With no hope of sleeping, Claire sat in the kitchen nursing a large glass of wine and wishing to God she could cancel the stupid texts she’d sent Luke. She’d as good as told him their marriage was over. It had been a knee-jerk reaction. She’d been so hurt and confused by the comment he’d made before he’d walked out this morning, which had sounded very much like an ultimatum: him or her father. He must have known he was putting her in an impossible situation. He’d actually limped out, she recalled guiltily. He’d been attacked, humiliated, injured, and she hadn’t even asked how he was. She’d been selfish coming here, not factoring in the disruption to Luke’s life, to Ella’s, but she really hadn’t had any other choice. Her father had no one else but her. She’d had no one but him since she was seven years old, until she’d met Luke. And now she was driving Luke away.
The time had come to find someone else to look after her father. Her chest ached at that thought. She’d imagined she would have more time, but this insidious disease was no respecter of that, ravaging his mind with unremitting cruelty. Stripping him of his memory.
Looking again at her phone, she hoped there might be a response from Sophie, the woman who claimed to be her half-sister. Feeling as lonely as it was possible to be, even with her father and Ella upstairs, something had compelled her to message her back. She’d asked the only question she could: If you are who you say you are, then presumably you won’t mind sending me a copy of your birth certificate?
No reply. She felt peculiarly disappointed. Even knowing the can of worms this would open, which she could hardly bear to contemplate, a part of her wanted it to be true, wanted not to feel so alone with all of this. She sighed, finished her wine, and then headed upstairs in the hope of an hour’s rest before daybreak.
Wary of waking Ella, she crept along the landing, freezing for a second as she heard the distant creak of a floorboard. Pausing to listen, she soon realised it wasn’t her father, whose snores indicated he was dead to the world. The wood settling, that was all it was. Her dad had always tried to reassure her of that when she was little and her monster under the bed was the body that thudded down each step of the stairs to land bruised and broken at the foot of them. Feeling a tear roll down her cheek, she wiped it away. She hadn’t cried for her mum in a long time. She supposed she was doing so now because of the awful aching loneliness she felt inside.
Why had they stayed here? Her dad had talked about moving to a new house not long after her mum died. They’d been outside, sitting on the patio, looking out over the garden. Her mum had loved her garden, hanging bird feeders and nesting boxes, planting wild flowers and hedgerows to encourage wildlife. She would spend hours out there. It had seemed to Claire in the months prior to the accident that that was the only time she was really happy.
She wished her dad had talked more about Mum, shared his memories of her while he was lucid. Claire knew so little about her. Grief she’d thought she’d buried long ago suddenly overwhelming her, she walked across to her bedside table, flicked on her lamp and picked up the photograph she kept there. She had been just six months old when it was taken. Her mum was cradling her in her arms, smiling down at her. She must have been happy then too.
‘What happened, Mum?’ she whispered emotionally, asking the same question she’d asked over and over, never getting answers. What was it her mother had accused her father of driving her to do? Claire might have assumed she was blaming him for her drinking but for something else she’d heard her mother say before that last awful day: What happened was because of you, Bernard Harvey! Live with the consequences. I have to. Claire will. Your sordid little skeletons in cupboards are going to come back to haunt her one day too!
It had never stopped playing on her mind. Her father had said it was nothing but drunken rambling when she’d finally found the courage to ask him. Was it, though? Claire so needed to know what her mother had meant, especially now.
Shaking off the ghost that trod silently over her grave, she placed the photo back and went across to the dresser, opening the top drawer and pulling out the memory box she kept there: a shoebox containing mementos and photographs, one of which she had taken from her parents’ wedding album. In his light grey suit and blue tie, her dad had looked very dapper and handsome. Her mum, wearing a short silk shift dress, was standing on tiptoe, leaning in to kiss him. It was a beautiful photo of a couple seemingly very much in love. What had gone so badly wrong?
Delving deeper, she pulled out the few other photos she had, odd snapshots of away days and holidays, including some of her and her dad on their long-ago trip to Rhyl – the same town in which this Sophie lived. He’d been going on a business trip, one of many dealership visits he had to undertake as part of his job as regional sales manager for a leading car distributor. Claire had been on her long summer holidays and her mum had had one of her headaches, so he’d taken her with him, as he occasionally did. They’d visited the SeaQuarium, the miniature railway, the fun park. She’d been terrified of the sea, all the slippery, jellified things that might wriggle between her toes, but all the same, she’d learned to swim in it that day. Her dad had been so proud of her. She’d relished his attention, which she didn’t often get with him so often away on his road trips.
He’d treated her to a ‘grown-up’ meal as a reward, calling at a pretty little village pub on the way home. She’d felt very important as he’d introduced her to the lady behind the bar and asked for the best table in the house. He’d been chatting and smiling to the woman, she remembered. Wearing an animal-print blouse, pedal pushers and strappy leopard-skin shoes, the barmaid wasn’t easily forgettable. Claire had told her she thought she looked like Madonna. Her dad had winked at the woman and said, ‘But prettier.’ Claire felt a flutter of anger run through her as she realised now the innuendo passing between them.
Was this the woman he’d been pleading with when he’d grabbed hold of her wrist last night? She’d wondered whether he’d been imagining he was talking to her mother. Whether it was her mum who might have been seeing someone else. And if it had been? Would that make the secrets that seemed to be bubbling under the surface any more bearable?
She closed her eyes. She couldn’t think about all of this now. She so wished Luke was here. That she could lie safe in his arms while he held her. His presence was always enough to reassure her; his breath warm on her neck as he eased her close. He wasn’t likely to be here now, though, after she’d sent him those childish texts.
A deep sense of emptiness engulfing her, she returned the photographs to the box and reached for the perfume that was in there, a heady floral aroma somewhere between jasmine and mandarin. It always comforted her and reminded her of her mother. Spraying a little on her wrists, she sniffed it, and then closed the box and checked her phone again. She was about to click on Messenger when the screen indicated a message alert, causing her heart to jump.
She stilled her jittery nerves and opened the text. It was from her friend Gemma, who was out tonight checking out venues for her hen night. At the same time, she was doing Claire a huge favour. Opening the message, Claire quickly scanned it – and then froze.
So sorry, Claire. You did say you wanted to know, Gemma had sent, along with an attachment. Will ring you in a sec, sweetheart.
Claire’s breath hitched in her chest as she stared stunned at the attachment. Luke’s words rang sickeningly loud in her head: You need to think about what choices you want to make. Her husband, the father of her child, who’d evidently been paving the way to announcing that he’d already made his own choice. The absolute bastard.
Her heart twisting painfully, she took in the details of another harrowing image that would be indelibly scorched on her mind. His tongue probably halfway down her throat, Luke was kissing a woman. Not the blonde woman who’d been eyeing him up in the pub. This one was dark-haired, slimmer, judging by what Claire could see of her. Was he fucking her? Her heartbeat sped up, thudding erratically against her ribcage. Both of them?
Oh, dear God. Attempting to contain a sudden violent surge of nausea, she pressed a hand over her mouth and scrambled off the bed to dash to the bathroom, where she bent over the toilet and vomited the contents of her stomach.
Please don’t get up. Please don’t let him have heard me, she prayed silently, glancing in the direction of her father’s room as she padded tearfully back to her own bedroom, where she stood quite still, her body shaking, her arms wrapped tightly about herself, with absolutely no idea what to do.
Subduing the sob climbing up her throat, she picked up her phone again. There were several missed calls from Gemma, who would be worried and desperately trying to get hold of her instead of enjoying her evening as she should be. And a reply from Sophie. Blinking hard, Claire tried to focus.
There’s no named father on my birth certificate, the message read. If you think about it, though, Bernard wouldn’t have wanted his name on it, would he?
Claire stifled a near-hysterical laugh. No, he wouldn’t – if there was any truth in it. That would have meant him having responsibilities other than those to his wife and legitimate child. And cheating wouldn’t have been half so exciting if he’d been found out.
She didn’t respond to the message. She wasn’t capable of responding, not now. It couldn’t be true. He wouldn’t. No, and neither would Luke.
She couldn’t speak to Gemma either, not tonight, so instead she sent her a quick message assuring her she was all right. Then she drew in a tremulous breath, stepped towards the wardrobe mirror and took a long, critical look at herself. She was a mess. Her face was blotchy, which always happened when she cried. With her pale complexion and shock of red hair that refused to be tamed no matter what she did, and wearing one of Luke’s old T-shirts – her staple comfy night attire – she couldn’t look less enticing if she tried.
Her chest tight, the huge lump in her throat threatening to choke her, she stayed where she was for a minute, then a ragged sob escaped her and she dropped to her knees to ferret underneath the bed for the overnight bags stored there.
He had to go. She didn’t want him here if he didn’t want to be here.
Oh God, she wanted him. So badly.
Sitting back on her haunches, she dragged a pillow from the bed and buried her face in it, muffling her harsh, stomach-wrenching sobs. She felt as if her heart was splintering. And so, so alone.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, stifling her cries so her baby wouldn’t hear them. She was blinking at the ceiling, praying quietly, trying to think what to do, how she would survive – how she would get through this day, let alone the lonely days that would follow – when her phone vibrated, alerting her to a text.
Her heart palpitating wildly, she got to her feet, retrieved the phone from where she’d left it on the bed, and checked her texts.
Not going into work, Luke had sent. Back in a couple of hours. Think we need to talk.
Talk about what? The end of their marriage? Swallowing back the knot expanding painfully in her throat, Claire hesitated before answering, not sure what to say, and then decided to hold onto at least one scrap of her dignity and pre-empt him. Did you stay with her? she texted back. Don’t lie to me. I have a photograph of you kissing her.
He didn’t reply immediately, and then: It’s not how it seems, Claire. I need to explain.