The Winter Secret

Upstairs in the flat, Buttercup closed the door and leaned against it, still trembling. It had been close. Rich had almost seen them with the cabinet open and files on Elaine’s desk. She hoped that Rose had found an opportunity to secure the padlock before he noticed it was open, but there was only a slim chance that he would spot that, surely.

She went through to the sitting room and sat down on the sofa, gazing out unseeing over the already darkening London skyline. Lights below were flashing and twinkling, as streams of traffic moved slowly below the streetlights and Christmas decorations. Buttercup was almost numb from everything she had felt in the last hour, confused by everything she had learned, and at such a pace.

All the subterfuge and lies and concealment; the spying and watching and pretending. Did Charles think he was some kind of spymaster, a master controller, keeping tabs on his underlings?

She was torn between outrage, sadness and bewilderment, but most of all she felt as if she had taken a misstep and lost her balance, feeling the world move beneath her unexpectedly. She had regained her balance but everything had changed, though she didn’t quite know what from, or what to.

She knew the answer to that: he was a successful businessman, a charming raconteur and energetic embracer of all life had to offer, a father and her husband. She had fallen in love with that Charles, and taken him at face value too.

‘My mother brought us two boys up as best she could when my father did the dirty and ran out on her, leaving her penniless,’ he’d told her. ‘Then she married again, and we lived in France with the stepfather until I got sent away to boarding school here in England thanks to a bequest from my grandfather. My brother was always her favourite, she made no secret of that. She still finds it hard to tell me how well I’ve done, no matter how high I climb up the tree. But Robert, in his little place in Austria composing music no one has ever listened to and never will . . . he’s a triumph, naturally.’ Charles had laughed and his blue eyes had sparkled over the top of his glass as he drank his wine.

She’d laughed too. Perhaps there was something in what he said that she had missed. But what is he so frightened of?

Someone could only control that much if they feared loss, surely. She thought of the young Charles, the one who had lost his father.

‘Did you ever see your father again?’ she’d asked, when it had come up in some conversation. ‘He left your mother when you were seven years old, and that was that?’

‘Funny you should ask. Actually I decided to find him about ten years ago. I hired a private detective and had him tracked down. He didn’t want to see me, but I insisted. We had a lunch together, at the best restaurant in Brussels, which was where he was living. I made sure he knew what I thought of him walking out on us, and what I’d achieved despite him – and that he’d never see a penny of it.’ Charles had grinned. ‘He was not well and rather poor, with wife number three sitting next to him hoping for a handout. That was my little revenge on him. Not noble, but there we are.’

Buttercup hadn’t blamed him. She’d been utterly on his side. ‘Good! I hope you told him what for!’

Buttercup looked down and realised she was still holding the piece of paper she had taken from the office. She hadn’t meant to walk away with anything from the file, but here it was. A letter. Turning it over, she saw that it was signed by Ingrid. It was addressed to Charles.

Looking at it, she felt at once she shouldn’t read it. Then she almost laughed out loud.

‘I shouldn’t read it!’ she exclaimed. ‘I should respect Charles’s privacy. As if he’s respected any aspect of my privacy for the last two years! Ha!’

Dear Charles

I understand that you’re hurt and angry and that you believe I have done you the worst wrong imaginable. In some ways, it’s easy for you to believe that because sexual infidelity is, as everybody knows, a sin. But you are not blameless in this, though I know you want to think that you are. Why do you think I wanted to betray you in this way? Is it because I’m simply wicked, and must be punished? Do you think I succumbed to lustful desire for Joachim and acted on it without any thought for you and your feelings?

You must know in your heart that isn’t the case.

For years I have tried to tell you how unhappy you were making me. I longed to work and you forbade it. You destroyed my friendships by not allowing my friends to visit. You alienated my family with your attitude to them, and eventually shut them out of our lives altogether. Worse than that is the way I was always, constantly spied on. Do you think I didn’t know that all the staff were paid to report on me and what I did and who I saw? You controlled everything about my environment, from the money I spent to the food I ate. You chose my clothes, my jewellery, my shoes. You made every decision about the children without consulting me. You treated me not as a wife and a partner but as your possession, owned by you.

I have tried to tell you this, many times. I wanted the old Charles, the one I married. Loving and caring and full of fun. But you would not listen to me. You made me feel isolated, unloved and desperate.

I didn’t mean to fall in love with Joachim, but it happened. He honestly, genuinely loves me, and he has opened my eyes to what my life is like. There may not be a future for the two of us – he’s younger than me, less battered and bruised – but his love has given me the strength to do what I should have done years ago, and get myself and the children out.

I know you will never forgive me for this, and that you’ll continue to obsess over my infidelity as though it’s all that matters, and ignore what I am saying in this letter. You’ll carry on trying to punish and control me, and I will have to put up with that until the children are grown and I can be truly free. Maybe Joachim will wait for me, I don’t know. But in the end, I did this for me, for my survival. I hope one day you can understand.

Yours

Ingrid

At the bottom, in Charles’s handwriting, were two words in hard capitals: TREACHEROUS BITCH.

Buttercup put down the letter, her eyes wide and every nerve alert. Adrenaline flooded through her, making her heart pound.

Every word Ingrid had written – apart from her explanation of her infidelity – could have been written by her, Buttercup.

Her hands were shaking and she stared into space, panicked and almost disbelieving. Why hadn’t she seen it clearly before? Ingrid was right. Charles saw his wife – whether it be Ingrid or Buttercup – as a possession, not a person. Another of his precious acquisitions, to be kept locked away like the things in his Redmain museum. His anger over the broken plate was a faint echo of the rage he must have felt at another man winning his wife’s love, taking her away, making love to her . . .

No wonder he watches me so closely too. Perhaps he’s afraid that the same thing will happen again if he’s not careful.

But what am I going to do? I know the truth about Charles – what should I do?

This has to stop. Charles has to understand that he can’t do this to me. It’s the only way.

Buttercup left the next morning after a restless night of broken sleep and bad dreams. She wanted to be at home now, in her familiar place. This flat was too much Charles’s territory. She called in to see Rose on the way out.

‘Is everything okay?’ she asked, glancing over at the filing cabinet, which was locked again. ‘Did Rich notice the cabinet was open?’

Rose shook her head. ‘No. I locked it again after he left. But I’m sorry, Mrs R, I’m not going to open it again. I shouldn’t have done it in the first place – I daren’t get involved. Yesterday was such a close shave and I can’t afford to lose my job.’

She had been going to ask Rose to open the filing cabinet again so she could replace the letter, but she would keep it for the time being. The chances of it being missed were surely slim to non-existent.

‘Goodbye then, Rose,’ she said, picking up her overnight bag. ‘I’ll see you soon. And don’t worry, no one will know what you did for me. I promise.’

She barely saw the road on the drive home, her mind was so busy mulling over everything she had learned. Phrases from Ingrid’s letter played in her head, each one chiming like an echo of her own experience.

She wondered about the affair with the jouster. It seemed so romantic, so crazily old-fashioned to fall in love with a dashing knight on a charger, but she could imagine the thrill of watching a man in full armour riding a stallion bedecked in scarlet and silver. There would have the ground-shaking thud of hooves as the horses galloped towards one another, the clash of wood and steel as the lances met or struck on a shield, the cheers and shouts of the crowd in support of one or other of the riders. It must have been incredibly exciting.

And, yes, romantic. No wonder Charles is obsessed with the whole thing. He loves heroes – like his beloved Captain Redmain – but he could never be like that himself. He isn’t big or macho or strong. Ingrid certainly picked someone guaranteed to make him feel inadequate. Even so, I’m sure it’s beyond him to understand how she could prefer a travelling jouster over all his money and luxury.

Now, she realised, when she thought of Charles, she could no longer see the exuberant, affectionate man she married; she was not quite sure yet what she saw instead.

And he’s lied to me about so many things. What else might he be lying about?

As she came into the village and drove down the lane towards Charcombe Park, she had a strong impulse to stop and call in at Fitzroy House. In the light of what she had learned, she felt now as if she knew Ingrid, that they had a kinship, and that she was the only other person in the world who knew how Buttercup felt. She slowed the car, but the sight of the lights on in the house drained her courage, so she drove on through the gates and up the drive.

The view of Charcombe Park looming at the end of the drive filled her with a kind of dread. The house she had once loved seemed like a prison now. Once inside, she would be back in her gilded cage, waiting for her master to return. She had a strong urge to turn the car around and speed away while she still could.

But I can’t. Where would I go? I can’t throw my marriage away without trying to put it right. Perhaps if I talk to him, if I’m honest with him, we can find a way through this. I’ll tell him about the clinic, tell him I know that he monitors me. I’ll see if I can make him tell the truth about Ingrid too. If we can just be honest with each other, maybe we can still save this.

I’m not going to let this end without trying to save it. I owe him – and myself – that much.