wine she’d resorted to felt like hydrochloric acid swirling round in her gut.
How did life manage to do this? Trip you up when you least expected it? When as far as you knew you hadn’t done anything to deserve it? In the blink of an eye, all her security had gone. She had made a grave error of judgement about the man she was supposed to be spending the rest of her life with; the man whose babies she had been trying to have. Yet again she thanked goodness she wasn’t pregnant. How would she have coped with that? Homeless, with a jailbird for a father? In the meantime, how were they supposed to manage? How long before your house was actually repossessed? Would they take her stuff as well as his? Was her name going to be dragged through the mud?
She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow, longing for sleep but knowing that it wouldn’t come. Next to her, she heard Ed’s breathing become deeper, and she felt filled with rage. How could he sleep, knowing what he had done, while she was wide awake with worry?
She sat up and grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt.
‘You bastard!’
‘Jesus!’
He started awake and sat up in alarm.
‘What is it?’
She was sobbing violently, totally out of control. He put his arms around her, and she longed to be able to sink into them, longed to hear his reassurance. That was what husbands were for, wasn’t it? They were supposed to be your rock. They were supposed to make you feel safe. Not terrified. Petrified of the next day and what it might bring.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey, it’s OK.’
‘How can you say that?’ she demanded.
She pushed his arms away and jumped out of the bed. She couldn’t bear to be near him a moment longer. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible. Outside the spare room she stopped. It was four o’clock in the morning. Where else was she going to go?
Ed stood in the doorway of their bedroom behind her.
‘Charlotte. Sweetheart. Come back to bed.’
‘Leave me alone,’ she snarled. ‘And I’m not your sweetheart.’
For a moment she thought he was going to protest, then he sighed and slipped back into their room.
She pushed open the door of the spare room and clambered into the spare bed, grateful that she always kept it made up with fresh linen in case one of Ed’s mates stayed over after a boozy evening. She was also glad that she kept the room well equipped, second-guessing every guest’s need: she found a pair of ear plugs in the chest of drawers, along with pillow mist, condoms and a box of Alka Seltzer. Satisfied that they would shut out the almost deafening dawn chorus, she curled up and eventually fell asleep.
She woke at half eleven the next morning, confused for a moment as to why she was in the spare room. And then she remembered. She pulled the duvet over her head, trying to take refuge from the painful truth, but it wouldn’t go away. She was going to have to face the day, the consequences, Ed . . .
Feeling sick at heart she pushed back the covers and climbed wearily out of bed. She was still dressed from the night before; she felt grubby, worn at the edges, exhausted from the shock. Her limbs ached, her head throbbed, her eyes were gritty with unshed tears. She decided to have a shower, put on some fresh clothes and go to get some food. She hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast the day before, and although she didn’t feel like eating, she knew she would feel better if she did.
There was no sign of Ed as she crept into the bathroom and stood under a red-hot shower for ten minutes, allowing the powerful jets to pummel some life back into her. She pulled a pair of tracksuit trousers and a sweatshirt from the airing cupboard on the landing, picked up her shoes and went downstairs, stopping to rummage in her handbag on the newel post for her purse.
Then she opened the front door.
No sooner had she set her foot on
How did life manage to do this? Trip you up when you least expected it? When as far as you knew you hadn’t done anything to deserve it? In the blink of an eye, all her security had gone. She had made a grave error of judgement about the man she was supposed to be spending the rest of her life with; the man whose babies she had been trying to have. Yet again she thanked goodness she wasn’t pregnant. How would she have coped with that? Homeless, with a jailbird for a father? In the meantime, how were they supposed to manage? How long before your house was actually repossessed? Would they take her stuff as well as his? Was her name going to be dragged through the mud?
She rolled over, pressing her face into the pillow, longing for sleep but knowing that it wouldn’t come. Next to her, she heard Ed’s breathing become deeper, and she felt filled with rage. How could he sleep, knowing what he had done, while she was wide awake with worry?
She sat up and grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt.
‘You bastard!’
‘Jesus!’
He started awake and sat up in alarm.
‘What is it?’
She was sobbing violently, totally out of control. He put his arms around her, and she longed to be able to sink into them, longed to hear his reassurance. That was what husbands were for, wasn’t it? They were supposed to be your rock. They were supposed to make you feel safe. Not terrified. Petrified of the next day and what it might bring.
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Hey, it’s OK.’
‘How can you say that?’ she demanded.
She pushed his arms away and jumped out of the bed. She couldn’t bear to be near him a moment longer. She wanted to get as far away from him as possible. Outside the spare room she stopped. It was four o’clock in the morning. Where else was she going to go?
Ed stood in the doorway of their bedroom behind her.
‘Charlotte. Sweetheart. Come back to bed.’
‘Leave me alone,’ she snarled. ‘And I’m not your sweetheart.’
For a moment she thought he was going to protest, then he sighed and slipped back into their room.
She pushed open the door of the spare room and clambered into the spare bed, grateful that she always kept it made up with fresh linen in case one of Ed’s mates stayed over after a boozy evening. She was also glad that she kept the room well equipped, second-guessing every guest’s need: she found a pair of ear plugs in the chest of drawers, along with pillow mist, condoms and a box of Alka Seltzer. Satisfied that they would shut out the almost deafening dawn chorus, she curled up and eventually fell asleep.
She woke at half eleven the next morning, confused for a moment as to why she was in the spare room. And then she remembered. She pulled the duvet over her head, trying to take refuge from the painful truth, but it wouldn’t go away. She was going to have to face the day, the consequences, Ed . . .
Feeling sick at heart she pushed back the covers and climbed wearily out of bed. She was still dressed from the night before; she felt grubby, worn at the edges, exhausted from the shock. Her limbs ached, her head throbbed, her eyes were gritty with unshed tears. She decided to have a shower, put on some fresh clothes and go to get some food. She hadn’t eaten properly since breakfast the day before, and although she didn’t feel like eating, she knew she would feel better if she did.
There was no sign of Ed as she crept into the bathroom and stood under a red-hot shower for ten minutes, allowing the powerful jets to pummel some life back into her. She pulled a pair of tracksuit trousers and a sweatshirt from the airing cupboard on the landing, picked up her shoes and went downstairs, stopping to rummage in her handbag on the newel post for her purse.
Then she opened the front door.
No sooner had she set her foot on
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