Read Online Marriage and Other Games by Veronica Henry - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Veronica Henry
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something nasty? As if fraudulent tendencies were transmitted like germs through the air?
As she started up the ignition and drove out, she saw Davina wheeling her shopping towards her car. Charlotte quailed for a moment, feeling the urge to duck down behind the steering wheel so she wouldn’t be noticed, unable to face the ignominy of being blanked again. Then she gave herself a talking-to. She wasn’t going to be a victim of this hideous situation.
She wound down the window and stuck out her head, waving madly, determined to confront her, determined that she should be recognised.
‘Yoo hoo!’
Davina looked up, startled, then stood petrified in the middle of the car park, clearly searching her mental guide to etiquette for the appropriate greeting.
‘Hello!’ she responded eventually, her voice an octave higher than usual, her face fixed in a false grin. ‘Must dash - my frozen goods are melting.’
She shot between two cars, even though there was barely enough room for the trolley to pass between them. Charlotte left her engine idling for a moment, knowing that Davina was trapped, that she couldn’t come out until she was sure Charlotte had gone. But eventually someone gave an impatient pip behind her and so she drove off.
When she got back home, Ed was ashen.
‘I called Simon,’ he told her. ‘I called him to apologise. And to try to explain.’
Charlotte started unpacking food from the plastic bags. Ed raked his fingers through his crop. His voice was shaking.
‘He told me that using my wife’s infertility to justify my crime was lower than low. That he would have preferred it if I had just admitted to wanting to make a fast buck, as that would have made me more of a man.’
Charlotte looked at a pot of Greek yoghurt with honey, as if it might have some sort of answer written on the label.
‘Stop looking for absolution, Ed,’ she said. ‘There is no justification for what you did.’
She slammed the pot down on the island and it promptly burst open. Yoghurt shot everywhere. Over the work surface. Over the shopping. Over Ed.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he swore violently. ‘Jesus! What did you do that for?’
Charlotte looked at him coldly.
‘It was an accident. I didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t pre-meditated . . .’
She couldn’t believe she was so bitter; that the words falling from her mouth were so unreservedly acerbic.
Ed stood there, splattered in white, as if someone had flicked a paintbrush full of emulsion over him, and seemed to deflate before her very eyes.
‘Why doesn’t anybody understand?’ he asked. ‘The only person who seems to get what I did is my mother.’
‘That’s what mothers are for, isn’t it? Unconditional love?’ She spat this back at him, and he sank onto a stool, his head in his hands.
‘I had no idea you could be so cruel.’
‘We’re learning a lot about each other, aren’t we?’ retorted Charlotte, opening the fridge and feeling an overwhelming urge to climb in and shut the door, then curl up inside its cool white walls to become gradually, comfortably numb.
It was over. She knew she would never be able to trust him again. Or respect him. She felt sure she could feel her heart break in two as she made the decision; there was a physical pain deep inside her chest that wouldn’t go away.
Things went from bad to worse.
On Friday, on page five of one of the red-tops, there was a picture of Charlotte parked in front of the Gucci flagship store on Bond Street, climbing out of Ed’s Porsche, which she had borrowed the day before to go to drop off some samples to a client who had been badgering her.
With her sleek groomed mane, her designer clothes and her fifty-thousand-pound Porsche, Charlotte Briggs carries on with life quite oblivious to the fact that her husband has deprived any number of terminally ill children of a comfortable
As she started up the ignition and drove out, she saw Davina wheeling her shopping towards her car. Charlotte quailed for a moment, feeling the urge to duck down behind the steering wheel so she wouldn’t be noticed, unable to face the ignominy of being blanked again. Then she gave herself a talking-to. She wasn’t going to be a victim of this hideous situation.
She wound down the window and stuck out her head, waving madly, determined to confront her, determined that she should be recognised.
‘Yoo hoo!’
Davina looked up, startled, then stood petrified in the middle of the car park, clearly searching her mental guide to etiquette for the appropriate greeting.
‘Hello!’ she responded eventually, her voice an octave higher than usual, her face fixed in a false grin. ‘Must dash - my frozen goods are melting.’
She shot between two cars, even though there was barely enough room for the trolley to pass between them. Charlotte left her engine idling for a moment, knowing that Davina was trapped, that she couldn’t come out until she was sure Charlotte had gone. But eventually someone gave an impatient pip behind her and so she drove off.
When she got back home, Ed was ashen.
‘I called Simon,’ he told her. ‘I called him to apologise. And to try to explain.’
Charlotte started unpacking food from the plastic bags. Ed raked his fingers through his crop. His voice was shaking.
‘He told me that using my wife’s infertility to justify my crime was lower than low. That he would have preferred it if I had just admitted to wanting to make a fast buck, as that would have made me more of a man.’
Charlotte looked at a pot of Greek yoghurt with honey, as if it might have some sort of answer written on the label.
‘Stop looking for absolution, Ed,’ she said. ‘There is no justification for what you did.’
She slammed the pot down on the island and it promptly burst open. Yoghurt shot everywhere. Over the work surface. Over the shopping. Over Ed.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he swore violently. ‘Jesus! What did you do that for?’
Charlotte looked at him coldly.
‘It was an accident. I didn’t do it on purpose. It wasn’t pre-meditated . . .’
She couldn’t believe she was so bitter; that the words falling from her mouth were so unreservedly acerbic.
Ed stood there, splattered in white, as if someone had flicked a paintbrush full of emulsion over him, and seemed to deflate before her very eyes.
‘Why doesn’t anybody understand?’ he asked. ‘The only person who seems to get what I did is my mother.’
‘That’s what mothers are for, isn’t it? Unconditional love?’ She spat this back at him, and he sank onto a stool, his head in his hands.
‘I had no idea you could be so cruel.’
‘We’re learning a lot about each other, aren’t we?’ retorted Charlotte, opening the fridge and feeling an overwhelming urge to climb in and shut the door, then curl up inside its cool white walls to become gradually, comfortably numb.
It was over. She knew she would never be able to trust him again. Or respect him. She felt sure she could feel her heart break in two as she made the decision; there was a physical pain deep inside her chest that wouldn’t go away.
Things went from bad to worse.
On Friday, on page five of one of the red-tops, there was a picture of Charlotte parked in front of the Gucci flagship store on Bond Street, climbing out of Ed’s Porsche, which she had borrowed the day before to go to drop off some samples to a client who had been badgering her.
With her sleek groomed mane, her designer clothes and her fifty-thousand-pound Porsche, Charlotte Briggs carries on with life quite oblivious to the fact that her husband has deprived any number of terminally ill children of a comfortable
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