Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,2,560635-my_darling.html
Stuck at the lights, longing to get a beer. Longing for a chat with Mother. Hoping Stephen is in bed. I fancy a quiet time. Supper, beer, TV, chat with Mum.
I park on the street outside the Italian restaurant and open the door beside it, which leads upstairs to our flat. As usual the scent of toasting mozzarella and basil assaults my nostrils, making me feel hungry as I climb up. As soon as I step inside my home, Mum scuttles into the hallway.
‘Heather is here. In the sitting room. Waiting to speak to you,’ she whispers. ‘Stephen’s in bed.’ My heart sinks. Heather, my ex-wife. Another clusterfuck. ‘Now you’re here, I’ll leave you in peace and go and relax in my room,’ Mum continues.
She pads along the narrow corridor rubbing her back. Sixty years old, hunched, as if she was eighty. Why won’t Heather take responsibility for our son? What’s wrong with her? Mum disappears into her cramped bedroom. I’ve made it as nice as I can, with a small TV, and big cushions, to make her bed double up as a sofa. I wish I could afford a nanny. Mum needs a break. If I could, I’d send her on an exotic holiday, to Mauritius, or the Caribbean.
Sighing inside, I open the door to the lounge. Heather is sitting on the sofa, glued to Love Island. As soon as she sees me she turns the volume down, but leaves the picture on. A group of women with pouty lips and extravagant figures are sitting by a swimming pool drinking cocktails; an orangey-brown mixture decorated with pink umbrella cocktail sticks. And laughing. A male Adonis walks towards them, beer in hand, and their eyes fix on his pecs. I try to ignore the screen and look at Heather, but I become glued to his pecs too. I really should work out more.
‘We need to chat,’ Heather says, forcing me to drag myself away from the on-screen overdose of oestrogen and testosterone.
‘OK then. But let’s turn the TV off.’
‘I can watch and chat,’ she snarls, her upper lip curving upwards like a horse’s.
‘Well, I can’t. So if you want to talk to me, you need to turn it off.’
She waves the remote at the screen, remaining transfixed as it closes down, then turns to look at me. Her hair is a mess, and she’s gained quite a bit of weight. I thought newly divorced women tended to smarten up. With Heather, divorce has had the opposite effect. What is going on with her?
‘What do you want to talk about?’ I ask, hovering in the doorway. I haven’t had a civil conversation with her since the day she left me.
‘I need more money. I can’t cope.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t have any more to give you.’
‘Yes you do. You’ve shacked up with that wealthy bint.’
‘If you mean Emma, I’ve only just met her. And I haven’t shacked up with her. As you may have noticed, I live here with our son Stephen, who you’ve abandoned. Hardly the lap of luxury, is it? A flat above an Italian restaurant. If I’d taken better advice I’d still be in the family home.’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Well, I’m not in the family home either. The Robinsons who bought it off us are.’ She hesitates. ‘You know I’m living with a girlfriend for now, while I decide what to do.’
I frown, exasperated. ‘I know you’re living with Shelly. But that’s your choice. You got your share of the house sale.’ I pause. ‘What have you done with it? Why are you asking me for more money?’
‘That’s a no-brainer, isn’t it? You know I’m out of work at the moment.’
‘Get a job. Any job. It was your choice to stop your teacher training.’
She sighs. ‘I was finding it too stressful, after everything that had happened between us.’
‘Life is stressful,’ I say, really losing patience now. ‘You need to get a grip.’
‘Always so empathetic, aren’t you?’
‘Look, Heather, you only have Stephen every other weekend. I’m already bearing the brunt of the expense. I don’t see what’s unreasonable about suggesting you get a job.’
‘You’re selfish, Alastair. You even went to Paris for the weekend.’
How does she know that? I didn’t even tell Stephen where I was going for my birthday treat with you, Emma. You must have put a picture on Facebook and Heather must have seen it.
‘Alastair, I need you to cough up, please.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t afford to, Heather.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Try. Just try and get more money out of me,’ I hiss.
8
Emma
On Tuesday evening as soon as I pull into my drive, Tomas scurries towards my front door. I park the car and step out.
He looks pale and worried. ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask.
‘I’ve got toothache. It’s killing me. I was hoping you could take a quick look.’
Not what I wanted after a long day at work, but how can I refuse to help?
‘Come in then, I’ll find my equipment.’
I open the front door. He follows me into the house, through the hallway into the kitchen. I reach for the spare dental tools I keep in the dresser, in case of an emergency. I pull out my bag, unzip it and take out my sterilised tools: a probe and a mirror stick.
‘Let’s get you comfy in the sitting room.’
He follows me through.
‘Please sit in the leather chair.’ He does as I ask. ‘Open wide,’ I instruct, leaning over him. I examine each tooth carefully and sigh inside. Poor man. His mouth is in such a mess.
‘The gum by your lower right molars is red and inflamed. It looks like a pretty painful infection. I’ll write you a private prescription for some antibiotics.’ I find my prescription pad in the drawer by the telephone and prescribe metronidazole. ‘No alcohol while you take these tablets. I’m giving you a five-day course. But if you don’t see a substantial improvement in a few days’ time, come and see me in the surgery.’
His soft brown eyes melt into mine. ‘I’m terribly grateful, thanks.’
9
Alastair
Heather’s voice grumbles down the intercom. ‘Who is it?’
‘Alastair. I need to speak to you.’
‘Come on up.’
The intercom buzzes and I push the door to open it. Up the staircase to the fourth floor. To Shelly’s flat. Shelly. My least favourite friend of Heather’s. Bridesmaid at our wedding. Shallow. Artificial. Always looking to find a rich husband, rating boyfriends’ attraction by the value of the car that they drive. Well, she hasn’t found one yet, otherwise she wouldn’t be living in this dump of a flat. Lord only knows why Heather has decided to live here with her, when I have given her half of everything I have, even though I have custody of our son.
Flat 4B. I knock on the door and Heather opens it. She is wearing a navy Juicy Couture tracksuit which clings to her heavy thighs. Her hair needs brushing.
‘I suppose you’d better come in,’ she says with a snarl.
I wince. Her breath smells acidic and I know she’s been drinking. I follow her into a small, dark sitting room, with a brown faux-leather sofa and a russet carpet. She picks up a bottle of beer and takes a swig.
‘Can I get you anything? Coke? Dope? Beer?’ she asks with a sneer.
‘No thanks.’
‘Only joking about the drugs.’
Does she really expect me to believe that, when her life is in such disarray and she has no money? We sit on the plastic sofa. She turns to me. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ she asks.
‘Where’s Shelly?’
She shrugs. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘I just want to know whether we’re alone. Whether this conversation is private.’
She pushes her hair back from her forehead. ‘Shelly’s out.’
‘Good.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I need you to stop texting me asking for money. There’s no way you’re getting any more money out of me.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘No way? And how do you figure that?’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong – I’ve paid my dues.’
I breathe calmly. In. Out. ‘Of course she’ll believe me. She knows I’ve always done everything I can to look after both you and Stephen.’
A wry smile. ‘All truth is relative.’
‘So you’re a relativist now, are you?’
‘At least I’m not a bullshitter. I bet you don’t even understand what relativism is.’
‘I didn’t come here to discuss philosophy – I came to tell you I’m not reading any more of your texts. And, I don’t have any spare cash.’
‘The collapse of our relationship has ruined my life, Alastair. You deserve to pay up more than you already have.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t know where you’ve got that from, Heather. You’re just being irrational.’
‘Don’t you dare call me irrational after the way you’ve treated me,’ she almost spits.
‘But it was you who left me.’
Anger burning inside me, I stand up and leave. As I walk away my heart bleeds for the way she has treated me. The way she has abandoned Stephen. I need to protect him. To give him all my love. My love stretches without bounds to Emma. To Stephen. To my mother. But Heather? I shudder inside. How did I ever let her pull me in?
10
Emma
After slinging my Mercedes across my parking slot, I stop for a few minutes to admire the gardens that surround my dental practice. The perfectly manicured lawn caressed by cascading willow. Snowdrops dangling their delicate teardrop heads. First crocuses trumpeting bold colour across the grass.
However well my life is going, however much your company gives me a high over the weekend, Alastair, pulling into work on a Monday morning always fills me with a sense of peace. The surgery is the one place in the world where I have total control. I bought this practice when my relationship with Colin ended, four years ago. It gave me purpose; kept my life moving forwards after my loss.
I say good morning to my receptionist as I walk past. Andrea Smith. Auburn hair. Handpicked. Intelligent. Bursting with helpful ideas and common sense. Attractive, but not attractive enough to put me in the shadow. I smile at her. She smiles back hesitantly. Her smile for me is always hesitant. She knows if she smiles too hard I will criticise her teeth. I criticise everyone’s teeth from the Queen to Victoria Beckham. Dentists prefer looking at mouths of perfection.
I walk through the waiting room – no patients yet – stopping for a minute to admire the new leather sofas. The fish tank; neon tetra, danios, guppies and platies. The piles of perfectly arranged glossies. Into my consulting room where Tania is waiting for me, removing instruments from the steriliser, laying them neatly on a tray.
‘Good weekend?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘And you?’
‘Not bad.’
Tania. My dental and aesthetic assistant. A plump girl of twenty-two, with mousy hair, a mousy face and mud-coloured eyes. So young she still has spots. Young. Sweet. Gentle. Her mousiness disappears when she smiles. Perfect teeth. The Hollywood kind.
The internal telephone rings. I pick up.
‘Hello again, Andrea.’
‘Hi Emma.’ A pause. ‘Just to say you have an emergency patient coming in first thing. Tomas Covington. Pain in his back teeth.’
Tania looks up from laying out the instruments. She flashes her film-star smile. The internal phone rings again in warning, and Tomas is here. Entering my consulting room. City suit. Suave. Sophisticated. White shirt. Red tie. Hair smoothed back. Closely shaved.
‘Hello, Tomas. Sorry to hear you’re in pain again.’
He winces a little. ‘It seems to be getting worse. I’ve been taking co-codamol.’
‘Sit in the chair and I’ll take a look.’
He slides into my chair. I have to adjust it as he is so tall. I put a bib around his neck and his eyes catch mine. Warm brown eyes, dappled with pain.
‘Which tooth hurts?’
He pats the rear part of his lower right jawbone. ‘This whole area.’
‘Open wide.’
He puts his head back and obeys. I press my probe on his lower right rear tooth. He jerks in distress.
‘The root of your back molar is infected. I’ll drill a root canal through your tooth, remove the infected debris and deaden the nerve now. The pain will stop. But your tooth will die so you’ll need a crown.’
‘Work your magic. Do what you must.’
I inject his gum with anaesthetic. When his mouth is numb I drill through his tooth and deaden the nerve. I apply a dressing coated in antibiotic to kill the infection.
When I have finished, he rinses his mouth out with the glass of pink antiseptic I hand him. He slips out of his chair and stands looking at me gratefully.
‘The pain is gone. Thank you so much.’
‘It’s not over yet. You need to come back in a few weeks’ time for your crown to be fitted.’
‘Thank you so much, Emma.’ He turns to leave. As he reaches the doorway he looks back. ‘Why don’t you and Alastair come to our place on Saturday evening and have a drink with us? I’m sure Jade would like to thank you, too.’
‘That’s very kind, but surely it’s our turn?’ I pause. ‘I insist you come to mine.’
11
Jade
I’m standing beneath the willow tree, watching you. Looking through the surgery window. You are looking into her eyes. She is lovely, isn’t she – in a predictable skinny blonde way? As soon as I saw her, I knew she was your type. Lots of men’s type. Men are like lemmings; they all follow the same thing. No individual taste.
Memories
My earliest memory was before the violence started. A time when I felt free. Running along a beach, holding my mother’s hand. Sun on my back. Sand between my toes. Where was my father then? Was he back at the holiday cottage working? Waiting for us to come back?
The memory flashes across my mind and fades. I can’t hold it or place it. It never stays for long.
12
Emma
Following my invitation at the surgery, Tomas, Jade and Alastair are at mine for drinks and nibbles. We are all standing around the fireplace making small talk. Alastair is looking suave. Pink shirt. White jeans. Tomas’ kindly brown eyes shimmer towards his wife. Jade hovers next to him wearing a baggy dress with small flowers on the fabric. A modern replica of Laura Ashley that doesn’t quite work. The dull brown flattens her complexion. She is quite pretty really, but she doesn’t know how to dress.
I disappear into the kitchen to take my M&S canapés out of the oven. When I reappear, carrying hot mini quiches and luxury sausage rolls, Tomas and Jade are sitting next to one another, on the sofa opposite the fireplace. Alastair has settled in the winged chair by the TV. Silence floats awkwardly as I walk across the room, laden with protein and carbohydrate.
Jade watches Tomas like a hawk as he leans towards me and takes a sausage roll. I move the plate in her direction. She stiffens and shakes her head.
‘No, thanks. I’m watching my figure.’
‘You have a lovely figure,’ Tomas says, patting her thigh.
She turns her head towards him. ‘Do you expect me to believe you?’
‘As I meant it, I do, yes.’
She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Men never mean what they say.’
Alastair looks as if he is about to object. I glare across at him and grimace to silence him. The word ‘clusterfuck’ resonates in my head.
13
Alastair
Tomas and Clusterfuck are here in your house, Emma, invading my weekend privacy. I cannot warm to the Clusterfuck. Even her scratchy voice annoys me.
My favourite way to spend Saturday night is snuggled on the sofa with you, drinking red wine and watching Netflix. Inhaling the scent of your perfume, your body heat, your sweet, sweet breath. But tonight I sit eating sausage rolls and drinking Champagne watching the Clusterfuck guard Tomas like a mother hen. I look at her and see feathers
and beaks and dowdiness. You stand next to her holding a plate of canapés, and shine. I want your guests to go home. I need my Saturday fix of you, alone. Tell them, Emma. Put down the tray of canapés and tell them to go.
‘Are you all right?’ the Clusterfuck rasps, looking across at me and frowning. ‘Are we so boring? You look as if you’re in a total daydream. On another planet.’
Her voice scrapes across my mind.
‘Sorry. I was thinking about work.’
‘Swabs and latex. So much more interesting than us?’
‘No, no. Not at all,’ I mutter. I look at her and smile. A wide forced smile. The Clusterfuck is so annoying that smiling at her has to be forced.
She leans forwards and rests her elbows on her knees. ‘Was it an interesting case, taking your attention?’
‘You know we’re not allowed to talk about individual cases.’
‘Not allowed to, but people do.’
I sigh inside. Why is she pushing this? ‘They’ll lose their jobs if they get caught.’
She pouts her lips. The conversation is getting worse. ‘So, you’re a man who toes the line, are you?’
Trying to flirt now. Flirting that doesn’t work. ‘As much as I need to. As much as anyone else.’
I look across at Emma dressed in blue silk clinging to all the right places. And suddenly, from nowhere, I’m back on the day my ex-wife Heather left. Off to a nightclub in Brighton with her best friend Shelly. Both looking cheesy in matching onesies. Black onesies with orange flowers on. Whatever made them pick those? She rang me, from the nightclub, to tell me our marriage was over. I could hear a man’s voice in the background. Drum and bass music pounded down the line. I could hear the shrill tones of Shelly’s laugh.