my certificate on the wall for reassurance.
Vicki Goudman. MIFA. ITEC LEVEL 3.
Member of the International Federation of Aromatherapists. Sometimes I don’t believe it myself. It’s certainly not what I’d planned.
When I return to the room, my client is lying facedown on the treatment couch as instructed. Her bare shoulders, which reveal a dark mole on the right blade, are thin, scrawny. Her skin is cold even though I’ve got the heating on high at this time of year.
“I haven’t felt like eating much recently,” she says. “I’ve lost weight.”
Trauma does that to you. Or it can make you pile on the pounds. I’ve done both. I turn on the CD player. The angel music is soft, healing.
“Mmmm,” she says in a sleepy voice as I massage the oil in deft circular motions down her spine. “You’ve got a real touch. I love that smell. What is it again?”
I repeat the ingredients. Lavender. Ylang-ylang. Petitgrain. Grapefruit juice.
“How do you know what to use?” she asks, her voice muffled because of her position.
“It’s a bit like a marriage,” I say. “You match the oil to the client’s needs. And you follow your instinct.”
There’s a snort. I think, for a minute, that it’s laughter, but then I realize she’s crying. “If I’d listened to my own instinct,” she sobs, “I might have kept my husband.”
There it is again. That temptation to give away too much about yourself. You think you’re doing it to put them at their ease. But really, it’s giving in to your own need. Afterward, you regret it. The client feels awkward on the next visit. And so do you. It’s a business arrangement, not a friendship.
So I hold back the longing to tell this woman that David and I would have been coming up to our sixth wedding anniversary in a few months. I also resist the temptation to remind myself that it is Valentine’s Day. That on our first—and only—one together he had given me a pair of crystal drop earrings, which I can no longer bring myself to wear. Instead, I breathe in the lavender and imagine it’s wrapped around my body like a protective cloak.
“Sometimes,” I say, kneading the stress knots, “you have to go through the dark to get to the light.”
My client relaxes more, and I’d like to think that it’s my words that have soothed her. But it’s the magic of the aromatherapy. The lavender is getting into my own skin, too. That’s the thing about oils: they’re always the same. A constant.
Unlike love.
“Is there anything in particular stressing you out?” I ask gently.
She gives a Where do I start? laugh. “The kids are driving me crazy, especially the little one. He’s impossible.”
“How old is he?” I ask.
“Nearly four. Going on ten.”
Now it’s my skin that goes cold.
“He’s in trouble at school for biting this new boy in his class, and the teachers think it’s my fault. They’ve actually asked me if there is violence in our family.”
Is there? The question lies unspoken. She wriggles slightly on the couch. “Do you have kids?”
My hands dig deeper into her muscle knots.
“I have a son. He’s four, too.”
“What’s his name?”
“Patrick.”
“Is he a good boy?”
I think of the picture in my pocket.
“He’s perfect.”
“You’re lucky. Who looks after him when you’re working?”
I pause briefly. “He’s with my dad.”
“Really? You hear a lot about grandparents helping out nowadays.”
My thumbs are really pressing down now.
“Actually, that’s hurting.”
“Sorry.” I release the pressure.
After that, we continue in silence with only the angel music in the background. Some like to talk throughout. Others don’t say a word. Many begin to confide and then stop, like this one. She might tell me more at the next session. I sense she’ll come back. But I hope she won’t. She’s too nosy.
“Thank you,” she says when I leave her to get dressed. I return to my notes. I write down, in purple ink, the exact treatment and areas of the body that still need attention. Those knots were stubborn. They are often related to the knots in the mind. After David, my shoulders were stiff for months.”

RATING:
5 stars.

STARTED-FINISHED
1/13/24-1/17/24… (mehr)