by Alison James
But that evening, after they’ve eaten supper and Marcus has retreated to his study, he calls downstairs ominously, ‘Lucinda. I need a word with you.’
She trudges up to the first floor like a schoolgirl going to the headmaster’s study.
He’s sitting at his desk and has her iPad in his hand. ‘What the hell is this?’ he asks.
‘What’s what?’
He shows her own browser history. ‘Let’s see now, where shall we start? The vacancy you’ve bookmarked… in Bristol. Lots of pages about Bristol and what a great place it is…’
Lucy tries to take the iPad from him, but he snatches his arm away and holds it aloft so she can’t reach it.
‘And then, properties in Bristol. Is that what your master plan is, to move to Bristol?’
Lucy shakes her head. ‘I was just looking. There’s no law against it.’
He ignores this. ‘Because that’s what your aim is, isn’t it? To humiliate me? To make me look like a fool in front of all my colleagues and friends? Oh dear, they’ll say, no sooner had he left his wife and kids for that spoilt bit of a girl than she got bored and pissed off to another city.’
‘No,’ says Lucy. ‘It’s not about that.’
It’s not about you, it’s about me, about what I want. You’re making it all about yourself, as always.
‘Because, let me tell you now: it’s not happening.’ He waves around the room. ‘This lovely home you live in – my hard work pays for it. Ditto the clothes you wear and the holidays you go on. Oh, and I also paid the fees for that expensive postgraduate degree, which it seems is just a springboard to moving on. So, you’re not leaving me and buggering off to Bristol, or anywhere else come to that. Over my dead body.’
Lucy turns and runs out of his study, sitting alone in the kitchen until she hears Marcus going to bed. She waits until the faint vibration of his snores starts up, then brushes her teeth in the guest bathroom and goes to lie down in the spare bedroom. It’s late but her mind is running at a mile a minute and she knows that sleep will be a long time coming. If it comes at all. She plucks at the tangle of duvet, turning first to lie on her left side, then her right. Since her mother’s death, she has held frequent imaginary conversations with her. What would she say in this situation? she wonders.
Closing her eyes, she can hear Felicity’s calm, measured and slightly plummy tones. It’s not hard to imagine how the conversation would go on this occasion.
‘But is this marriage ever going to change?’ her mother is saying. ‘Is this really how you want to live your life? If not, then you have to do something, darling.’
Tomorrow – Monday – Marcus will be in the operating theatre all day, which will buy her a little time. She switches on the bedside lamp and sends a text to Jane Standish.
Can I come over? Need that talk. L x
Eight
‘Please try and ignore the mess.’ Jane steers Lucy through the clutter of their family room in Clapham. A bike leans up against the wall along with several micro-scooters, and play tables overflow with painting equipment and bowls of home-made slime. The floor is studded with Lego bricks and plastic action figures. ‘Organised chaos is the norm here… actually, make that disorganised.’ She shrugs, sweeping a sleeping cat off the seat of a chair. ‘You know how it is with kids.’
Lucy doesn’t really. Most of her stepchildren’s clutter resides at their mother’s house, and the small amount that has made its way to Barnes is rigidly controlled. But she nods sagely, anyway.
‘Coffee?’ Jane enquires. She takes clean mugs from a half-emptied dishwasher and rummages through packets in one of the cupboards until she finds some ginger biscuits, which she tosses onto the table.
Lucy doesn’t normally eat biscuits, but then again she has skipped both dinner the night before and breakfast. Her insides are curdling with hunger. She takes one gratefully, along with the mug of instant coffee. ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ she says with her mouth full of crumbs. ‘I wondered if I could stay here for a couple of nights. I’ve left Marcus.’
Jane sets down her mug. ‘Wow.’
Lucy manages a rueful smile. ‘I know.’
‘Does he know you’re here?’ Jane asks. ‘Did you tell him what you were planning?’
‘No, and no. And I won’t tell him I’m here either; don’t worry. I just desperately need to buy some time. To get my head straight, think about next steps.’
Jane leans over and gives Lucy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘Sure. Of course you can, though with the three kids it’s not exactly going to be a haven of peace’ She pushes the biscuit packet back in Lucy’s direction. ‘And, for what it’s worth, I absolutely think you’re doing the right thing. I know it’s not easy.’
Lucy nods slowly, feeling tears sting at the back of her eyes. Slowly, in a halting voice, she confesses to Jane exactly what happened the night of the supper party, then gives her a brief summary of the past forty-eight hours.
‘I imagined it must have been something like that,’ Jane says, nodding. ‘But trashing the dinner table. Jesus, Lucy.’
‘I don’t want to dwell on it,’ Lucy declares firmly. ‘That’s the past. I want to concentrate on the future. Look, I want you to tell me what you think of this.’
When she came to pack her things that morning, she couldn’t find her iPad anywhere. The last sighting was when she had her row with Marcus in the study the previous evening, but in the morning it was no longer on his desk, or in any of its drawers, or on her bedside table where she usually kept it. He must have hidden it to spite her. So she has to show Jane the NGO in Bristol on her phone screen instead, which diminishes its appeal somewhat.
‘Goodness,’ Jane says, and Lucy can tell she’s trying to be tactful. ‘Looks really interesting, but Bristol? Do you really want to move away from London?’
‘I’m going to have to. If this is ever going to work, I’m going to have to get right away from him. From Marcus.’
Jane has to call in at the shop where she works for a couple of hours to inventory some new stock, so Lucy volunteers to buy ingredients that she can cook for the family that evening.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ she insists.
‘Just keep it kid-friendly,’ Jane advises. ‘Nothing too exotic. They’re fussy little buggers.’
Lucy decides on something her stepchildren enjoy: home-made burgers and chips, with optional salad for the grown-ups. After she has hauled the ingredients, plus a couple of bottles of decent wine, back from Northcote Road, Jane has returned from work. They go together to fetch four-year-old Barney from nursery, then to the school gates to collect Molly, who has just turned seven, and nine-year-old Oscar. Molly needs to be immediately ferried to her weekly ballet class, and Oscar dropped off at a friend’s house en route, with this journey repeated in reverse once ballet is over. Barney has to be kept amused with books and toys, plied with snacks and drinks and taken to the loo at inopportune moments.
When they finally get back to the house at nearly six o’clock, after sitting in rush-hour traffic for half an hour, all the children are tired and fractious. And yet Jane remains calm – almost serene – throughout. Lucy is full of admiration. Could she cope with three children and a job? she wonders. Plenty of women do. Potential family size is not an issue she has ever had to consider, because there was no possibility of having even one baby. But now, the realisation that this could perhaps be in her future sends a little frisson of excitement through her. Not three, she decides. There’s not enough time left for three. But one would be nice. Maybe.
While Jane bathes Barney and oversees homework, Lucy assembles the beef patties and the hand-cut chips and makes a salad dressing. Barney is fed straight away and put to bed, while the older children join Jane, Robin and Lucy for dinner. There has been no opportunity for Jane and Robin to talk, except perhaps for a hurried word while Lucy is out of the room making a trip to the bathroom, but he welcomes her presence with warm acceptance and doesn’t a
sk any awkward questions. They drink quite a lot of the wine, and with candles on the table and the soothing hum of the washing machine in the background, the meal is a convivial one. Lucy manages to relax.
After they’ve eaten, Molly is sent up to bed and Oscar is allowed to watch television for an hour, leaving the adults to talk over coffee and more wine.
Eventually, Robin stands up, stretches and says, ‘I’d better get Oz to go up. He’ll be glued to the box all night if we let him.’ As he heads for the sitting room, the doorbell rings. ‘Were you expecting anyone?’ he asks, sticking his head round the kitchen door, a frown on his face.
‘No, definitely not,’ Jane replies firmly, shooting a glance across the table.
There’s the sound of a second, more insistent ring, then the front door being opened. A familiar voice says, ‘I know she’s here.’
Lucy’s stomach sinks like a stone.
Marcus follows Robin into the kitchen. He’s scowling, and the depth of his five o’clock shadow betrays that he went straight to the operating theatre that morning without bothering to shave.
‘Come on,’ he says to Lucy, beckoning her like a car parking attendant trying to wave a car towards him. ‘You’re coming with me.’
‘Lucy’s staying here tonight,’ Robin says, obviating Lucy’s need to speak. She shoots him a grateful look. Saliva is pooling at the back of her throat and her heart is racing.
‘That’s right.’ Jane speaks calmly. ‘She’s not going anywhere. Not with you.’
‘What is this?’ Marcus sneers. ‘Some sort of fucking conspiracy? Well, I’ll thank you not to meddle between man and wife.’
He grasps Lucy roughly by the left elbow and tugs her towards him. Her right arm flails, knocking over both her glass of red wine and the bottle. It trickles across the table and pools like blood on the floor.
‘Oh no you, don’t!’ says Robin briskly, pulling Marcus backwards. In response, Marcus’s fingers dig into Lucy’s arm even harder, making her wince with pain. She can smell alcohol on his breath.
‘Let her go, you bully!’ Jane hurriedly pushes back her chair and comes around the end of the table to help her husband restrain him.
‘Or what, exactly?’ Marcus demands. He does release his hold on Lucy but grabs the large glass vase filled with tulips from the table and hurls it against the wall, sending damp flowers and crystalline shards spraying everywhere. This is followed by the cast-iron skillet used to fry the burgers, making an unholy banging noise. The dish drainer filled with cutlery is added for good measure.
A shocked-looking Oscar appears in the doorway, his mouth open, and from the top of the stairs, Molly screams, ‘Mummy! What’s happening?’ The sound of her hysterical sobs cuts through the shocked silence, joined within seconds by Barney’s crying.
‘Now look what you’ve done,’ Jane hisses, hurrying out of the room to comfort the children. ‘Happy now?’
‘Okay, enough is enough. I’m going to phone the police.’ Robin pulls his mobile from his pocket and swipes to unlock the screen.
‘It’s all right, there’s no need to go over the top.’ Marcus turns his back towards Robin and addresses Lucy, ‘But if you’ve got any sense, you’ll come straight back home.’ He waves at the wreckage of the kitchen, as though it has nothing to do with him. ‘Not exactly the ideal house guest, are you?’
‘I should go,’ Lucy says to Jane later, as they sweep up the glass and flowers and mop the wine from the floor. ‘You’ve been so kind, but I can’t expect you to put up with this. It’s not fair on you and Robin, and especially not on the children. I’m so sorry.’ She pulls a tissue from her jeans and wipes away the tears that are the natural by-product of shock.
Jane pats her arm. ‘It’s eleven o’clock at night; I’m not going to throw you out on the street. Stay for tonight, and we’ll get our heads together in the morning and think about the best course of action. Things will be clearer once we’ve all had a decent night’s sleep.’
‘I need you to know that I didn’t tell him I was here,’ Lucy says, collecting up the knives and forks from the floor. ‘But when you phoned that night after Fiona’s dinner party, he must have realised that you were concerned about me and keen to help. He’ll have put two and two together and worked out I could be here.’
Jane empties the dustpan into the bin and straightens up, rubbing her back. ‘Very likely. But listen, I’ve got a couple of girlfriends who could put you up for a bit; people Marcus wouldn’t know about. At least until you can sort out a more permanent arrangement.’ She moves around the kitchen, boiling the kettle, filling water glasses and hot-water bottles for them both with a natural motherliness. ‘Robin thinks you should see a solicitor as soon as you can. Maybe…’ She hesitates, holding out a hot-water bottle in a fluffy rabbit cover, ‘Maybe organise a restraining order. I know that sounds drastic, but after tonight’s little performance…’
‘No, you’re right,’ says Lucy, blowing her nose. ‘I think that’s a good idea.’
She has been given Molly’s bed for the night, with Molly now in Barney’s room and Barney in the lower bunk bed in Oscar’s room. The mattress, in its painted white frame stencilled with unicorns, proves surprisingly comfortable, and the heat and weight of the hot-water bottle help lull Lucy into a deep sleep. When she’s woken by the door being pushed carefully open, she assumes it’s Molly looking for a special soft toy. She glances at the Moana clock on the dresser: 3.14 a.m.
But this isn’t Molly. This is a tall, well-built man. Robin, checking that she’s all right? No, not Robin. Marcus.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she hisses, groping around for her dressing gown. ‘How did you even get in?’
‘Child’s play. The idiots keep their spare key under that bay tree by the front door.’ He closes the bedroom door softly behind him. ‘And don’t think about calling for Jane or Robin. You don’t want another scene like there was earlier this evening.’ He says this in a detached way, as though he has no personal responsibility for the ‘scene’. ‘And I know you certainly don’t want a disturbance to wake the children and scare them all half to death. They’ve been traumatised enough; don’t you think?’
Infuriatingly, Lucy knows that Marcus is right. About the Standish children, at least. She has no desire to wake the entire household, and she especially doesn’t want Molly and Barney upset again. If she resists Marcus, that is exactly what will happen.
‘Best you just come home with me, quietly. No more scenes.’ He points at the suitcase in the corner of the room. ‘That your stuff?’
Lucy nods silently.
‘I’ll take it down now. Get dressed and meet me downstairs.’
Still groggy from sleep, but accepting that she has no choice but to comply, Lucy starts tugging on her clothes while Marcus carries her case downstairs, moving as quickly and quietly as a cat burglar. All those hours spent in the operating room, working his way around critical blood vessels which would cause immediate death if they were nicked with a scalpel, has given him supreme control over his movements.
Lucy composes a quick text to Jane’s phone, struggling to think of something that won’t alarm her too much if she reads it during the night.
Have decided to go home. All fine, don’t worry. Will call. Xx
Her phone is still in her hand when she reaches the front step and Marcus immediately snatches it from her.
‘You won’t be needing that, for a start,’ he says, pushing it into the back pocket of his suit trousers. When she tries to protest and reach for it, he adds, ‘No scenes, remember, Lucinda? Let’s just get you home.’
He pulls the Standishes’ front door to behind them, replaces the key under the plant pot, then lifts Lucy’s suitcase into the back of the car.
‘Hop in.’ He sounds almost cheerful now. ‘I suppose you’re wondering how I knew where you were,’ he goes on, conversationally, as he steers his car through the empty streets. ‘If you already know a phone’s number, it’s ve
ry easy to track its exact location by installing a GPS tracker on your own phone. I simply had to use the app to look at the coordinates on a map. And there you were: a little icon in the Clapham area.’
‘Marcus,’ Lucy is surprised at how well she manages to modulate her voice, masking her anger. ‘This isn’t going to work. Dragging me back home isn’t going to solve anything. I know that, and you know that.’
As he twists in the driver’s seat to face her, she’s shocked by the dark hollows under his eyes. He doesn’t look well. ‘Listen. Can you just for once stop making this all about yourself? I’ve been up for nearly twenty-two hours straight, ten of those spent slicing up people’s hearts in an attempt to keep them in the land of the living. And I’ve got to be back in the hospital in four hours’ time, with steady hands. You’ve lost me enough sleep as it is. Let’s agree to just leave the mud-slinging and accusations, okay?’
She nods mutely.
When they get back to Barnes, she follows him into the house and upstairs to the master bedroom. Marcus tugs off his shoes and trousers and is asleep on top of the bed within seconds, while Lucy stares, blinking, at the ceiling, forcing herself to accept that, for now, she’s not going anywhere. There’s no point trying to rock the boat in the short term, and nothing to be achieved by stomping off to the spare room. She’s begun to realise that if she’s going to get out of this marriage, she needs to play a longer, and much smarter, game.