Her Husband's Mistake
Page 1
Copyright © 2019 Sheila O’Flanagan
Extract from The Hideaway © 2018 Sheila O’Flanagan
The right of Sheila O’Flanagan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in Great Britain in 2019
by HEADLINE REVIEW
An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
First published as an Ebook in 2019
by HEADLINE REVIEW
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN: 978 1 4722 5476 4
Cover credit © Frederick Bass/Getty Images (steps), lillisphotography/Getty Images (door) and Shutterstock (Ron/Ellis/Paul Vowles/Chris Pelle/Sofiaworld)
Hand lettering © Carol Kemp
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
Praise
Also By Sheila O’Flanagan
About the Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Acknowledgements
Author’s Note
Read the opening section of THE HIDEAWAY
About the Author
Sheila O’Flanagan is the award-winning author of over twenty bestselling novels, including The Hideaway, What Happened That Night, The Missing Wife, My Mother’s Secret, If You Were Me, All for You (winner of the Irish Popular Fiction Book of the Year Award) and Bad Behaviour , as well as the bestselling short story collections The Moment We Meet, Connections and Christmas with You .
Sheila has always loved telling stories, and after working in banking and finance for a number of years, she decided it was time to fulfil a dream and give writing her own book a go. So she sat down, stuck ‘Chapter One’ at the top of a page, and got started. Sheila lives in Dublin with her husband.
www.sheilaoflanagan.com
@sheilaoflanagan
/sheilabooks
Praise for Sheila’s irresistible novels
‘A fabulous tale with refreshingly inspiring heroines’ ***** Heat
‘An exciting love story with a deliciously romantic denouement’ Sunday Express
‘Romantic and charming’ Candis
‘This Gone Girl -esque novel will have you gripped until the very end’ **** Look
‘I read the book in one sitting as it was so enjoyable, full of romance and kept you riveted until the last page. A must’ Woman’s Way
‘This is a real must-read’ Closer
‘Will keep you guessing right up until the end’ Bella
‘One of our best storytellers’ Irish Mail on Sunday
‘A thought-provoking read’ New !
‘A captivating novel of family ties and romance’ Sun
By Sheila O’Flanagan and available from Headline
Suddenly Single
Far From Over
My Favourite Goodbye
He’s Got To Go
Isobel’s Wedding
Caroline’s Sister
Too Good To Be True
Dreaming Of A Stranger
The Moment We Meet
Anyone But Him
How Will I Know?
Connections
Yours, Faithfully
Bad Behaviour
Someone Special
The Perfect Man
Stand By Me
Christmas With You
All For You
Better Together
Things We Never Say
If You Were Me
My Mother’s Secret
The Missing Wife
What Happened That Night
The Hideaway
Her Husband’s Mistake
About the Book
Roxy’s marriage has always been rock solid.
After twenty years, and with two carefree kids, she and Dave are still the perfect couple.
Until the day she comes home unexpectedly, and finds Dave in bed with their attractive, single neighbour.
Suddenly Roxy isn’t sure about anything – her past, the business she’s taken over from her dad, or what her family’s future might be. She’s spent so long caring about everyone else that she’s forgotten what she actually wants. But something has changed. And Roxy has a decision to make.
Whether it’s with Dave, or without him, it’s time for Roxy to start living for herself . . .
Chapter 1
The morning after my father’s funeral, I came home and found my husband in bed with the next-door neighbour.
The first thing I wanted to do, when I saw Julie Halpin bouncing up and down on top of Dave like a naked cowboy in a rodeo, was to unsee what I’d just seen. I wanted to tiptoe out of the house and pretend I hadn’t been there at all. Which I know is a sadly weak response from someone who likes to believe that she’s strong and resilient and good in a crisis. But at that moment I didn’t feel one bit strong or resilient. Besides, my legs were far too wobbly to carry me out of the house without collapsing.
The thing is, I’d already been through a crisis. I’d managed to hold it together through the months of Dad’s illness, when Mum was in denial and my brother too upset to be of any use. I’d coordinated hospital visits, talked to the nursing staff, made sure Dad was never alone for too long and even kept his business going. Strong and resilient stuff, no question. Both Mum and Aidan said so. Even Dad, weak as he was, had squeezed my arm and thanked me for everything I was doing.
But I hadn’t given it a second thought because I’m the one who always knows what to do when the chips are down. I pride myself on my ability to cope.
But I didn’t know how to cope with seeing Dave and Julie together. I still don’t.
If I’d ever imagined this scenario – not that I had, because I’d always believed that Dave was a keeper – I’d have pictured my total control as I hauled Julie’s ample arse off my husband and dragged her down the stairs and out of my house. Possibly by her bouncy blonde curls. I’d have been in total control of throwing him out too. And though it would have been hard, I’d have got on with my life.
But it hasn’t turned out that way. I’m frozen inside. I’ve no idea what to do. And no idea how to do it.
I
trusted Dave absolutely, you see. We were a partnership. A team. We’d been a team for a long time. Dave and Roxy. Mica and Tom. He was the manager. I was the coach. Yet given the opportunity, he’d called in a sub and relegated me to the bench. I didn’t want to believe it then and I wish I didn’t have to believe it now. But it happened. I have to accept it, no matter how much it hurts.
The same feeling that engulfed me as I watched Julie’s Clairol-enhanced curls bobbing around her shoulders, and heard the creak of the mattress springs, is still with me now. It’s regret. Regret that I got up early and drove home wearing nothing more than a light coat over my silk pyjama top and matching shorts so that I could surprise Dave before he went to work. Regret that I didn’t stay where I was, alone in the single bed at my mum’s house, assuming that he was alone too, missing me as much as I was missing him. If I’d stayed at Mum’s, in blissful ignorance, I wouldn’t have had to reassess everything about my life. I’d have coped with my sorrow about Dad, coped with making sure Mum was OK, and got on with my life.
But now I can’t.
The only reason I went home at all that morning was because I craved some normality after the stress-filled weeks we’d all gone through. My head was still spinning from it. I don’t regret for a moment having spent so much time with Dad and Mum. Of course I don’t. I’d do anything for my family. But that morning, I just wanted to be in my own bed, with someone looking after me rather than the other way around.
I know I’m being silly. Not knowing that Dave had cheated on me would have been far worse in the long run. At least, I’m pretty sure it would. In the couple of months since it happened, I’ve read lots of articles about cheating partners. There’s a view from some that you’re better off in ignorance. But I can’t help thinking that sooner or later you’ll find out anyway. And then you’ll feel an even worse fool.
If I hadn’t gone home at six o’clock that morning, I might not have found out straight away, but I would’ve had a little longer to avoid dealing with stuff I don’t want to deal with. I’d have carried on secure in the knowledge – now faulty – that my marriage was rock solid. I wouldn’t have to make decisions that I’m still quite unable to make. Decisions that aren’t only about me but are about Mica and Tom too. I’d still be the wife who’d been cheated on, but I wouldn’t be feeling as poleaxed as I do right now.
And I wouldn’t be blaming myself for allowing my coping energy to be depleted by what was going on in my mother’s house and not keeping enough in reserve for what was happening in my own.
Moving into Mum’s for a few days seemed like a good idea at the time. She needed someone with her, and the children were a welcome distraction. Dave agreed that it was the right thing to do too. But I didn’t realise that while I was shoring things up on one front, I’d left another completely exposed.
As exposed as Julie’s round and – it pains me to say it – rather bootylicious arse.
All these things went through my head at the sight of the two of them together, and I tried to stifle the choked gasp that had risen in my throat, but I couldn’t. Which meant that when Dave’s stricken eyes met mine over Julie’s mop of shining curls, there was no escape for either of us. Things had changed forever. We could never be the people we were before. And we would both have to deal with the fallout.
Everyone has their own opinion on how I should deal with it. My mum. My best friends Debs, Alison and Michelle. Even the girls in my Slim to Win WhatsApp group. (I haven’t been to a meeting since it happened, but they’ve sent supportive messages anyway.) Word gets round on the Beechgrove estate, especially as Becca Brophy from across the road, and the biggest gossip known to man, saw Julie running from our house with her knickers in her hand. I’m sure she was messaging everyone before Julie had even reached her own door. Since then, I’ve had more advice from other people than I could possibly need. Yet my views are the only ones that matter. If only I knew what they really were. If only I knew how to deal with what I’m feeling.
When I googled ‘cheating husbands’, there were over 32 million results, but regardless of all the advice, there are really only two options. Forgive and forget. Or break up. The most recent article I looked at (I’m reading them obsessively at the moment) suggested that somebody else’s cheating isn’t about you; it’s because they’re unhappy with themselves. I don’t think Dave is unhappy with himself. In fact, when I saw him with Julie, he looked far too self-satisfied for my liking. No – he saw an opportunity and took it. And he’s broken my heart.
For the past few weeks, the flickering images of my husband and my neighbour are the last things I see every night and the first that come to me every morning. I don’t want them to be. I’ve tried a million different ways to block them out. I’ve played meditative music to lull myself to sleep. I’ve focused on bringing myself to my happy place every night, although that’s difficult, because the bedroom in Beechgrove Park no longer qualifies as my happy place at all. Sometimes, as I lie alone in my childhood bedroom, my mind wanders towards all the other stuff I have to get on with, and I spend five or ten glorious minutes not thinking about my total humiliation; but eventually the memories of Dave and Julie cavorting in my bed force their way in, taunting me and reminding me that even the people you love can make you cry.
I’ve loved Dave McMenamin since I was sixteen years old. We lived on the same housing estate in the Dublin suburb of Raheny and went to the same local school. Dave’s younger brother, Phil, was friends with my older brother, Aidan. For a long time I was aware of him without taking any particular notice of him. I had short-lived flings with guys who burned bright in my life for a few weeks but then fizzled into nothingness. I had crushes on pop stars and celebrities, and, unaccountably, on Dean Marinaro, the rather nerdy guy in my class who was kind of cute. Maybe I should’ve held out for Dean Marinaro, who (as far as I know) had never gone out with a girl. But I didn’t. The year I turned sixteen I went to the annual Halloween party in the community centre. I dressed as a rather sexy witch. Dave was a blood-spattered vampire. We kissed while standing around the bonfire and that was that. I forgot about the celebs and the pop stars and Dean Marinaro. I was Dave McMenamin’s girl and I stayed Dave’s girl all through school and after we left and started work. Dave and Roxy. Roxy and Dave. From that night we were always talked about as a couple, and that was fine by me. I wanted us to be forever. I believed we would.
When Dave was twenty and I was nineteen, he was offered a contract for a plumbing job in London’s Docklands. Dave comes from a family of plumbers and it was the only thing he ever wanted to do. People may call plumbing a trade, but Dave is a craftsman and he’s really brilliant at his work. The London job was a great opportunity and there was no way he was turning it down. Despite being in the middle of my accounting technician’s course, I went to England with him. I couldn’t bear the thought of us being long-distance lovers, even though London isn’t really that far away. But it’s overseas, so that makes it long-distance. Besides, being an accounting technician wasn’t my dream. It was simply a qualification that would hopefully help me to get a job.
I didn’t need my unfinished qualification, though. A few days after we arrived in the English capital, I landed a position as a receptionist in a Jaguar car dealership. Thanks to my dad, I know a lot about cars, although I’d never even seen a Jaguar up close before. But the job was perfect for me, I got on well with the staff and the customers, and despite missing home, I liked being part of London life.
We stayed for six great years. Then Dave was offered a contract on a massive commercial development back in Dublin. Returning was a no-brainer. Happy as I’d been in London, I was delighted to come home for good. We’d been talking about having a baby, but neither of us wanted to bring up a child in London. It was nothing against the city that had been good to us. It was simply that I wanted to start my family at home.
We bought a house in Baldoyle, a ten-minute drive from where we’d grown up, although we stayed with my mum
and dad for a few months while Dave and his mates renovated it. I think I became pregnant on our first night there. A few months after Michaela was born, we were married in a ceremony that was way more lavish than we could afford given all the money we’d lashed out on turning the house into our dream home.
‘Till death us do part, babes,’ Dave said that night. ‘So it’s worth it.’
Or until Julie Halpin and her bootylicious bum moved in next door.
I’m awake ten minutes before the alarm is due to go off, and the image of the pair of them is in my head again. I always wake up ten minutes before the alarm, a somewhat useless talent that does, however, mean I have a few minutes to gather myself before getting out of bed. It used to be a time when I’d think about the day ahead, and I savoured those ten minutes as an oasis of calm before I had to throw myself into the fray. Now it always seems to be filled with images of Dave and Julie and the fact that she was on top.
Wiping away the hot tears that have filled my eyes, I pick up my phone and silence the alarm before it starts to ring. Then I tiptoe out of my bedroom and across the hallway to the bathroom, stepping carefully over the squeaky floorboard so as not to disturb anyone else. When I brought Mum up to speed on what had happened and asked if we could stay with her for a while, she wanted me to take the main bedroom with the en suite. She said it would be far more suitable. But there was no way I was turning her out of her own bedroom. I insisted that I’d be fine in the room I’d slept in as a girl, even though sleeping in a single bed after the comfort of the much bigger one I shared with Dave is really difficult. I thought I wouldn’t miss him in the narrow bed. If anything, I miss him more.
I let myself into the bathroom and close the door behind me. In a further effort to keep things quiet, I don’t switch on the ventilation fan but open the window instead, although the dawn light has only reached the very edge of the horizon and the early-morning air is more autumnal than height of summer. But Mum is a light sleeper too, and after the months of Dad’s illness, she needs her rest.