Into the Light
by
Megan Hetherington
Copyright @ 2018 Megan Hetherington
All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any reference to real events, real people and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organisations or places is entirely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission. Apart from small excerpts that are used in book reviews.
Acknowledgements
To my gorgeous husband, Paul, and all our children who are growing up to be wonderful adults.
Maryanne, my writing buddy, who kept me motivated through the dark chapters of this story and beyond.
The amazingly beautiful Alexandra Bottomley, who generously agreed to being my cover model and a perfect Rosa.
Photograph by the very talented Jess Petrie at www.jesspetrie.com.
Cover design by Ran at Designrans. Fantastic as ever.
To all the romance authors, bloggers, reviewers and promo companies out there who make the industry a wonderful entity to be part of.
Most of all to my readers who take a chance on me as a new author. May you always have your own HEA.
Author Profile
I’m a wife and mum who loves losing myself in romantic fantasy. Writing is my passion and I do it listening to music and drinking coffee (who am I kidding, more likely to be red wine). I also love to travel and places I've been often pop up in my books. When I've got a deadline to meet I can usually be found gardening or watching historical romance films.
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Chapter One
Rosa
It flashes up at the top of my screen, hovers, then disappears from where it came.
Such an innocent, insignificant missive.
So much so, it could have been easy to ignore, or, if I was a little more naive, dismiss.
But I didn’t and I’m not.
I am slightly behind the curve when it comes to the workings of this new desktop and I’ve no idea what to click to bring the message back up. But actually, there’s no need. I know what I saw and, if I close my eyes, it’s imprinted on the back of my eyelids in indelible ink.
The blood is draining from my head to my toes, leaving an unpleasant tingling over my skin and I can feel my stomach rising up and threatening to lurch onto the twenty-seven-inch screen before me. Simultaneously, I’m burning up and freezing cold.
Whilst I know these things are happening to me, they are merely distractions, physical wrenches to distract from the singular emotion that is overwhelming and clear. Loss. The very definition of that word can be applied in every sense to the shell I am now inhabiting.
Then there’s the reply.
A laugh erupts from my throat. Hah. Just one, not a belly aching, rolling off the chair, tear inducing laugh. No, just one, or perhaps even half of one. That’s what the reply has me doing. Expending half a laugh.
Further analysis will explain this as hysteria; acknowledgement of stupidity or unworthy faith. Not humour, not unless it is in the form of some sick and twisted black comedy such as Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.
I leave my lair, the one that pathetically took months of designing to evoke just the right number of creative stimulants. The picture of Mont Blanc, the fresh flowers, the view of the frosted-over garden. I leave behind the steaming bean-to-cup coffee, it’s anticipated effect completely unwanted now, and crawl under the duvet. Pulling it over my head and curling up into a fetal position.
The insulation provided by the goose feather and down, does nothing to mask the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs.
“Honey?”
I seethe and draw my knees in tighter.
“Honey, where are you?”
I cover my upward facing ear with a flat heavy palm.
The floor boards creak and then the bed dips.
“I thought you got up already?”
I clench my teeth and screw shut my eyes.
“I’m going to work now. I’ll be home late ‘cos I’ve got so much shit to get through today. Don’t wait up for me as I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
The side of the bed sags, threatening to roll me into him. I tense when I feel a weight on my shoulder, an act fraught with meaning, relieved when the bed regains its shape.
I want to throw back the covers, grab his arm and pull him in close. Bury my head into his chest and have him squeeze me so hard that I have to keep my breaths shallow to draw air into my seized lungs. But that will never happen again. Not now. Not ever.
“Have a good day Rosa.”
It’s his daily parting message and I’m sure he doesn’t even know he says it anymore. He certainly doesn’t mean it. Not today anyway,
Hah. That half laugh again.
It’s obvious now, he’s not said anything that he’s meant in quite some time. He’s a liar. He lies. He’s lied.
Then the final act, that morning ritual hymn of front door banging, precious car engine growling under a heavy foot, gravel crunching, gate whirring, unnecessary screeching of rubber on the road surface.
Eventually the stage curtain is drawn when the gate clangs back into position, followed by a theatrical hush before the applause, or in this case, sobbing. Dry, shoulder heaving, stomach clenching, sobbing.
I bite down on my lip and halt my lungs when the gate stirs to life again. He’s back.
I poke my head out of the covers. There are footsteps and a different noise on the gravel. Something being dragged or wheeled towards the door. I strain to listen properly; to make sense of what it is. Then my heart sinks when I recognise the dull thud from a wad of paper landing on the doormat, the letter box clinking back into place and the post man’s cheery whistle drifting off back up the driveway.
I fling back the covers and haul myself over to the bathroom. Pausing at the vanity unit, I look over to his sink and the razor with shaving foam bubbled over it. I sneer at his toothbrush still wet from cleaning his mouth. His dirty, lying, cheating mouth.
A scream builds in my head and I thrust my arm across the counter, sending everything flying around the room.
Slowly, I sink down the vanity unit to the floor, letting my knees flop to one side and my hand languish on the edge of the sink above me. Everything is hard and uncomfortable, just how I want it to be right now. I bang my head repeatedly against the cupboard door, just to make sure I can still feel something. Anything. Preferably pain. There needs to be pain right now, but there isn’t. I feel hollow and empty with loss.
After what seems like an eternity, I drag myself up to a stooped position, hanging onto the edge of the unit while the feeling comes back to my legs. When it eventually does, the surge of pins and needles sting in a gratifying way.
Doubt crept into my mind while sat on the bathroom floor and I feel the need to make certain. To check that this isn’t some stupid nightmare that I need to wake up from. I slump at the desk and nudge at the mouse, the black screen in front of me transforms into an image of an eerie mist covered lake. I hate this image, I asked him to put up a photo from our wedding, one where I was slim and we looked happy together. No wonder he didn’t oblige.
Hah.
H
e only set-up this early Christmas present for me yesterday, so I’ve no idea how to navigate my way around it yet. I tap randomly on the keyboard, causing the screen to split off into ten tiny icons.
I blow out the frustration in a long breath and flick my finger onto the mouse. Miraculously, the list of messages re-appear and the conversation-string I have to torment myself with is at the top. I savour each message and every single one tastes of bile. It becomes apparent as I scroll down that the first message was in May… and it’s now December. The realisation of how long this has gone on for makes my necessary swallow, painful.
I force myself to read the early messages, to see how it developed, how this relationship started that my husband… my husband… is in.
It started in the office. Of course it started in the fucking office, that’s where it always starts. That’s where we started. Over the coffee machine and at the photocopier, with the double entendres and the snappy suits. The authoritative memo and awe-inspiring presentation. The reserved extra wide parking space right outside the door for the extra important director with the flashy and totally unnecessary sports car.
Hah. That knife brandishing laugh resurfaces.
“Ooh Mr Cockburn-Holt, you’re paying me attention. Ooh Mr Cockburn-Holt, thank you for saying how much you like this dress and how it shows off my perfectly tight ass. Ooh Mr Cockburn-Holt, you don’t think anyone will hear us when you fuck me senseless over your ridiculously large desk do you? Ooh Mr Cockburn-Holt…”
I slap a cold palm across my mouth to stop my schizophrenic rants, because, now that I’ve homed in on a message from last week, I’m afraid of how much of myself will throw itself out.
A breath hitches into my throat and my eyes start to drown in a salty rock pool, before a solitary tear sizzles onto my heated cheek.
He’s leaving me.
He’s leaving me for her.
Chapter Two
Rosa
Do you know how many rubbish bags a man’s entire wardrobe will fill? Do you? I’m sure you could hazard a guess. A dozen? Wrong. Half as many as a woman’s would? Guess again. Go on.
Hah.
I’ve no idea either but I can tell you how long it takes to cut every tie in half and rip off every monogrammed sleeve. I can also tell you which bit is most fun. It is most certainly, taking scissors to the crotch of each pair of trousers and cutting out a perfectly perpendicular triangle. Just large enough for his itty-bitty, louse infested dick to fall through. No room for his balls. That’s because he has none. Yes, that was definitely my favourite part.
I’ve got no intention of stuffing the rags into trash bags. No, fuck him. When he has opened the suitcase and starts to unfold all of the perfectly packed garments, ready to hang them up in his new wardrobe. His new fucking wardrobe, in his new fucking house, with his new fucking whore. Then he can find his own rubbish bags and stuff them in there himself.
This is my latest ruse to welcome my husband home, having ruled out the alternative scenario earlier on.
The alternative would have found me sitting at the dining table, littered with photographs from our wedding. I would read from a perfectly prosed letter, that reminded him of our vows and how we needed to rekindle the love we had when we gave ourselves to each other half a decade ago. A promise that we would have more sex. That we would reinstate the long-forgotten date nights. How we were meant to be together forever and this slight indiscretion could be worked through and chalked down as part and parcel of the tribulations of marriage.
As the sky clouds over and the snow begins to fall, I think of nothing but my sorry self. How I had brought all this on myself and without him I would be nothing. If I reached out to him for sympathy, a failed attempt at self-harm perhaps, he would realise how much I’m hurt by his infidelity. How much he means to me.
Then I get the text.
Stuck at work. Snowed in. I’ll put some hours in and kip on the sofa here. Cxxx
I read that text a dozen times over. Analysing the meaning of the words used and those not. How this is a new excuse, one not used before. Inventive. Opportunistic. My husband. C.
I find his use of three kisses after his initial mildly amusing and decide to replace them with other letters; shouting the new words until my voice becomes satisfyingly hoarse.
I hate how I feel right now but, more than that, I hate what I have let him do to me. He is dragging a rope right through my being with anger knotted firmly at its end. I can’t stomach the drama of facing him tonight. Not tonight. If he changes his mind and does come home from work I don’t think I could cope. I need to barricade myself in.
Looking through the window I watch the weak sun dip before it has barely risen; gaudy lights trigger with its descent. I hear a wheezing noise as an over filled snowman figure inflates in a neighbour’s drive; its jolly head bouncing precariously near a berry-studded holly tree.
I don’t feel how cold the snow is on my bare arms when I drag the suitcases to the gate, and my frozen fingers make hard work of unscrewing the control on the brick pillar, but at least I manage to take out the fuse without electrocuting myself.
I then return into the warm house, yank the telephone line from the socket and throw across the bolts on the door.
I collapse on the rug in front of the fire with a glass of malt whiskey, picking at the last few sticky remnants from the personalised label on the bottle. The bottle that I had gifted Charles for his fortieth birthday last month. I have every intention of draining this entire bottle tonight and happy to deal with the consequences tomorrow.
~~~~~~~
The snow has melted overnight, washed away by grey rain in the early hours; the suitcase tracks in the snow along with it.
I had all day to prepare for his return and I could have put various plans into action, but I didn’t.
I sat and I waited.
My cockiness last night has ebbed away and I am nervous about my resolve to kick him out before he chooses to leave. I am worried that I have it wrong and he didn’t really plan to leave me. That he was just saying that to placate her. String her along.
I chew over whether that makes it acceptable to persuade him to give our marriage another chance.
None of this has been made any easier by the hangover which emits from my every pore and seems to have shrunk a whiskey barrel iron band around my head, stopping my thoughts from flying free.
My anxiety also extends to his possible reaction. Charles is a big man, standing at six-foot- five and his penchant for small women is an obvious choice for someone who wishes to dominate every and all situations. At our first meeting at work I was bowled over by his charm and found it exciting that I could wear my highest of heels without having to stoop, but it was always at the back of my mind that I am not his usual type. My blonde hair is courtesy of a bottle and skillfully topped up by the award-winning hairdresser that I have a regular appointment with. My face is frequently stabbed at by a dermatologist who pioneers the pursuit of keeping insecure women like me wrinkle-free.
My husband’s praise of his type is incessant and a while back I secretly visited a consultant to see whether I could really go through with the process of making myself more like his type. That was a few years ago now, the natural process of aging and comfort eating has sorted that one all on its own.
The Christmas tree is sagging already and the big day is still a week off. The gifts that sit underneath it look especially frivolous now. I spent an inordinate amount of time and effort seeking out uber-brand accessories for my precious husband; wrapping them in the latest handicraft trend. Anything to reinforce his status in life and at work. In fact, that was pretty much all we ever did, Christmas or otherwise. Our holidays were never cheap, always highly curated to maximise the jealousy level on our Facebook posts. Always smiling, always happy. Nothing went wrong in our lives. Until now.
I could just continue the charade. I don’t have to admit that I know. He could be persuaded to change his mind without anyone eve
r finding out. Or I could bargain with him... he could continue seeing her and I would just… I would just…
No. I bang my hand on the table. This was not what I signed up for. This is not who I am.
The bravado is short lived and I sink my head onto my folded arms. Who the hell am I? Who am I without him?
As the day gives way to evening and the snowman plumps out his chest once more, I’ve still not decided what I am going to do. Mainly because it isn’t solely my decision to make.
I shower and change into a comforting sweater and jeans. Apply a little lip gloss to moisten my dried out lips and pull back my hair into a high ponytail. Then I sit, nursing a cold cup of coffee and wait for him to come home.
It isn’t until I glance at my trusty Rolex that I register he will be home soon and the fuse in the electric gate mechanism is still removed. If I want to create a scene outside our front gates and make us the lead characters in a soap opera set in our carefully cultivated neighbourhood, then I should leave it be. But that would not allow us to ever recover. The shame would be too much.
I rush to the hall table to retrieve the discarded fuse and run out to the gate, fumbling with the panel until the fuse finally clicks back into place. The soggy abandoned suitcases stand forlorn next to me. I can’t undo the damage done to the contents but wheel them back inside anyway. I suppose there has to be some consequence for what he has done. Then I cover over the wheel marks in the gravel with a rake that I find in the garage. No need to leave a warning.
Shortly after six o’clock, the gate sighs on its mechanism and the gravel crunches apologetically. Both acting against my wishes and highlighting my weakness as if it was their own.
Then I hear the key in the lock, the buffering of his briefcase against the door and feel the rush of icy air on my skin.
I didn’t know quite how I would feel until this very moment, even though I had run through it a dozen times already. I hoped to adopt an intelligent composure and logical reasoning, or to claim the upper ground with my holy righteousness.
Into the Light Page 1