Buch lesen: «The Marriage War»

CHAPTER ONE

THE morning the anonymous letter arrived was no different from any other Sancha had had over the past six years.

She had opened her brown eyes with a reluctant jerk when the alarm went off, hearing Mark stir in the twin bed beside hers before he stretched, yawning. For a second or two Sancha had fantasised about the years before the children started arriving, remembering waking up in a double bed, naked and sleepy, to find his hands wandering in lazy exploration. In those far-off, halcyon days they had usually made love in the early mornings as well as at night.

They had switched to twin beds a couple of years ago because she was always having to get up in the night, either to feed a baby or comfort a child, and Mark had complained about being woken whenever she left their bed. Sancha had often wished, since, that they had not stopped sharing a bed. They had lost their old, loving intimacy; making love could no longer be so spontaneous or casual, and since Flora’s birth they’d rarely made love at all. At night Sancha was always too tired and in the mornings there was never time.

This morning she reluctantly pushed her memories aside and made herself fling back the duvet, her feet fumbling for slippers, groping her way into her dressing-gown. She rushed into the bathroom, cleaned her teeth, splashed cold water on her face, ran a comb through her curly red-brown hair and then began the job of waking the children. She didn’t have to wake Flora, who was already bouncing noisily round and round her cot, stark naked, with her red hair in tangled curls around her pink face.

‘I’m a kangaroo! Look at me, Mummy, I’m a kangaroo-roo-roo...’

‘Lovely, darling,’ Sancha said absently, retrieving the small nightdress from the floor and dropping it into the washing basket before picking Flora up with one arm and carrying her into the childrens’ bathroom. ‘Get up now!’ she yelled into the room the two boys shared. Six-year-old Felix was still lying in bed, with his duvet pulled over his head. Five-year-old Charlie was up, pulling off his pyjamas with his eyes shut.

By the time Sancha had dealt with Flora and was heading for the stairs Felix was up, still yawning, and Charlie was in the bathroom. Sancha could hear Mark having his shower.

Downstairs, she scooped the letters and a daily newspaper off the front doormat, with Flora squirming under her arm, her dimpled legs in green dungarees kicking vigorously. Sancha disliked wasting money, so she had kept all Charlie’s baby clothes, washed and neatly folded away in a drawer, in case another baby came along. It had saved a fortune. She hadn’t needed to buy any new clothes at all and Flora looked great in them. The fashion for unisex baby clothes suited her.

Turning towards the kitchen, Sancha shouted back up the stairs to the two boys to hurry up or else. A sound of stampeding feet followed; at least they were both up.

Dropping the handful of letters and the newspaper onto the table, beside Mark’s place, she pushed Flora into her highchair, handing her a spoon to bang, and then put the coffee percolator on.

She didn’t bother to look through the letters—she rarely got any: just the odd postcard from a friend or relative who was abroad on holiday, brown envelopes from a wishful tax inspector who refused to believe she no longer earned any money, or offers from catalogues and firms trying to sell her something which came in envelopes marked urgently ‘Open me and win a fortune!’ She read the postcards, but the rest of her mail was usually discarded into the kitchen bin at once.

All Sancha’s movements at this hour of the morning were automatic; she often felt like a robot, moving and whirling around the kitchen. She had so much to do and so little time to do it in that she had worked out long ago the fastest way to get the coffee percolating, the porridge cooking, slip a couple of croissants into the microwave to warm through, set out cups, cutlery and mugs of cold milk, pour the orange juice and spoon prunes into a bowl for Mark. All with the minimum of effort.

Hearing the crash of feet on the stairs, she turned off the porridge, poured it into the childrens’ bowls, put the saucepan into the sink and ran cold water into it to make it easier to clean later, then grabbed Flora, who was climbing out of her highchair, and put her back into it just as Felix and Charlie tore into the kitchen.

Sancha caught them and checked that their faces and hands were clean, their teeth and hair brushed, their clothes all present and correct—Charlie often forgot important items, like his underpants or one sock. He was very absent-minded.

By the time Mark got down his children were all busy eating their breakfast. Flora beamed at him, showing him a mouthful of porridge and little pearly teeth. ‘Dadda!’ she fondly greeted him.

Mark looked pained. ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Flora!’ He sat down and drank some of his orange juice, looking at his watch with a distracted expression. ‘I’m going to be late. Hurry up, boys, we have to go soon.’

He ate his prunes while glancing through his mail. “This is for you,’ he said, tossing one envelope over to Sancha, his grey eyes briefly touching her then moving away, a frown pulling his black brows together.

She felt a sting of hurt over that look—had that been distaste in his eyes? Of course, at this hour, in her shabby old dressing-gown and no make-up, she wasn’t exactly glamorous, but there was no time to do much about how she looked until he and the boys had left. She really must make more effort, though—it made her unhappy to have Mark look at her like that, as if he didn’t love her any more. Her love for him was just as strong; she needed him.

To cover her distress, she picked up the white envelope. The name and address had been typed. ‘I wonder who this is from?’ she thought aloud, studying the postmark. It was local, which didn’t help.

‘Open it and find out,’ Mark snapped.

What was the matter with him this morning? Hadn’t he slept? Or was he worried about work? Sancha wished there was time to ask him, but Flora had knocked over her mug of milk. Sighing, Sancha mopped up the damage while Mark averted his gaze.

‘None of the boys were this much trouble,’ he muttered.

‘You just don’t remember, and she isn’t really naughty, Mark. Just high-spirited.’ Sancha wiped Flora’s sticky face, kissing her on her snub nose. ‘You’re no trouble, are you, sweetheart?’

Flora leaned forward and gave her a loving bang on the forehead with her porridgy spoon, beaming. Sancha couldn’t help laughing. ‘Finish your breakfast, you little monkey!’

Mark got to his feet, looking out of place in this cosy, domestic room with its clutter of children, pine furnishings and cheerful yellow curtains. He was a big man, over six feet, with a tough, determined face and a body to match—broad shoulders, a powerful chest, long, long legs. His nature matched, too. People who had never met him before always gave him a wary look at first—he had an air of danger about him when he didn’t smile, and he wasn’t smiling now. He looked as if he might explode at any minute. He often had, over the last few months.

A pang of uneasiness hit Sancha—was Mark tired of family life after six years of babies? He was a man of tremendous drives; their sex life had been tumultuous before the children arrived, and Sancha missed those passionate nights. And his work as a civil engineer demanded a lot of energy, though he no longer spent so much time out on any of the sites where his firm were building. Mark was more often in the office now, planning, organising, working out on paper rather than physically, in the field, and she suspected he regretted the change in his working pattern. Did he also regret being married, having children, being tied down?

Curtly he said, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ll be late tonight.’ Sancha’s heart sank. He was always being kept late at the office. ‘What, again? What is it this time?’

‘Dinner with the boss again. Can’t get out of it. He wants to talk about the new development at Angels Field. We’re running late on the schedule, and time is money.’ But he didn’t meet her eyes, and she felt another twinge of uneasiness.

Oh, no doubt she was imagining things, but her intuition told her something was wrong—what, though?

He turned away and said impatiently, ‘Are you ready, boys? Come on, I can’t wait any longer.’ He always drove the boys to school, and Sancha picked them up again at three-thirty.

They clambered down from the table and headed for the door into the hall, but Sancha caught them before they could get away. ‘Wash your hands and faces. You’ve got more porridge on your face than you got into your mouth, Charlie.’

Mark had gone to get the car. Sancha dealt with the boys and followed them to the front door, with Flora lurching along behind her.

‘Try not to be too late,’ Sancha called to Mark when the car drew up outside, and the boys got into the back seat and began doing up their seat belts.

Mark nodded. Early May sunlight gleamed on his smooth black hair; she couldn’t see his eyes, they were veiled by heavy lids, but that air of smouldering anger came through all the same. What was the matter? Was something wrong at work? This weekend she must try to find time to sit down and talk to him, alone, once the children were in bed.

The car slid away; Sancha waved goodbye and stood in the porch for a few moments, enjoying the touch of morning sunlight on her face. It would soon be high summer; the sky was blue, cloudless, and there were roses out, and pansies, with those dark markings that looked like mischievous faces peeping from under leaves. The lilac tree was covered with plumes of white blossom which gave the air a warm, honeyed fragrance.

The house was a modern one, gabled, with bay windows on both floors. Detached, it was set in a large garden, with a low redbrick wall both front and back and a garage on one side. Mark’s firm had built it for him when they’d got married, but they had a large mortgage and at times money had been tight—although it seemed easier now that Mark had been promoted and had a better-paid job. That meant working longer hours, however, and Sancha often wished he had fewer responsibilities.

Flora had taken the opportunity of her mother’s absent-mindedness to sneak off into the garden, her eyes set on the yellow tulips edging the lawn.

‘No, you don’t,’ Sancha said, pursuing her. ‘We’ll go for a walk when I’ve done all my jobs.’ She picked her up, took another long look at the morning radiance of the garden and went back indoors, closing the door with one foot.

Her routine was the same every day. She worked in the kitchen first—cleared the table, piled dirty dishes into the washing-up machine and switched it on, sorted out the day’s washing and put that into the washing machine to soak for half an hour—then carried Flora upstairs and dumped her into her cot while Sancha had a quick shower, herself, then dressed in jeans and an old blue shirt.

It was an hour later, when she had finished vacuum cleaning the sitting-room and hall, that she remembered the letter and went to the kitchen to find it. She made herself a cup of coffee, gave Flora a piece of apple to eat in her playpen, and opened the envelope. The letter was typed and unsigned. It wasn’t very long; she read it almost in a glance, her ears deafened with the rapid bloodbeat of fear and jealousy.

Do you know where your husband will be tonight? Do you know who he’ll be with? Her name is Jacqui Farrar, she’s his assistant, and she has an apartment in the Crown Tower in Alamo Street. Number 8 on the second floor. They’ve been having an affair for weeks.

Sancha’s heart lurched. She put a hand up to her mouth to stop a cry of shock escaping, caught the edge of her cup and knocked over her coffee. The hot black liquid splashed down her shirt, soaked through the legs of her jeans. She leapt up, sobbing, swearing.

‘Naughty Mummy,’ Flora scolded, looking pleasantly scandalised. Primly she added, ‘Bad word. Bad Mummy.’

Sancha said it again furiously, looking for kitchen roll to do more of her habitual mopping up—only this time it was she who had made the mess, not Flora.

It can’t be true, she thought; he wouldn’t. Mark wouldn’t have an affair. She would have known; she would have noticed.

Or would she? Yes! she thought defiantly, refusing to admit that her stomach was cramped with fear. He was her husband; she knew him. He loved her; he wouldn’t get involved with anyone else.

But did he still love her? She remembered the distaste in his face that morning, over breakfast, and bit her lower lip. Mark no longer looked at her the way he used to; she couldn’t deny that. Somehow, without her noticing it, love and passion had seeped out of their relationship, but that didn’t mean there was anyone else. She couldn’t believe he would be unfaithful to her. Not Mark. He wouldn’t.

She had never met his assistant, although she knew the name. Jacqui Farrar had joined the firm only six months ago, from another civil engineering company. Mark had mentioned her a few times at first, but not lately.

Sancha had no idea what she looked like, even how old she was. It had never entered her head that there could be anything going on between her and Mark.

Of course there isn’t! she told herself. Don’t even think about it. Whoever had written that letter was crazy.

Sancha ran an angry hand over her tearstained face and then picked up Flora. At the moment they could never be apart, they were handcuffed together for all Flora’s waking hours—she could not be left alone for a second or she got into some sort of mischief.

Sancha often felt exhausted by the sheer, unrelenting nature of motherhood, longing for a few hours alone, a day when she did not have to think about other people all the time, when she could be lazy, sleep late, get up whenever she pleased or put on something more elegant than jeans, wear high heels, have her hair done, buy expensive make-up, shower herself with delicious French perfume—anything to feel like a woman rather than a mother.

But it was what she and Mark had wanted when they got married. They had talked about it from the start, in perfect accord in both longing for children. Mark had been an only child of older parents. His mother had been over forty when he was born, his father even older than that. Mark had had a lonely childhood and dreamt of having a brother or sister. His parents had died before he met Sancha; she’d never known them, but she had realised Mark’s deep need to be part of a family at last. Sancha had been broody, too, had ached to have a baby, had seen herself as some sort of Mother Earth, creating this wonderful, close, warm family life, without any idea of how much work and sacrifice on her part would be involved.

Sighing, she popped Flora back into her cot, gave her a handful of toys to play with, then had another hurried shower and changed into clean jeans, a clean shirt. She stood in front of the dressing-table and studied herself bleakly. What did she look like? What on earth did she look like? A hag, she thought. I’m turning into a positive hag. No wonder Mark had given her a disgusted look this morning. She couldn’t blame him. How long was it since she’d even thought about the way she looked?

Or had the energy to try to seduce Mark in bed, the way she once had, years ago, when they were first married? Once upon a time she would slide into bed naked and tease him with stroking fingers and soft, light kisses, but hold him off as long as possible, arouse him to a point of frenzy before she let him take her. They had been passionate lovers, hadn’t they?

Biting her lip, she tried to remember when they had last made love, but couldn’t. It must be weeks. A dull, cynical voice whispered to her. Months! It was months!

Since Flora’s birth they had made love less and less often, and at first it had been she who had never felt like it. Mark had been gentle, sympathetic, understanding; he hadn’t got angry or complained. She had had three babies in six years; it wasn’t surprising that she was so tired and listless.

They hadn’t planned to have more than two children. Flora had been an accident, and that last pregnancy had been the worst. Sancha had had morning sickness, backache, cramp in her legs, restless nights—and even when she had had the baby she’d felt no better. She’d been too exhausted after being in labour for two days, in great pain much of the time. Afterwards she had kept crying; the changes in her hormones during and after her pregnancy had left her in emotional turmoil. A fit of the blues, her sister, Zoe, had called it. Her doctor had called it depression, but all Sancha knew was that the smallest thing could set her off on a crying jag and nothing seemed to help.

It hadn’t lasted very long—a month or two, three at the most—but Flora, from the first moment of her arrival in the world, had been difficult; a restless, crying baby at night and in the daytime needing permanent attention.

Sancha had never really got back her energy, her enjoyment of life, her desire to make love. What energy she did have went into Flora and into her daily routine—the two boys, the house, the garden. Only now did she realise how little time she had spent alone with Mark over the past couple of years.

It had happened so gradually that she hadn’t understood until now that they were drifting apart, inch by inch, hour by hour.

The jangle of the front doorbell made her jump. Who on earth could that be? She collected Flora and carried her back downstairs.

She was startled, and a little embarrassed, to find her sister standing on the doorstep. ‘Oh, hello, Zoe,’ she murmured, rather huskily. ‘I thought you were filming in the Lake District this week?’

‘We finished there yesterday so I drove back last night. I told you we were all going to be filming on location around here, didn’t I? I’ve got a few days off before we start,’ Zoe said, eying her shrewdly. ‘Your eyes are pink—have you been crying?’

‘No,’ lied Sancha, wishing her sister was not so observant, did not see so much. Zoe had always been far too sharp and quick.

‘Mummy swore,’ Flora informed her aunt. ‘Bad Mummy.’

‘Bad Mummy,’ agreed Zoe, watching Sancha. ‘Who were you swearing at? The little love-bug, here? Having a bad day with her, or is something wrong?’

‘I knocked my coffee over, that’s all—no big deal,’ Sancha said, but didn’t meet her sister’s thoughtful stare.

‘Hmm.’ Zoe grinned at Flora. ‘Was it you who knocked Mummy’s coffee over? I bet it was. Come to Auntie Zoe?’

Flora went willingly, and at once began to investigate the dangling, sparkly earrings Zoe was wearing.

‘Hands off, monster,’ Zoe told her, pushing her small pink hands down. ‘Into everything, aren’t you? Boy, am I glad I don’t have any kids.’

‘Time you had some,’ Sancha said, getting a sardonic look from Zoe.

‘Says who? You’re no advertisement for the maternal state. Every time I see you, you look worse. How about a cup of coffee, or are you too busy?’

‘Of course I’m not.’ Sancha walked through into the kitchen and Zoe followed her. She was wearing what she no doubt thought of as ‘casual’ clothes—elegant, tight-fitting black leather trousers, a vivid emerald silk top. Sancha inspected them with envy. They were probably designer clothes, their cut was so good; they had ‘chic’ written all over them and had undoubtedly cost an arm and a leg.

She couldn’t afford clothes like that—and even if she could she would never be able to wear them. Flora would ruin them in no time, would spill food on them, crayon all over them or be sick on them. Flora had a dozen charming ways of ruining clothes, and all without really trying. You couldn’t accuse her of doing it deliberately.

They wouldn’t look that good on Sancha, anyway. Zoe, however, was dazzling whatever she wore—a tall woman, already thirty-two, with flame-red hair and cat-like green eyes, beautiful, sophisticated, clever, talented and highly paid. She worked for a TV production company, and was currently making a four-part series of a bestseller novel with household names in the starring roles.

She had a small cottage outside town, but was barely there because her work took her all over the world. You never knew where she would be filming next. Last year she had worked on films in Spain and California. So far this year all her work had been back home, in the United Kingdom.

The sisters had always been very close, and since Sancha had got married they still saw a good deal of each other; Zoe was Sancha’s closest friend, although their lives were so different.

Zoe’s private life was usually as busy as her career. Sancha could not keep up with the men Zoe dated, often very starry, famous men, but none of them had ever been important enough for Zoe to introduce them to her sister, or her parents, which meant she’d never considered marrying them, or even setting up house with them. The only thing that mattered to Zoe seemed to be her career.

Before she’d met Mark, Sancha had been set on a career, too, but in photography, not films. She had been working for a top Bond Street photographer, specialising in the fashion business, and had had her eyes set on the heights. One day she’d meant to have her own salon, make her name world-famous. She had had dreams.

Mark’s arrival in her life had changed all that. One minute she was focused entirely on her work—the next it didn’t matter a damn to her. Only Mark mattered. She forgot everything but being with him, loving him, going to bed with him. He ate up her entire life.

Zoe had had very few problems in climbing to the top; her abilities were too outstanding and her personality too powerful. Sancha had grown up in her shadow, knowing she was not as beautiful or as brilliant. She might have been overshadowed by Zoe, lost confidence in herself—instead she had competed with her, in a perfectly cheerful way, had been determined to be as successful as her older sister, make her own name, become famous.

The competition between them had ended when Sancha got married and had children. She no longer cared about success, about beating Zoe; she was too happy to think about a career any more. In fact, the only time she touched a camera lately was to take pictures of her children.

Putting Flora into her highchair, Zoe opened the fridge and found some orange juice, poured a little into a mug and gave it to her, then sat down at the pine table, keeping a safe distance from her little niece and the possibility of getting splashed with juice.

Sancha made coffee, keeping her back to Zoe. ‘How’s the filming going? Smoothly, or are there problems?’

‘Only one problem—the casting director insisted on picking Hal Thaxford.’ Zoe’s dry voice made Sancha smile. She had heard her sister’s views on Hal Thaxford before.

‘I know you don’t like him—but he’s quite a good actor, isn’t he?’

‘He wouldn’t know how to act his way out of a paper bag. The man doesn’t act. He just stands about with folded arms, glowering like Heathcliff, or snarls his lines.’

‘He’s sexy, though,’ teased Sancha, getting down the mugs and pouring the coffee the way Zoe liked it—black and unsugared.

She almost dropped both mugs when she turned and found Zoe reading the letter Sancha had left on the table.

Zoe looked up and their eyes met. ‘So that’s why you look like death warmed up.’

First white, then scarlet, Sancha snapped, ‘How dare you read my letters?’

Putting down the coffee so suddenly it spilled a little, she snatched the letter from her sister.

Zoe was unrepentant. ‘It was open; I couldn’t help seeing a few words. Once I’d done that, I had to know the rest.’ She stared at Sancha with sharp, narrowed eyes. ‘Is it true?’

Sancha sat down, pushing the crumpled letter into her jeans pocket. ‘Of course not!’

There was a little silence and Zoe frowned at her sister, her face disbelieving. ‘Did you recognise her handwriting?’

Startled, Sancha shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she thought briefly. ‘What makes you think it was written by a woman?’

Zoe’s bright red mouth curled cynically. ‘They always are. Men get at people in other ways. They either come right out with it, give you a smack, or they make funny phone calls...heavy breathing... whispered threats...that sort of thing. But women send poison pen letters, usually hysterical stuff about sex. Obviously this is from someone in Mark’s office; maybe someone who fancies him herself, but never got a second look and is jealous of this assistant of his.’

Flora had drunk all her juice; she began banging her mug violently on her highchair tray. Zoe winced and took the mug away from her.

‘How do you stand it all day long? It would drive me crazy.’

Sancha picked Flora up and carried her over to her playpen; Flora immediately picked up a toy elephant and crushed it lovingly to her.

‘Mine effelunt,’ she cooed. ‘Mine, mine.’

Sancha ran a hand over the child’s red curls. ‘You know, she’s just like you,’ she told her sister, who looked indignant.

‘Do you mind? I was never that over-active or exhausting.’

‘Oh, yes, you were—Mum says you nearly drove her out of her mind. And you haven’t really changed, either.’

Zoe contemplated her niece, who stared back then put out her small pink tongue, clutching the elephant tighter.

‘Effelunt mine,’ she said, knowing her aunt to be very well capable of taking the toy away from her.

‘Monster,’ Zoe said automatically, then asked a little uneasily, ‘Is she really like me, or were you joking?’

‘It’s no joke. Of course she is,’ Sancha told her, sitting down at the table again, and her sister shuddered before turning thoughtful eyes back to Sancha’s face.

‘So what are you going to do about this letter?’

Sancha shrugged, drinking some more of her coffee before saying, ‘Ignore it, burn it in the Aga—that’s where it belongs.’

‘You’re really sure it’s a lie?’ Zoe’s eyes were shrewdly bright. She knew her sister far too well not to suspect she wasn’t being entirely honest. Sancha’s face, her eyes, her whole manner, were far too betraying.

Suddenly admitting the truth, Sancha gave a little wail. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It never entered my head until I got that letter, but it could be... We haven’t been getting on too well for months, not really since Flora was born. First I was tired and depressed, and I couldn’t...didn’t want to. I don’t know why—maybe my libido was flat after having three babies so close together. Mark was very good, at first, but it drifted on and on; we hardly talk, these days, let alone... It must be months since we...’

‘Made love?’ supplied Zoe when she stopped, and Sancha nodded, her face out of control now, anguished, tears standing in her eyes.

Zoe got up hurriedly, came round to put an arm round her, holding her tight.

‘Don’t, Sancha. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Sancha pulled herself together after a minute, rubbed a hand across her wet eyes. Zoe gave her a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes with it and then blew her nose.

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, for heaven’s sake!’ Zoe exploded. ‘In your place I’d be screaming the place down and breaking things, including Mark’s neck! If you’ve been too tired to make love it’s because of his children, after all! It takes two. They’re as much his problem as yours. You’ll have to tell him, Sancha, show him the letter—if it is a lie you’ll know when you see his face, and if it’s true he won’t be able to hide that, either.’

Sancha looked at her bleakly. ‘And then what do I do? If Mark tells me it’s true and he’s having an affair? How do I react to that? Do I say, Oh, well, carry on! I just wanted to know. Or do I give him some sort of ultimatum—me or her, choose now! And what if he chooses her? What if be walks out and leaves me and the children?’

‘If he’s likely to do that you’re better off knowing now. You can’t bury your head in the sand, pretend it isn’t happening or hope it will all go away. Where’s your pride, for heaven’s sake?’

Anguish made Sancha want to weep, but she fought it down, struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘There are more important things than pride!’

‘Is there anything more important than your marriage?’ Zoe demanded. ‘Come on, Sancha, you’ve got to face up to this. Do you know...what was her name? Jacqui something? What’s she like?’