by Lulu Taylor
She turned and began to walk away down the hall. Charles strode after her and grabbed her arm, pulling her round to face him.
‘You don’t do that,’ he hissed, his eyes blazing. ‘You don’t just walk away from me. You do as I say. I’ve given you everything you ever wanted. You’ve lived a life of luxury, thanks to me. You’d better think hard about what a cold world it is out there without my protection and how tough I can make things. And you know what? I’m still willing to forgive this madness, if you agree to stay. I let you have your little scene last night – you got to scream and cry and make your ugly accusations. That’s out of your system. Now it’s time to grow up and accept reality. But if you walk out the door, you’ll never come back here. I can promise you that.’
His fingers dug hard into her arm. She tried to shake him free but his grip got tighter. ‘Let go of me! I’d rather die than stay with you!’ She glared at him, her eyes full of agony. ‘You didn’t give me everything I ever wanted – you took it away! You can’t understand that even now.’ She stopped, her face contorting with the torment of it, pain twisting in her gut so hard she thought she might fall if Charles hadn’t been holding her.
‘You little fool,’ he rapped out. ‘You’re a stupid child. I won’t allow this. You’re not going.’ He grabbed her other arm and she stared at him, shocked and afraid. ‘If you do, you’ll regret it forever.’
‘Let me go right now! You’re hurting me!’
He was staring at her, his blue eyes hard and glassy as though he was partly listening to a voice in his head. He was breathing hard, his jaw set, his grip tighter than ever.
‘I mean it!’ she exclaimed, but he didn’t seem to be listening. ‘You’re hurting me. Stop it, let me go.’
‘Hello, here you are!’ said a cheerful voice behind them.
Charles loosened his grip on her arms and Buttercup turned to see Cathy Tranter coming up the stairs, followed by Wilf. She tried to pull herself together, but she felt numbed and disconnected from the world going on just below them, still feeling Charles’s fingers digging painfully into her skin even though he had released his hold. ‘Oh – hello, Cathy . . . Wilf . . . We were just coming down, weren’t we, Charles?’
He didn’t seem to hear anything, but stared at Buttercup with a fierce, implacable gaze.
‘Charles, are you all right?’ asked Cathy, concerned, reaching them. She put her hand on his arm. He jumped violently, letting go of Buttercup completely. He looked dazed as he focused on Cathy, stuttered and found his voice.
‘Ah – yes! I . . . I’m perfectly fine. Let’s go down and join the others. Have you got a drink? Oh good. Good.’
Charles began to walk uncertainly across the landing then turned back, looking at Buttercup, his face set in a strange, stricken expression. ‘I’ll see you later, darling.’
She stared back at him. ‘Later,’ she said.
He walked away.
Downstairs, the party was in full swing. Children raced around or stuffed themselves with goodies; adults loitered, eating the plentiful canapés and sipping drinks; the hall was full of noise, heat and . . .
Eyes. Everybody’s looking at me, everybody’s watching me.
Cathy Tranter was talking to her as they moved through the crowd, pointing out Olly with a mince pie in each hand, and laughing, telling her about Bethany asleep at home, the Christmas rush at the pub and how well it was going.
Buttercup could hear her only vaguely, the voice coming in and out of her consciousness like a radio with the volume being turned up and down. She was aware of the many faces turning to her, the dozens of people who wanted an acknowledgement of their presence, a moment to talk to her and be polite. She saw Agnieska across the room, taking her two boys to look at the Christmas tree, and felt as though she remembered her only vaguely, from a long time ago. She walked on with Cathy, feeling as though she was drowning in the hubbub.
I don’t belong here. This isn’t my house. I have to get out of here.
But it was more than that. Charles had been a different man, in the grip of forces she didn’t understand.
I’m afraid. I have to get out while I still can.
She thought wildly of grabbing Cathy and asking her to take her to the pub.
I can’t. She wouldn’t understand. Besides, they have a new baby.
From the corner of her eye, she could see Charles. His public face was back on, he was moving about, chatting and shaking hands, greeting friends loudly and seeming carefree and full of the bonhomie of the season. But she’d seen behind that mask, and it frightened her. She could still feel the pressure of his fingers on her arm, and hear the threat in his voice. Fear prickled over her skin.
This is my chance to get away, while he’s not watching me. She thought of her bag packed upstairs. I can’t get it, he’ll see. I’ll leave it and get Carol to send it on.
She turned to Cathy. ‘I’m so sorry, will you excuse me? I must check on things in the kitchen. Let’s catch up soon, okay?’
‘Oh – yeah, sure,’ Cathy said. ‘Great party! Everyone’s having a fab time.’
‘Father Christmas is coming in a minute, make sure Olly gets a present. See you later.’
Buttercup turned and hurried in the direction of the kitchen, where the catering staff had taken over and were loading plates with fresh canapés and refilling jugs with mulled wine. She made her way through, muttering ‘excuse me, please, thanks so much’ until she reached the boot room, where she grabbed a coat, scarf and beanie hat and put them on over her red dress. She kicked off her silver trainers and stuffed her feet into wellington boots, then opened the back door and dashed outside, closing it on Tippi who had jumped up from her bed, eager for a walk.
In the courtyard at the back of the house, it was cold and dark, the snow whirling lightly in tissuey flakes where the light caught it. She began to march out of the courtyard towards the side of the house and the driveway. Suddenly she felt someone grab her arm and she gasped, turning around with blazing eyes.
‘It’s me,’ Phil said. He was wrapped up against the freezing weather, only the pale circle of his face visible between the dark bulk of his coat and woolly hat. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I have to get out of here,’ Buttercup said desperately. ‘I’m sorry—’
‘Don’t be sorry, you have nothing to apologise for. I’m the one who’s sorry. I should have talked to you a long time ago.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I could have told you what you wanted to know: about Ingrid. All of the boss’s nasty little ways. The fact he was going down there to see her. I should have done that.’
‘It’s fine. You thought you were doing the right thing. It’s okay. Really.’ The wind was buffeting her, chilling her beneath her coat.
‘I’m sorry. That’s all.’ Phil looked up over the house’s towering brick chimneys, soaring up into the sky to be lost in the darkness. ‘It’s a beautiful place, no mistake, but there’s more to life than that. The heart is all wrong.’
‘Yes, that’s it. The heart is wrong.’ Buttercup smiled at him through the freezing air. ‘Thanks, Phil. See you later. One more thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Look after Milky for me. Make sure she gets lots of exercise.’
‘Don’t you worry. I’ll look after everything. Can I give you a lift somewhere?’
She hesitated, tempted. I don’t want him to know where I’m going. ‘No, thanks. I’ve got someone meeting me.’
‘Okay. If you’re sure.’
‘I am. Bye.’
She turned and started to head out into the darkness, where the drive was illuminated by lanterns along its length, to guide the visitors in.
Buttercup went along the side of the drive, half jogging, half stumbling in the dark. Cars went past her at intervals: guests for the party, heading up to the house, driving slowly through the snow. She pressed on through the cutting wind, intent on reaching the wrought-iron gates where upturned l
ights bathed the stone pillars in an orange glow and made the greyhounds on the top look like strange, otherworldly beasts poised to come alive, spring down and rampage along the lane. The gates were open for the visiting cars, and she slipped through unnoticed. As soon as she was outside the purlieus of the house, she felt a wild elation and broke into a run, sprinting as fast as she could in her wellington boots until she reached the gate she was looking for. It swung open under her hand, and she went up the path towards the front door, where the fanlight glowed above.
Oh, thank God. She’s back.
At the door, she looked about for a bell or knocker, and then saw an old dangling pull with an iron handle. She yanked on it and heard the rocking chime of a bell inside. Panting, she waited anxiously and then, after a minute or two, the door opened.
A woman stood just inside, disconcertingly normal, with dark hair loose around her face, wearing jeans and a long polo-necked jumper. She looked at Buttercup, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
‘Well, well,’ she said drily. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to get here.’
Chapter Forty-Five
Ingrid stepped back to allow Buttercup to step inside out of the cold. The hallway was warm and lit by a lamp on the console table. Buttercup, shivering, unwound her scarf and looked anxiously at Ingrid. ‘I’m so glad you’re home.’
‘I’ve just got back,’ Ingrid replied. ‘Are you all right? You look terrible.’
Buttercup took off her coat, revealing her red party dress.
‘Here, you’ll need this shawl,’ Ingrid said, passing her one from the coat hooks. ‘It’s your Christmas party tonight, and you’ve run away?’
‘That’s the size of it.’ Buttercup shivered again, not just from cold. ‘I had to get out of there.’
‘Then you must be desperate. Come through to the kitchen.’ Ingrid led the way down the hall to a large flagstoned kitchen, cosy with the heat of a range cooker. Everywhere was colour: bright Mediterranean pottery, family photographs in red wooden frames, paintings in hot tones of yellow and orange, reds and green. The kitchen cupboards were painted bright blue and the range was a shiny post-box red, with a row of hand-decorated jugs on the shelf above it.
‘Do you want some tea or coffee?’ Ingrid asked as Buttercup sank down into a chair at the kitchen table.
‘Yes, please.’ She was still shaking hard. ‘Tea would be lovely, thank you.’ She pulled the shawl tight against her flimsy red dress, trying to get the warmth into her cold bones, but her teeth were chattering now. This is ridiculous. I’m colder now than I was outside.
Ingrid looked over from where she was switching on the kettle and came over at once, her expression concerned. She sat down next to Buttercup and took her hand.
‘S . . . s-s-s . . . soh . . . sorry.’ Her teeth were juddering uncontrollably together and she grimaced with frustration. ‘S-s-s . . . sorry . . .’
‘Stop apologising. It’s fine. You’re in a state.’ Ingrid squeezed her hand.
Buttercup was shaking harder, her shoulders wracked with the movement, her hands uncontrollable. ‘I . . . d-d-don’t know what’s h-h-h-happening to me.’ She gazed up at Ingrid pleadingly.
The other woman leaned forward, her eyes serious. ‘You’re terrified. Has Charles hurt you? Are you in danger?’
‘N . . . n . . . no.’ As soon as she said that, the shivering began to scale down, as though the one word had released something. ‘He hasn’t hurt me.’
‘But you’re afraid he might?’
‘I don’t know.’ Her trembling eased off. Ingrid’s blue-grey eyes were scanning her anxiously. ‘I thought he only engaged in psychological warfare.’ She managed a weak grin. ‘But suddenly, tonight, I thought . . . I thought perhaps—’
‘You were afraid that he would maybe get physical . . . ?’
Buttercup gazed at her, beseeching. ‘Did he ever hurt you?’
Ingrid blinked slowly and said evenly, ‘Let’s say . . . it only happened once or twice, and it wasn’t as serious as it could have been. Not that that excuses him. It was the beginning of the end, though.’
Buttercup’s eyes filled with tears, she bit her lip and gave a sudden, sharp nod, unable to trust herself to speak for a moment. Then she said in a quavering voice, ‘I realised tonight it was a possibility. He seemed so different, as though he was possessed by something, listening to a voice I couldn’t hear.’
Ingrid nodded sadly, her eyes full of compassion. ‘Yes. That’s how it is. And I know what you mean. That voice of his.’ She got up and went over to the bench to make the tea, dropping teabags into a teapot, filling it with hot water and collecting mugs. ‘I’ve sometimes wondered what the voice in Charles’s head would sound like if you could bring it out and listen to it. I think it would be one of the nastiest, mean-spirited bullies you could imagine. We’re all victims of it, and its cowardly paranoia and extraordinary narcissism. But at least we don’t have to listen to it day and night.’
Buttercup’s adrenaline rush had subsided and she was cold again. She huddled tighter into the shawl.
Ingrid took a moment while she poured out the tea, added milk and brought the mugs over to the table. As she sat back down next to Buttercup, putting a steaming cup in front of her, she smiled. She had thick straight dark brows, a rosy complexion with a small scatter of freckles over her snub nose, and wide, friendly mouth. ‘Charles is a driven man, always pushed on by that voice. That’s its upside – it gives him verve and intensity, it’s made him the success he is. I just don’t think it’s worth the awful downside of what it does to him and everyone who loves him. On the one hand it puffs him up, tells him he’s the greatest thing in the world, that he can do anything and be anyone, and on the other, it beats him down, telling him he’s worthless, alone, unlovable, being betrayed at every turn. It makes him angry, miserable, afraid and it tells him to trust nobody.’
Buttercup stared at her, speechless. She found her voice. ‘That’s it – that’s exactly how it is. That’s what I can’t understand. Why didn’t he trust me?’
‘He trusts no one.’ Ingrid lifted the mug to her lips and blew at the drifting steam. ‘The voice in his head is the most powerful thing in his life, it governs everything he is and does and thinks. My frustration was that I could never drown it out. No matter how much love I gave him and how much I stood by him and proved my loyalty over and over . . . he never believed in me. He couldn’t stop listening to that voice. And in the end, he brings about what he fears the most – being abandoned.’
Buttercup wrapped her fingers around the hot cup, shrinking down into the softness of Ingrid’s shawl. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. It felt as though Ingrid had taken a confusing mass of jigsaw pieces and calmly laid them together to make the picture complete.
‘We’re victims,’ Ingrid said quietly. ‘But Charles is the biggest victim of all. In the end, we have to save ourselves because we can’t change it and we can’t fix it, no matter how much we want to.’
‘Where does the voice come from?’
‘It’s the voice of his past.’ Ingrid shrugged lightly. ‘That’s my theory, anyway. His father left him, his mother loved his brother best and married an unlovely stepfather who banished Charles to boarding school. That little boy got the message loud and clear – people I need and love will always let me down and leave me.’
Buttercup nodded. ‘That makes sense.’ She sipped some tea; the hot liquid trail down her throat comforted her and warmed her insides. ‘I felt so angry that he could destroy what we had – all that love and happiness and the promise of our future together. I can’t understand why he’d deny himself that, deny both of us.’
‘He can’t help it. I’m not excusing it. I suffered plenty, and sometimes he’s just pig-headed, obstinate, childish and selfish. But, like I said, in the end, he’s the one who suffers most.’ Ingrid was thoughtful as she drank her tea. ‘I meant what I said – I’ve been expecting you. I didn’t know exactly when, but I guessed that one day you’
d want to talk to me. We are probably the only people in the world who know what we’ve been through.’
Buttercup nodded. Her lips trembled and she felt as though she might be on the brink of tears, but fought to hold them back. The peace and cosiness of this house was so different from what she had just left: the chaos of the party, the unpleasantness of the Redmain room, and the horrible encounter with her husband. She took a deep breath and got control of the tears.
Ingrid said, ‘Since you’ve turned up like this, I’m assuming you’ve got to the end of your rope.’ She shrugged with a wry smile. ‘It took me much longer. Maybe Charles is getting better at driving his wives mad. What happened? Do you want to tell me?’
Buttercup managed a weak smile in return. ‘I found out that he’s been lying to me. I wanted a baby, you see, but after a miscarriage, I couldn’t get pregnant again – just couldn’t. There was no obvious problem. And then . . . I got access to Charles’s private records.’
Ingrid raised her eyebrows. ‘Well done you. I never managed that, I’m afraid. Elaine was like a lioness whenever I was around, padding about ready to strike me if I seemed to threaten her boss.’
‘She was quite nice to me,’ Buttercup said, almost apologetically. ‘But I think that might have been because she thinks I’m stupid.’
Ingrid laughed, then her smile faded. ‘I’m sorry. This is serious, I know. You found out that Charles had had a vasectomy, didn’t you?’
Buttercup nodded, astonished. ‘How do you know?’
‘He told me. But I had no idea he hadn’t told you. He said you were quite happy, because you didn’t want any children.’
Buttercup gasped with shock. ‘Why does he say these awful things?’ she whispered numbly. ‘He lies and lies.’
Ingrid nodded sympathetically. ‘It’s a compulsion, part of the way he protects himself but – like the rest of it – completely counterproductive. For years, I’ve taken everything he says with a massive pinch of salt. Generally, I ask myself “How does it benefit Charles if I believe what he says?” and there’s usually a reason. So I have no truck with anything.’