Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,13,560635-my_darling.html
Memories
We returned from our honeymoon to live in the house Colin had chosen in a gated community in Esher. A surprise for me. A property I had never seen. Colin had been having it built anyway. Before he even met me. But the timing of completion was a dream. Ready when we returned from our mini-moon in the Cotswolds.
A code to get into the private road. Black iron gates creaking slowly open. Six houses standing back from the road, surrounded by manicured lawns and carefully tended bushes, guarded by more turrets of shiny ironwork.
Colin leant out of the car window and pressed a code into the entry point. The gates parted and we entered the drive of a modern red-brick mansion with stone-framed windows. Colin parked the car, and we stepped out and stood in the doorway, ready to meet the next level of security.
Facial recognition. Colin pressed buttons, cameras whirred. Our photographs were taken and noted. The front door opened.
‘Welcome family,’ a female voice spouted through a speaker.
We stepped inside. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The house had internal glass walls. I had never seen anything like it. Not even on Grand Designs. You could see straight through the house, from the hallway to the dining room on the left, to the sitting room, and drawing room on the right. To the gardens, swimming pool, tennis court and acres beyond.
I took a sharp intake of breath. So surprised. So shocked. And turned around. Behind me a staircase of stone swept upstairs. A staircase grand enough for a palace.
‘Welcome to your new home,’ Colin said.
I kissed him. ‘The most beautiful home a woman could ever have.’
Later on, tired after unpacking all day – my belongings had been delivered and left in the garage while we were away – I stepped into the less formal sitting room, and flopped into the chair closest to the TV. Closest to the fireplace. Colin walked in and tapped me on the shoulder.
‘That’s my chair. Get out of it please.’
‘We’re married now. What’s yours is mine and vice versa.’
I smiled. He didn’t smile back.
‘Except in the case of that chair. That’s my chair.’
He walked towards me, grabbed my wrists and pulled me up. He pushed me down onto the sofa. He flicked the remote at the TV screen and an action film began. No women. No dialogue. Screeching car wheels. Punches and grunts.
Why do I remember the little things, when the big things hurt so much?
86
Emma
Driving home from work, my mobile rings, flashing your name across my navigation system. I press a button on my steering wheel and your voice fills the car, as I wait at the lights.
‘I’ve won a trip for us both to a fancy hotel in the Lake District, next weekend. The Lodore Falls Hotel & Spa on Derwentwater. Three nights dinner, bed and breakfast. Bar bill paid as well.’
Every syllable you utter bubbles with enthusiasm.
A stone sinks in my stomach. ‘Alastair, I’m sorry, I just can’t.’ Your disappointment simmers down the phone line. ‘I’ve got a special fillers clinic all day Saturday,’ I explain.
‘Come after that. I just need to get away from everything with Heather.’
‘And arrive in the small hours of Sunday morning? Impossible. I’ve got to remove four wisdom teeth on Monday. That’s a big operation. I need to rest on Sunday, not travel to the other end of the country.’
The lights change.
‘OK,’ you say, voice cold and sharp.
OK but not OK.
‘Let’s talk later.’
I end the call to push away the coldness in your voice.
Memories
Difficult news comes from nowhere. Out of the blue. That is why people say there is no point in worrying. The things we worry about never happen. The things we don’t even consider do.
Sitting in my study in my house of glass, reading a text book on paediatric dentistry, an area where I wanted to improve, sipping an espresso to perk me up. Colin was in his study preparing for a lecture.
My mobile rang. I picked up. It was Mother, weeping down the phone line.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘It’s your father. He’s got terminal colon cancer. It’s already spread to his liver and lungs.’ There was a pause. More sobbing. ‘They think he’s got about two weeks.’
I went to tell Colin. He pulled me towards him and held me, head against his chest. ‘I’m sorry Emma. So sorry.’
I drove over to East Finchley, not really believing what I had been told. My father was such a strong character I had always thought he would live forever. Dominating us. Menacing us. I think I expected to arrive at my family home and find it was a very bad joke.
Mum answered the door, face red and puffy, tears streaming down her face.
‘He’s in the sitting room,’ she managed between sobs.
‘Did you tell him I was coming to see him?’
‘Yes.’
I stood by the door and took a deep breath. If I was religious I would have prayed for strength. All I could do was breathe deeply and brace myself. Inhale. Exhale.
I entered the sitting room. A room that hadn’t been decorated for twenty years. Stuck in the past. A photograph on the mantelpiece of Mother holding me when I first came home from the hospital. My graduation photograph.
Father was sitting in his black leather armchair, staring at the air in front of him, looking the same as ever. Whatever was happening internally wasn’t changing his appearance yet. Until he turned to look at me. Face towards mine, I could see he looked thinner. Frail. Brittle. But still strong. Still my dad.
‘Have you come to feel sorry for me?’ he asked. ‘I do not want any sycophantic gloating. I asked your mother not to tell anyone.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Dad. You can’t not tell me, I’m your daughter.’ I walked towards him. ‘And I haven’t come to gloat, I just wanted to see you.’ I sat down next to him and took his hand. ‘Why would I gloat?’
He squeezed my hand. ‘I have never been very demonstrative with you, Emma, but I want you to know, I have always loved you in my own way.’
‘And Dad, I love you too,’ I said.
It wasn’t true. I didn’t understand him. I didn’t know him well enough to love him. It was a knee-jerk response to what he had said.
I paused. I swallowed. ‘What treatment are they giving you?’ I asked.
‘The treatment’s only palliative so I’ve decided not to have it. Why should I punish my body with chemo that isn’t going to do anything but reduce the pain a bit? I might as well move straight on to morphine when I need it.’
‘Sometimes—’ I started, about to give him a lecture on prognoses being wrong, new immunological wonder drugs, and people’s bodies responding unexpectedly to chemo.
But he interrupted me. ‘I’m going to die soon. Period. That’s it.’
And he did. In less than a week. The first night he asked for morphine. Mother got out of bed at four in the morning when he asked her to get him a tablet to relieve his pain. She brought him a morphine tablet and a glass of water to help him swallow it. He took the tablet and without saying anything, not even thank you, he rolled over and died. At five past four. He didn’t live long enough to suffer.
Mother was so upset. Far more than I thought she would be, after how much he had put her through. I thought she would have recovered quickly, and enjoyed some peace. I felt empty and bereft. I had always hoped one day I would be able to forgive him for his aggression and have a relationship with him. That opportunity was gone forever, and so, hope fragmented, Mother and I grieved together. And his declaration of loving me in his own way – whatever that meant – stayed with me and haunted me.
87
Emma
You are here. Ringing my doorbell. I open the door. You step into my hallway, and stand looking down at me, pushing your dark hair from your eyes. You put your arms around me and kiss me gently. I kiss you back. You taste of mint and b
eer. You smell of lemon and sandalwood. My kisses are urgent. Insistent. Lips entwined we move upstairs, towards my bedroom. I fall backwards onto my bed and pull you on top of me.
‘Let’s take our time; make it last,’ you say.
‘How are we going to do that, Alastair?’ I ask, as I reach for your penis.
‘Not sure,’ you murmur as you enter me.
We melt together. We move together. We climax in unison.
I roll away from you and lie on my back, arms above my head. Stretched. Relaxed. I close my eyes, about to drop off to sleep.
You move towards me. And lie on top of me. Your body is crushing me. I feel your erection, throbbing on my stomach.
‘Hey; get off, you’re hurting me.’ You lift your right knee to push my legs open. ‘Alastair, stop. We’ve just finished. Let’s relax.’
You enter me again. Pumping, thrusting, pushing, so hard it hurts.
‘Stop,’ I cry. ‘Stop.’
Eyes closed. Face tight. You can’t see. You can’t hear. Your breath quickens. All you can do is climax. You grunt, gently at first, then like a wild animal dying. It is over. Your body softens and collapses on mine. Silence solidifies around us, interrupted by the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece.
Pain rises inside me. A burning pain as intense as fire. I roll away from you and rush to the bathroom. To wipe away the pain. To wipe away the fire. You didn’t mean to hurt me, did you? You just got carried away.
Your ex-wife Heather’s eyes move towards me, as they did when she tried to tell me about you. But you didn’t mean to hurt me, did you? I tell myself again.
88
Alastair
I climax inside you, but this time I do not feel your muscles tightly clamped around me, encouraging me like they used to.
89
Emma
It’s Thursday evening and I’m sitting at the kitchen table. A background hum of Casper purring as he sits at my feet, and the wall clock ticking. Checking through some paperwork from the surgery. Sipping coffee, enjoying being alone after a day with patients. Peace. Pure peace.
The doorbell rings. I look at my watch. Nine p.m. I frown. Not expecting anyone, I pad across the hallway to the door and look through my spy hole. Alastair. You are holding a genetically modified bunch of flowers, so large they cover your chest. Staring at the door, tapping your foot, as if willing it to open.
My body tenses. We still have our arrangement not to see one another midweek. We both have work. You have Stephen. Sighing inside, I open the door. Eyes shining, you step towards me and hand me the bouquet. An army of tumbling flowers; lilies, campanula, carnations, chrysanthemums, germini.
‘Thank you so much Alastair. They’re beautiful.’
Your face softens into an expression I have not seen before. An overdose of love. You take the bouquet from my hands and place it gently on the dresser. You wrap your arms around me and hold me so tight it hurts.
‘I need you to love me, Emma. I want to be the centre of your universe.’
And I tremble inside. Surely this is too much? Surely there has to be balance?
90
Alastair
I put my arms around you and hold you tight. You pull away from me, holding the flowers I bought you, and pad into the kitchen. I follow you.
‘Thank you so much Alastair, they’re beautiful,’ you repeat.
You busy yourself at the sink, cutting their stems, pulling off their lower leaves. I stand watching you. Admiring your slim, toned frame. Painted-on jeans, clinging to your every contour. Tasteful pink cashmere jumper, fluffy and youthful. Tumbling blonde hair caressing your shoulders. As you arrange the flowers into a large crystal vase, desire rises inside me.
‘Mum’s happy to get up early with Stephen so that I can stay over tonight.’
You turn and face me. Green eyes pale as ice.
‘No, Alastair.’ You gesticulate towards the pile of papers on the kitchen table. ‘It’s lovely to see you but I need to get on.’
‘But … but … I can just watch a bit of TV while you finish off.’
‘This isn’t fair. We agreed to stick to weekends.’
I step towards you, put my arms around you and hold your body against mine. ‘We have a relationship – not a business contract.’
Your body stiffens. You put your hands on my chest and push me away. ‘But I’m running a business. I’m a dentist with my own practice. It’s a big responsibility. What don’t you understand about that?’
You stand in front of me, so cool, so beautiful, so superior, letting me know with your words and the twist of your head that you are out of my league.
‘Are you saying I don’t have responsibilities?’ I ask.
You frown and shake your head. ‘I didn’t say that.’
A band is tightening in my head.
‘I risked my job, my life for you. You won’t come away with me and you still don’t want to see me midweek?’
Memories
Mother. Bereft at my father’s funeral. We sat in the back of the funeral car together, holding hands. Her hand trembled so much it felt as if her nervous system had been pushed into overdrive.
In the church with its fine stone arches, still holding her jerking hand, I watched her sitting, eyes glazed and disinterested. The day seemed to move around her and she seemed to step through it mentally comatose.
The vicar said all the usual clap-trap. About celebrating a life rather than mourning a person who had died. What is natural about that? Unless a person is so old and ill it is a relief they have died, how can anyone empathetic expect people to be pleased? Most people die too soon, when their families love them and need them. The vicar continued to be hypocritical by eulogising the difficult man who was my father. Terry was kind. A family man. Good husband. Good father. A stalwart of the church. At least that last part was true. He even helped clean the church’s silverware. If the vicar was to be believed, my father would be riding into heaven through gates of gold and pearl, on the back of a white stallion, serenaded by trumpets, and angels. But … but, I remind myself, he did once say he loved me in his own way.
The worst part was the burial. Intense. Elemental. Depressing and terminal. Watching his coffin lowered into the ground. Closing my eyes, thinking about decomposition too much. Opening them again and watching my mother throw a red rose on top, looking as if she was auditioning for RADA.
And then, just to jolly things along, the party. Tea and sandwiches in the draughty church hall. Making small talk with an army of elderly women I didn’t know. Women dressed in hats, who seemed to think my father was Superman just because he had been a church warden.
Funeral over, I waited for my mother to thrive. I truly believed that the special flower inside her, the one my father had deprived of water, would drink and survive. Flourish, even.
But no. She stayed at home, sitting in his armchair, looking out of the window. Looking at old photographs. Every time I visited all she did was talk about the past, showing me black and white prints.
‘Here he is on the beach when he was two.’
Sitting in a rock pool. Sweet and cheeky. No premonition of the adult he would become.
‘Here he is at a Butlin’s holiday camp with his parents.’
Sitting on his mother’s knee at a table eating. So small the cutlery looks heavy in his young arms.
A colour photograph now; ‘This is what he looked like when we met.’
A dreamboat in his army uniform. Was it his strong, balanced face that attracted her? Did she just fall in love with his looks? I looked across at her doting face as she sat mesmerised by his photograph. I took a deep breath.
‘When did his temper start?’ I asked.
She looked up and frowned. ‘Temper? He didn’t have a temper.’
‘He was always shouting. Always lashing out at you.’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘You had a very different impression of him to me,’ she said, turning back to stare at his picture
again.
I was so angry about how she could be in such denial, when he had put us through such hell. But then later I began to realise denial was the way she coped. The pivot she rotated around. She had an image of what her marriage should have been, and she wanted to put a veneer over it and pretend it was real.
She couldn’t live without him. No individual spirit. No backbone. Three months to the day of his funeral, she died in her sleep. The post mortem showed she’d had a stroke. I think she just didn’t want to live.
So over a period of twelve weeks I became an orphan. And after both my parents died, instead of experiencing the heavy grief people describe in novels and poetry, that people talk about at self-help groups and on radio phone-ins, I felt free. Almost. Apart from Colin of course. Free to concentrate on the challenge of my marriage. Marriage can be such a burden at times.
91
Jade
Joy upon joy. My medicines are balanced and they are moving me from the secure psychological unit to the prison. In a van with high windows, no view of the horizon, being buffeted about like cheap cargo, feeling sick. The van draws to a halt. My stomach aches. I sit bent double until the guards open my horse box to let me out. I stagger out clutching my possessions.
Fresh air. Inhale. Exhale. Sweet and clean. Fresh air sweeter than Champagne. Two guards escort me across the car park. A large man, so fat his body makes his head look small, and a wiry young woman. I walk as slowly as possible, drinking in as much fresh air as I can.
Through rotating doors into an open area with sofas and a reception desk. Pretending to be a cheap hotel, not a prison; fooling us before they incarcerate us. And Constance is here, walking towards me.
So much paperwork; rules, regulations, agreements. Papers to sign. So many instructions, my head is spinning. How will I ever remember it all?
Constance holds on to my arm, ‘Jade, don’t worry, it will be all right,’ she whispers.