Her Husband's Mistake

by Sheila O'Flanagan

  I take a picture of the duvet cover and post it to Instagram. It’s not my usual kind of post, but I caption it ‘Driver’s Day Off’ and the likes start to come in straight away.

  I have no other messages, though.

  The school, the Zumba, the mothers’ WhatsApp groups are all silent. I’ve muted Slim to Win for a year. I haven’t put on the weight I lost and I can manage on my own now.

  I’m about to go downstairs again when the phone pings.

  Hi , says the message from Ivo Lehane. Hope you had a lovely Christmas. I’m visiting Lizzy next week. And after that I’m going to have another schedule of driving – for those restructuring projects I told you about. I know this might be completely unworkable for you, especially as it would mean a couple of nights away from home again, but would you be able to drive me?

  I haven’t thought of Ivo over the last few weeks. I certainly haven’t followed the advice Debs gave me the night I confessed that I missed sex with Dave more than Dave himself, and she told me it would be OK to fantasise about Ivo again. To be honest, I’ve been mostly too tired for fantasies. But even if I could, he’s not someone I want to fantasise about. He’s too real for that.

  I didn’t expect to hear from him about business any more.

  Good business, though, I think, as I look at his message.

  If you’d rather not, that’s fine , he adds. But you know me, poor people skills. I do better with drivers I know. Don’t want to mess up anything for you, though. Your husband and children come first.

  I continue to look at the message and then I take a deep breath.

  No problem , I reply. Always delighted to drive my best client. The husband part isn’t an issue any more. The children are for life, though.

  There’s a long silence before he replies.

  Are you OK? he asks.

  Getting there.

  Sure?

  Absolutely.

  Christmas must have been difficult.

  We got through it. We went to my mum’s. Always a joy.

  He sends a smiley Santa emoji. And then another message.

  Lizzy came to me for Christmas. That was a joy too.

  I’m glad. I’m about to send the reply and then I add, How’s Annabel?

  The response comes back quickly.

  Annabel’s got a job in Canada. She leaves next week.

  I’m sure you’ll miss her, I send.

  It was too good an opportunity for her to turn down. She’s heading up her own department. It’s always been her dream.

  I can feel my heart beating a little faster as I read his words. Is Annabel’s dream different to Ivo’s dream? Is it over between them? Do I care? Does he? I exhale slowly. The most important thing about my relationship with Ivo right now is that he’s my best client and he’s coming back on a business trip. That’s what I have to focus on.

  But I can’t help smiling as I remind him to send his flight details.

  He sends a thumbs-up and adds, Look forward to seeing you.

  I wait for a moment before replying that I’m looking forward to seeing him too.

  I walk downstairs. The children are still being entertained by Leona. Dave is sitting in a corner talking to Diarmuid. It’s the first time they’ve met. They seem to be getting along well. But that’s the thing about Dave, he gets along with everyone. He always will.

  Mum walks over to me.

  ‘You OK?’ she asks. ‘This isn’t too much for you?’ She glances across at Dave.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I can cope. It’s all under control.’ Then I grimace as Oladele jumps up and knocks over her glass of orange juice and a bowl of popcorn. I grab some paper towel and clear up the mess before anyone has time to get upset.

  As I throw the paper in the bin, Mum grins and so do I.

  If I’ve learned anything over the last few months, it’s that control is an illusion. Anyone, any time, can do something to upset the balance of our lives. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes we cope, sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we have to let other people do the coping for us for a while.

  We’re all hanging on by our fingertips.

  But now I know that I can get up again if I fall.

  Acknowledgements

  Every time I type ‘The End’ on the last page of my manuscript, I’m relieved that I’ve finally managed to get the story from my head and on to the page. And when I see the finished book on the shelves, it’s a very proud moment. Much as I’d like to take all the credit for myself, there are a lot of people who have a part to play in turning my initial idea into a published book and they all deserve a lot of thanks.

  My publisher and editor, Marion Donaldson, is as generous with her advice as she is gentle with her criticisms, as she helps me to develop the novel from those first nebulous thoughts into something someone might like to read. It’s a great pleasure to work with her and I want to thank her yet again for helping me to bring Roxy’s story to life.

  More wise words come to me from my agent, Isobel Dixon, who looks after the business side of things so I don’t have to. Thank you, Isobel, and thanks also to Hattie, James, Daisy and everyone at Blake Friedmann who know how to mix work and pleasure in just the right quantities.

  As always, I have to give a great vote of thanks to the Hachette group for being such fun to work with, and for all those champagne moments! A very special thank you to the fabulous Breda Purdue in Ireland who has shared the journey with me for twenty years, and who has never stopped being a great champion of books and authors.

  There’s an old saying that no man is hero to his valet. An updated version might be that no writer is a heroine to her copyeditor! For noticing that characters put down phones they’ve never picked up and leave rooms they never entered, and for allowing me the chance to fix it, thank you again, Jane Selley.

  To Jean Denihan, who knits octopussies for premie babies and gave me the idea for Selina’s new interest, thank you for both the knitting and your enduring friendship.

  My extended family continues to be supportive and enthusiastic even after so many books – thanks again, although I can never thank you enough!

  As always, massive thanks to Colm, for reminding me that there are more things in life than my laptop, and for making sure that I enjoy them.

  Every writer is, first and foremost, a reader too. There’s nothing more exciting than starting a new book and getting lost in the story. To all my readers – those who’ve been with me for many books and those who are new – thank you for choosing Her Husband’s Mistake . I really hope you enjoyed it. I’m always happy to hear from you through my website and social media, where I try my best to answer all your messages.

  Author’s Note

  Back in February 2018 I attended a fundraising event for the wonderful Shabra Charity (www.shabracharity.com ). At that event Mr Paul Doran made a substantial donation to the charity so that his children could have their names used in a book. Her Husband’s Mistake is that book, and I hope Emma and Andrew are happy to have their names in print as Mica and Tom’s best friends. The fact that Emma’s mum is Audrey both in real life and the book is entirely co-incidental!

  We hope you enjoyed reading HER HUSBAND’S MISTAKE.

  Don’t miss Sheila O’Flanagan’s bestselling novel

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  Or read on for the opening section of the novel . . .

  Chapter 1

  There was a long queue at the car rental desk and I was at the back of it.

  I’d congratulated myself on being first off the plane and thought I’d be first in line at the rental desk too, but I’d forgotten there would be other flights into Alicante airport and that those passengers might also be hiring cars. Now it seemed that everyone who’d landed that evening was in the queue ahead of me. And it was moving at a snail’s pace.

  I was standing immediately behind a family of four whose flight had arrived nearly three hours late and who were fe
eling very cranky about it. The little girl, aged about two, was holding on to her mother’s leg, whimpering pettishly, while her slightly older brother was aiming his bright-green plastic laser gun at the waiting adults and whooping ‘gotcha’ every couple of seconds. The parents were venting their annoyance in equal measure at the airline and the car rental agency, asking each other why it was taking so bloody long to hand over a set of keys. The last comment was pitched loudly enough for everyone in the line to hear, and there were plenty of approving nods as well as a few mutters of ‘bloody disgrace’ from the waiting hordes.

  The two people currently at the desk had been there for at least twenty minutes. If everyone ahead of me took that long, I’d be waiting for nearly two hours. Which would mean that it would be after midnight before I got my car, and at least another hour before I reached the Villa Naranja. So my time on the ground would be practically as long as the flight itself – longer if, as I feared, I got lost.

  ‘You won’t get lost, Juno,’ Pilar had assured me as she’d highlighted the route on Google Maps. ‘Once you’re on the road to the house, you’ll be fine. The hardest part is the turn just before the town because it is quite sharp and easy to miss in the dark. But you’ll know you’ve passed it if you end up in Beniflor.’

  ‘Is there a hotel nearby if I do lose my way?’

  ‘Not in Beniflor itself,’ she replied. ‘But there’s a lovely one about fifteen minutes past it. La Higuera. Small, but very chic. Even though it’s expensive it’s always booked up. Honestly, Juno, you’ll find the Villa Naranja, no problem. Don’t worry.’

  I wasn’t exactly worried, but despite my limited budget I wished I’d opted for the chic and expensive option, at least for tonight. I supposed that if things took too long, I could always drive into Alicante city, check in to the first hotel I saw, and leave looking for the Villa Naranja until the morning when it would be bright and everything would seem better and easier. Even as I considered it, I told myself not to be stupid. The drive was straightforward enough and I was perfectly capable of finding a country house, even in the dark. I was a strong, competent woman, wasn’t I? It might be true that both my strength and competence had been called into question of late but I shouldn’t be such a … a … the disparaging word I was about to call myself was lost as, out of nowhere, the pain and the grief enveloped me like a tidal wave, literally knocking me sideways. I gasped an apology as I bumped into the mother in front of me.

  ‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘It takes it out of you, doesn’t it? Travelling. And all this hanging around is ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder if going away on holiday is worth the hassle.’

  She kept talking without waiting for me to answer, which was just as well because I wasn’t listening to a word she was saying, and I couldn’t speak anyhow. My throat had constricted and there was only room in my head for my anguish. The problem, of course, was that I had no right to be anguished and no right to be in pain. Yet it caught hold of me when I least expected it, and wouldn’t let me go.

  Without wanting to, I was replaying the moment I’d heard the news. The moment I’d seen the photograph flash up on the screen and my life had been turned upside down. I was utterly unable to stop the memories or the images filling my head. It was all I could do not to cry.

  The queue moved forward again.

  ‘We’re staying at my sister’s.’ The woman’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘She has a place in Altea Heights. It’s beautiful. Views of the sea. Lovely terrace. And a private pool.’

  ‘It sounds great.’ My voice came out as a croak but she didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Oh, it is,’ she told me. ‘Sadly, we won’t be able to come this time next year. Cooper will be in school then, and they fine you for taking them out in term-time now. It’s ludicrous. Everyone knows the airline companies scam you on flights during school holidays.’

  ‘It’s the nanny state at work,’ said her husband.

  I nodded in agreement. As a single woman just past her thirtieth birthday, school holidays were irrelevant to me, but I understood her frustration.

  ‘Are you on your own, then?’ She looked at me, inviting conversation.

  To my enormous relief a second window at the rental desk opened at that moment. The queue split and hustled forward and I didn’t need to answer. To avoid any possibility of talking, however, I took out my phone and looked at it. But I already knew the most recent message would still be the one from Pilar, sent just before I boarded the plane in Dublin.

  Slight problem. Mum didn’t get to the house today so electricity is still off. No fresh food either but there is coffee and tea. Best pick up something at airport for snack and brekkie. Hope you have great time. Px

  I’d bought two extra Danish pastries on the flight. They’d looked soggy and unappetising even before I put them in my bag but I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry. I wouldn’t be hungry in the morning either. I’d lost my interest in food along with almost six kilos in weight over the past couple of months. I knew that I couldn’t really afford to lose any more. I’ve always been on the slender side, and dropping almost a stone didn’t really suit me. But the last thing I cared about was how I looked.

  I scrolled through my other messages, even though I told myself not to. I stopped at the last one in the conversation with Brad.

  Tonight’s dinner location. Joining them shortly. Love you. Miss you. Bxx

  The wave of grief hit me again. I clenched my teeth and tightened my grip on the handle of my luggage. At that moment, it was the only thing keeping me upright.

  A final move forward and then it was my turn at the desk. I gave my details and was handed the keys to a Ford Fiesta, which the rental agent said was on the third floor of the car park. I thanked him, and walked towards the exit. The family of four was still at the desk. The little boy was bashing their suitcases with his plastic laser gun and the father was arguing with the agent about the insurance excess charge.

  The car park was busy. I checked the bay number for the Fiesta and strode along one of the rows. The dark blue car was where it was meant to be. I gave a sigh of relief, popped the boot open and hefted my case inside. I opened the door and slid into the seat before I realised I was on the passenger’s side. I got out and walked around to the driver’s door.

  I’d driven on the Continent before, so left-hand drive didn’t bother me. The first time – in France with my closest friends, Cleo and Saoirse – had been a little scary, but after the initial anxious minutes I’d been fine. I’d been the one to do most of the driving through Europe with Sean, my fiancé, a few years later. Sean became my ex-fiancé after that trip, although it hadn’t been on account of my driving. It had been on account of him deciding he wasn’t ready to marry anyone. Or at least that he wasn’t ready to marry me. Of course I’d had broken relationships in my life before Sean, but I’d never felt as devastated as I’d felt then. All the dreams and plans of the life I’d expected to lead had come crashing down around me. I’d felt battered and bruised and despairing. Humiliated, too – though I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t a reflection on me that Sean had changed his mind. And better at that point than after we were married. Still, it was a difficult few months. But I’d got over it. I’d rebuilt my life, advanced my career and moved on. Now my heart was broken all over again, and this time it was much, much worse. This time I didn’t know how to get over it, I didn’t know if I’d ever recover.

  I took a deep breath, then put the Fiesta into reverse and eased out of the parking bay. It was good to have something to concentrate on, something to pull my mind away from the dark places it still wanted to go. Besides, I like driving. I’m a better driver than Sean ever was. I’m alert and confident and I don’t let myself be bullied on the road. That was why Cleo and Saoirse always made me drive on holidays. And I honestly didn’t mind, because I like being the one in control. I’m much better at giving orders than taking them.

  I hadn’t been on holidays with the girls since I’d star
ted going out with Sean. But after Brad, Cleo had asked me if I’d like to go away for a weekend with her. To a spa, she suggested. Somewhere top-notch. Somewhere I could be pampered.

  ‘I don’t deserve to be pampered,’ I’d told her in a voice that was tight with the effort of not crying.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Cleo protested.

  ‘I know. But it feels like a judgement somehow.’

  ‘You’ve got to give yourself a break, Juno,’ she said.

  ‘They didn’t get a break, did they?’ I asked.

  And Cleo hadn’t said any more about pampering.

  ‘At the roundabout, take the second exit.’ The female satnav was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

  I concentrated on my road positioning and followed her instructions. Most of the route to Beniflor was by motorway, which made things fairly simple. I like motorway driving. I like putting my foot down and giving the car its head.

  But I didn’t put my foot down too heavily in the Fiesta. I was afraid to drive too quickly. There was a chance I might burst into tears, and I didn’t want to be travelling at 120kph when that happened. Nevertheless there was a tiny, tiny part of me that thought driving off the road and into oblivion had its merits.

  I fixed my eyes on the road ahead. I wasn’t going to think like that. I’d had those thoughts in the darker days but I’d told everyone that I was much better now. The thing is, I wasn’t, not really. The reason I was here was because I wasn’t at all better, and because I couldn’t do my job properly. Because I’d felt obliged to hand in my resignation before I did something really stupid. And before they fired me.