Bothwell, 9 miles from Glasgow. After the bells
The people in her house were unknown to Kim, although she had no problem recognising them as sycophants and hangers-on. Star fuckers and false-faces. None of them were friends; Sean had no friends. They ignored her, while he took their adulation in his stride, enjoying the role of king of the hill.
They chanted his name like the idiots they were. Sean! Sean! Sean! Sean!
He stood on a chair in the middle of the room, swaying; acting drunk. He wasn’t. That would mean being out of control, and Sean Rafferty had to be in control. Sean smiled down on them, called for silence, and raised his glass.
‘May you be half an hour in heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.’
They roared their approval.
Kim went upstairs and sat in the rocking chair beside the cot, watching Rosie sleep, listening to the steady rise and fall of her breathing. This was the miracle they had created. Eventually, she made her way back down and started looking for Sean. No sign. Perhaps he was in the study, on the phone, as usual. It wasn’t fair to dump a bunch of strangers on her and just disappear. That said, she doubted any of the toadying bastards had noticed. So long as the booze kept flowing, they would be happy.
The hall was deserted. She stopped outside the door and turned the handle, expecting it to be locked, surprised when it opened. He stood with his back to her; trousers round his ankles, grunting like an animal. A woman was spread across the desk beneath him. She was naked, her bare legs wrapped round his waist, binding him to her. One high-heeled Bionda Castana hung from her foot; the other had landed beside her dress and underwear.
Everything on the desk had been violently swept away – even the photograph of Rosie was broken. It lay on the floor, the glass in the gold frame cracked from top to bottom. In future, no matter how hard Kim Rafferty tried to erase the scene from her mind, that image would not delete.
Rafferty bent forward, his open mouth searching and finding one erect nipple then the other. His partner moaned, her thighs tightening as her lover pounded her.
Kim neither needed, nor expected, her husband to be faithful. She wasn’t hurt or jealous. He could have as many whores as he pleased and service them as often as he liked for all she cared. Except not in their house while their daughter slept upstairs.
Rafferty lifted the woman’s legs over his shoulders and thrust into her more deeply than before. She arched her back and climaxed, long and loud.
It was almost over, and if Sean turned around he would see her. Kim edged out of the room, carefully closing the door. There were tears in her eyes, not of sorrow but of anger. When the assured, well-dressed stranger introduced himself at the Miss Scotland final, Kim had known exactly who she was talking to, and accepted his dinner invitation with full knowledge of where it might lead, and what it might mean. On the beach in Antigua, he’d told her he cared for her because he thought it was something she needed to hear him say. Sean Rafferty was wrong. Kim’s mind was already made up; he would ask her to marry him. She would say yes and take the comfortable life on offer.
Love hadn’t come into it, yet there was a moment under the moon and the stars when she’d almost believed she loved him. It passed, as it was always going to. This was the reality, and the thieves and liars cheering him and chanting his name – begging to be bought, or already paid for – understood. Kim would never speak of what she’d seen tonight. She would go on smiling into his eyes, even as she shuddered at his touch.
Not forever; for now.
In the lounge, a man with dull eyes came towards her, shaking an empty wine bottle. He turned it upside down and spoke to Kim in a slurred voice, heavy with disappointment and disbelief.
‘Champagne’s run out.’
‘Has it? That means it’s time for you to leave.’