by Nicola Marsh
I scrub a hand across my eyes to clear them and that’s when I see it.
A goofy name I’d often tease him about.
It has to be him.
At least, that’s what I hope.
I copy and paste the accompanying email address into my contacts and quickly exit the site.
The chill invading my body intensifies as I type a brief email to the man I hoped to never see again. I have to consider it may not be him so I keep it brief. I’m in trouble. I need his help. Urgently.
I consider deleting it for several long moments, before remembering Ashlin’s suggestion she’d been run off the road. If she’d been deliberately targeted…
There’s too much at stake. I need to find whoever’s behind those bizarre threatening emails, so I hold my breath and click send.
22
Shamira
Trent lets me have a lie-in on Monday mornings because he gives an early guitar lesson at the local high school and I don’t open the shop until ten. He’s always quiet, tiptoeing around, ensuring he doesn’t wake me. Today, it’s irrelevant. I haven’t slept all night. While he snored his usual low-grade rumble after we made love, I lay awake in bed staring at the moon-dappled ceiling, rehashing the weekend and Ria’s suggestion I tell my husband the truth reverberating in my head until it’s all I can think about.
She made it sound so easy. Tell him before Ashlin does. But what if Ria’s wrong about Ashlin’s marriage ending? What if I can still salvage this? If there’s the slightest chance I don’t have to tell Trent everything, I’ll take it.
I can’t bear the thought of his disgust when I divulge the truth about my past, about how I deceived him yesterday. Worse, what I did over a year ago… One lie upon another and so it goes on.
I wait until I hear the front door click and give Trent a ten-minute head start before leaping out of bed. I don’t bother with a shower. I have to get to the hospital.
A long forty-minute ride in peak hour traffic later and I’m at the private hospital in a leafy Rockland Grove street, standing outside Ashlin’s door. She’s sitting up in bed, staring blankly at the TV mounted on the wall. I hate hospitals and I don’t blame her for looking bored out of her brain. I’m guessing what I have to say will liven up her day.
Taking a deep breath, I knock and enter. “Hey, how are you feeling?”
She raises an eyebrow and looks me up and down. “Better than you if your dress sense today is any indication.”
Typical Ashlin, judgmental and condescending, and I waver. Maybe I made a mistake coming here to reason with her? Then I think of Trent and his utter devastation if he discovers the truth from her.
I have to do this.
“Don’t you like stripes and spots?” I do a little twirl, making my ankle-length black and white striped skirt flair at the hem, while lifting my arms so my red and navy spotted A-line top can flair too. “It’s a fashion statement.”
“More like a fashion disaster,” Ashlin says, eyeing me dubiously. “What are you doing here anyway? You made your obligatory five-minute visit yesterday.”
Ignoring her sarcasm, I edge closer to the bed. “I need to talk to you.”
“About?”
“My past.”
Her eyes narrow, the gleam unmistakably shrewd and calculating. She should look vulnerable with that big bump on her head and a burgeoning bruise around her right eye. Instead, she looks plain nasty.
“I’m hoping you’ll do the decent thing and keep the information to yourself, even if you have no reason to do so now.”
Ashlin stares at me with confusion so I rush on. “I mean, if you’re getting a divorce it doesn’t matter if Justin knows about your affair or not, but you have to understand that I love Trent and I want our marriage to stay solid. You telling him about my past will only hurt him—”
“What did you say?”
I’m so hell-bent on getting my spiel out I miss the color leaching from her face, leaving her as pale as her sheets. Her fingers clutch at the top sheet, bunching it into wrinkles. Her mouth gapes in horror, her eyes round and panicked.
“With Justin leaving you, I assumed you’d get a divorce…” I trail off, knowing I’ve made a massive blunder and so has Ria.
By her wide-eyed shock and pallor, Ashlin doesn’t know about Justin leaving. And I’ve ruined everything.
“I’m sorry—”
“Shove your apology up your ass,” she hisses, some of the color returning to her cheeks. “Where did you hear that crap about Justin leaving me?”
I flounder, not wanting to get Ria into trouble but needing to give her something to get myself out of it.
“Ria mentioned something—”
“I should’ve known,” she spits, tiny specks flying from her mouth. “She’s always had the hots for my husband.”
“That’s not fair.” I’m honor bound to defend Ria because she’d be the last woman to steal anyone’s husband, especially not her sister-in-law’s. “Don’t shoot the messenger. She wouldn’t have said anything unless she’d heard it elsewhere.”
“Like from Justin, you mean?” Ashlin sits up, surprisingly mobile for someone whose face looks bashed in.
Increasingly uncomfortable, I shift from side to side. “I don’t know what’s happening in your marriage and it’s none of my business, but you can’t tell Trent about—”
“Just leave,” she says, collapsing back on the pillows like this is all too much. “Why shouldn’t I tell him, so I can ruin your marriage like you’ve ruined mine?”
The woman is delusional. I haven’t wrecked her marriage. From her selfish behavior she’s done a fine job of that herself.
“I get it, you’re feeling fragile, but please don’t tell Trent—”
“I’m not fucking fragile!” she yells, her skin a weird mottled crimson as she jabs a finger in my direction. “I’m sick of this family and all the bullshit that goes with it. My marriage isn’t over so you can tell the lot of them exactly that.”
She jabs her finger again before her arm falls to the bed, lifeless. But her eyes haven’t lost their fire. She stares at me with so much hatred I inadvertently take a backward step.
“As for Trent, I can’t wait to get out of here to tell him exactly who he’s married to.”
There’s nothing left to say. I tried. I failed.
She’s left me no choice.
I have to tell Trent the truth about my past before Ashlin does.
23
Ashlin
I wait for my husband to visit, nerves making me pluck at the bed sheets, change channels aimlessly and drink too much water, wishing it were vodka. My chest is tight and my skin clammy. I know he’d been angry the other night, but divorce?
I’m such an idiot. I’ve pushed too far and it’s going to take a monumental effort to get him to change his mind. He’s as stubborn as his mother and once he makes a decision he’s immovable. He’ll be in at eleven this morning, which gives me time to formulate a plan. It’s simple, really. Play the dutiful wife, repent, and change, willing to do whatever it takes to get the spark back.
Justin is weak. He pretends to be the big man in the family, the alpha taking care of his pack, but he’s a pussy. I imagine he’s been mouthing off to someone, probably his mother, about our argument the other night and good old May has mistaken his whining for a declaration of separation.
The old bat would love that. I see the way she looks at me these days, like I’m a scourge on the Parker name. It wasn’t always like that. In the early days she valued my money and connections as a suitable partner for her precious son. When Percy had been alive she’d been different, more deferent and respectful of my status as Justin’s wife. Now, I catch her staring at me with ill-concealed dislike.
Like she knows about my indiscretions.
I assume if she did she would’ve confronted me so maybe my guilt is morphing into paranoia. Whatever it is, I’m sure May is the one spreading rumors about me and Justin and when I’m out o
f this prison I’ll tell her to mind her own business. She must’ve mentioned it to Ria, who told Shamira. Irrationally, I’m a tad hurt Ria hasn’t come to see me, considering our improbable bonding session yesterday. Though she did text late last night expressing her concern and asking if I needed anything. Not that I ever would ask her but I kind of like the semi-truce we’ve established.
I shouldn’t have been so mean to Shamira earlier too. It wasn’t her fault she’d inadvertently dropped a bomb on me, but calling me fragile put me on edge. And I’d never tell Trent about her past. The first time I’d threatened her I’d been fueled by too many champagnes and the shock of being put on the spot by her accusations. Today, I’d been reeling from the D word to do anything other than retaliate.
It’s stupid, that even with my life teetering on the edge of imploding, I’m projecting my usual tough exterior, when nothing can be further from the truth. I’m a mess at the thought of Justin leaving me, my carefully constructed façade open to speculation and ridicule.
Why the hell had I thought that by sleeping with Russ and Aaron I’d feel better about myself? I hate being insecure and needy, and both men had snuffed that out in me for a brief period of time. I didn’t want them, though. I want my husband to want me. But if what Shamira said is true, I’ve lost him.
I glance at the clock on the opposite wall. It’s ten forty-five and Justin is likely to be early. I buzz for a nurse, waiting the requisite sixty seconds before buzzing again.
What seems like an eternity later a nurse barely out of grad school breezes into the room, way too chipper with her inane grin. “What do you need, Mrs. Parker?”
“My handbag is in the cupboard. Can you get it for me please?”
She blinks, like I’ve encroached on her valuable bedpan time. “Is that all?”
Her sunny smile vanishes, replaced with a disapproving glower as she hands me the bag. “We have many patients requiring urgent care, you know.”
I raise an eyebrow at her haughty attitude. “And you know that my family paid for the new wing of this hospital and we technically fund your wages too?”
She’s pissed so I flash a sickly sweet smile. “That’s all for now.”
She stomps out without another word and I unzip my bag, thankful I always carry make-up with me. I saw the family staring at my bruises yesterday. Nothing a little concealer won’t fix.
However, as I glance in my compact mirror, I’m horrified by the massive purplish-black bruise around my right eye and an unsightly lump on my forehead. I look awful. But as I take a foundation stick out of my bag, I have second thoughts about prettying up for Justin. I look more vulnerable with evidence of my accident and that may elicit more pity than trying to put on a brave face.
I stuff the foundation, powder compact and lip gloss back in my bag and place it on the sliding table next to my bed just as there’s a knock on the door. My heart races and I drag in several calming breaths before calling out, “Come in.”
Justin pushes the door open and enters the room. He doesn’t look happy to see me. He has this odd expression, halfway between hopeful and resentful. It alerts me to the fact that Shamira’s right: my marriage is in serious trouble and if I don’t play this right his threat, that I’ll lose everything, is in dire danger of coming true.
“Hey, husband. How are you?” I smile and he practically recoils. The smile may have been overkill, as these days we rarely make eye contact. It saddens me that we’ve come to this. I hadn’t given it much thought over the years as our relationship deteriorated, having witnessed my friends’ marriages going through a similar decline. Men earning a squillion, their trophy wives happy to fake happiness in exchange for a cushy lifestyle. It’s the norm in our social circles.
But I’ve been a fool accepting our ailing marriage as normal.
I can lose everything.
“I’m fine. How are you feeling?” He approaches the bed like a recalcitrant kid being beckoned by a nurse for a vaccination.
He doesn’t want to be here.
And right then, I know I’m in trouble.
He doesn’t want to be around me, he can barely look at me, and when Justin makes up his mind about something… I’ll need to pull off the acting performance of my life to salvage this disaster of my own making.
“I’m still battered and bruised but getting there.” I straighten my shoulders and fake a groan. “I want to be home as soon as possible though, so hopefully tomorrow.”
He looks panicked at the prospect and I can’t shake a growing sense of impending doom.
“No need to rush it.” He props against the chair next to my bed, making it clear he’s not staying long. “The girls are fine, by the way.”
He sounds judgmental and annoyed. I don’t blame him, I should’ve asked about the kids first. My girls are the best thing in my shallow life but I’m so rattled by Shamira’s revelation about the demise of my marriage that all I’m focused on is assuaging Justin. I’m hell-bent on saving my marriage and while I love the girls and miss them terribly, right now my priority has to be ensuring I don’t lose my husband. They’ll thank me some day. It will affect them too. They need their parents together and to remain in the trusted Parker circle.
“I’d planned on calling them after school so I can talk to them in person,” I say, adding, “I’m sure May’s doing a great job looking after them.”
“She is.” He makes a grand show of looking at his watch. “I need to head into the office.”
“And leave me here by myself?” I attempt another smile, coyer this time, and his lips compress in an unimpressed line.
“You said you’re fine. Just rest up—”
“But we never talk anymore, not without the girls around, so why don’t you stay awhile?” I pat the bed, expecting him to capitulate like he always does. We’ve done this dance for years.
Not today, apparently, as he stares at me with complete disinterest. Then he laughs. A harsh, raucous sound devoid of amusement and it raises the hackles along the back of my neck.
“Stop that,” I snap, before inhaling through my nose and blowing a slow breath out of my mouth to calm down.
“Why? It’s funny.” He gestures at the spot I patted on the bed. “The fact you want me anywhere near you these days is laughable. Especially when you’ve spent years trying to push me away.”
He’s mad as hell. He may be grinning like an idiot but I hear the anger in his voice, restrained, but there all the same. So I try to placate. I never back down but I’m willing to try anything at this point. He’s disarming me by not conforming.
“Come on, honey, we’ve been under the usual stress parents are—”
“Cut the crap,” he says, his upper lip curling in a sneer. “What have you got to be stressed about? You have a nanny to look after the girls. You have a chef to prepare those calorie-controlled meals you’re so fond of, and you spend your days flitting between cafés and cosmetic surgeons.”
He finally steps closer but I glimpse the vein bulging at his temple, indicating he’s furious. Startling, because Justin rarely loses his temper. “That’s when you’re not fucking other men, apparently.”
I let out a gasp before quickly schooling my face into a mask. But it’s too late, he’s seen my slip-up and he’s going to use it against me.
“Don’t be crass.” I need to salvage this by lying. “I don’t know who you’ve been listening to but you know there are always rumors floating around our social circle. Heck, if I believed half of what our so-called friends tell me I’d think you’ve slept with every employee at the company.”
“Don’t patronize me.” He shakes his head, the uncharacteristic sneer making him look plain mean. “Besides, I don’t care who you’ve screwed or how often. That’s not the reason I’m ending this marriage.”
I feel the blood drain from my face, leaving me slightly woozy. My momentary swoon is real but like everything else about me Justin thinks it’s fake. I try to formulate a response, something cla
ssy and nothing like the loud ‘fuck you too’ reverberating through my head.
“I was going to wait until you got out of hospital to tell you but I can’t go through this charade any longer.” He eyeballs me, daring me to disagree. “We’re over, Ash. We’ve been over for a long time and I can’t stay in a toxic relationship any longer.”
I feel the rage bubble up within, desperate for an outlet. But if I lose it now I’m playing into his hands and I won’t give him the satisfaction.
“All marriages go through rocky patches. This is one of those—”
“I’m so tired of this.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and when he looks up, I see the defeat in his eyes. Like he’s gone ten rounds with a prizefighter and lost.
I think I prefer his anger. Because seeing that defeat means he’s truly given up, like the weariness has seeped inside and can’t be dislodged.
“Let’s not drag this out any longer than we have to,” he says, his voice croaky. “I’ll move out citing business reasons so as not to disrupt the girls’ routine. We’ll stay together in name because of the company and we’ll keep the divorce under wraps while the business is in flux but you need to hire a lawyer so we can keep this civil and—”
“Fuck you!” I yell, finally losing the tenuous control of my infamous temper that probably got us into this situation in the first place. “You can’t get rid of me that easily—”
“Watch me,” he says, his tone so soft, so lethal, that at first I miss the subtle threat.
But his eyes don’t lie and I shrink back against the pillows as he glares at me with blatant animosity, his hands curled into fists by his side.
Justin isn’t a violent man but in that moment, with his loathing chilling me from a few feet away, I think he’s capable of anything.
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