None of My Affair

by Fiona O''Brien, Fiona O'Brien

Genres: Marriage & Divorce; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'Long lunches, hot evenings ... O'Brien never puts a foot wrong' Irish Independent
IT'S THE WEDDING OF THE YEAR

Supermodel Ali Armstrong will tie the knot on board luxury knot Excalibur, surrounded by her closest friends and family.

AND THE SCANDAL OF THE DECADE

But as the guests descend on Puerto Banus for the festivities, tensions and secrets rise to the surface.

Will Ali's mother, Carrie, finally accept the end of her own marriage? Can her sister, Hope, forget her broken heart and learn to trust again? Will Jay see off the Russian temptress and hang on to her millionaire husband?

When the sun sets on the azure waters of the Med, the privileged world of the Armstrongs is blown sky high...

'Delicious ... full of warmth, glamour and excitment' Cathy Kelly

Release date: February 2, 2017

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 448

Sample

The day was perfect. Just as she had known it would be. From her window in the Armstrongs’ villa, Babs inspected the clear blue sky without a cloud on the horizon and noted, with satisfaction, the wisp of a breeze that would temper the already building heat. Before her, the deep, settled blue of the Mediterranean stretched as far as the eye could see.

It was simply a perfect day for a wedding, although for added certainty, she had put the Child of Prague statue out on the windowsill last thing before going to bed. The old Irish custom of putting the much-loved statue of the baby Jesus outside the night before a wedding warded off all manner of inclement weather, it was held, never mind global warming. This might be sunny Spain, but weather conditions were changing everywhere and it didn’t do to take anything for granted.

Despite her seventy-five years, at seven o’clock in the morning Babs was up, dressed and ready for action. Not in her wedding outfit, of course: that would come later.

Looking at the delicate ensemble of coffee-and-cream chiffon hanging regally on the front of the wardrobe door, she felt a sudden rush of emotion.

Only nine hours to go, and they would fly. Nine hours until the wedding of any girl’s dreams. It was going to be magnificent. Well, it was going to be, fullstop, and that in itself was a blessed relief.

Little Ali, she mused, the minx of the family, the first of the girls to be married. The three Armstrong girls were like her own. She’d been a part of their lives for twenty-three years, after all.

Feeling suddenly tearful, Babs sat down on the bed and allowed herself a trip down memory lane. It genuinely seemed like only yesterday she had come into their lives.

‘I’ve come about the ad.’ Babs was still slightly out of breath after her cycle up the rather steep road to the Armstrongs’ semi-detached house in the newly built development.

‘And I hope you don’t mind, but I like to wear trousers when I work. I cycle, you see.’ There, she had said it. Better to get it out in the open straight away. Some of those snooty society women she’d worked for in the past had actually told her they would prefer if she wore a dress or skirt while she was working for them. A maid’s uniform and lots of curtseying was what they’d really been dreaming about. Mind you, that had been a good few years ago, back in the old days.

But though Babs hadn’t worked outside the home in a while because she’d been raising her own children, she had learned a thing or two in her time, and one of them was to get things straight with a prospective employer right from the start. Babs Buckley, mother of five, oldest of ten and who’d grown up the hard way, was nobody’s fool.

‘Oh, you’d like to wear trousers,’ said the rather startled-looking young mother who opened the door. ‘Of course, that’s perfectly fine. Wear whatever you’d like. It’s that, I, um, wasn’t expecting anyone so soon, but please, do come in. You’ve caught me on the hop, I’m afraid.’ She wiped her hands hurriedly on the tea towel slung over her shoulder.

Babs relaxed. This attractive young woman with her chestnut curls and wide, welcoming smile was clearly not a society matron with notions of grandeur.

‘I know I should have rung to say I was calling,’ Babs checked to make sure her bike was parked safely against the wall, ‘but I saw the ad in the newsagent’s and seeing as I only live around the corner, I thought I’d just come straight up. Strike while the iron’s hot, you know, that’s my motto. If it’s inconvenient, I can always come back later.’

‘No, no, not at all, please, come in,’ the woman said eagerly. ‘I was just about to make a cup of tea before I feed the baby, would you like one?’

‘I’d murder one.’

‘I’m Carrie, by the way, Carrie Armstrong.’ She held out a hand that Babs shook firmly.

‘Nice to meet you, Mrs Armstrong. I’m Annie Buckley, but I’ve been called Babs for so long now it’s all I answer to.’

Babs followed Carrie across the hall and into the cosy kitchen, where a small girl sat at the scrubbed pine table wielding a crayon across a brightly coloured page, her tongue poking out of the side of her mouth in concentration. Looking up, she fixed Babs with big solemn brown eyes, smiled shyly, and went back to her drawing.

‘Well who have we here?’ said Babs, sitting down at the table opposite her.

‘This is Hope,’ said Carrie, smiling over at her little girl as she turned on the kettle and reached into the overhead cupboard for two cups. ‘She’s our eldest. Say hello to Mrs Buckley, Hope,’

‘Hello.’

‘And an artist, too, so I see.’ Babs peered over at the drawing, making noises of appreciation. ‘What a lovely picture. What is it? I’m not very good without my glasses.’

‘It’s a car. My daddy’s getting a new car today, so I drew a picture for him when he gets home.’

‘Well isn’t that a lovely thing to do. And how old are you, Hope?’

‘I’m going to be seven next week.’ She looked up at Babs with a serious expression. ‘How old are you?’

Babs grinned. ‘Oh, I’m very old, very old indeed.’

The crayon paused in mid-air as Hope studied her.

‘Hope!’ Carrie protested, laughing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Babs. ‘Hope, you mustn’t ask grown-up people how old they are. It’s not polite.’

‘Why not?’ Hope asked curiously.

‘Why not indeed,’ said Babs, chuckling. ‘I’m fifty-two, love, and I don’t mind telling you or anybody. Age is only a number, you know.’

Hope continued her study of Babs, her head tilting to one side as she regarded her from across the table. ‘You have funny hair.’

Babs snorted with laughter, as Carrie, looking alarmed, placed two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table. ‘That’s enough, Hope.’

‘Funny is the right word for it, young lady. It has a sense of humour all its own, my hair.’ Babs ran a hand through the wiry shock of grey hair that stood up relentlessly. It had once been a fiery red and then, overnight almost, decided to turn grey, not that Babs had minded. She’d never bothered much with looks or worrying over her hair, and Larry, her late husband, had always said he loved her just the way she was. ‘I gave up fighting it years ago.’

‘Come along, darling, into the playroom. Mummy wants to talk to Mrs Buckley—’

‘Babs,’ interjected Babs.

‘Er, to Babs. Take your drawing into the playroom like a good girl, and I’ll come and see it in few minutes.’

‘Okay, I’m nearly finished anyway.’

‘Good girl,’ said Carrie as Hope gathered her crayons and paper and slipped off the chair, walking quietly from the kitchen through a glass door that led to another room where a big television had pride of place and a lot of toys were scattered.

‘We built the playroom on last year,’ explained Carrie. ‘It’s been a lifesaver.’

‘Now,’ said Babs, ‘let’s get down to business. I’ve worked as a cook and a housekeeper all my life, and I’m good at it, if I say so myself. The references say the rest and I have them with me.’ She pushed a collection of papers across to Carrie. ‘My last position was in an embassy, but that was ten years ago. I have my own family, all grown up now of course and on their way, but I wanted to be at home for them when school got tough and they were doing the exams and so on, so I gave up working. Of course, Larry was out working then too, my husband, one of the head gardeners he was, up in the Botanic Gardens. He died just over a year ago and—’

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ Carrie interjected awkwardly, her eyes full of sympathy.

‘Thank you love, it was sad. He was young, you know, two years younger than me, so it came out of the blue, but then cancer does that. But we had a great life together and a great marriage, and five lovely children, and he spent his days doing what he loved best, out in the fresh air, foostering with his old plants and flowers.’ Babs sniffed and took out a tissue to blow her nose before continuing. ‘The children, as I said, are all grown up, three in Canada, one in America and then my youngest, Annie, had to go and marry a Guard who’s been posted up to Donegal.’ Babs paused. ‘I was finding it a bit lonely in the house on my own, and I’m not about to go galivanting off to America or Canada to live at my age, although the invitation’s offered regularly, so I thought I’d go back to work, get a bit of routine going again. I’m a great believer in routine.’ She took a drink of her tea. ‘Now the ad said you were looking for a home help, but that can cover a multitude. What exactly is it that you are looking for?’ She fixed Carrie with a direct gaze.

‘Oh, well, I, um, that is, my husband and I, well, we have three young children now, and Rob, that’s my husband,’ Carrie explained, ‘well, he’s working all the hours God sends these days, and suddenly, well, that seems to involve a lot of entertaining, you know, bosses, prospective clients, that sort of thing, and trips away at short notice, everything has to be ship shape …’

‘Don’t I know it well,’ said Babs, nodding.

‘I thought I could cope with it all, but with the girls, and the new baby, well, it’s just that Rob said that we, I mean, I, could do with an extra pair of hands.’

‘And what ages are the other two?’

‘Hope, who you met, is seven next week, Ali, her younger sister, is five, and the baby, Stephanie, is three months old tomorrow.’

‘And what about you?’ Babs looked at her keenly. ‘What do you think about all this needing a pair of extra hands?’

Carrie let out a deep sigh. ‘Well, it would be lovely in theory, but,’ she bit her lip, ‘I feel, I suppose I feel that I shouldn’t need help. I should be able to cope on my own. It’s just that …’

‘Just that what?’ Babs probed, listening attentively.

‘Well, my own mother stayed at home with six of us, and she managed perfectly, and I only have three and already I’m finding it difficult, and, and …’ her voice wavered, ‘well, she died, too, just six months ago, and I thought I’d be able to cope without her, but she was brilliant with the girls, and always ready to step in for me, but now I’m finding it so hard, all the sleepless nights, and Rob’s always working and I, I feel that I’m just not making a good job of it any more.’

‘There, there, now, don’t go getting yourself all upset,’ Babs said kindly, patting Carrie’s hand. ‘Don’t I know well what having three young children is all about, and easy it’s not. It’s just that nobody ever tells you that. And things today are different. Oh I know, it may be the 1980s and all that, but there’s pressures now on young families that we never had to cope with in the old days. I blame it on the breakdown of community, myself. But you know, nothing can ever make up for the loss of a mother, and why should you be expected to cope with that because you have a young family of your own? Is your father alive?’

‘No, heart attack.’

‘Ah, I understand more now. You see, you’re nobody’s daughter any more, and that’s quite a wrench to come to terms with,’ Babs nodded to herself. ‘Especially when you have your own young family.’

Carrie looked surprised. ‘Yes, yes, that’s it exactly. I could never quite put it into words, but now you say it, that’s exactly how I feel. And Rob, well, men aren’t good at that sort of thing, everyone’s been very sympathetic and everything, but it’s hard to explain, and I feel I’m not being good enough for Rob, or my children.’

‘It sounds to me like you could do with some help. How many days a week were you thinking of?’

‘Oh, well, I hadn’t really thought it through, to be honest, Rob thought—’

‘Never mind Rob for a moment, it’s you who has to deal with another body in your house and under your feet. What feels right to you?’

‘Twice a week, mornings?’ Carrie ventured.

‘How about Monday and Friday, that way you have a nice clean house for the weekend and a clean-up after it, and I can help out with the entertaining when you need it. Then we can see how it goes from there?’

‘That sounds great,’ said Carrie, smiling.

‘Now you have my references, you can give them a call, and let me know when you’ve interviewed any other applicants and had a bit of a think about it.’ Babs drained her tea.

‘Oh, that won’t be necessary,’ Carrie said, ‘I think we’ll get along perfectly. Would you like me to show you around the house?’

‘That would be lovely, but what I’d really like is to see the baby. I know she’s sleeping, but just a peek maybe?’

‘Of course.’ Carrie’s face lit up. ‘Come on, I’ll show you around.’

Babs followed Carrie out of the kitchen and upstairs, noting how clean and well-kept the house was, if a bit untidy. She liked that, liked knowing that a house was a home and somewhere to be lived in, where life with all its ups and downs and untidiness unfolded, and not just a showpiece.

Along the way through the typical, if luxurious, three-bedroom semi-d, Carrie pointed out the bedrooms. The larger, of course, was hers and Rob’s, and the second, done up in pinks and purples with two twin beds, was Hope and Ali’s. Babs chuckled when she saw the makeshift wicker fence between the beds separating the room into two halves.

Carrie shook her head and laughed. ‘Honestly, you wouldn’t believe the pair of them. Ali’s a tearaway and throws her clothes everywhere and Hope is a neat freak. The only way of keeping the peace was for their father to put up this “fence”. If they hadn’t pestered him so much, I wouldn’t have believed he’d do it myself.’ Carrie laughed at the memory of Rob putting it up. ‘But for the moment, it keeps them quiet.’

‘Everyone needs their own space and a place to express themselves. I think it’s a great idea.’

Then they came to the smallest room, where the door stood slightly ajar and a faint night light shone dimly. Carrie gently opened the door and Babs followed her quietly, almost tiptoeing behind her. Beside the window stood a large cot with white wooden bars and a colourful mobile of birds and stars floating above it.

‘This is Stephanie,’ Carrie whispered. ‘This is our baby.’ She moved over so that Babs could get a good look at the sleeping child.

Babs took out her glasses, placed them firmly on her nose and looked over the cot at the loveliest little face she had seen in a long time.

Lying on her back, arms thrown out to the sides, and buttoned up to the chin in a sweetly patterned babygro, the baby lay with her head turned to one side, breathing softly, dark wisps of hair framing her face, and the longest eyelashes Babs had ever seen making a perfect fan on her lightly flushed cheeks. Looking at her, Babs thought the child was the nearest thing to a living doll she had ever seen.

‘Isn’t she precious?’ Babs murmured. ‘You know, it doesn’t seem so long ago my own were all that age. You have to enjoy them while you can, they grow up so quickly.’

Just then the doorbell rang loudly and little Stephanie stirred and began to whimper. ‘I’d better get that,’ said Carrie, sounding flustered. ‘It must be Ali, she’s being dropped back from ballet lessons. Would you keep an eye on Stephanie for a minute?’

Babs nodded. ‘Of course I will, take your time.’

Seconds later, footsteps tore up the stairs and a pink flash raced by and then doubled back, peering around the door at Babs, who by now had picked up a crying Stephanie and was rocking her gently in her arms.

‘Who are you?’ demanded the small ballerina in a pink tutu, entering the room, ‘and why are you holding our baby?’

‘I’m Babs, and she was crying. You must be Ali.’

‘How did you know that?’ Ali looked perplexed and not altogether pleased.

Before Babs could answer, Ali yelled out in a piercing voice, ‘Mummy, baby’s crying again.’

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ Carrie called from downstairs.

‘Stupid baby,’ Ali said scornfully, ‘she’s always crying.’

‘Well,’ said Babs, ‘that’s what babies do a lot of the time. You probably did a lot of it yourself, I don’t doubt.’

‘Sorry about that,’ Carrie said breathlessly as she came back into the room. ‘Now Ali, go and get changed and put your tutu on the bed nicely so I can hang it up.’

‘Won’t,’ Ali proclaimed defiantly. ‘I’m keeping it on for Daddy. Daddy hasn’t seen it yet and he promised he’d be home in time to see me twirl. See?’ Ali performed a series of rather enthusiastic twirls, nearly hurtling into Babs, who handed little Stephanie hurriedly over to her mother. The baby had stopped crying now and was regarding her unsteady sister with interest.

‘Ali, please. Be careful! You’re going hurt somebody, and you’ll ruin that tutu if you don’t take it off.’ Carrie raised her eyes to heaven and looked helplessly at Babs. ‘Everything’s a battle with that child and she’s only five. I dread to think what she’ll be like at fifteen, and she is such a daddy’s girl.’

‘Aren’t they all at that age, bless her. She’s certainly high spirited.’

‘That’s one way of putting it. Gosh, look at the time, Rob will be home any minute and I haven’t even fed Stephanie. I’m so sorry, I’ve kept you far too long.’

‘Not at all, it’s been a pleasure,’ said Babs as they made their way downstairs. ‘I can see you have your hands full. Give me a call when you’ve checked my references and I’ll see you on Monday.’ She held out her hand to take Carrie’s.

The sound of a car door slamming and a key in the door was followed by a triumphant shriek from Ali, who hurtled down the stairs behind them. ‘Daddeeee, daddeeee.’

Babs smiled as Ali flung herself at the tall, attractive young man who came in the door, and noted fondly that Carrie’s face lit up at the sight of her husband.

‘Well, well, well, what have we here, it’s my prima ballerina!’ Rob picked Ali up and swung her around to more delighted shrieks.

Babs stood back and watched the exchange with interest. The girls and Carrie were hanging on his every word and glance. Rob Armstrong was one of those people who brought a sudden sense of energy with him when he entered a room, the kind that made people light up and feel they had something to look forward to. This was a man who oozed self-confidence, unlike his wife, Babs noticed, who was considerably less self-assured. She wouldn’t, she mused, have put them together as a couple, although God knows people claimed opposites attract. Personally, Babs wasn’t so sure about that.

‘Hi,’ Rob leaned over and kissed Carrie on the cheek before turning quizzically to Babs.

‘Rob, this is Mrs, er, I mean, Babs,’ explained Carrie. ‘She’s going to be starting with us next week.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Babs, shaking the hand that Rob wrested away from Ali.

‘That’s great! Welcome to the madhouse, Babs. I see you’ve met the family.’ He grinned wickedly at her. And Babs grinned right back. You couldn’t help grinning at a man who looked at you like that – whatever age you were. Rob was a charmer and no mistake, although Babs wasn’t so sure she’d have relished being married to one. In her experience, they were trouble.

‘I have, and they’re lovely.’

‘Hope you still think so this time next week.’

‘Daddy,’ Hope tugged at his sleeve, proffering her picture. ‘Look, I’ve done a picture for you.’

‘What? Oh hello, darling.’ He ruffled her hair. ‘That’s lovely, I’ll look at it properly later, Daddy has to go out again. Sorry,’ he mouthed at Carrie. ‘I just came back to drop the new car off, Frank’s picking me up in twenty minutes, we have to go back into town to meet the English guys, I’ve got to shower and change.’

‘But Daddy,’ Hope protested, when suddenly Ali snatched the picture from her hands and pushed Hope roughly away from Rob.

‘Ali, stop that, or it’s bed immediately,’ Carrie protested as Hope almost fell over and Ali burst into noisy sobs, flinging Hope’s picture on the floor. ‘Want to see Daddy’s new car, want to go in Daddy’s new car,’ she wailed.

‘Tomorrow, darling, I promise,’ said Rob, making his escape up the stairs.

‘I’d better be on my way,’ said Babs, throwing Carrie a sympathetic look. ‘I’ll let myself out, see you Monday.’

‘Oh, would you?’ Carrie smiled gratefully, ‘and thanks again for coming by.’ Carrie reached for Ali’s hand with her free one, ‘Come on girls, bath time, and then if you’re very good, we might have a Barney video before bed.’

‘Not at all,’ said Babs, closing the door behind her.

Outside the front door, Babs reclaimed her bicycle, and mounting it, set off along the downhill ride to her little home in the council estate around the other side of the village. What a lovely family, she thought to herself. It would do her good to be in the company of other people again. The young mother was a lovely person, she could tell. Babs always prided herself on being a good judge of character. And the husband seemed a nice man too, and good-looking, in that offbeat sort of way that was so attractive to women. It was plain they all adored him, although she’d bet he could be a real character. Why, if she hadn’t known better, she’d have said he was flirting with her, even if she was old enough to be his mother.

But try as she could, even much later that night when she was making a cup of cocoa to take up to bed with her, she couldn’t forget the image of the eldest little one, Hope, picking up her picture from the floor, and carefully folding it into four, and the forlorn look on her face as she followed her mother slowly upstairs.

Babs shook herself back to the present.

The Spanish morning sun was heating up and there was work to be done. The day was going to fly by before they knew it, and whatever any of the family said, she wasn’t having anyone setting out for a wedding without a good breakfast inside them. It would be no time at all before hairdressers and make-up people were descending on them, not to mention photographers, and then there would be pandemonium.

Thank God she had brought all the makings of a real Irish out with her – bacon, sausages, black pudding, proper butter and brown bread – the works. She was prepared to relent and use the Spanish eggs that were stocked neatly in the fridge and those nice big sunny tomatoes that fried up so well, but that was it.

And whatever notions Ali had of not eating would be firmly quashed. Supermodel or no supermodel nonsense, there was nothing like the smell of sizzling bacon to get those girls, and indeed their parents, up and out of bed. God knows what time it would be before they all ate again.

And then it would be on the yacht, which, from what she had seen of it, looked more like a ship. Babs desperately hoped she wouldn’t feel seasick or anything dreadful like that. She knew the yacht would be moored and not careering off on the high seas, but all the same, things could be unsteady. Babs had sailed only once before when she and Larry had taken the ferry to Holyhead and a gale force storm had ensued. She had there and then vowed never to set foot on a boat again as long as she lived.

Why they couldn’t have had the whole thing on dry land like normal people was beyond her. Although, she reflected, there was precious little normal about the Armstrong family these days. Still, a wedding reception on board the Excalibur would be a once-in-a-lifetime experience and there was no way she would miss it. Why, real live movie stars and royalty had sailed on her in her heyday. And Ali would make the most beautiful bride of any of them. It would all be like a wonderful fairytale. But just to make sure, she would bring her seasickness tablets in her handbag, along with the Alka Seltzer and the safety pins. After all, she might not be the only one who needed them. Babs didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance, and weddings could be unpredictable affairs at the best of times.

She checked her watch. It was seven thirty on the dot, time to make for the kitchen. The day had been planned out with military precision. The countdown had begun.

(Four months earlier)

Carrie Armstrong awoke to the crisp brightness of a perfect February day and for a moment lay perfectly still. Allowing her eyes to wander around the room, she carefully took in the unmistakable luxury of her surroundings: the silk moiré wallpaper, the huge gilt framed mirrors, the Italian marble mantelpiece, the lavishly draped windows through which the sun now streamed, casting a pool of light onto the Persian carpet, beneath which the jewelled colours seemed to glow.

The exquisite trappings of luxury, the thought came to her, but not for the first time. Sitting up slowly, she noted the barely disturbed sheets and the vast expanse of the otherwise empty bed.

Today, she thought suddenly. Today I am going to do it. She got up quickly, fuelled by the momentum and purpose of her decision.

In the bathroom, she regarded her reflection critically, but not without kindness. She was still in good shape. She had worked hard at that, and it showed. Her breasts were full and shapely, thanks to the implants, and constant sessions with her personal trainer kept everything else reasonably where it should be. But after three children, gravity had taken its toll, workouts or not. Nonetheless, she looked good for her forty-eight years. Or rather, forty-nine. It was her birthday and she had almost forgotten, despite herself. She smiled.

Her face, she still thought, was a nice face, slightly long in the nose, above a generous mouth, although she would have liked fuller lips. Her teeth were straight and white, her skin clear and well maintained and her chestnut curls groomed and shaped regularly every six weeks in a style her hairdresser reliably informed her softened her features. Only her soulful, big green eyes hinted that there was any pain behind Carrie Armstrong’s smile.

She showered quickly, pausing only to dip her head, allowing the steaming hot jets of water to ease the tension that lately seemed to hold her shoulder blades together in a vice-like grip. She didn’t bother to dress, just wrapped the white towel robe around her and applied a modicum of makeup. Passing the dressing room, the wall-to-wall wardrobes on her side remained steadfastly shut.

On Rob’s side, a door stood ajar and a faint smell of aftershave hinted at his obviously recent departure. She must hurry if she was to catch him. Down the stairs she went, barefoot, feeling the softness of the carpet beneath her. She remembered, with sudden vividness, the three threadbare stairs at the top of the flight in the four-bed semi where she had grown up. The mad race between her and her five brothers and sisters to be the first to get to the bathroom used to drive her poor mother demented. Back then, Carrie would have killed to have a soft-as-silk pure wool carpet, never mind a choice of bathrooms. Now she had them, and where had it got her?

Strange, she thought, how the most trivial of things crept into your mind when you were facing a life-changing moment.

The aroma of fresh coffee wafted towards her, and taking a deep breath, she walked into the kitchen.

Rob was sitting there, calmly reading the paper.

For a split second, she almost lost her nerve – was almost overpowered by the ever familiar wave of love that enveloped her whenever she saw him.

By any standards, Rob Armstrong had always been a good-looking man. But now, at fifty, the combination of maturity and acquired confidence made him more lethally attractive than ever. The slightly unruly hair, now streaked with grey, the frown of concentration that creased between the eyes that were by turns hazel, or as she had often mused, treacle coloured, shaded now by the half-moon reading glasses. She felt the urge, which still took her by surprise, to reach out and gently stroke his face.

Hearing her come in, he looked up from his paper.

‘You’re up early.’ It was a statement, not a query, and he returned his attention to the morning’s news.

For a moment, rage threatened as Carrie swallowed back a tart response. What the hell time would he know that she got up at? He was never there. Never mind the separate bedrooms they had occupied now for several months; their lives had become as diverse as the many beds she knew he had shared over the years, with many other women.

But recriminations would get her nowhere now. Enough had been said. Now it was time to act.

She sat down opposite him at the table, rested her chin in her hands and looked at him, willing him to see her – really see her.

‘What?’ The slight edge of irritation was audible as he looked up.

‘I want a divorce, Rob.’

The words, slowly enunciated, seemed to come from another person, another reality. So often rehearsed, so often threatened, their very utterance now seemed to her unreal. Only the slight trembling of her hands, her fingers still firmly linked together under her chin, indicated how very much she meant them.

Her husband of twenty-nine years sighed a long, exasperated sigh. The corner of his mouth slid downwards, in that mildly amused way, as if he was talking to a recalcitrant teenager.

‘What is it?’

For a split second, his eyes flickered from irritation to wary.

‘What’s upset you this time, Carrie?’ He folded the paper and set it dow