She wanted to run away, to get as far from here as possible. Behind her Paul was being declared dead at the scene of the incident, covered up, and then wheeled into the waiting ambulance. There would be an inquest, a funeral, a memorial service, and alongside those an investigation, an arrest, a trial and a sentence. Through it all, everyone would know what they had been planning. Keith would get home and find the note, before she could get away from here and destroy it. Even if, by some miracle, he didn't, Paul would have left a similar note for his wife, and there was no way to destroy that one. Not now.
Her clothes, and everything else that she valued -- everything she valued that wasn't Paul -- were already in the back of her car, ready for the tonight that would never come now, for the moment when she and Paul would have signed into a hotel together using their real names on the same room booking for the first time.
She could still run away, slip away while everyone was preoccupied with collecting evidence and witness statements, get into her car and drive far away.
The note would come in useful then. Everyone would know, but she wouldn't have to face them. Maybe they would be almost sympathetic, and wait for her to come back of her own accord. Except that she wouldn't be coming back. She had nothing to come back to if she left now.
She took one last look over her shoulder at the scene, then shouldered her way through the reporters already circling like vultures, and set off for the station car park.
He parked the car, got out, and walked around to the passenger side to hold the door open for her.
Murmuring her thanks, she got out as gracefully as she could manage -- her training had somehow never covered stepping from an expensive sports car while wearing a tight cocktail dress and high heels -- then waited for him to lock both doors.
Taking her arm he walked with her to the guesthouse. In her former life she might have protested that she could walk perfectly well by herself, but he was like no one she had known back then. Besides, she needed all the support she could get walking over the rough gravel.
"A caring landlord would see that his tenants had adequate footpaths."
"A progressive landlord would like to think his tenants could make up their own minds about what constitutes an adequate path." He stopped, catching her before she could fall up the front steps. "Now can I trust you to get up to your room without waking the whole household?"
"Aren't you coming in with me?" The wine had made her bold. She pulled her arm away from his, then slung it around his neck.
"We can't do this."
"Why not? Aren't I classy enough for you? Oh, God, don't tell me you've got a mad wife locked up in the attic?"
"We can't. I'll explain when you're sober." He stepped away from her, then waited while she fumbled in her bag for the key and let herself into the guesthouse.
I'd love to set this in 1977, if I can only make some of the other details fit. Although 1976, the year of the big drought, might fit better in terms of local background.