Delia's Spark: A Myrtlewood Crones bonus scene!

Hello lovelies,

I've written you a short prequel to the Myrtlewood Crones. It's from Delia's perspective, leading up to the start of the first book - and concerns a certain fire-setting incident!

Blessed be xx

***
Delia’s key found the latch to the familiar wooden door, home, after another long day of rehearsals. Her mind was still buzzing with blocking changes and line notes. She shrugged out of her coat and kicked off her sensible heels, looking forward to a quiet evening with a glass of wine and perhaps a soak in a hot bubble bath. 

"Jerry, I'm home," she called out, but only silence greeted her.

She plodded into the kitchen, her feet aching a little from standing most of the day. She expected to find Jerry there sorting through the day's post. Instead, she found the room empty, a single sheet of paper lying conspicuously on the marble countertop. 

She picked it up, eyes scanning what the note scrawled in Jerry's familiar perfect cursive script.

As she read, the words seemed to blur and swim before her eyes. "It's over, Delia. I'm done with this sham of a marriage. You don’t deserve my attentions. I’m leaving you and I’m taking the company." 

No. Surely not. This had to be some kind of cruel joke. But as Delia read and reread the note, the truth sank in like jagged shards of ice. 

Jerry wasn’t one for playing jokes, and even if he had been, this wasn’t funny. He was leaving her. After more than three decades of marriage, of building a life and a family and a theatre company together, he was walking out with barely a word of explanation. 

Delia sank down onto one of the kitchen stools, her knees suddenly weak. How could this be happening? 

Yes, she and Jerry had their problems, what couple didn't after so many years? They didn’t exactly have a close relationship; it had grown, over time, to be more of a business partnership – but it worked.

She knew he'd had his...indiscretions. A flirtation with a young actress here, a "late night at the office" there. But she'd always turned a blind eye, focusing instead on their work, their shared passions and dreams.

And of course, there had been hard times when she’d thought about leaving him. He was a useless father, but Delia had reasoned that Gillian was better off with him than no father at all, now she wondered...why did I stay so long?

Her mind landed on that pivotal moment in her life when Jerry had saved her. She owed him so much for that. When Delia's once promising acting career had gone up in flames, the victim of scathing reviews and vicious gossip, Jerry had been her rock. He'd pulled her out of the humiliation and depression, supported her when she’d wanted to try her hand at directing instead, putting his power as a producer behind her. They’d built their company from scratch and because of this, she'd thought they could weather any storm, that she could always count on him to be by her side. 

She glanced at the note again. It was such a cliché – typical Jerry. He always had that odd way about him, as if he’d carefully researched how to perform a role and then acted it out just slightly too normally. The note could have been written by anyone. Short and not so sweet. A rather sharp ending to a long, winding journey. Perhaps he’d searched online for “break up notes” and compiled one from the common elements. She laughed, despite herself, imagining it, then she sighed.

Had it all been a lie? The life they'd carved out together - did it mean nothing to him? 

Delia crumpled the note in her fist as hurt gave way to blinding anger. How dare he do this to her? 

A burning sensation rippled through her chest. 

How could he leave as if the past thirty years had been nothing more than a trifling amusement he could walk away from on a whim? 

She shot to her feet, momentarily unsteady in her rage. She paced through the townhouse - the home where they'd raised their daughter, hosted glittering parties, toasted each other's successes - and suddenly it all felt like a stage set, pretty but flimsy, concealing the ugly reality that the leading man had just revealed himself as the villain of the piece and made his exit.

Everywhere Delia looked, she saw pieces of the life they'd assembled - photos of performances, the theatre awards, the silly novelty mug she'd given him after their first big show that still he’d never once used for his morning coffee - and each one was like a stab to the gut. 

She whirled around, unable to stand being surrounded by the shattered fragments of what now felt like a lie. She had to get out, get away from the cloying reminders of the husband - the partner - who had just ripped their world apart. 

Hands shaking, she found a suitcase and quickly threw in random clothes and toiletries. She needed space, distance, somewhere to absorb this blindsiding betrayal without the ghost of their marriage looming around every corner.

Suitcase in hand, Delia paused in the doorway, taking one last long look at the home behind her. The home that now felt tainted, like a beautiful facade concealing something rotten underneath. Jaw clenched and eyes burning, she stepped over the threshold and slammed the door with loud finality.

As she walked down the street, heels clicking sharply against the pavement, Delia pulled out her phone and hit the first number on speed dial. 

"Kitty," she said, voice thick with unshed tears when her best friend picked up. "It's Jerry.”

“What’s he done this time?”  

“He's gone...he left me."

“Oh good riddance!” Kitty crowed. “I thought the day would never come.”

“Kitty!”

“Oh, sorry, darling, that’s not quite right. I was hoping you’d leave him, instead, of course.”

Delia rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“I’m surprised you stayed so long,” Kitty continued.

“I stayed because of because of the life we’d built, the company, my career. I thought it meant something.”

“You sound angry,” Kitty said. “I love it when you’re angry. You’re inspiring.”

“Thank you for the compliment, I think,” Delia replied. “But right now, I just want to set things on fire. He left me with a short note – not even a letter or an email.”

“Hand written, though,” Kitty pointed out. “That smug bastard.”

Delia sighed. “He’s going to pay for this.”

“You sound dangerous, now. What are you going to do?”

"Revenge is a dish best served cold," Delia said. “I can understand why they say that, because right now I’m in danger of murdering him, and that sound like a right mess to sort out later.”

"Delia, darling, what are you thinking?" Kitty asked, concerned.

"I'm thinking," Delia replied, her words measured and icy, "that Jerry doesn't get to walk away from this unscathed. He doesn't get to shatter our life and just ride off into the sunset."

In the weeks that followed, Delia moved through her days like an automaton, going through the motions of normalcy. To the outside world, she was the picture of composure - the consummate professional, the unflappable director. Jerry was never much involved in the rehearsals, preferring not to get his hands dirty, which was preferable as she managed to avoid seeing him. She threw herself into preparations for the theatre company's upcoming show, losing herself in the mundane details of coaching the actors and checking on every last detail right down to the costumes.

Behind closed doors, however, Delia's life was in upheaval. She secured a small flat, a stark and impersonal space that felt more like a way station than a home. She returned to the townhouse only briefly, moving through the rooms like a ghost, gathering only the barest of essentials. The rest - the detritus of a life built and abandoned - she left behind, unable to bear the weight of memory attached to each piece.

Things were going so smoothly with the show, and with so little involvement from Jerry, Delia realised she’d long been doing most of the work. He’d always seemed so involved, yet really, he’d barely lifted a finger while she organised everything.

Communication with Jerry was minimal, restricted to clipped and coldly professional emails about business matters and the upcoming show. Delia kept her responses short and to the point, refusing to engage on anything beyond the most surface level. 

Let him wonder, she thought bitterly. Let him question how she could be so unaffected, so unmoved by the bomb he's detonated in the center of our life.

But beneath the icy veneer, Delia's anger simmered, slowly building from a flicker to a raging inferno.

Delia made one last trip to the townhouse to collect a few forgotten files. As she rifled through the drawer of the desk that had once been theirs, her hand brushed against something lacy and unfamiliar. With mounting dread, she pulled out a scrap of red satin and lace - a bra that most certainly did not belong to her.

White-hot rage exploded behind Delia's eyes. Not only had Jerry been carrying on his sordid affairs, but he'd been bringing them here, into the home they'd shared – into their marriage bed! He'd tainted every inch of the life they'd built with his betrayals.

Enough was enough.

With shaking hands and a heart full of fury, Delia began to plan in earnest. She would make Jerry pay for his sins, would show him in no uncertain terms the depths of her pain and rage. 

She started small, gathering mementos and tokens from Jerry's various conquests – finding them scattered, almost purposefully around the house. Had he left the lingerie, the stray stocking, the tube of lipstick here to taunt her? Each item felt like a tiny dagger in Delia's chest, but she collected them all the same, amassing a damning pile of evidence of Jerry's infidelities.

Alone in her barren flat, Delia spread the items out on the counter, her mind whirring with the beginnings of a scheme. Jerry had broken their vows, had shattered the life they'd spent decades nurturing. Now, it was time for him to face the consequences. 

Most of these items are highly flammable…

Delia's lips curved into a smile as she began to assemble her plan. Opening night was fast approaching, and with it, the perfect opportunity for revenge. Jerry, so smug and self-assured in his role as producer, would never see it coming. 

But Delia would make sure he - and everyone else - would never forget the price of his betrayal. She would have her vengeance, calculated and devastating. And heaven help anyone who stood in her way.

Opening night approached, Delia put the final pieces of her plan into place. She enlisted Kitty's help, knowing her best friend would be only too eager to assist in Jerry's downfall.

"I need you to sneak this into the theatre on closing night," Delia said, handing Kitty a non-descript suitcase. "I don’t want him to see me with it, in case he gets suspicious. Make sure it's hidden somewhere backstage, somewhere I can easily grab it during the final curtain call."

Kitty raised an eyebrow as she took the suitcase, surprised by its weight. "Dare I ask what's in here?"

Delia's smile was razor-sharp. "Just a little surprise for our esteemed producer. Jerry always did care so much about appearances, about what people thought of him. It's time he learned that those things can be stripped away in an instant."

Of course she’d spared many thoughts for the actors. It wasn’t their fault that they’d be caught up in her revenge, but if anything, her plans would draw more buzz for the show, and boost their careers – even if her went up in flames. The show would go on without her, and they would get their chance to shine.

She’d tried to let it go. She’d tried everything, but her mind kept circling back to the betrayal, and in that tension, Delia’s whole world narrowed into one of rage and plotting. The only way out of that vicious cycle was to do…something.

On opening night, the theatre buzzed with anticipation. The show had been a resounding success, and the audience was on their feet before the final notes of the last song had even faded away.

Backstage, Jerry was in his element, basking in the glow of congratulations and compliments. He preened like a peacock, shaking hands and accepting praise with a smugness that made Delia's stomach turn.

But she bided her time, playing the gracious director, thanking her cast and crew, accepting bouquets of flowers with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. And when the moment came for her final curtain call, she stepped out onto the stage with her head held high, pulling Jerry with her.

The applause was thunderous as Delia took her bow, but she barely heard it over the pounding of her own heart. This was it. The moment of truth.

She turned to face the audience, her eyes blazing with a fire that had nothing to do with the inferno at her feet. "Many of you know this man," she began, her voice ringing out clear and strong. "Jerry Venito, the great producer, the darling of the West End. But let me tell you about the real Jerry."

Delia took a step forward, her gaze never wavering from Jerry's ashen face. "This man," she continued, "is a liar and a cheat. For years, he's been carrying on affairs behind my back, bringing his mistresses into our home, our bed. And when I finally confronted him about it, do you know what he did? He left. Walked out on our marriage, our life, with nothing more than a cowardly note."

A ripple of shocked whispers ran through the crowd, but Delia ignored them. Her focus was solely on Jerry, on making him feel the depth of her hurt and betrayal.

"Over thirty years," she said, her voice cracking with emotion. "That's how long we were together. And in all that time, I never once suspected the depths of your arrogance, your hollowness. You put on a good show, Jerry, I'll give you that. But underneath that charming facade, you're nothing but a fake. A selfish, narcissistic man who cares for no one but himself."

Jerry opened his mouth as if to protest, but Delia silenced him with a look. "I gave you everything," she said softly, the words heavy with the weight of wasted years. “And you threw it all away like it meant nothing. Like I meant nothing."

She shook her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "But you know what, Jerry? I'm done. Done playing the loyal wife, the forgiving partner. You shattered our vows, and now I'm shattering the illusion of the life we built together."

With a final, triumphant glare, Delia locked eyes with Jerry and delivered her parting words. "May your life go down in flames," she said coldly, "just as our marriage has."

With a fluid motion, she reached into the wings and grabbed the suitcase Kitty had stashed there earlier. Before anyone could react, she upended it center stage, spilling its contents for all to see.

There, amidst the shattered remains of her marriage, lay the evidence of Jerry's betrayals. A collective gasp rippled through the audience.

Jerry's face drained of color as he rushed forward, trying to stop Delia, to salvage some scrap of his dignity. But she was too quick for him. 

From within her suit jacket, she pulled out a bottle of Jerry’s favourite vanilla vodka. With a manic gleam in her eye, she uncapped it and began to douse the pile of clothing, her voice rising over the shocked murmurs of the crowd.

Jerry made a desperate grab for the bottle, but Delia danced out of his reach. From her pocket, she pulled out a small silver lighter, her hands shaking as she tried to ignite it.

Once, twice, the flame sputtered and died. Delia could feel the weight of a hundred eyes on her, could hear Jerry's patronising scolding, his instructions for her to stop, to be reasonable. 

But reason had long since abandoned her. All that remained was the white-hot burn of rage and the desperate need to make Jerry hurt as deeply as she did.

The lighter wasn’t working, or perhaps her hands weren’t. She glared at it and it sparked suddenly to life. Delia dropped it in surprise and the flame fell into the whiskey-soaked fabric. She watched as it caught, spreading with terrifying speed.

Jerry stumbled backwards, his eyes wide with shock and horror as the fire consumed the remnants of his indiscretions. The audience screamed, some in fear, others in morbid fascination.

But Delia felt no fear, only a grim sense of satisfaction as she watched the flames devour the life she had once cherished. The heat scorched her face, but she welcomed the pain, let it sear away the last of her love, her loyalty, her misplaced faith.

As the flames climbed higher, consuming the remnants of her shattered marriage, Delia felt a strange sense of calm settle over her. The rage that had been her constant companion these past few weeks suddenly quieted, replaced by a steely resolve and an unfamiliar but exhilarating sense of empowerment.

And with that, she turned on her heel and marched offstage, her head held high. Behind her, the audience erupted thunderous murmurs of scandal, applause and even a few scattered cheers.

But Delia heard none of it. Her mind blurred as the figure waiting in the wings, stepped forward, a beaming smile on her face and a celebratory bottle of whisky in her hand.

"You did it!" Kitty cried, throwing her arms around Delia in a fierce hug. "You were incredible out there. I've never seen anything like it."

Delia hugged her back, feeling the adrenaline of the moment start to ebb, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion. "I can't believe I actually went through with it," she murmured, her voice muffled against Kitty's shoulder.

"Believe it, darling," Kitty said firmly, pulling back to look Delia in the eye. "You stood up for yourself, for your dignity. And you did it with pizzaz!"

A smile tugged at the corners of Delia's mouth and she laughed in exhilaration and release. "I did, didn't I?"

Kitty grinned, linking her arm through Delia's and steering her towards the exit. "Come on," she said, her tone brooking no argument. "We're going out to celebrate. The next chapter of your life starts tonight, and I'll be damned if we don't toast to it properly."

Delia took a deep, shuddering breath as they stepped out into the cool night air. She felt raw, exposed, like a live wire crackling with residual energy. But she also felt strangely empowered, as if by burning away the life she had once known, she had forged herself anew in the flames.

Delia let herself be led, feeling a lightness in her chest that she hadn't experienced in years. The future was uncertain. But now, rising like a phoenix from the ashes of her marriage, she was free.