by Nicola Marsh
The Scandal
A gripping emotional page-turner with a breathtaking twist
Nicola Marsh
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Hear More from Nicola
A Letter from Nicola
Acknowledgements
For Millie and Ollie, I’m blessed to have parents like you.
Prologue
Have you ever done something so terrible, so horrific, that it haunts you? A vile memory that clogs your throat and blurs your mind and sits like a heavy weight in your gut?
I have.
The memory of what I’ve recently done disturbs me. Every waking minute, every sleeping one too. The nightmares are bad; the kind that linger after I jolt awake, bathed in sweat, my hands trembling, my breathing ragged and harsh in the silence.
I pretend like I’m fine. I’m good at it. I’ve had a lifetime’s practice. Fake it till you make it. But lately, it’s increasingly hard to act like everything’s fine. Because it’s not. I’m unraveling.
I find myself drifting off at the oddest of times. I forget appointments. I order milk in my coffee when I always take it black. I jog into town when my daily route is along the beach. I can hide these oddities most of the time but those closest to me might start to suspect something’s wrong and I can’t have that.
I can’t risk them knowing I harbor darkness inside, the kind that lashes out when I least expect it.
I killed someone.
Not accidentally. Not out of spite or revenge. Not out of deep-seated rage.
I killed because life is about choices and I choose me.
My secret is safe.
No one knows. Yet.
Because I choose me.
One
Marisa
Some women meet monthly for book clubs. But it’s tedious being forced to read the latest literary masterpiece a friend has chosen when I’d rather have my nose stuck in a steamy romance, so I instigated a gardening club. Not the kind where Claire, Elly and I weed or prune or plant. It’s more the kind of club that takes place in a garden; with wine, and cheese.
Besides, the thought of my glamorous friend Elly doing anything as menial as gardening is laughable and Claire’s far too busy chasing bad guys to mulch. I asked them once, if they’d like to actually garden when they came over. They’d declared me certifiably insane.
So, we sit under the towering oak in the far corner of my perfectly maintained garden sipping sublime Chardonnay, nibbling on imported Camembert and discussing our lives in Gledhill.
People may envy us, living in the Hamptons: the beaches, the mansions, the restaurants, and enough celebrity sightings to keep things interesting. Considering my past I never take it for granted that I’m now residing in this idyllic location in my eight-bedroom, four-bathroom Colonial, complete with pool-house and tennis court. Avery and I worked hard to get where we are. We deserve to enjoy the spoils.
Not everyone feels the same way. I see how some of the less privileged townsfolk look at me: sly, covetous glances that judge me for living a privileged life. They choose not to see through my fragile façade to the uncertain woman beneath. They don’t know how I’ve clawed my way to the life I now enjoy.
I don’t like being found lacking by anybody, so I volunteer. A lot. I deliver meals to the elderly, I spend time at a youth center in Montauk, I man a stall at the monthly market and I raise money for local charities. The generosity of my fellow Hampton inhabitants is legendary. They have money to spare.
But no matter how much I give back to my community I feel guilty somehow. Silly, because I work and I contribute. It’s never enough.
“Sorry I’m late.” Claire steps onto the back patio, a store-bought carrot cake in one hand and a Shiraz in the other. “Got caught up at work. I had to finish a stack of paperwork after that multi on the highway outside Greenport last night.”
“Don’t worry, Elly’s not here yet.”
She’ll make a grand entrance as usual, craving attention, flaunting her freedom, making Claire and me feel like old married crones. And I do feel like a crone. Any woman would next to the perfection that is Avery Thurston. I chose this life. I knew what I was getting into when I married him. It doesn’t make the reality any easier.
My life is like one of those cheap snow globes my twins collected when they were younger. Shiny and pretty on the outside, blurred beyond recognition when shaken.
Quashing my residual bitterness, I gesture at the table set up near the balustrade, covered in the usual nibbles I set out: crackers, cheese, antipasto, dips and crudités. “I thought we could eat up here for a change?”
“Sure.” Claire places the bottle of wine and cake on the table then gives me a peck on the cheek. “Let’s go wild, shake things up a little.”
I smile, shooting Claire a quick look. She sounds odd, her voice a tad high, like something’s bothering her. Highly unusual, considering Claire is the calm one among us. Nothing ever ruffles her. Her ability to stay detached from unpleasantness makes her an excellent cop. As a friend, her cool logic has defused many a tense moment. We’ve had a few of those after what Elly went through last year.
“Everything okay?”
She nods, but I see a glimmer of wariness in her eyes. “Nothing a good sugar fix won’t cure.”
All isn’t right in my friend’s ordered world. Claire is a health freak: high protein, low carbs, minimal sugar. She always brings cake but never eats it. The mother in me always wants to fatten up her and Elly, to encourage them to indulge without fear. I’d known that fear once but in my case it had been fear of starvation. My mom had never cared what I ate; when she’d been home, that is. Surviving on TV dinners and snacks I could scrounge ensured I plied my own kids with food from the time they could ingest solids.
No child of mine would ever know the gnawing hunger that makes a belly ache, the feeling of emptiness that expanded daily until it consumed you, the constant disappointment of a parent not giving a damn.
I know Claire and Elly abstain from sugary treats because of the inevitable terror women face when standing on the scales and seeing those digital pounds tick over. So I don’t shove food down their throats like I want to. They’ll discover soon enough that with age comes curves, no matter how many choc chip cookies they forego. Metabolism’s a bitch.
“So cake before wine then?”
She holds up two fingers. “Give me a double of both.
”
Another sign Claire’s rattled: she flops into a deckchair rather than helping me. Claire’s a doer, always at hand to assist when needed.
Fate brought us together when she’d been transferred to the Hamptons two years ago and attended a botched burglary six months later at the halfway house where I volunteered. I’m good at reading people and knew instantly Claire cared beyond her job. She’d lingered longer than the other cops, had taken the time to ensure the battered women and the homeless street kids at the shelter felt safe by offering reassurance and exuding a quiet calm. She’d impressed me that night, exhibiting empathy beyond duty and I instinctively knew that Claire working the Gledhill beat was the NYPD’s loss.
On impulse I’d asked her out for coffee after her shift ended and we’d met Elly the same day. We’d both needed something stronger after the long hours calming terrified women at the shelter so we’d swapped coffee for martinis at a bar and Elly had been there, alone.
Elly wasn’t the type of woman I’d normally befriend. Stunning on the surface, from her designer shoes to her flawless make-up, wearing her sexuality like a killer outfit. But the eyes never lie and I knew, with the instinct of dealing with fragile women for years, that Elly’s overt beauty hid a brittleness she strove to hide. She’d flicked a disparaging glance at me and I’d glimpsed how forlorn she’d been, radiating a palpable loneliness, so I couldn’t help myself. We’ve been friends ever since.
Avery teases me about my rescue complex. Helping others makes me feel good in a way I haven’t felt since Trish and Terry left for college two years ago. The girls are my world and that world semi-imploded the day they’d shipped off to UCLA without a backward glance.
Empty nest syndrome my ass. Try empty house, empty heart. I’d pined for a week before Avery had snapped and even I’d grown sick of myself. I found a job the next day. Initially as a volunteer at the halfway house and six months later, as a paid social worker for the Gledhill Help Center. I never let my registration lapse even when I’d been a full-time mom, and returning to my profession gave me a renewed sense of purpose.
If my kids don’t need me, other people do. I like being needed. I crave it, like addicts crave their next fix. Without it, I have too much time to think, to analyze.
I don’t like doing that.
“Hey, ladies, what’s happening?” Elly sashays onto the patio and places her usual offering – a bottle of French champagne – on the table.
She’s wearing a magenta strapless sundress that’s bold and glamorous. Her wild, curly, blonde hair is styled into a fancy chignon, her make-up is perfect, her cat-like green eyes are bright, and her nude wedges add another four inches onto her average height. She looks like she’s stepped off the pages of a glossy mag and I experience the inevitable twinge of envy. If I didn’t like her so much I’d hate her. But we’ve been through a lot together. When Elly needed me I was there for her and while we never talk of that awful night, I remember when my friend fell apart and my heart broke for her.
“We’re about to consume our body weight in alcohol.” Claire stands and crosses to the table. “What are we drinking first, ladies?”
“Champagne,” Elly says, at the same time I say, “Shiraz.”
Elly wrinkles her nose. “You and your fancy-schmancy red wine.”
Claire shoots her a glare and uncorks the wine. “Quit your moaning and pass your glass.”
“Why are we up here anyway?” Elly glances around, her gaze drifting to our usual spot at the end of the garden. “I like being under that oak. It gives me a perfect view of that hot gardener next door.”
Claire rolls her eyes and I laugh. Claire has a low tolerance for Elly’s sexploits. Not that she dates a lot but when she does she regales us with exaggerated saucy tales. I don’t mind. Being married for almost twenty-one years leaves no surprises. Not that Avery still isn’t attractive: at fifty-two, he’s sexier than most men his age, in that classic tall, dark and handsome way. Women’s heads turn when Avery strides past. Even after knowing him for twenty-two years, I wonder what he sees in me. I’m tall and slim with unusual hazel eyes but my particular shade of brunette comes from a bottle and I work like a maniac at maintaining my figure.
“Here you go.” I hand Elly a glass of Napa’s finest red. “It’s the gardener’s day off so I thought we’d stay up here for a change.”
Elly pretends to pout. “Is Ryan home then? I need some eye candy.”
Another thing about Avery that bugs me: his younger brother Ryan lives next door and despite the eighteen months’ age difference they’re like twins joined by some weird symbiotic bond. They’re charming, charismatic and self-absorbed, with a penchant for pushing boundaries.
Ever since I’ve known them Ryan has taken advantage of Avery: borrowing money and using him to get him out of scrapes initially, muscling his way into a managerial position in Avery’s company later. I’m used to Ryan waltzing into our house any time of day or night, usually to ask Avery for another ‘favor’. He’s like an overgrown child and I treat him like the son I never had. Everyone loves Ryan. Pity I don’t feel the same about his wife, Maggie.
“Ryan’s always around. Though with Avery in Manhattan on business for a couple of days, maybe he’ll make himself scarce.”
I’d never admit it to anyone but I like the fact my industrious CEO husband travels a lot for work. I like having the house to myself. It takes the pressure off. Avery has a high libido and mine is non-existent. On the rare occasion our schedules coincide for a quickie in the bedroom we’re rote and lackluster. He’s a busy man, I’m a tired woman. Like most parents our sex lives dwindled after the twins arrived and I’d dreaded picking up after the girls left for college.
These days, Avery touches me occasionally in the hope it leads to sex and I either laugh off his overtures or feign interest. If we actually do the deed, I inevitably fake it. He never notices. Avery rarely notices anything beyond his own insular world where he resides at the center.
“Damn. So all I have to look at is you two?” Elly snorts in mock disgust and sips her wine, shooting me a wink that’s endearing.
I chuckle but Claire doesn’t join in. She stares into her wine like it holds some great secret.
“What’s up with you?” Elly leans forward and taps Claire on the knee.
Surprisingly, it takes Claire a few seconds to realize we’re both staring at her and as I wait for her to answer, unease gnaws at my gut. Claire normally begins gardening club chatting about work; she loves regaling us with gory cop stories but she’s hardly said a word, has drained her first glass of wine and is halfway through her second.
She swirls her wine absentmindedly. “You don’t want to hear my sorry ass news.”
“Yes, we do.” I pull my chair closer, leaving enough room so she won’t feel crowded. “You haven’t taunted either of us once so something’s definitely up.”
Claire sighs and Elly shoots me a confused look. I give a slight shake of my head, indicating we need to give her time.
After several more swirls of her wine glass, Claire finally looks up and I know what she’s about to say is bad, really bad. She never cries and she’s blinking rapidly.
I reach out but she scoots back as if my touch will unravel her completely. “Honey, what’s wrong—”
“Dane and I can’t have kids…” She trails off, her voice so soft that at first I wonder if I’ve misheard. But when she stifles a sob and murmurs, “He’s infertile,” I know the news is as bad as I first thought.
Claire is inherently a giver. Giving her dedication to the force, giving herself to Dane. She has a lot of love to give to a child and from a few hints she’s dropped over the last year I assume they’ve been trying.
Now this. I can’t imagine my world without my twins and to see how shattered Claire is over her inability to have kids with Dane is heartbreaking.
She dashes a hand across her eyes and lifts her chin in mock fierceness, but I see the devastation in her gaze. Claire
is a master at being in control at all times but she’s struggling and I wish I could take away her pain.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Elly leans over and squeezes Claire’s hand with the kind of caring I know she’s capable of but rarely displays, too busy wearing her impenetrable armor. Claire and I know what’s behind her bravado but we never call her on it. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Not really.” Claire pinches the bridge of her nose and I know she’s staving off tears.
Seeing Claire cry would be as monumentally shocking as witnessing Elly walk down the main street without make-up. Never going to happen. I know why Elly is always so immaculate, why she goes to great lengths to coordinate her outfits with her accessories, why her hair is lustrous and her make-up flawless. Presenting an impeccable front is at complete odds with the night we saw her completely unraveled, a physical and emotional mess.
“You’ve explored all options?” I sound callous, but at times like this I can’t suppress my practical side. It’s usually a strength, finding solutions to unsolvable problems. By the way Claire glares at me, it’s not today.
“We only found out last week.” Claire shakes her head, her brown ponytail skimming her shoulders, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “And the thought of considering options like sperm banks and donors and IVF and injections and adoption freaks me out…” She presses the pads of her fingers to her eyes and Elly makes a slashing action across her neck.