The Faithless

by Martina Cole

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Gabby looked at the woman she had hated nearly all her life. Then she sat down on the ladder-backed chair, put her face into her bloodied hands and cried.

To the outside world, Cynthia Tailor is a woman to envy; she has a devoted husband, a lovely home and two gorgeous children. But Cynthia is deeply unhappy with her lot; she has always craved the best things in life, and is determined to see that she gets them. Cynthia will let nothing stand in her way, even if it means devastation and tragedy for those nearest to her. And the casualties are many: her husband Jimmy, weak and unable to fight the wife he can never please; her sister Celeste, from whom Cynthia steals her most precious possession; and her parents, Mary and Jack, who pick up the pieces. But the victims who suffer the most are Cynthia's children. For James Junior and Gabby, the pain she causes will stay with them for ever...

Release date: October 18, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 442

Sample

 

2009

‘You are not going to make me listen to this shit, Gabriella. You are wrong, very wrong. Use your bloody head, girl! I loved that little boy with all my heart . . . and, as for your brother . . . I don’t believe
a word of it – they must have the wrong person.’


But Gabby could see the fear in her mother’s eyes, and she knew that it was true. Every word of it.

‘I met your old mate, Jeannie, today. That’s how I know everything – she told me all about the house in Ilford.’ She could see her mother’s head working, trying to figure out exactly what she was saying, could
almost hear her brain whirring as she tried to lie her way out of what they both knew was the truth.


‘What the hell have you been taking this time, eh? What the fuck are you on, Gabriella, to make you come out with this shit?’

Gabby found she’d picked up a large bronze statue of a cat. As she held it in her scarred hands she felt the weight of it.
Her mother kept talking. The world according to Cynthia Tailor who, along with God Himself, was almost omnipotent in the lives
of her family, who ruled everyone around her with a rod of iron. She could see her mother’s mouth moving constantly, but she
couldn’t hear what she was saying any more; all she was conscious of was a rushing noise in her ears. Then she struck her.


She lifted the bronze statue back over her head and hit her mother across the face with it, using all the force she could
muster, and enjoying the feeling of total retaliation. She was determined now, determined to shut her mother up once and for all.


Cynthia fell sideways on to the white leather sofa. The spray of blood that came from her mother’s face was like a crimson
mist. Gabby hit her again and again, each blow easing the knot inside her, each blow seeming to calm the erratic beating of
her heart.


She looked down at the bloodied form and, for the first time in years, she felt almost at peace. Her mother’s face was unrecognisable,
a deep red gash that was pumping out blood at an alarming rate.


Gabby looked at the woman she had hated nearly all her life. Then she sat down on the ladder-backed chair her mother was convinced
was an antique, put her face into her bloodied hands and cried.


Cynthia Tailor was pleased with herself. Her house looked lovely and festive – just how a home should look at Christmas time,
from the scented pine tree, decorated in what she felt was a tasteful manner – no tinsel and no coloured lights – to the neatly
wrapped presents underneath it. It couldn’t be further away from the house she grew up in, with the dirt, the smell of frying
bacon, and the garish, cheap hanging garlands. She shuddered inwardly as she thought of her mother’s house. She had escaped
from that life and there was no way she was ever going back.


Cynthia’s sitting room was painted a pale cream, and the carpet was a thick Axminster. It had cost the national debt, but
looked wonderful against the walls and the luxurious chocolate-brown velvet curtains at the windows. She knew her home was
beautiful, and she never tired of cleaning it, or enhancing it. This was the first step on the ladder for them; they would
go on from here, make their money on this place, and get bigger and better houses each time. She sighed with contentment at
the thought.


James was a decent man, boring in some ways, but she knew that with his accountancy job in the city they would always be all
right for money. And he was expecting some big news about a promotion any day now. Cynthia had come from a council estate
in Hackney, and she had been determined from a young age that she wouldn’t be staying there for longer than she had to. Now here she was, with a lovely semi in Ilford, and the chance to go onwards and upwards.


She walked out into her kitchen, and checked on the casserole she had bubbling on her new halogen hob. The kitchen was like
something from a magazine, all white doors and stainless steel sinks. It was Hygena, and she knew it was far too good for
the house, but she saw it as an investment. James had balked at the price but she had won him over. He always saw the sense
of her arguments in the end; after all, she was the one stuck here all day, and she was entitled to have what she wanted around
her – at least that was what she thought, anyway. And she had her ways to make sure he knew who was the boss under this roof.


She heard her daughter’s cry and, sighing, she left the kitchen and made her way up the stairs.

Gabriella was a handful, and this was the only bugbear in her otherwise perfect life. She should be clean at night by now.
The other kids at Gabriella’s playschool were all clean, so why was her daughter so late?


She went into the child’s room. It was decorated as a girl’s bedroom should be decorated, with pale pink walls, and cream carpet. Cynthia loved this room. She had been brought up in a flat and had
had to share her bedroom with her sister. It had been scruffy, cold and damp and she had hated every second she had spent
in it.


The small night-light cast a rosy glow in the room. Kneeling down beside her daughter’s cot, she looked at her child.

‘What’s wrong, Gabriella?’

The little blue eyes held a plea, and she knew immediately that her daughter had wet the bed again.

‘Oh, Gabriella, why don’t you call me, and I’ll take you to the toilet.’ She lifted her daughter out of the cot with a heavy
sigh, and set about cleaning her up, without another word.


Gabriella allowed herself to be stripped, washed and redressed in a clean nightie without saying a word either. As young as she was, she could feel the tension filling the room. The unspoken disapproval and the knowledge she had done something
wrong was enough to quieten her. She knew her mummy was cross, and she knew better than to aggravate her.


Ten minutes later, Gabriella was once more alone in her cot and, closing her eyes, she tried hard to get herself back to sleep.

Jimmy came in as his wife was putting their daughter’s pyjamas and bedding into the washing machine.


‘Dinner smells good, Cyn.’

She didn’t answer him. She could do that, just blank someone, make them feel an outsider in their own home. It unnerved Jimmy.
He was from a family who were boisterous, noisy, happy – not that Cynthia allowed him to see them any more. He wasn’t used
to long silences that had some kind of accusation in them, even though nothing was actually said. He wasn’t sure how to deal
with them. Turning abruptly, he went into the hallway and removed his coat. Careful to hang it up properly to make sure it didn’t look untidy. Why this was a necessity when they were locked away in a cupboard under the stairs he
wasn’t sure. But Cynthia wanted everything perfect, so he did it anyway; it was easier in the long run.


As he went into the sitting room, he smiled at Cynthia’s efforts. The room looked lovely, and he reminded himself how lucky
he was to have a wife like her. She was not just pretty, she was like sex-on-legs. With her stunning blue eyes and thick sovereign-coloured
hair, she turned heads everywhere she went. He knew that other men envied him his gorgeous wife. Everywhere she went men looked
at her, and she noticed them looking, he knew that. It pleased her, because it showed her that she was still attractive, even
after having a child. It was important to Cynthia that she was wanted. Not that sex was her top priority, unfortunately, but because she liked the power it gave her. She was a strange woman, cold – even towards their daughter.
She only smiled when the child was doing what she wanted, acting as she felt a child should. Like him, poor Gabby had to behave
just how Cynthia believed a daughter should, and not show her up. His wife had no room for reality, and that really worried
him. Cynthia had two beliefs: that she was right, and that everyone else on the planet was wrong.


Now he had to give her some bad news and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Not at all. No matter how he dressed it up, she
frightened him; her colossal temper could erupt at any moment, and when it did she was like a madwoman. Most of the time she
acted like a lady, he had to give her that. She was perfection personified – until you crossed her and told her something she didn’t
want to hear. Then she could swear like a docker and fight like the Irish. But then her family was Irish – not that she bragged about that.


He glanced at the TV set, but didn’t put it on. Cynthia didn’t think watching telly all the time was something nice people did. A good film or a documentary was fine, and News At Ten of course. But gameshows or comedy programmes were beneath her radar. She saw those as common, and common was what really
sent her off her head.


It wasn’t easy being married to her and, even though he told himself that he was lucky a girl like her chose him, it was getting
harder and harder to keep up that pretence. They were overstretched in every way – every half-penny was accounted for and,
as much as he appreciated her housewifely acumen, he knew they were way over their heads in debt. Not that she wasn’t good
with money – she was – but, all the same, he felt they could have lived much better if she didn’t feel this almighty urge
to be something she wasn’t. She had such exacting standards and, though he knew she wanted a better life for them all, he
felt at times they’d be much better off if she spent the money in other ways, like on a night out or a day at the seaside, not just on things she felt were needed for the home. They had the best house in the street, but still that wasn’t enough for her. She would
never be content, he understood that now. The kitchen alone had cost a bloody fortune, and the carpets and curtains, all paid
for on the weekly, were another drain on their resources.


Now she had the Christmas bug, had talked about having a goose and all other manner of expensive frippery. He knew she wanted
the best for them, but it had to be stopped. She had to understand they couldn’t go on like this.


Cynthia came into the room, slipping in quietly, as if she had materialised out of thin air. Her quietness had been what had
attracted him; she had seemed so self-contained, yet so vulnerable. Not that he really believed that any more. It was getting harder and harder to convince himself that she was anything other than what she really was. A bully.
His mother had warned him, but he had not been inclined to listen to her. Now he wished he had. But, as his old mum also said,
hindsight was a wonderful thing.


Cynthia stood before him, her head slightly at an angle, and that tight little smile on her face. ‘I’m dishing up.’

He sighed heavily, and barely nodded in reply.

‘Are you all right?’

He sighed once more. ‘Not really. Brewster got it.’

He saw her face freeze, and could see in her eyes, not pity for him – he could have coped with that – but disgust. Veiled
disgust, but he saw it all the same. He knew what was going on inside her head. He tried to talk himself out of those kind
of thoughts, but it was no good.


‘And you just let him, I suppose.’

She was still standing there, only now her back was rigid, she was looking at him as if he had done it deliberately. He felt
the air leave his body as if it had been punctured. He had been dreading this.


‘I can’t make my boss give me the position, Cynth. Be fair, love.’


She sighed heavily, her face set in a rigid mask of acceptance. ‘’Course not, I mean why would he give it to you, eh? Hardly
setting the fucking place alight, are you? You know your trouble, don’t you? You’re weak. Weak as a bloody kitten.’


She left the room then, and her animosity went with her. The quiet was like a balm to his tortured spirit.

Willy Brewster was five years younger than him, and he was a dynamo. Jimmy liked him, you couldn’t not. He was fun, clever
and popular; he did set the place alight all right, with his energy and wit. Jimmy wasn’t like that, and he didn’t begrudge Willy for being something
he wasn’t.


He walked out to the kitchen, feeling better now he had actually said the words out loud. Had told her.

She was standing at the sink. Her shoulders were slumped and her hands were gripping the stainless-steel draining board so
hard her knuckles were white. Her head was hanging, and he knew she was biting her lip. He could almost feel the hate coming
off her in waves. Looking at her now, he felt a great sorrow for her, because he knew that there was a terrible kink in her
nature. It was a mixture of loathing for her start in life, and a covetousness that made her envy everyone in her orbit. She
would never be satisfied, because it wasn’t in her nature. He hated that part of her, but he also pitied her for it. He understood
that she had never known one happy day because she was always convinced that everyone else knew the secret of happiness, and
it would always elude her. Yet if she could just once let herself be content with what she had, he knew she could find the
thing she craved. If she could only understand that happiness had nothing to do with an expensive kitchen, and designer clothes,
or being better off than the neighbours.


He placed his hand gently on her shoulder, willing her to turn to him, to just once let down her guard. He could feel the
heat of her body through the thin material of her dress, and then when she turned towards him he felt his heart soar. He placed
his arm around her slim waist, wanting to pull her towards him, comfort her, but she threw him off her with a strength that
belied her slim frame.


‘You fucking useless ponce.’

She was spitting out the words with fury, and the vitriol in them stunned him, as it always did when she exposed this side
of herself. She never swore in front of the neighbours of course, she felt she was above that. But in private it was as if
the swearing was a vent for her pent-up aggression. When she was angry with him or little Gabby her repertoire was never far
away.


‘You do realise what this means, don’t you?’

She was looking into his eyes now, and he could see the first glimmer of fear amidst the anger and the disgust.

‘Look, Cynthia, we won’t starve.’

She pushed him away from her and, sighing, she shook her head sadly. ‘No. No, you’re right, we won’t starve, but then again
we won’t be living the high life either, will we? It’s make do and mend, it’s thinking through every purchase. It’s making
ends fucking meet, and robbing Peter to pay fucking Paul. It’s the life I grew up with, never being able to do anything . . .
Never being able to just have what you want, when you want it. It’s like admitting I’ve failed . . .’ She turned from him, and
her whole body seemed to have shrunk, as if the enormity of what she was saying had broken her somehow. ‘It’s being no one,
no one and nothing for ever, that’s what this all means to me.’


Jimmy looked at his wife, his heart in pieces. He couldn’t understand why she was so upset. He looked out for her, he looked
out for his family. ‘You’re wrong, Cynthia. We have a good life. The trouble with you is, it’s never enough, is it? You always
want more than you can have. You should never have married me; I can’t give you what you want.’ He had finally said it to
her. Had finally said what was on his mind.


She laughed, a derisive little laugh. Then, facing him once more, she said quietly, ‘Well, you got that much right anyway.’


For a split second she thought he was actually going to strike her and, in her heart, she knew no one would blame him if he
did just that. Instead, though, he placed his hands by his sides, clenching his fists as if to stop himself.


‘Maybe you’re right, but do you know something, Cynthia? No one in the world could ever give you what you want, because it
would never be enough. You want, want, want, and then when you get it you lose all interest in it, and you start wanting something
else. Well, now you know the score, I’ll have me dinner.’


He had never spoken to her like that, not once since she had set her cap at him, and she knew then and there that she would
make sure he never spoke to her like it again. But she was trapped, trapped in this house, with his kid, and with his name.
And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, she had a terrible feeling she was pregnant again.


‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Cynthia! Cheer up, girl.’


Mary Callahan looked at the hard, set face in front of her and suppressed the urge to shake her daughter. Where she had got
this one from she didn’t know. Cynthia looked down her nose at everyone around her, had done since she could sit up on her
own.


Gabby, bless her heart, was the antithesis of her mother. She looked like a little angel with her halo of blond hair and huge
blue eyes. She was a gorgeous, loving little girl, but Mary knew that the poor child would not get that love returned from
her own mother. Mary had accepted years ago that her daughter was capable of a lot of things, but love wasn’t one of them.
And as for that poor sap she had snared, and who she still had by the nuts . . . Mary wasn’t an advocate of violence against women,
but if ever a man should slap his old woman, poor Jimmy was that man. Cynthia rode him like a devil, and he let her, the poor
bastard.


Mary glanced around her home; it was scruffy, granted, but it was clean enough. She was of the belief that a home was to be
lived in, not just admired by fucking strangers. Unlike her daughter’s gaff. She acted like fucking royalty was due round
any minute. Cynthia’s house was like the fucking library, you felt like you had to whisper, creep around it, as if noise of
any kind was against the law.


She inwardly shook her head in sadness; her daughter would never know a really happy day in her life, she wasn’t built for joy. Still, that didn’t mean little Gabriella shouldn’t be
happy. Not if Mary had any say in the matter, especially on Christmas Day. Turning to her granddaughter, she said cheerfully,
‘Come on, Gabby, let’s see what Santa left for you, shall we?’


The little girl ran to her nervously, worried as always that her mother would stop her in her tracks, give her a lecture about
how little girls should behave.


Mary Callahan doted on her granddaughter. She was a little darling. Good as gold and pretty as a picture, with a lovely nature
to boot. How her Cynthia had produced something so sweet she didn’t know, but she had, and Mary prayed daily that her daughter
didn’t destroy this little girl’s confidence with her constant criticisms.


Gabby sat in front of the plastic Christmas tree, her eyes glowing with happiness. She loved this house, from the garish tinsel
everywhere, to the smell of cigarettes that permeated everything around her. She loved the whole ‘Nana Mary experience’. And
the constant noise – the TV was always on, as was the radio in the kitchen, and the record players upstairs. It was a jumble
of sounds and smells. It was always full of people, there was always laughter, and any arguments were good-natured – unlike
at home. She knew her mummy liked to leave her here sometimes and she knew, somewhere deep inside herself, that her mummy left her here for all the wrong reasons.
But, for Gabriella Tailor, being here was enough.


Mary Callahan followed her daughter into the kitchen, wondering why she was even asking the question she knew her daughter
would resent.


‘Have you any idea how lucky you are, Cynthia? That man worships you, and he’d give you the earth on a plate if he could.
Yet you still walk about with a face like a fucking wet weekend in Margate. What’s your problem?’


Cynthia gritted her teeth in annoyance. ‘Give it a rest, Mum, eh? You don’t know the half of it.’


‘Then tell me, child, maybe I can help?’ It was a plea, and they both knew it.

Cynthia was tempted to turn to her mother and throw herself into her arms. She knew that, even after everything, she would
be accepted, would be enveloped in her mother’s love. But she couldn’t do it. She could never admit to anyone, let alone this
woman in front of her, that she had failed. Had made a grievous mistake. Had married a man who she had never loved, for a
so-called decent life and who, nowadays, she had no respect for whatsoever, let alone any kind of warmth. He had let her down
badly, and she was frightened of what the future held for them.


The worst of it all was she knew her mother would think that her feelings were not justified. She thought the sun shone out
of James’s arse. They all did. They thought he was a saint for putting up with her, and that rankled. They looked down on her for trying to get herself a better life, a decent life. James Tailor had promised
her that, and he had reneged on his promise. At least that was how she saw it anyway. Instead she plastered a smile on her
face. ‘Nothing to tell, Mum, I’m just tired that’s all.’


Mary Callahan grinned suddenly. ‘You’re pregnant again, aren’t you?’

Cynthia closed her eyes slowly and nodded. ‘Yeah, I think so. Just my fucking luck.’

Mary hugged her, even though the hug wasn’t returned. ‘That’s what life is about, Cynthia! It’s about having babies, and living
your life as best you can. Millions of women do it every day.’ She laughed then and said gently, ‘And you, Cynth, have it
easier than most, love.’


Cynthia shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Well, that’s as may be, but I want a bit more than this, Mum. I never signed on for cheap
and cheerful, and I’m not settling for anything less.’


Her daughter’s words wounded Mary, as she knew they were directed at her and the life she lived. The inference was that she
had failed somehow, because the Callahans weren’t rich or important enough for her elder child. Oh, she was itching to slap
that beautiful face, but she wouldn’t because she knew it would be pointless. She’d have a fleeting feeling of satisfaction,
but it would also mean she wouldn’t see her beloved grandchild until her daughter felt she needed to get away from the poor
child once again. So Mary took a deep breath and said matter-of-factly, ‘You got more than most women. Your trouble is you
want the fucking earth on a plate. Well, as my mother used to say, you’ve made your bed, you better get used to lying in it.’


Looking around the kitchen as if it was the local dump, Cynthia replied, ‘Well, you would know more about that than I would.’

Mary wanted to punch her daughter’s lights out so badly she could almost taste it. Instead she said as coolly as she could,
‘Do you know something, Cynth, one of these days you are going to push me too far, and when you do . . .’ She was poking a finger
into her daughter’s face now, the anger rising inside her like a tide.


‘Nana Mary, Granddad’s here!’

Gabby, having run into the kitchen, was beside herself with excitement. After her nana Mary, her granddad Jack was the next
best thing in her world.


Mary took a deep breath to calm her anger before she turned to Gabby, saying with forced joviality, ‘Ah, sure, he’ll be thrilled
to see you, young lady!’


But Gabby could feel the tension in the small kitchen and, as always, it frightened her. She hated it when her mummy was like
this, grim-faced and hard-mouthed. She wished her mummy would laugh more; she had a lovely laugh, like she had a lovely face.


‘You better run, Mum, your better half just got home from the pub early. That must be a fucking first for you, eh?’ Cynthia
couldn’t resist another jibe.


‘Oh, you’re a bitter pill, girl. At least your father wants to come home. More than you can say for poor Jimmy, I’m sure.’ Mary knew it was a cheap shot but she couldn’t help herself;
sometimes Cynthia pushed you to the limit. Job himself would have struggled to be patient around her daughter.


Jimmy Tailor liked all his in-laws. In fact, he was thrilled to be spending Christmas with them – anything was better than
the silent dinner he would have had at home, with Cynthia sending him sneering, reproachful looks over the table. At least
here he’d have a bit of fun and so would Gabby. Jimmy was especially fond of Celeste, his wife’s younger sister. She was a
really nice girl, not as beautiful as Cynthia, but still very attractive. She had a generous nature and kind heart too, and
that made her a joy to be around.


‘Hi, Jimmy, you look well.’

He grinned with pleasure. Celeste was always glad to see him. ‘So do you, love. In fact, you look wonderful.’

She almost shone with pleasure at the compliment. Jimmy would never understand his wife’s animosity towards her sister. It
was beyond his comprehension. Jimmy didn’t have a jealous bone in his body, so he never understood the naked envy in his wife’s
eyes when she looked at her little sister.


‘Don’t start her off, her head’s big enough as it is.’ He could hear the nastiness in his wife’s voice.

Celeste smiled at her sister and said sweetly, ‘You’d know all about that, Cynth. It’s a wonder you can leave the fucking
house!’


Everyone laughed. Cynthia watched them as they laughed at her expense. She hated that they were her family, hated that these
people were her blood, hated that she needed them, that they were the only people who really knew her. It was the last place she wanted to be on Christmas Day but, then, she never missed an opportunity to lord it over them and look
down her nose at them.


‘Ha bloody ha ha. What are you so done up for?’

Celeste grinned once more, she was always so good-natured it made Cynthia want to hit her.

‘Don’t you mean for who? Didn’t you tell her, Mum?’


Mary flapped her hand with feigned discretion. ‘Why would I? It’s your news to tell.’

‘Come on then, Celeste, out with it.’ Cynthia sounded bored now, as if anything to do with her sister was beneath her. Which,
as far as Cynthia was concerned, pretty much summed up how she felt about Celeste and her excuse for a life.


‘I’m seeing Jonny Parker, have been for a couple of months.’

Mary watched Cynthia as she digested this little bit of information, saw the shock as it occurred to her what that statement
actually meant in real terms.


‘He’s too old for you.’

Celeste laughed, a happy, loud laugh, a natural laugh that made her look prettier than she actually was. She too had the arresting
Callahan blue eyes and blond hair, although she didn’t have the striking glamour of her sister. She might be a pale imitation
in looks but Celeste’s beauty came from within, from her nature. She had a wonderful lust for life, and she honestly believed
that everyone was nice and kind, like her, and that if you treated people decently they would reciprocate.


‘What you talking about, Cynthia? He’s twenty-seven, and I’m nineteen. Eight years ain’t much now, is it? It ain’t like I’m
thirteen and he’s twenty-one. He’s such a nice bloke, Cynth, treats me like a queen.’


Cynthia forced a smile on to her face; her sister couldn’t know how this news was really affecting her. ‘Well, you make sure
he carries on treating you like that, OK?’


Celeste nodded happily, and Cynthia saw the genuine pleasure on her face. She turned to her father. ‘What do you think about it, Dad?’


Jack Callahan shrugged. He was already half cut, having been down the local pub for the best part of the day. He tried to
focus on his elder daughter for a few seconds before saying amiably, ‘What’s to think? He’s a nice enough fellow, and you
can tell he thinks the world of her. Did you know he’s bought the bookies on the high street? He’s a dark horse, that one.
He already owns a couple of pubs. This one here will be living the life of Riley if she plays her cards right!’


‘Oh, Dad!’

Celeste was crimson with embarrassmen