by Linda Coles
“I’ll see you there. I’ll have a lager and lime if you get there before me.” She winked at him invitingly and made her way cautiously out of the car park. Duncan pushed a lustful thought away and smiled to himself as he slid inside his car.
He pressed the ignition and the engine sprang into life. Putting the car into gear, he accelerated out of his spot and then pulled alongside Rochelle’s bike at the exit.
“And I’ll have a pint, no lime!” he yelled through his open window. But he knew she would arrive after he did – not that she was a sponger. No, she had a different reason.
Rochelle liked to make her entrance.
At nearly six feet tall with a dirty blond ponytail, she was a real head-turner, particularly in snug jeans and a leather jacket. With a generous mouth and bright blue eyes, she’d appeared in many of her male colleagues’ dreams at some point or other. And a fair few of his own, he had to admit, though nothing had ever come of them.
At the bar, Duncan resigned himself to buying Rochelle another lager and lime, and the thought of her brought another smile to his otherwise tired face. And tonight, like other nights, it was two work mates, one drink. Any more and it would be another row for sure, though not with Rochelle but with the other woman in his life – his wife Sam.
The very thought of Sam sent a ripple of depression through his body. The feeling was not new to him over recent months, but as Rochelle made her entrance into the crowded bar, the thought shimmied off back from whence it came and he enjoyed the view while it lasted. He waved her over and noted the envious looks of the other male drinkers; there was apparently a fair amount of hormonal jealousy in the room. He chuckled to himself as he watched her pick up her lager and tip the glass back greedily, the golden, frothy liquid vanishing as she half-drained it. She slammed it down on the bar and let out a satisfied gasp. A bit of white foam stayed on her top lip and she cleared it expertly away with her tongue. Watching the whole scenario play out in front of him, Duncan realized he was gawping – much like the other men immediately around them. He closed his mouth again, embarrassed. Did she know she had such an effect on men? Because if she did, she never let on or played to it, particularly – except while making an entrance, that was.
“Thirsty?” he said evenly?
“You bet. I’ve been dreaming of that since about four o’clock. With my nose stuck in paperwork all day, I’ve been dying to break away for a swift one, but alas, it wasn’t to be.” She waved her arms around the room as though acting in a Shakespearian play. Always the exuberant, theatrical one.
Duncan nodded and sipped at his own lager, waiting for the conversation to flow to something other than work, though what she said next wasn’t really what he wanted to talk about.
“How’s things at home? Are you still hiding out?” She took another long mouthful of lager. There was no malice in her voice, just friendly enquiry. It was no secret at the station that Duncan and Sam weren’t getting on too well, though it wasn’t discussed out loud. Sam could be a real ball-breaker at times, and a lazy one at that. How and why she’d turned out to be so was still a mystery to Duncan, and most of the time he ignored it. Until they rowed, that is. This was becoming much more frequent, and he had noticed increased venom from her side. He pushed the gloomy thoughts to the back of his mind now and answered Rochelle’s question.
“That’s why I’m having a swift one, and only one. Gives me chance to unwind before I get re-wound. Call it Dutch courage.” It sounded sad and pathetic to his own ears. He picked up his glass and took a couple of large gulps, partly to keep up with Rochelle’s consumption and partly to find the hit that came with the alcohol. “So, no, things are no better. I wish they were,” he added. Their eyes met for a second or two and he could see the pity in hers. Was there pity in all his colleagues’ eyes? It wouldn’t surprise him. He felt her arm around his shoulder and made no move to change it. It was welcome, and he knew she was being a mate, that there was no ulterior motive at play. He forced a smile before draining the last drops in his glass.
“Thanks for your concern, Rochelle. Let’s hope today was a good day for her or else I’ll be back here drowning my sorrows in an hour.”
“I won’t wait for you, then. Let’s be positive.”
She pecked him lightly on the cheek, and he got to his feet to head home.
Home. Could he call it that? It didn’t feel like it much.
Chapter Three
The air was as cold as a snowman’s ear as Duncan pulled up outside his house. The street was quiet, too cold for even the hardiest of kids to be loitering outside or kicking a ball around their back garden. Dogs had been walked, owners tucked up in the warmth back inside until nearly bedtime, when the back door would be opened briefly for toilet emergencies and final calls before the household retired for the night. Duncan was glad he didn’t have a dog to worry about, something else to be left up to him to look after.
He stayed put in the driver’s seat, the last remaining heat seeping out of the metal to meet the cold and evaporate into the night like a ghost. The lights in the lounge were on, curtains closed so only a chink of gold shone from the top where the two curtains joined in a thin wedge shape. The only other rooms with a light on were the girls’ bedrooms, the light reflecting down onto the small grassy garden below. He opened the car door, and the frosty air enveloped him as he grabbed his bag from the seat next to him and headed for the side entrance and warmth. Inside, he closed the door quietly and stood listening for a moment. The only sound was the TV. He heard the familiar notes of Coronation Street’s theme music playing out before news of yet another caramel biscuit you simply couldn’t do without filled the gap. Maybe she’d come out to greet him, get his dinner out of the oven, make a hot drink, even, he thought, but so far, the only warmth greeting him was from the central heating.
No surprises there, then.
Duncan placed a smile on his face and pushed open the door into the lounge. Sam was spread out on the sofa, a mug of tea on the small table next to her, spilled crumbs from a half-finished packet of biscuits beside it. Not caramel, as the advert had suggested; just chocolate. Without turning to look at Duncan or greet him properly, she said simply, “Hi.” That was the sum of it.
“Hi, Sam. Had a good day?” he enquired, struggling to keep the aggravation from his voice.
Still without turning, she replied, “Not bad.” She couldn’t have sounded any more nonchalant if she’d tried. Duncan noticed she was in her nightdress and robe, her hair all mussed up. That in itself wasn’t a problem; it was evening, after all. But it was what she had been wearing when he’d left her that morning to go to work – except then she’d been under the bedclothes.
Sam hadn’t bothered to get dressed all day.
All. Sodding. Day.
Stay calm, Duncan.
“I’m guessing you’ve eaten already?” he said evenly.
“Yes. Me and the girls had fish fingers at five o’clock.”
The kids must be sick of fish fingers by now.
She still hadn’t taken her eyes off the TV; he might as well have not been there.
“Right. Okay, well, I’ll make myself something to eat, then.” He waited a moment, in the unlikely event she might just oblige and be helpful, just for a change. After all, she’d been home all day, as she was every day, and he’d been out grafting for the last eleven hours. While he didn’t expect her to serve him, he did expect some sort of a meal in motion; she didn’t have much else to do. But it was too much to wish for; he knew that. This was the same thing that happened most nights now, so why was he surprised? Why he hadn’t stayed on and eaten at the pub or grabbed a takeaway on the way home he’d no idea; at least he’d have had a hot meal and a smile for his trouble.
Duncan headed for the kitchen and pulled the fridge door open; the bright light glared into his eyes in the otherwise dark room. Milk, cheese, two eggs and half an open can of baked beans. Slipping his jacket and tie off and dropping them on to a kitc
hen chair, he busied himself beating eggs and grating cheese, then shoved two slices of bread into the toaster. The smell gave him comfort; at least his meal would be hot and tasty. He sprinkled salt and pepper into the egg mixture and heated the beans in the microwave. Within a couple of minutes, he had a decent cheese omelette, toast and beans. He set the food down on the table ready to eat. He was exhausted, and even though he was famished, he felt totally deflated as he sat down.
That was when Sam walked in, shuffling in her too large slippers. She bent and took a piece of his toast.
“Didn’t think to make me any, then?” she said, her voice full of hatred as she bit into the slice.
Duncan sat still, breathing evenly. “You’ve already eaten, you said.”
“So?”
“So, it’s gone seven p.m. and I have just finished work and made myself something to eat. I’m knackered and hungry, so if you don’t mind, I’ll eat first, and we can argue later.” He picked up his knife and fork again and started on his omelette, scooping a forkful into his mouth to stop himself from getting into another argument with her.
“Selfish pig,” she hissed in his ear.
Duncan’s stomach rolled. Here she goes – here we go again.
He heard her put more bread into the toaster. He stayed quiet, eating and hoping she wasn’t going to kick off.
But he was wrong.
Chapter Four
Spittle flew from her mouth as she ripped into him. Duncan had barely eaten half of his meal but he downed his cutlery to add his side, hurling his fuel onto an ever-burning fire between them. Some couples thrived on their own heat and enjoyed make-up sex afterwards, but not Sam and Duncan. They’d gone way past that and there was no going back. There was not a day went by now that they didn’t have crossed words, unless they weren’t physically in the same place.
“What are you getting so upset for again, Sam? Eh? What I have done now to piss you off so much? Tell me, because I’d love to know!”
“You didn’t ask me if I wanted some toast, you selfish pig,” she spat at him. Specks of spittle landed on his face.
“Really? That’s what this is all about? You’ve been home all day, not even got showered and dressed while I’ve been at work, and you want me to make you toast?” He stopped himself short of adding what he really wanted to add.
“Would it have been so hard to ask?” she yelled back.
Duncan shook his head in disbelief and sat back down to finish his meal, though eating in such a wound-up state was virtually impossible.
“Well? Aren’t you going to answer me?” Her voice pierced the air.
“Keep your voice down, will you? We don’t need the whole street hearing our senseless row again, nor the girls, for that matter.”
“Well, you started it!” But Duncan was no longer listening. He was simply trying to swallow what was in his mouth, his stomach constricting in temper. What the hell was wrong with her? What had happened to the mother of his children, the woman he’d married, the woman he’d loved? But he couldn’t hold back any longer. He leapt to his feet, chair scraping noisily like a Gatling gun firing round after round into the small space, momentarily shocking her into quietness. Duncan lunged at her face first, his turn to let spittle fly.
“You’re a lazy cow, that’s what you are!” he yelled. “I’m sick of it. Look at you, just look at yourself, will you?” He snatched a deep breath before carrying on with the tirade within him, one that had been wrestling to get out. “You’re a slob! The house is a mess and I’m more than sick of it. I’ve had it up to here,” he said, motioning to his temple with a stiff forefinger, “so either you sort yourself out, or I’m off. And don’t think I won’t take the girls away with me because I will. And right now, you’re not a fit mother to have them around anyway. Get some help, get whatever it is that puts some sense and pride back inside you, and do it quickly, because if there is no change, if you’ve not got yourself sorted in the next two weeks, that’s it. I’m done, finished.”
The remaining air in his lungs drained out in a rush before he sucked a fresh breath in to refill them. Neither of them said a word. The sound of Coronation Street played out in the other room. Apt, really, their row playing out with the credits. If only it were that simple.
Duncan was the first to move. He headed straight upstairs to his two daughters, who had more than likely heard every nasty word, leaving Sam looking stunned and speechless where she stood. He knew the waterworks would be starting round about now, but that had stopped working on him when he’d stopped caring any more. He gathered himself as he approached the children’s rooms. Jasmine’s door was ajar, her light shining into the hallway, so he pushed at it gently and stuck his head around the corner. Both girls were sat together on her bed; both their faces were full of sadness and worry. Jasmine had a stuffed rabbit on her lap and was stroking its felted-up ears. She’d had the toy since she was a toddler and no amount of her parents’ ‘losing’ it had worked, though one day she knew it would fall to pieces and Mr. Rabbit would be no more. Duncan did his best to fix a bright smile and lighten the mood. Seeing them visibly upset broke his heart. He kneeled down on the floor to their level, scooped them both into his arms, and kissed them both in turn on the soft part of their necks, their favourite thing.
“Mmm, you two both smell good,” he quipped, trying to make them smile, but on this occasion, he was way off the mark. Sensing their distress and knowing his daughters were no fools, he sat back on his heels and tried to explain.
“I’m guessing you heard Mummy and me shouting again, and I’m sorry you had to hear it.” Two sets of quiet, sad eyes looked at him. Jasmine nodded.
“Sometimes, grownups don’t agree on things,” Duncan went on, “and we get noisy rather than talking about it properly. Like you get noisy with each other on occasion. But a few minutes later, everything is okay again and not so noisy. That’s all that Mummy and I were doing. We weren’t agreeing, so we got noisy. And we’re sorry. Okay?”
Victoria nodded this time as Duncan leaned back in to give them a squeeze.
“All right, then,” he said briskly, determined to restore order and happiness. “Let’s have a race to see who can get into their PJs and into this bed, and I’ll tell you a true story about the dragons that used to live in the woods by the park.”
That did the trick; their parents’ shouting was almost forgotten as Victoria and Jasmine scrambled for sleepwear and then jockeyed for position in the one bed. Duncan helped by fetching another pillow from Victoria’s room and smiled as they both sat up ready for the best story two young girls could ever hope for.
Duncan was going to have to make it a good one, he knew, and a long one. Maybe by the time he went back downstairs, Sam would have had time to think about his ultimatum and switch the tears off.
He could only hope.
Chapter Five
For a change, Duncan was pleased that Sam was still asleep this morning. After their unholy row last night, they’d avoided one another for the remainder of it, she slinking off back to the sofa sulking, he reading exaggerated dragon stories to the girls. The thought amused him as he shaved in the bathroom – the two sad faces turning into bright little ones as the story had got more exaggerated and unbelievable. Maybe he should have recorded it for future use, something to draw on again and extend on for another night. He’d been tempted to let the girls sleep in one bed together and take the other himself, but he’d never been one for sleeping separately like other rowing couples did. So, after he’d tucked the girls into their beds, he’d climbed dutifully into the marital bed, keeping to his own side. Sam had kept to hers, and nothing else had been said.
He rinsed his shaver blade under the tap and turned the shower on. As water tumbled over his head and rinsed the remaining shaving soap from his face, he rubbed his hands roughly up and down his face and pondered the day ahead. The case they were working on had taken its toll on many of the detectives; cases involving children always did. Had
that been the catalyst for his outburst last night, he wondered, or was he right in his observations of how his wife had become? Calling her a slob had been mean, but deep down he knew it was true. She wasn’t ill, after all; she had become lazy, and not showering and dressing all day was not what most people did, home all day or not.
The smell of citrus filled the shower cubicle as he lathered his body in soap and rinsed, feeling more awake than he had a few moments ago. While it was still early, he planned to have a quiet breakfast on his own then stop for a takeaway coffee and muffin on his way in. Working such long hours on the case, all he wanted was some peace and quiet, some time to himself, some time to think. In a perfect world, a weekend away – on his own – would do him the world of good, but there was little chance of that anytime soon. Maybe he’d get some respite on the tactical training course he had coming up – if it didn’t get cancelled beforehand. With all resources being thrown at the missing children case, he wouldn’t be surprised if they couldn’t spare him to go. And of course, the child was more important than his tactical training and a cheap hotel overnight stay.
He stepped out of the shower and dried himself off quickly. Wearing only his underpants, he tiptoed around the bed to his wardrobe and fetched the clothes he needed. There was no sound from Sam as he took his clothes downstairs and finished dressing in the lounge. He poured cereal into a bowl, added milk and sat in the near darkness – again. It hadn’t been that long ago he’d been sat in the same place trying to eat his omelette during a screaming match. At least it was peaceful now.
His phone vibrated on the tabletop. The screen said it was Rochelle.
“Morning, early bird. What’s up?” He listened while he crunched.