the top step than a bevy of photographers rushed forwards, light bulbs popping. She froze in fear, wondering what on earth they were doing there, then realised they had probably been banging on the door since daybreak. With her ear plugs in, she wouldn’t have heard a thing.
Of course word would have got out. If the papers hadn’t got the sordid details from the police, then someone else would have been all too quick to inform them. Someone on the hospice committee, perhaps, hoping they could sweep up public sympathy and some nationwide exposure in the light of the scandal.
She was tempted for a moment to flee back inside. But she couldn’t stay locked in for ever. She needed to eat. And, she reminded herself, she wasn’t actually guilty of anything. Hiding from the press would make them even hungrier for dirt. So she held her head up high and descended the last of the steps, not looking straight at any of the cameras or the reporters who were jostling for her attention, firing questions at her. ‘Where are you off to, Charlotte? It is Charlotte, isn’t it?’ ‘Where’s Ed? Is he in there?’ ‘How do you feel about what your husband did?’
She put her head down and ran blindly to the car, her hands shaking as she put the key in the ignition. As the engine started up she pulled into the road, scattering photographers in her wake. They were wasting their time. She didn’t have anything to say. Yes, she could sit down and tell them how she really felt. Eviscerated. As if the last six years had been snuffed out like a candle. Hopeless. Bewildered. Betrayed. What would she get for selling her story? Not enough. Besides, she might no longer have her dignity, but she was going to hold on to her pride if it killed her.
She made it to the shop, and kept her head down in the queue. She bought a bag of Danish pastries and some doughnuts, and made her escape before she saw anyone she knew. Sunday morning here was usually a social whirl, as people compared hangovers and dithered over which overweight newspaper to take home. Thankfully she was spared the embarrassment of having to pretend to be polite, despite harbouring a ghastly secret that everyone would be privy to soon enough.
By the time she got home, Ed was sitting at the kitchen table. She dumped the pastries in front of him wordlessly, and went to get plates.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ he managed to ask.
Charlotte gripped the sides of the china she was carrying. How dare he try to pretend things were normal? She felt an overwhelming urge to throw the plates at his head, even though she wasn’t normally a violent creature.
‘No,’ she managed in a strangled voice. ‘I just want someone to tell me that this has all been a silly mistake. But that’s not going to happen, is it?’
Ed looked down at the table, spreading his hands out on it, taking in slow, deep breaths.
‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed eventually. ‘Charlotte . . . let’s try to get through this. Without—’
‘Without what?’ she demanded.
‘Without . . . doing any damage to us. I mean, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? You and me?’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Are you saying you want me to pretend it doesn’t matter? That it’s just a little hiccup?’
‘I screwed up. I know I screwed up.’
‘This isn’t something I can condone, or excuse, or rationalise. This puts a whole new light on the person you are, Ed.’
‘I was under stress. I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s been a tough few years. Even you’ve got to admit that.’
‘But this wasn’t something you did on the spur of the moment. You must have been planning it for months.’
‘No! Not until I heard about the buy-out. It just seemed like . . . such a great opportunity. We could change our lives in the blink of an eye without doing anyone any harm. It was a million to one that it went wrong. I guess I got
Of course word would have got out. If the papers hadn’t got the sordid details from the police, then someone else would have been all too quick to inform them. Someone on the hospice committee, perhaps, hoping they could sweep up public sympathy and some nationwide exposure in the light of the scandal.
She was tempted for a moment to flee back inside. But she couldn’t stay locked in for ever. She needed to eat. And, she reminded herself, she wasn’t actually guilty of anything. Hiding from the press would make them even hungrier for dirt. So she held her head up high and descended the last of the steps, not looking straight at any of the cameras or the reporters who were jostling for her attention, firing questions at her. ‘Where are you off to, Charlotte? It is Charlotte, isn’t it?’ ‘Where’s Ed? Is he in there?’ ‘How do you feel about what your husband did?’
She put her head down and ran blindly to the car, her hands shaking as she put the key in the ignition. As the engine started up she pulled into the road, scattering photographers in her wake. They were wasting their time. She didn’t have anything to say. Yes, she could sit down and tell them how she really felt. Eviscerated. As if the last six years had been snuffed out like a candle. Hopeless. Bewildered. Betrayed. What would she get for selling her story? Not enough. Besides, she might no longer have her dignity, but she was going to hold on to her pride if it killed her.
She made it to the shop, and kept her head down in the queue. She bought a bag of Danish pastries and some doughnuts, and made her escape before she saw anyone she knew. Sunday morning here was usually a social whirl, as people compared hangovers and dithered over which overweight newspaper to take home. Thankfully she was spared the embarrassment of having to pretend to be polite, despite harbouring a ghastly secret that everyone would be privy to soon enough.
By the time she got home, Ed was sitting at the kitchen table. She dumped the pastries in front of him wordlessly, and went to get plates.
‘Do you want a coffee?’ he managed to ask.
Charlotte gripped the sides of the china she was carrying. How dare he try to pretend things were normal? She felt an overwhelming urge to throw the plates at his head, even though she wasn’t normally a violent creature.
‘No,’ she managed in a strangled voice. ‘I just want someone to tell me that this has all been a silly mistake. But that’s not going to happen, is it?’
Ed looked down at the table, spreading his hands out on it, taking in slow, deep breaths.
‘No, it’s not,’ he agreed eventually. ‘Charlotte . . . let’s try to get through this. Without—’
‘Without what?’ she demanded.
‘Without . . . doing any damage to us. I mean, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? You and me?’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘Are you saying you want me to pretend it doesn’t matter? That it’s just a little hiccup?’
‘I screwed up. I know I screwed up.’
‘This isn’t something I can condone, or excuse, or rationalise. This puts a whole new light on the person you are, Ed.’
‘I was under stress. I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s been a tough few years. Even you’ve got to admit that.’
‘But this wasn’t something you did on the spur of the moment. You must have been planning it for months.’
‘No! Not until I heard about the buy-out. It just seemed like . . . such a great opportunity. We could change our lives in the blink of an eye without doing anyone any harm. It was a million to one that it went wrong. I guess I got
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