Prologue
She slammed the car door and strode across the gravel drive, wincing as the security light momentarily blinded her. She was vaguely aware of an impending headache, not helped by the fact that someone nearby was playing inhumanly loud music. She should go and tell them to turn it down. Maybe later, because, right now, she just couldn’t dredge up enough energy. It had been another long, difficult day. A day of whispers and sidelong glances – some pitying, some filled with such loathing that it made her catch her breath. Like she was guilty too.
She didn’t know how she was supposed to go on like this. How long she could put up with everything. And what about the kids… what was she going to do about them? They’d gone to stay with her mother for a few weeks, supposedly to give them all some breathing space while it got sorted out. But how would it ever get ‘sorted out’? How? She bit back an angry sob, jammed the key into the front-door lock and gave it a vicious twist, scraping her knuckles on the door frame in the process.
The churning feeling in the pit of her stomach seemed to have become a permanent fixture – a kind of low-level background hum – and as she stepped over the threshold and into the bright hallway, her guts clenched even tighter. Why was she even here? Why was he still here?
‘I’m home!’ She walked through to the kitchen and dumped her bag on the counter. Reached for a couple of headache tablets and poured herself a tumbler of water, waiting for her husband to shuffle, round-shouldered, into the kitchen, to greet her with that hangdog expression he’d recently taken to wearing. The one that gave rise to both sympathy and fury. She downed the tablets and gulped at the water, discomfited by the liquid’s cold snaking descent into her empty, grinding stomach.
‘I’m back!’ Cocking her ear, she waited for his reply. He better not have spent the whole day sleeping. That would really be the final straw after she’d been running around doing everything. Again.
She had a strong urge to hurl the glass of water through the dark kitchen window. Pictured the flying shards of glass. Imagined the gloriously shocking crash, followed by her husband running in, eyes wide, mouth open. But she managed to restrain herself. Instead, she placed the glass carefully on the counter while moving her jaw from side to side, attempting to loosen it. To relax her bowstring-taut muscles. She might as well take a few deep calming breaths while she was at it. Inhaling, she rolled her knotted shoulders back and forth. Tried to shake off the tension and growing despair.
Abandoning the kitchen, she popped her head into the dark lounge, finding it empty. She’d try their bedroom next. Taking the stairs two at a time, she called his name and noted a bitter inflection in her voice that she’d never used before. He’d always been the love of her life. But now… now.
Their bedroom was deserted, the bed unmade, the curtains closed. The kids’ rooms also lay empty, as did the bathroom. Maybe he’d finally stirred himself into action and gone out. But who did she think she was kidding? It had been days, weeks. Jogging back down the stairs, a knot of worry began to tighten in her chest. She returned to the kitchen, dug her phone out of her bag and called his mobile. It went straight to voicemail. She left a terse message:
‘Hey, it’s me. I’m home. Where are you?’
It looked as though he really might have gone out. She’d check the garage, see if his car was still there.
Back out on the driveway, she smelt jasmine and caught the distant shouts of teenagers enjoying the warm summer evening. Closer to home, she could still hear that loud music, heavy and thrashy. Not her sort of music. She hoped whoever it was wouldn’t have it on all night.
She bent to open the garage door, and found it already unlocked. She also realised with a shock that their garage seemed to be the source of the music. Was her husband in here? It wasn’t his taste in music either. Could they have an intruder? Should she call the police?
Without thinking, she yanked up the garage door, ready for a confrontation. His car sat there, the engine grumbling while the music pounded hard and violent. For a brief second, she wondered what the neighbours would think. And then she realised that loud music annoying the neighbours was the least of her worries.
‘Hello?’ she cried, peering into the gloomy interior. But no one could possibly hear her puny voice over the incessant wail of guitars. For goodness sake.
She huffed over to the driver’s side and tapped on the window. It was dark, but she could make out her husband’s profile. What was he doing? He was just sitting there, facing straight ahead without even acknowledging her. He must be in a bad mood. Annoyed with her about something or other. Well that was rich, after everything.
She knocked angrily on the window once again. Still no response. The least he could do was get out and talk to her. She reached for the car handle and yanked open the door, and as she did so, everything seemed to slow down…
The music came at her like an avenging army. She suddenly couldn’t breathe. She was choking, coughing, wheezing. Her eyes watering. What was that smell? Fumes! And through her discomfort, her husband didn’t even turn to her. Didn’t speak. Instead, he tipped forward like a sack of potatoes, his head landing on the steering wheel, hitting the car horn. At the same time, an empty pill bottle rolled off his lap, bouncing onto the concrete floor by her feet.
Then, just like that – as her eyes streamed and her lungs squeezed – she realised he was never going to get out and talk to her. Not ever again. Because her screw-up of a husband was stone-cold dead. And through the shock and the horror, a new kind of anger began to grow.
One
Wednesday
TIA
‘Your Leo’s a real bundle of energy.’ Pip shields her eyes and stares out across the heat-hazed playground as my three-year-old son races around on his scooter with a couple of the other preschoolers, his brown springy curls streaming out from beneath his sun hat.
‘He never stops.’ I glance from Leo to Pip’s son Milo, who’s holding her hand and pressing himself into her legs. I smile down at her fair-haired child, wondering how two boys the same age can be so different. Glancing back at Leo, I’m all prepared for a possible wipeout and tears, my bag already stocked with antiseptic wipes and plasters. But for now Leo’s grin is wide, and his energy is at maximum.
Pip sighs and runs a hand through her short dark hair. ‘I wish Milo would join in more. He’s always glued to my side.’
‘He loves his mummy.’ I give her a smile before glancing down at my watch. ‘They’re late out today.’
‘I hope they’re not much longer,’ Emily huffs. ‘Maisie’s got a dental check-up at four. We’re going to be late. You guys looking forward to Saturday?’
Pip and I nod and grin. The Ashridge Regatta is the town’s social event of the year – a traditional family day where the adults relax, and the kids always have a blast.
‘Are either of you racing this year?’ Emily asks with a toss of her glossy hair.
‘Not this time.’ I shake my head regretfully, remembering the glory days where I used to win the ladies’ race on a regular basis. ‘Ed’s having a go at the pursuit race this year.’ My lovely husband isn’t a natural sailor, but what he lacks in technique, he makes up for with a bucketload of enthusiasm.