Twenty Years a Stranger (The Stranger Series Book 1)

by Deborah Twelves

  ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment. Can you just sit down for a minute, please? I’ve got something I need to tell you.’

  She sat down abruptly on a stool and looked terrified, steeling herself in anticipation of whatever bad news I was obviously about to deliver. I hated Daniel for what this would do to her. Since we lost my dad, she seemed so much more fragile and vulnerable and I felt fiercely protective of her, but I knew there was no way I could protect her from this.

  ‘The thing is…I got an email last night, from someone I’ve never heard of. A woman. Look, there’s really no easy way to say this Mum. Apparently, Daniel has been cheating on me.’

  She gasped in horror and her hand flew to her mouth as I continued.

  ‘Not only with this woman, but with a load of others as well.’

  I paused to let that sink in, before delivering the final blow.

  ‘And he’s got kids with two of them.’

  That just about sums it up - I thought miserably to myself.

  The last five words were like daggers in my heart and I collapsed in tears again, despite my resolve to stay strong.

  ‘Oh, Christ, the bastard…the bastard. Oh, love, I’m so sorry, so sorry.’

  Mum knew how much I had always wanted kids and I could see she was struggling to take it in, unable to find the words. Infidelity on this scale, or indeed any scale, was totally incomprehensible to her. She stood up, wrapped her arms around me and we sobbed together, clinging to each other as she rocked me from side to side. There is nothing worse for a mother than seeing her child in pain and nothing worse for a child than knowing you have caused your mother so much pain.

  ‘But how could it happen?’ she began again. ‘I don’t understand. Are you sure she’s telling the truth?’

  ‘Yes Mum, I’m sure. I already spoke to him and he didn’t deny any of it. Just said everything in the email was true….’

  My voice tailed off and I slumped despondently onto a stool.

  ‘Show me the email. Let me read it.’

  I was desperate to keep the sordid details from her, but she was equally determined to know everything. Her face changed as she read; her mouth hardening into a thin line of anger. As I watched her, I realised I had massively underestimated her. She did not need protection. It was her job to protect me and she would fight for me, like a tiger with its cub. My mother was a far tougher cookie than we all gave her credit for.

  I thought of all my mother had had to endure in her life. Born with three holes in her heart and various other health complications, including rheumatic fever as a child and severe, debilitating, migraines; her parents were told she would not live beyond the age of ten. And yet she did, surviving as a young girl during the war in bomb-ravaged Sheffield, spending most of the time in a convalescent home for children, whose strict rules stated that parents were only allowed to visit once a month.

  After the war, she continued to defy the doctors’ predictions and continued to grow up. As a teenager, she loved the cinema and went to see all the latest musicals with her best friend, Jean. Despite her lack of formal education, she was bright and got herself a good job in the office of an engineering firm, which was where she met my dad, who worked there as a draftsman. They fell in love and, by the time she travelled to London Middlesex hospital at the age of twenty-four to undergo one of the first pioneering operations in open-heart surgery, they were engaged to be married and Dad was by her side. Not only did she live to tell the tale, just three months after coming out of hospital she married my dad, although they were told it was unlikely she would ever be strong enough to have children. Determined to have a family of her own, Mum had other ideas and went on to have first my brother and then me. Her life was blighted by ill health and she endured several further operations as the years rolled by, including open heart surgery for a second time the year I got married. Throughout it all, she remained positive, coping with everything Fate threw at her and living life to the full with the family she had always wanted.

  As I looked at her sitting there, my heart was full of admiration. How could I have been so patronising and arrogant to think this remarkable woman needed my protection?

  ‘Stop crying now,’ she stated decisively.

  She held me at arms’ length and looked me in the eyes.

  ‘He is not worth your tears or mine. He is nothing but a liar and a cheat and, believe you me, between us we will make sure he gets his comeuppance. Your dad would have killed him. Oh God, I wish he was here to help you, but it would have broken his heart to see what he has done to you….’

  Tears began to roll down her cheeks again at the thought of my dad and she dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief.

  ‘Have you told Jeremy?’ she sniffed.

  ‘I tried. He wasn’t in and he isn’t answering his phone.’

  I snivelled pathetically, but a little bit of fire was beginning to smoulder deep inside me. My mother and father had not raised me to be a wimp, wallowing in self-pity. What had happened to me was shit, there was no denying that, but I told myself philosophically that nobody died at the end of the day and so there had to be a way forward, a way to make them proud of me.

  I jumped as the front door slammed shut and my brother walked into the kitchen, looking anxious as he took in my tear-stained face.

  ‘What’s up? I’ve just seen all your missed calls and came straight round. What’s happened?’

  The relief on Mum’s face was obvious as she stood up to make coffee. The cavalry had arrived.

  ‘You need to read that.’

  I brought up the email and shoved my phone at him with no further explanation.

  He looked confused but began to read. When he had finished he did not speak for a moment, just rubbed his hand over his face.

  ‘Oh Christ, Grace, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. Phoebe and I always thought there was something not quite right with him, but…the scale of the deceit…it’s just incredible. The man’s a bloody sociopath. I honestly can’t take it all in.’

  ‘How do you think I feel?’

  I dissolved into tears yet again, forgetting my earlier resolve. I desperately wanted my dad, but Jeremy was the next best thing and I knew he would come through for me and tell me what to do. He was older than me by a couple of years and had always been the sensible, reliable, one; well respected in the community as the local GP, but even he seemed to be at a loss with this one. He enveloped me in a massive bear hug and I clung desperately to him, sobbing uncontrollably.

  ‘Have you spoken to the tosser?’ he asked disdainfully.

  ‘Yes. And before you ask, it’s all true. He’s not even trying to deny it.’

  ‘Okay, okay. Let’s think here. We need to be practical and methodical. Mum, have you got some paper?’

  He paused to think as Mum scurried off to get paper.

  ‘I’m going to write a timeline of events regarding everything that woman says in the email. You need to write down notes about your life with Daniel, especially the financial side of things. You’re going to need a bloody good solicitor. One that will take the bastard to the cleaners. You’ll have a fight on your hands though because he’s devious and unfortunately he’s one step ahead of you. I think you should probably get back to the house as soon as possible, just in case he takes anything important away. Go through all the paperwork and gather any information you can get your hands on that could help your case: bank statements, invoices, account details, literally anything.’

  I nodded, relieved. This was what I needed. Clear instructions. Someone else taking charge.

  ‘Will you come back with me and see the solicitor?’ I asked, hopefully.

  ‘Come on Grace, I can’t just drop everything at work. You know I’ll help you with anything I can, but we live two hours away and you should really use a solicitor nearer home. You need to do this bit on your own. I know it’s been a horrendous shock, but you’re a big girl now and you will get through this, I promise.’


  Reality check number one. Of course, he would help me, as would all my friends, but everyone had their own lives and their own problems going on. I couldn’t just expect people to suddenly jump to it and run around after me, holding my hand. Everyone would be sympathetic, I was pretty sure of that, but I also knew that sympathy did not have a long shelf life. I had to stand on my own two feet, be brave and accept that this was my mess to clean up. I needed to make sure I only called for back-up when I really needed it because I could not afford to wear out the sympathy card.

  An hour or so later, my brother stood up to leave.

  ‘Come round to ours for something to eat this evening and we’ll talk it through some more. I don’t want you and Mum on your own here tonight.’

  A family meeting was assembled that evening: Mum, me, Jeremy, his wife Phoebe and my three beautiful nieces, Felicity, Serena and Amelia. My young nephew Luke was sent to play on his X-box; they could give him a watered-down version of events later.

  Phoebe had never really taken to Daniel and I wondered how things would have turned out if I had listened to her earlier. She placed a large gin in my hand and smiled as I walked through the door.

  ‘Come on, I think you need that. What an absolute arse-hole.’

  ‘Understatement of the year,’ my brother added, taking Mum’s coat.

  I was trying desperately not to cry again and focused on the gin, as we all sat down at the kitchen table and Phoebe continued.

  ‘You know what I think about him, Grace. I didn’t hide it. I never liked or trusted him. I thought he was an arrogant dick head, always bragging about what he had and how much it cost. He definitely looked down his nose at us, thinking he was so much better than everyone else. It doesn’t surprise me at all to find out he’s capable of something like this. He’s nothing but a con man and a compulsive liar.’

  I nodded miserably. That just about summed him up. I had definitely backed the wrong person when I refused to believe what she said about him in the past. She looked at my face and decided to change tack.

  ‘Have you had a look at the other women on Facebook?’ she asked, with a glint in her eye.

  ‘No, I haven’t dared. I bet they’re all younger than me, slimmer, more glamorous…I just can’t bear feeling even worse about myself than I already do.’

  ‘Oh don’t be ridiculous. He’s not exactly George Clooney, no offence. He was always punching above his weight with you. Anyway, you have to know what you’re dealing with. Come on girls,’ she said, turning to her daughters. ‘You try to find them on the laptop. I’ll get more gin.’

  It did not take them long. Felicity gasped and her hand flew to her mouth in shock.

  ‘Oh my God!’ she exclaimed.

  All three girls collapsed in laughter and a few moments later I confronted the first of the enemies I never knew I had. To my surprise and undeniable relief, Jane turned out to be none of the things I had feared. She was short and overweight, her round face framed with a medium length, dark bob. She was wearing glasses and was most definitely not what you would call glamorous. Her thin lips were smiling, but the smile did not reach her eyes and there was a cold, calculating edge to it that was particularly unattractive.

  Plain Jane was prolific on Facebook and there were numerous posts and photos to look at. Her privacy settings were lax and it was almost as if she wanted me to know all about her, wanted to rub my nose in it. It was frightening how much information we gleaned about her from just a few minutes on social media, including where she lived, somewhere called Willowmede, near Birmingham. My nieces immediately christened her The Whale of Willowmede that night and the name stuck. It had a certain ring to it I felt.

  We took great pleasure indulging in a massive bitching session, ripping Jane to pieces for the next half an hour or so, zooming in on every photo and analysing every post from the last two years, to build up a full picture of her character, which we then promptly assassinated without mercy.

  The smile was immediately wiped from my face however when I was shown her most recent post, featuring a photo of Daniel, asleep on top of a double bed, wearing his standard uniform of jeans and an M&S polo shirt. He had one arm cradled around a young boy who looked about nine years old and was nestled into him. There was a glass of something dark on the bedside table, presumably his signature drink of Mount Gay and coke. The photo was accompanied with the hashtags:

  family time, family is strongest bond, love kids, daddy and son.

  This woman knew what she was doing. It was obvious she was using the child to assert her dominance and to cause me maximum pain. She had succeeded. The physical agony I felt as I looked at that picture of Daniel with his son, the son that should have been mine, was unbearable. No matter what happened in the future in any divorce proceedings, Daniel had won. She had won. There was no magical antidote or cure that could ever fix this for me.

  ‘Oh my God, what a vile bitch!’ my niece, Felicity, shrieked. ‘You need to keep away from her. I think she could be dangerous. I bet you anything she knew he was married all along. It looks like he’s gone and shacked up with her and the kid now. She’s obviously desperate.’

  ‘I think we should ignore The Whale now and look for the others,’ said Serena tactfully, noticing my face and shoving a box of Ferrero Rocher towards me.

  The stalking continued, but Lorraine Huntley, the author of the email, proved to be a more elusive target. She was on Facebook, but it was locked down with tight privacy settings and her profile picture was a photo of a dog; a black Labrador who, disturbingly, looked a lot like Lola. I decided to reserve judgement on her until I had found more evidence. I had not replied to her email and had no intention of doing so for the moment.

  ‘Why don’t you go down to see her?’ Amelia suggested. ‘I’ll come with you,’ she added excitedly.

  ‘Maybe the two of you could get together against him as they did in that film…what was it called again…?’ Serena asked, looked at her sisters questioningly.

  ‘Do you mean The Other Women?’ Felicity offered.

  ‘That’s the one!’

  I laughed despite myself. I remembered watching the film one evening with the girls. Me joining forces with the woman who had been sleeping with my husband behind my back for pretty much my entire marriage was never going to happen, but they might have a point about going to confront her in person.

  We spent another hour drinking and trawling the internet, trying to find out about the mysterious Anita in America and her daughter Tara (Daniel’s daughter - I reminded myself), but we were finally forced to admit defeat, as she irritatingly appeared to have no social media presence whatsoever. That was for another day. There were so many more pieces of the jigsaw to fit together, but I told myself that at least I had made a start.

  Phoebe had cooked a roast dinner and the girls had done an apple crumble for dessert. Perfect comfort food. The conversation eventually turned to other things and, for a little while at least, as we laughed and chatted and Luke showed me his latest Star Wars figures, I forgot my troubles and the world returned to normal.

  As I lay in bed at Mum’s house that night, unable to sleep, the initial surge of relief I had felt at the photos we found of Jane, aka The Whale of Willowmede, began to turn to self-doubt and then self-loathing.

  What the hell was wrong with me? I must be a really terrible person for Daniel to cheat on me with these women, who were neither attractive nor younger than me if Jane was anything to go by. It just didn’t make any sense. Clearly, they had something I did not have, though.

  They had my husband for a start.

  I eventually drifted off into a fitful sleep, steeling myself for the fact that tomorrow I would have to return to the forever home I thought I had made with my husband. The home that I now knew had been built on sand.

  The Thief

  If you allow the wolf to get away with stealing one of your sheep today, he will come back tomorrow and take the rest of them.

  Grac
e

  Alone in the car, as I drove home, I gave myself a pep talk and vowed to be the strong woman that everyone knew would make it through the worst that life could throw at her. The fearless woman who dared to do anything she had to do. The independent woman who did not need a man by her side. Above all, I promised myself I would be the woman who never backed off in the face of adversity and who always got back up when life knocked her down. I was my father’s daughter - I told myself.

  But the superhero version of myself I had conjured up evaporated the minute I entered the bedroom on the top floor, which Daniel and I used as an office. Apart from the basic furniture and some junk lying around on the windowsills, the room was totally empty.

  My eyes darted around the room, desperately searching for the boxes containing business and personal accounts, normally stored under the desk.

  Nothing.

  I looked at the desk which normally had papers piled high at the side.

  Again nothing.

  I pulled open the filing cabinet drawers at the side of the desk.

  Empty.

  The whole room was uncharacteristically tidy. It looked as if we had been burgled by a thief with a conscience, one who had been careful not to make a mess. But I knew the thief who had been here and he was devoid of all conscience. My own little box file of personal documents sat forlornly under the window, looking out of place.

  He had certainly been thorough, erasing all traces of himself from the office. The only thing left on the desk was the new twenty-seven-inch monitor he plugged his laptop into when working (or doing whatever else he got up to of course). Everything was stored and backed up on that damn laptop of his and I had about as much chance of getting my hands on that as I had of flying to the moon. Once again I had been caught napping, wrong-footed. I was making this all too easy for Daniel and if I didn’t get my act together he was going to trample all over me with his size 11 boots and squash me into the ground like an insect.