Author: Amanda Robson
Category: Thriller
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/amanda-robson/page,15,560635-my_darling.html
‘I had a woman who wouldn’t let me do her fillings unless she had her dog on her lap,’ Sally giggled. ‘Every time I leant across him, he growled. In the end, one day when I was doing her crown, he jumped up and bit me.’
‘I had a child who I had to sing nursery rhymes to, otherwise he couldn’t relax in the chair. His mother said he had ADHD,’ Tim said as he sipped his ale. ‘I found it hard to sing and drill at the same time. His favourite was “Humpty Dumpty”. I even gave him a stuffed Humpty Dumpty toy last Christmas.’
‘You’re a soft touch, mate,’ Joe added.
‘An old man pooped in my chair,’ Ian said.
‘That’s not funny, it’s sad,’ I said. And we all laughed anyway, because we’d had too much to drink.
‘What did you do about it?’ Frieda wanted to know.
‘We’ve just eaten. Don’t ask.’
I left the pub feeling happier than I had in a long time. Was it the company? Or was it the alcohol? Not caring which, I ambled home arm in arm with Joe and Frieda. Joe, a big seventeen-stone hunk, a broken-nosed cauliflower-eared rugby player. Frieda, a quietly spoken intellectual who campaigned for Amnesty International in her free time.
The world moved blurrily around me. I remember saying goodbye to them, and opening the gate to our road with the code. Wobbling home, past grand modern houses, until I came to ours, three doors down on the right. I stood in front of our gate, by the camera that now recognised my face. It opened slowly. I stepped inside and padded across the drive to our front door.
The security light snapped on, making me blink. The front door opened. Colin was standing in front of me, eyes like a furnace, face spitting in anger. A stone solidified in my stomach. I had hoped he would move past this.
‘Come in,’ he said.
I stepped inside. He closed the door.
‘You disobeyed me.’
101
Jade
Constance is here. Sitting by my bed. Pretty little Constance. Sweet despite her dumpiness. Silky blonde hair, shiny like an animal’s pelt. Neat little nose. Button-mushroom mouth.
A frown ripples across her forehead. ‘You do understand that it is now the beginning of October and that your trial is coming up, in less than six weeks?’
I raise my hands in the air. ‘What trial?’ I ask.
Her frown deepens. She leans forwards. ‘I will start at the beginning …’
‘Only joking,’ I interrupt.
She laughs but the laughter doesn’t move around her face. Her nose and mouth remain still.
‘You do know I’m innocent, don’t you? I didn’t kill Tomas. I loved him.’
She doesn’t reply. She looks out of the window, and stares at the view of a weed-covered path and a wall. A path that nobody uses. After a while she turns back to me.
‘It’s not for me to comment on your guilt or innocence. You might have killed him and not realised you had.’
I lean across and put my hand on her arm, wanting to shake her. ‘How can you help me if you don’t know the truth? I didn’t do anything to my husband, Constance, you have to believe me.’
102
Alastair
I ring your mobile. You pick up.
‘Let’s go out for the day. Staying at home all the time is becoming claustrophobic.’ I pause. ‘I think we need to go out, do a few things together like normal couples. Life is getting in our way.’
Silence reverberates down the phone line. I picture you contemplating my words, standing by the kitchen window, phone to your ear.
‘But we don’t want to be seen together, not yet,’ you reply.
I sigh inside. ‘Come on, Emma, use your imagination.’ I pause, take a deep breath. ‘We’ll drive away from Henley. Somewhere no one knows us. Let’s go to Oxford. You can wear a hat to cover your hair. No one’s interested in us. Who will see us?’
I picture you shaking your head. ‘The police. One of my patients. One of your colleagues.’ Your voice sounds impatient. Breathless.
‘Well, even better, what about lying down on the back seat of my car, with a blanket over you, as they do in films?’
You giggle. Silence, then, ‘OK. It sounds good.’
I smile inside. ‘I’ll pick you up next Saturday at ten a.m.’
We drive to Oxford on a soft, autumn day. You have relented. We do not use the blanket. You are wearing a long beige raincoat to cover your usual fashionable clothing, and a brown cowboy hat to disguise your face and hair. Music blasts from the sound system as I drive. You are choosing tracks from your playlist, tapping your feet to the music and waxing lyrical about each one: Savage Garden, Nirvana, Michael Bolton, Bryan Adams, Seal, Usher, Mariah Carey. This is more like it, Emma. This is a normal couple having fun.
We arrive in the City of Dreaming Spires and park outside St John’s College, opposite the Randolph. A quick coffee in the Morse Bar, surrounded by wood panelling and TV memorabilia.
‘What do you want to do? Colleges, museums, shops, tearooms?’ I ask.
‘It’s such a lovely day – I’d like to go for a walk in Christ Church Meadow.’
Hand in hand in Christ Church Meadow, cowboy hat discarded in your bag. Blonde hair cascading onto your shoulders, serenading your perfect face. As I look at you your image fades and Heather’s crumpled features sear across my mind. I blink and you are with me again, looking like a model in a TV advert. What have I done to deserve a woman like you?
Leaves beginning to fall, carpeting the ground in russet and gold. I inhale deeply, humming with happiness as a soft breeze caresses my face.
We cross the meadow and arrive at the riverbank, by the line of college boathouses. A flurry of activity. Teams lifting their boats after Saturday morning training. Lithe, muscular bodies, wrapped in bright body-hugging Lycra. Bustling importantly as if they are enjoying the tourists’ voyeuristic curiosity. Shouting instructions to one another confidently. Teams so used to one another they function like well-oiled machines.
You look at me and smile. We turn right and walk along the Thames, past Folly Bridge. Admiring the river birds; mallards, swans, moorhens, grey heron, kingfishers, geese, coots, grebes. Listening to their cries.
All the way to The Perch, for lunch. We sit at a table by the wood burner, holding each other’s eyes. I choose fish and chips. You pick at spiced pumpkin, goat’s cheese and beetroot salad. On the way back to the car, you squeeze my hand.
‘You were right, Alastair. This is what we need, isn’t it? A bit more fun. A bit more time out.’
103
Emma
Monday morning. Walking past Andrea as I enter my surgery. Andrea, bright and breezy today; dressed top to toe in yellow. Mustard-yellow skirt and cardigan. Banana-yellow blouse with a bow at the neckline. Banana-yellow glittery nails. A bit too bright and breezy for me.
Smiling, nodding, ‘Nice weekend?’ she asks.
‘Yes, thanks.’
I don’t tell her that Alastair and I had a dreamy day on Saturday walking hand in hand through Christ Church Meadow. We are still quiet, even with her, about our relationship.
‘I’ve sent today’s patient list to you on email.’
‘Thanks.’
I step through the waiting room to check on my fish tank. I pop some food in for them and watch my ornate fish glide towards the dropping food, open-mouthed, flapping their fins. So beautiful. So delicate. Illuminating the waiting room with their electric colours. Almost bright enough to compete with Andrea.
I pull myself away and enter my consulting room where I find Tania removing instruments from the autoclave. Before I can even greet her, the internal phone rings. I pick up.
‘You have an unexpected visitor. Heather Brown. She says she’s a friend and she needs to see you urgently,’ Andrea informs me in a voice that sounds flustered.
Heather seems to make everyone feel flustered. Her special talent.
‘Wait for Tania to step out, and then send her in.’
At the mention of
her name, Tania raises her painted-on eyebrows. I put the phone down. ‘Do I need to take an early coffee break?’ she asks.
‘Yes please. A blast from the past I need to deal with.’
She flashes her teeth, with her special smile. ‘Let me know if you need a hand. I’ll step back in and help.’
Tania leaves, heels clicking across the floor. Heather storms in, slamming the door behind her. Not looking at her best today. Her jeans cling to her pear-shaped thighs too precisely, and it is not a pretty sight. She looks as if she has stopped bothering to wash. Dirty hair like a bird’s nest. Tendrils so thick and dry they look like twigs. A ruddy face. Has she got high blood pressure? Someone needs to tell her to go for an urgent medical check-up.
She stands in front of me, feet apart, hands on hips. Stale, malty breath washes over me. I step back. Alcohol. That explains the ruddy cheeks.
‘You haven’t listened to me, have you?’ she asks, moving closer.
I step back further. ‘I did listen but I don’t believe you.’ Back against the counter. Pinned there, inhaling stale malty breath.
Heather’s lips snarl. She is so unattractive. The fact that he was ever with her lowers Alastair in my estimation. How could a man as handsome as him ever have been attracted to a woman like this?
‘You’re a fool not believing me. I know from his mother, Mary, that you’re still liaising with him.’ There is a pause. She smiles a rancid smile. ‘Liaising – a good word for screwing, isn’t it?’
Anger pulses inside me. ‘Liaising. Screwing. So what? It’s none of your business.’
She puts her head on one side. ‘So uppity. Posh totty. Is that what you think you are?’
I clench my teeth. I clench my fists. Breathe. Breathe.
‘I’m only trying to help,’ she continues. ‘I’m only trying to help you before he really hurts you.’
My mind steps back to the weekend, hand in hand with you on Christ Church Meadow, dappled sun on my face, kissing beneath the willow tree. Alastair, I do not want to believe this scruffy, self-indulgent woman. I will not let her get between us.
I force a smile. ‘Thank you for your concern and advice, Heather. But I can assure you that everything between me and Alastair is absolutely fine.’
She gives me a withering look. It takes me all my energy to grit my teeth and stop myself from pulling my arm back and slapping her.
‘Thanks for coming, but my first patient is due and I really need to get on with my day.’
Memories
That Saturday morning, I opened my eyes, mouth dry, head pulsating. The last thing I remembered was drinking Sambuca with my colleagues at The Bear in Esher. I turned my mind in on itself to concentrate. How did I get home last night? I felt too ill to panic about it, but memory black-out from alcohol was worrying. I pushed harder. OK. I was in the pub. I went there with the usual crowd. Sally, Joe, Frieda, Tim and Ian. I must have come home, at least to the end of the road with Joe and Frieda. They were the ones who live near me. I pushed and pushed to remember, until I saw Colin, stepping towards me. Closing the door.
‘You disobeyed me.’
Frustrated, I ran my fingers through my hair. Something hurt. I winced. I pressed my index finger and middle finger down where I felt the pain, and winced again. I pulled them away from my head and looked at them. They were wet with blood.
Out of bed, ripping every muscle to move. Hobbling to the bathroom, naked. Looking at myself in the long mirror. Fresh bruises. Too many to have been from a fall.
Colin.
A flashback of Colin. Kicking my head. My sternum. My ribs. Kicking and kicking.
I pressed my fingers hard onto my head and jerked in pain. Did I need to go to hospital? I thought about what had happened to Natasha Richardson and trembled inside. But I took a deep breath, and decided to take the risk. I was not going to hospital. Ninety-nine point nine per cent recurring chance I would be all right. I wanted to sort out my problems with Colin myself. Authorities confused difficult situations. They did not help. My stomach tightened. Was I behaving like my mother? No. No. The difference was I would sort this out myself. Why did I marry him so quickly when I hardly knew him? Why did I marry anyone after what happened to my mother?
Into the shower. Water pulsing against my bruises, making me feel worse. Out of the shower. Wrapping myself in a towel, knocking down some paracetamol and ibuprofen, and rubbing on some pain-relief gel; so much our bedroom smelt like an old people’s home.
I pulled on my jeans and a cashmere jumper, fancying a walk, or rather, given the condition I was in, a hobble, in the local woods, to clear my head. Sun was streaming through the window.
But the door wouldn’t open. The lock wouldn’t turn. I panicked. My hand tightened. I forced it. But however hard I tried, it just wouldn’t move. Colin had locked me in. I banged on the door shouting his name until my fists were too sore to cope any more. I grabbed my phone and rang him. No reply. I yelled and yelled, banging my fists on the door again and again.
104
Alastair
Saturday evening at dusk I walk over the bridge in the middle of Henley, wind whipping across my face. The sun is going down, sending shards of pink across the skyline. River birds honk in the distance.
People are walking past with a sense of purpose. Everyone is on the way to somewhere. Singletons rushing towards dates. Groups of youths gathering on the bridge. Couples arm in arm meander towards the pubs and restaurants.
I arrive at your house with my carefully packed oversized rucksack. It weighs a ton. My back aches after carrying it from home. But that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the fact that I’m spoiling you tonight. Even the overdraft that I have acquired doing this doesn’t matter. This is it. This is special. My time with you is now.
You open the door and move towards me in your blue silk dress. Silk, as fine as gossamer, brushing across your slender body. You kiss me, wrapping me in your scent of musk and vanilla. I hold you so tight. I want you so much. I have to breathe deeply and slowly not to try and take you right here and now. I extricate my legs and arms from the heat of your body.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Let’s get the cooking started.’
I follow you, through the hallway, past your rogues’ gallery of photographs. A collage of you with Colin. Soon it will be me in every collage, not Colin. You don’t like to talk about him, but I would like to erase him from your home completely.
Into your kitchen. You stand watching me as I begin to unpack my rucksack. As I snap on the sound system to play my carefully selected mood music. The Planets suite by Gustav Holst. Wine. Always a priority. As I place vintage Bollinger and Chassagne-Montrachet in the fridge. As I open Gevrey Chambertin 1er Cru Les Champeaux, to breathe.
You sit down and place your elbows on the table, head cupped in your hands, still watching me. Tapered blue nails to match your dress tapping together as you watch. You have curled the ends of your hair and it looks prettier than ever this evening.
I unpack the food from my rucksack. Canapés, sea bass ready to bake basted in Pernod and almonds. A baked cheesecake. All prepared by me. Coming home early every evening for the last few days, I have been busy in the small kitchen in my flat. Mum and Stephen watched, fascinated. Stephen even helped me with the cheesecake. ‘Are you planning on going on MasterChef, Dad?’ he’d quipped.
I look across at you, emerald eyes almost blue tonight, taking the shade of your dress.
‘How was your week?’ I ask.
You tilt your head to one side and sigh. ‘Relaxing. Some weeks I find going to work more restful than weekends.’
I place the canapés I made last night into the oven and stand in the middle of your kitchen looking across at you again. I smile. ‘I suppose we’re both lucky we enjoy our jobs so much.’
I lay the table. Arranging a bunch of red roses. Lighting a vanilla-scented candle as a centrepiece. Vanilla, your signature scent. I pour the Champagne into your crystal flutes and sit down oppo
site you.
‘Tell me why you find work relaxing?’ I push.
You sip your Champagne. You shake your head. ‘I don’t know exactly.’ There is a pause. ‘It’s where I am fully in control. It makes me feel good. It concentrates my mind. Stops me dwelling on stuff.’
‘Stuff. What stuff?’
I watch your emerald eyes darken in the candlelight. ‘The past. My relationship with Colin.’
I top up your Champagne. ‘It’s time to move forward now.’
The oven buzzes. I whip out the canapés, finish making them up, and place them on the table; chicken skewers with satay dip, teriyaki beef and lettuce cups, prawn spring roll wraps. You reach across and help yourself to some teriyaki beef. You pop it into your mouth in one, close your eyes to savour it, and chew slowly. ‘Mmm … delicious,’ you purr.
You open your eyes and they meet mine. This is it. This is my moment. ‘Emma, I think we need a fresh start. Together.’
Your eyes tighten. Your brow furrows. ‘What, now?’ you ask.
‘Yes.’ I lean across and take your hands in mine. ‘If you sell this place and I sell my flat, we could move to Marlow and live together. I could change jobs within the Thames Valley Police. It’s only a twenty-minute drive from there to your surgery. No one would piece us together.’
‘But what about Stephen? What about your mother?’
‘They could come with us.’
I pull the leather box from my pocket, open it and place it on the table in front of you. Sapphire and diamonds sparkle. The flower-shaped ring I have taken out a loan to buy for you. I take your right hand in mine. ‘Will you marry me, Emma?’
I look across at you. You sit staring at me like a wild animal startled by car headlights. You shake your head. You are saying no. Refusing me. My body tightens. My fist clenches.
‘Alastair, this is too rushed,’ you continue. ‘I married Colin very quickly, and we had … difficulties.’ You pause. ‘I love you, but we need to take time to get to know each other first.’