Buttercup dashed out into the hall, feeling as if she was suffocating. The noise coming from downstairs told her that some of the guests had arrived and more were coming. She stopped on the landing, gulping for air, as though the atmosphere in the Redmain room had been fetid and rotten. Charles came up swiftly behind her.
‘This isn’t going to happen,’ he said ominously. ‘You’re not leaving me.’
‘Yes, it is. I’m going.’
He reached out swiftly and took her hand. She whisked it away as if she had touched something red hot.
‘No!’ she cried. ‘Not any more. Never again.’
Suddenly, to her surprise, his cold expression changed. His eyes were full of pain. ‘Why? Why? You have to tell me.’
She closed her eyes, her breath coming out in shaky exhalations. It all led to this, she could see it now. This moment had to come. Her time in the house and with Charles was almost up. Downstairs, she could hear laughter and children shouting, and the clinking of glasses. The front door was open and a stream of people were coming in. They would be looking for her and Charles soon.
I need to go. Now. I just don’t know where.
She opened her eyes. ‘All right, Charles. If you insist. Just so you know that there’s no coming back.’ She took a breath, still rocked with pain when she thought about it. It needs to be said. The last secret between us has to be dragged out into the open. ‘There’s the little matter of the operation you had, that you decided not to tell me about. The month after I got pregnant, you booked yourself into a private hospital in London for a vasectomy. It’s in your medical file, there’s no point in denying it. I never had a hope of conceiving with you. You didn’t want any more children, and the strange thing is that somehow I guessed that you didn’t. But it never occurred to me that you might do such an awful thing – string me along, letting me go through it all, month after month, hoping and waiting and having the crashing disappointment when it didn’t happen . . . when all along you knew that I wouldn’t get pregnant. No wonder you refused to go to the fertility clinic. It would have taken them about five minutes to work out that you weren’t producing anything.’
Charles’s face was closed, his eyes cool. He’d been caught, but she could see that with one easy leap, he discarded the old state of affairs and moved on, only thinking of how he could make the best of the current situation.
He’s not sorry, she realised with a horrible stab of pain. He’s not remorseful at all. Oh my God. He’s not sorry.
Charles took a deep breath and put his hands up. ‘Okay. Yes. You’re right. I know – it’s inexcusable.’
‘I agree,’ she said simply. I don’t even sound angry. Any last, small vestige of her old love for him withered and died. He’s not sorry. At least he’s making this easy for me. He’s killed my love like he killed our chance of a family together.
‘It was madness. I don’t know why I did it. I can have the operation reversed, if that’s what you want.’
‘And that will make it all better, will it?’ She smiled bitterly. ‘I don’t think so, Charles. Can’t you see? You deceived me. Our life together is at an end. You can stay here with your beloved Captain Redmain. The pair of you make a perfect partnership.’
She turned and began to walk away down the hall. Charles strode after her and grabbed her arm, pulling her round to face him.
‘You don’t do that,’ he hissed, his eyes blazing. ‘You don’t just walk away from me. You do as I say. I’ve given you everything you ever wanted. You’ve lived a life of luxury, thanks to me. You’d better think hard about what a cold world it is out there without my protection and how tough I can make things. And you know what? I’m still willing to forgive this madness, if you agree to stay. I let you have your little scene last night – you got to scream and cry and make your ugly accusations. That’s out of your system. Now it’s time to grow up and accept reality. But if you walk out the door, you’ll never come back here. I can promise you that.’
His fingers dug hard into her arm. She tried to shake him free but his grip got tighter. ‘Let go of me! I’d rather die than stay with you!’ She glared at him, her eyes full of agony. ‘You didn’t give me everything I ever wanted – you took it away! You can’t understand that even now.’ She stopped, her face contorting with the torment of it, pain twisting in her gut so hard she thought she might fall if Charles hadn’t been holding her.
‘You little fool,’ he rapped out. ‘You’re a stupid child. I won’t allow this. You’re not going.’ He grabbed her other arm and she stared at him, shocked and afraid. ‘If you do, you’ll regret it forever.’
‘Let me go right now! You’re hurting me!’
He was staring at her, his blue eyes hard and glassy as though he was partly listening to a voice in his head. He was breathing hard, his jaw set, his grip tighter than ever.
‘I mean it!’ she exclaimed, but he didn’t seem to be listening. ‘You’re hurting me. Stop it, let me go.’
‘Hello, here you are!’ said a cheerful voice behind them.
Charles loosened his grip on her arms and Buttercup turned to see Cathy Tranter coming up the stairs, followed by Wilf. She tried to pull herself together, but she felt numbed and disconnected from the world going on just below them, still feeling Charles’s fingers digging painfully into her skin even though he had released his hold. ‘Oh – hello, Cathy . . . Wilf . . . We were just coming down, weren’t we, Charles?’
He didn’t seem to hear anything, but stared at Buttercup with a fierce, implacable gaze.
‘Charles, are you all right?’ asked Cathy, concerned, reaching them. She put her hand on his arm. He jumped violently, letting go of Buttercup completely. He looked dazed as he focused on Cathy, stuttered and found his voice.
‘Ah – yes! I . . . I’m perfectly fine. Let’s go down and join the others. Have you got a drink? Oh good. Good.’
Charles began to walk uncertainly across the landing then turned back, looking at Buttercup, his face set in a strange, stricken expression. ‘I’ll see you later, darling.’
She stared back at him. ‘Later,’ she said.
He walked away.
Downstairs, the party was in full swing. Children raced around or stuffed themselves with goodies; adults loitered, eating the plentiful canapés and sipping drinks; the hall was full of noise, heat and . . .
Eyes. Everybody’s looking at me, everybody’s watching me.
Cathy Tranter was talking to her as they moved through the crowd, pointing out Olly with a mince pie in each hand, and laughing, telling her about Bethany asleep at home, the Christmas rush at the pub and how well it was going.
Buttercup could hear her only vaguely, the voice coming in and out of her consciousness like a radio with the volume being turned up and down. She was aware of the many faces turning to her, the dozens of people who wanted an acknowledgement of their presence, a moment to talk to her and be polite. She saw Agnieska across the room, taking her two boys to look at the Christmas tree, and felt as though she remembered her only vaguely, from a long time ago. She walked on with Cathy, feeling as though she was drowning in the hubbub.
I don’t belong here. This isn’t my house. I have to get out of here.
But it was more than that. Charles had been a different man, in the grip of forces she didn’t understand.
I’m afraid. I have to get out while I still can.
She thought wildly of grabbing Cathy and asking her to take her to the pub.
I can’t. She wouldn’t understand. Besides, they have a new baby.
From the corner of her eye, she could see Charles. His public face was back on, he was moving about, chatting and shaking hands, greeting friends loudly and seeming carefree and full of the bonhomie of the season. But she’d seen behind that mask, and it frightened her. She could still feel the pressure of his fingers on her arm, and hear the threat in his voice. Fear prickled over her skin.
This is my chance to get away, while he’s not watching me. She thought of her bag packed upstairs. I can’t get it, he’ll see. I’ll leave it and get Carol to send it on.
She turned to Cathy. ‘I’m so sorry, will you excuse me? I must check on things in the kitchen. Let’s catch up soon, okay?’
‘Oh – yeah, sure,’ Cathy said. ‘Great party! Everyone’s having a fab time.’
‘Father Christmas is coming in a minute, make sure Olly gets a present. See you later.’
Buttercup turned and hurried in the direction of the kitchen, where the catering staff had taken over and were loading plates with fresh canapés and refilling jugs with mulled wine. She made her way through, muttering ‘excuse me, please, thanks so much’ until she reached the boot room, where she grabbed a coat, scarf and beanie hat and put them on over her red dress. She kicked off her silver trainers and stuffed her feet into wellington boots, then opened the back door and dashed outside, closing it on Tippi who had jumped up from her bed, eager for a walk.
In the courtyard at the back of the house, it was cold and dark, the snow whirling lightly in tissuey flakes where the light caught it. She began to march out of the courtyard towards the side of the house and the driveway. Suddenly she felt someone grab her arm and she gasped, turning around with blazing eyes.
‘It’s me,’ Phil said. He was wrapped up against the freezing weather, only the pale circle of his face visible between the dark bulk of his coat and woolly hat. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I have to get out of here,’ Buttercup said desperately. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘Don’t be sorry, you have nothing to apologise for. I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have talked to you a long time ago.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could have told you what you wanted to know: about Ingrid. All of the boss’s nasty little ways. The fact he was going down there to see her. I should have done that.’
‘It’s fine. You thought you were doing the right thing. It’s okay. Really.’ The wind was buffeting her, chilling her beneath her coat.
‘I’m sorry. That’s all.’ Phil looked up over the house’s towering brick chimneys, soaring up into the sky to be lost in the darkness. ‘It’s a beautiful place, no mistake, but there’s more to life than that. The heart is all wrong.’
‘Yes, that’s it. The heart is wrong.’ Buttercup smiled at him through the freezing air. ‘Thanks, Phil. See you later. One more thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Look after Milky for me. Make sure she gets lots of exercise.’
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll look after everything. Can I give you a lift somewhere?’
She hesitated, tempted. I don’t want him to know where I’m going. ‘No, thanks. I’ve got someone meeting me.’
‘Okay. If you’re sure.’
‘I am. Bye.’
She turned and started to head out into the darkness, where the drive was illuminated by lanterns along its length, to guide the visitors in.
Buttercup went along the side of the drive, half jogging, half stumbling in the dark. Cars went past her at intervals: guests for the party, heading up to the house, driving slowly through the snow. She pressed on through the cutting wind, intent on reaching the wrought-iron gates where upturned lights bathed the stone pillars in an orange glow and made the greyhounds on the top look like strange, otherworldly beasts poised to come alive, spring down and rampage along the lane. The gates were open for the visiting cars, and she slipped through unnoticed. As soon as she was outside the purlieus of the house, she felt a wild elation and broke into a run, sprinting as fast as she could in her wellington boots until she reached the gate she was looking for. It swung open under her hand, and she went up the path towards the front door, where the fanlight glowed above.
Oh, thank God. She’s back.
At the door, she looked about for a bell or knocker, and then saw an old dangling pull with an iron handle. She yanked on it and heard the rocking chime of a bell inside. Panting, she waited anxiously and then, after a minute or two, the door opened.
A woman stood just inside, disconcertingly normal, with dark hair loose around her face, wearing jeans and a long polo-necked jumper. She looked at Buttercup, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Well, well,’ she said drily. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to get here.’