The Torn Up Marriage
Read The Torn Up Marriage Online
Authors: Caroline Roberts
Harper
Impulse
an imprint of
HarperCollins
Publishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by Harper
Impulse
2015
Copyright © Caroline Roberts 2015
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover design by Becky Glibbery
Caroline Roberts asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
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and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008125387
Version 2015-02-17
For my wonderful family - Amie, Harry, Richard
And for Mum and Dad.
Contents
The front door opened and the fist around her heart tightened.
The cottage pie was made, ready to pop in the oven, the girls watching television in the living room. Kate heard the scampering of their feet and cries of “Daddy, Daddy.” He’d be scooping them up in his arms right now, there in the hallway. And then, any second, he’d appear in the kitchen.
She wasn’t sure how she would be when she saw him, how she might react. She had to stay calm, try to be normal. Her fingers trembled around the paring knife she’d been slicing the last of the carrots with.
He walked in with Emily perched on his hip like a little monkey, Charlotte clinging to his trouser leg. Kate saw his handsome face as though she was seeing it anew; dark, short hair spiked up a little at the front, the vivid blue of his eyes, his warm smile. It made her go cold.
What had he done?
It was as if he’d placed a bomb inside his family. One last image of them all happy, together, but the fuse was already ticking.
“Hi, love,” his voice was easy, natural.
Could he be such an accomplished liar? Wouldn’t she know from the look in his eyes, his tone? Yet, he didn’t seem different at all.
But what did she expect? A “guilt” sticker plastered over his forehead? She’d probably got this all wrong, was jumping to conclusions. Everything was normal after all.
He moved closer, placed an arm about her waist. She tensed. Emily there between them, still balanced on his hip, Charlotte standing beneath. He kissed Kate gently on the cheek. She placed the knife slowly on the work surface, breathed in the smell of him, the Armani aftershave she’d bought him for Christmas mingled with the scent of his body.
Oh, Michael.
She gave in to the warmth of him, the familiarity of his presence and put an arm around him too, holding on. Her eyes closed for a second.
“Everybody okay?” Michael held on to his family group, smiling.
Kate nodded. Her mask on for now.
The girls looked at their Daddy adoringly. Kate recognised the expectant hope of a treat plastered on their faces, though she knew they wouldn’t ask; she’d drummed it into them not to be rude or greedy. But invariably Michael came back with sweets for them when he’d been away. She hoped he hadn’t forgotten this time.
“Daddy,” Charlotte piped up, “I did swimming today and I got my badge for ten metres. I did it all in froggy stroke,” her childish version of breast stroke. “And, Mrs Nash says I’m the best in the class. I didn’t sink or anything, not once.”
“Wow, that’s fantastic, Lottie. Well done.”
“Dad-dy,” Emily, not to be outdone, her little legs kicking to be let down, “I did a picture. I’ll go get it.” Michael lowered her gently. She ran off to the living room, coming back with a damp sheet of paper that Kate had put to dry on the windowsill.
He held it up. Kate had seen it earlier. It was four circles on stick bodies; two bigger ones, two smaller ones. One big one had a smudge of brown above it and two more circles on the head for glasses, which Michael wore for reading and driving. The other tall one had a long sweep of yellow above the head circle; Kate. And the row of stick arms were all touching, like those paper people cut-outs. A lump lodged in Kate’s throat.
“That’s fabulous, Emmie. Is it us?”
She nodded proudly. “That’s you Daddy, and Mummy and Lottie and me.” She pointed along the row. “Take it to work, Daddy.”
Her innocent voice cut into Kate’s thoughts.
Was that a flicker of unease across his brow?
“Yes, I might just do that, sweetie.”
Kate turned to busy herself, put the cottage pie into the oven. She wished she hadn’t been so damned organised now. The table was laid, only the veg to boil. She needed to keep active, do something. She stood at the draining board drying some teaspoons.
He came close, shadowing her movements. “You alright?”
No, of course I’m not bloody alright!
“Yeah, fine.” She couldn’t look him in the eye. Didn’t want to have to say anything in front of the girls. She’d made a pact with herself that she wouldn’t involve them in any of this. She kept her back to him, but sensed his closeness. The brush of his shirt against her. The whisper of his breath against her neck. Her body froze.
“I’ll go and shower, then,” he spoke to the back of her head, as she stood facing the cupboards. “How long until supper?”
Kate turned, saw him loosening his tie, move away from her. The girls still there watching.
“Oh, about 30 minutes or so. You’ve got plenty of time.” He could shower. That would give her breathing space.
“Daddy, can you read my bedtime story tonight?” It was Charlotte.
“Me too,” Emily echoed.
“We’re reading
The Gruffalo
,” Charlotte continued, “But Mummy’s not as good as you.” She looked across half-apologetically at Kate.
“What do you mean?” Michael put on his best growly Gruffalo voice. Kate couldn’t help but smile. The girls backed off screaming and giggling. “But Gruffalo needs his shower,” he continued. “He’s very smelly.”
The girls giggled more.
“Gruffalo’ll read you his story after tea and bath time. Although he does quite like to eat smelly little girls.” He pulled a scary face.
The girls squealed, Charlotte adding, “Gruffalo after the bath! Okay, Daddy!”
“Dadd-y!” Emily indignant, trying to get him back to normal, but still grinning.
“Ah-hah.” He went out to the hall, coming back with his black leather briefcase, which he laid out on the kitchen table. He clicked the clasps and flipped it open, revealing portfolios of brochures and marketing materials, his Mont Blanc pen, which Kate had bought him last Christmas, a calculator and two packets of chocolate buttons. He was back to his Daddy voice, “Now, I think these might be for you two.” He looked across at Kate, “But only a few before tea time. Okay?”
“The rest you can have afterwards,” Kate chipped in, not wanting them to spoil their appetites.
They scampered across, each taking a packet from Michael. “Thank you.” “Fank you, Daddy.”
Charlotte went to the cupboard, taking out two pink plastic bowls, emptied the contents of a packet into each and passed one to Emily.
“Smelly Gruffalo’s going to the bathroom now.” Michael softened the tone a little and wandered out with a backward glance at them all, the girls still grinning at him.
Kate stood watching him with a sigh; at least he’d remembered them. She smiled at the girls as they headed out, back to the television, with their sweetie bowls in hand. He used to bring her little gifts too: flowers, chocolates. A long time ago now, when the girls were smaller. She liked lilies; he used to bring the tall, white ones. When was it he’d stopped remembering her?
Minutes later she heard the patter of the shower running upstairs.
Was he washing away the guilt?
Kate opened up a bottle of Merlot, poured herself a large glass, setting another empty glass ready for Michael on the side. The first gulp was soothing, rich and plummy. She switched on the gas rings to boil the vegetables, then poured out two plastic cups of orange juice for the girls and popped them down on the kitchen table, where everything was set and ready, even down to napkins; she’d found some left from a dinner party she’d done months ago, tucked away in a drawer. The pretence of perfection.
The pattering of the shower stopped above her. He’d be drying off now, rubbing the towel over his chest, down over his long, well-muscled limbs. He was athletic, keeping up his squash and running. Then she heard his solid footsteps going to their room, pictured him pulling on fresh boxer shorts, a polo shirt, jeans. The things he normally wore of an evening. A little flutter of panic rushed through her. Was nothing going to be the same after tonight? But what if she didn’t say anything? Just carried on as usual, served their meal, cleared up, put the girls to bed. She and Michael might share a bottle of wine, go to bed, she needn’t say anything at all. Pretend that the phone call hadn’t happened. Put it behind her. A mere misunderstanding. But she knew it would eat away at her. Their life together couldn’t be a lie.
She glugged down another gulp of wine, then walked through to the lounge to check on the girls. They looked up guiltily from two-thirds finished bowls, a chocolate-smeared smile plastered on Emily’s face.
“Ah, I think I said just a few of those sweets before tea, girls.”
They handed the dishes up to Kate, which she placed on the mantelpiece for later. Some way-too-cheerful looped children’s programme was playing loudly on the Sky channel.
As Kate wandered back into the hall, Michael appeared on the stairs. His brown hair wet and ruffled. He looked handsome, younger than his 34 years. She was a year younger than him, her birthday in January, his had just passed in February. He came nearer, just a metre away from her now, smelling fresh and clean of shower gel and aftershave, with a minty toothed smile. She smiled back, on autopilot. He followed her into the kitchen, where she began to pour some wine for him. He came up close behind her, touched her shoulder. She flinched.
She moved aside. Couldn’t bear it. Put a dirtied cup into the dishwasher. She didn’t want her body to respond, to make a fool of her.
They ate the meal with the chatter of the children as company. Kate had given herself a small portion, emotions stealing her appetite. She struggled with a few mouthfuls, then pushed the gravy and mash in small circles around her plate.
The bomb was there, fuse burning. No way to stop it now.
The girls ate well despite their sweetie-fest. “Well done, Lottie, Emily,” Kate praised.
Michael eyed her half-finished portion, but said nothing. He finished his own meal, “Thanks, that was lovely, Kate.”
He helped load the plates and glasses into the dishwasher as Kate squared her back to him, rinsing saucepans and squirting washing-up liquid and hot water into the oven dish.
“Kate, are you sure everything is alright?”
It was too soon. Too soon to be truthful. The girls were still up. Her mask was in place, but it was obviously slipping. “Oh, just a bit tired. I’ve had a headache most of the day.”
Well, that was bloody true.
“Oh, okay, I’ll just go up and sort the girls, then, shall I? Get the bath running for them?”
“Thanks, that’d be good.”
He headed upstairs, a few minutes later, shouting for the girls, who scampered up eagerly. Giggling, chattering, splashing. She hadn’t realised how precious those sounds were. How many other times had she hardly heard or registered those happy sounds? As she walked through the hall to the lounge, she heard the low tones of his voice; the bedtime story. She’d always thought he had a lovely voice, rich with a mellow huskiness. Many years ago, she’d heard it behind her in a bar, tuned into it and totally lost the conversation with her girlfriends – heard him before she ever saw him.
Instead of going into the living room, she walked softly up the stairs and spied through the gap in the girls’ bedroom door. They shared a room – a room lovingly decorated by Michael in shades of pink. She stood and took in the simple beauty of those three figures huddled on the one bed; always Charlotte’s bed for the bedtime story. One daughter each side of him, the book to the centre, their faces transfixed, his voice lilting from the gruff tones to a softer narrator voice here and there. It all seemed so very normal, happy… She hoped to God she’d got all this wrong.
She stood a second or two longer, feeling like an outsider, like someone watching a film. A glow of light around the three of them, no doubt the bedside light, but it seemed more like love. She started to move away, but the creak of the floorboard made Michael look up. He caught her eye as she pretended to be passing on her way to their bedroom. He smiled softly at her, a smile that seemed to be laced with sadness, then he tilted his head back down and carried on reading.
She’d go in and say goodnight to the girls in a minute, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with herself for now. A sense of panic fizzed through her. She hung around, pacing in her bedroom in the dark, then went to the bathroom, splashing her face with cold water. She sighed, facing her tired-looking self in the mirror, blonde hair wilted in waves down to her shoulders. She had hardly any make-up on, her green eyes looked dull. She held on to the sink for a few moments, bracing herself before coming back out.
Walking past Michael’s study she stopped. There was a photo of them all on his desk. On the beach at Embleton, sitting in the sand dunes. Michael had set the camera up on auto and dashed back to sit with them just in time. Emily was there, tiny in her arms, toddler Lottie beaming, with bucket and spade in hand, Michael’s arm protective around them all. Smiles all round. A freeze frame of happiness.
She walked on into the girls’ room for their usual bedtime kiss and cuddle. Glad of their hugs, the strands of downy hair tickling her cheek, the smell of strawberry bubble bath and minty toothpaste.
“Night, night, girls. Sleep tight.” She left Michael with them to finish the story. Pulled the door behind her and made her way downstairs.
A few more minutes.
The sound of footsteps coming down.
She was in the kitchen putting on the kettle, the wine now tasted sour. She wanted a cup of tea.
When to say it? How?
But the girls would be awake a while longer, for sure. She didn’t want shouting, a row, or perhaps the sounds of her crying to wake them. Oh, thank God, he’d gone into the lounge. The droning sound of the television starting up; Sky News or some football channel, no doubt. She poured scalding water on to a tea bag in a mug and stared at the wall while she waited for it to steep. She couldn’t just go into the lounge and sit down and watch television. She couldn’t start
that
conversation with the world news in the background or Man United scoring against Arsenal as the backdrop to the end of her marriage.
Then she saw his bare feet on the threshold to the kitchen.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
How did you start the sentence that was going to change the rest of your life?
