Tightrope

by Marnie Riches

Genres: Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

What happens when a private investigator ends up being the one uncovered?

Having lost everything after a failed marriage, Beverley Saunders now lodges in the basement flat of a house owned by her best friend Sophie and her husband, Tim. With Bev’s former glittering marketing career in the gutter, she begins to do investigative work for other wronged women, gathering dirt on philanderers, bosses and exes.

But when Beverley takes on the case of Sophie’s friend Angela, who is seeking to uncover grounds for divorce from her controlling husband, Jerry, the shadow Science Minister, she soon discovers that she isn’t the only one doing the investigating…

Beverley has a secret history she doesn’t want coming out – but will she manage to stay hidden long enough to give Angela the freedom she deserves?

Marnie Riches is back in this darkly comic thriller, perfect for fans of Martina Cole and Kimberley Chambers.

Release date: July 11, 2019

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Pinned beneath him on the leather chaise, the girl stares up into the gaping maw of the latex wolf mask he is wearing. Despite the alcohol and cocktail of drugs they forced her to take to make her relaxed and pliant, the terror is evident in her eyes.

‘You know what I’m going to do?’ His voice is muffled as he speaks – hollow and otherworldly. It excites him to tell her what he has in store for her, adopting the role as narrator in this climactic scene of her own personal horror story. It is being filmed, after all. ‘I’m going to squeeze the life out of you, because that’s what your sort deserves.’

Her expression freezes for a brief moment. Perhaps she is deciphering the unfamiliar English. Suddenly, her face crumples into a look of sheer despair. She shakes her head from side to side. ‘No! I don’t like,’ she says. ‘Stan. Where is? I need to talk.’ Her words are vodka-slurred, making her Russian accent unguent and treacly. Tears track down the sides of her face as she turns to the cameraman for a reaction. ‘Please make stop.’ She says something in her mother tongue. The imploring tone in her high-pitched whimper makes her sound like the little girl she really is beneath the heavy make-up.

But her needs are not The Wolf’s concern, and the camera keeps rolling. He digs his knees into those slender haunches to limit her movements. Pinions her skinny arms above her head to stop her from lashing out in defence. He calls to the others to hold her down, and like her, they comply with his demands.

‘No! No!’ she cries, wriggling uselessly against them. ‘It hurt. Where Dmitri? Get Stan! Stan! Help!’

‘Stan’s not here,’ he says, almost whispering in her ear. ‘Dmitri’s busy. And so are we.’

She screams, loud enough to distort the soundtrack.

The Wolf looks up at the other men. There are five in total, all naked but for their masks. A pig. A bulldog. A horse. A cockerel. He stars as The Wolf. It is hard to infer the others’ moods at this point, but they are all still visibly aroused, queuing up for a second bite of this ripe cherry.

Right now, however, it is The Wolf’s turn.

He reaches over to the coffee table. Snatches up the ball gag, which he straps around her head with practiced ease, despite her wriggling. The only sounds of protest she can emit now is the gurgle of her choking on her own saliva.

‘That’s better. You talk too much.’

He puts his hand around the naked girl’s neck and squeezes while he rides her. Invincible. In charge of her destiny, as he’d witnessed his own father, all those years ago, masterfully controlling the babysitter, the cleaner’s daughter, his younger sister. The girl – silenced now ; red-faced with the sheer effort of clinging to life – writhes beneath him in a bid to break free. There is pleading in her wide eyes, the veins in her forehead standing proud. She mouths the word, ‘Nyet!’ but the sound never quite breaks free of her compromised gullet.

The others have started shouting at him, shouting over each other. Their noise is such that it is difficult to tell if they are egging him on or protesting. But with the smell of fresh meat in his nostrils, The Wolf does not care.

When the girl’s body finally lies still and her head lolls to one side, the bulldog speaks :

‘Jesus! She’s gone limp. Is she dead?’ He approaches, pressing two fingers to her neck. ‘I can’t find a pulse! Am I pressing in the right place?’ Unbuckling the leather straps of the gag and prising the red plastic ball from her mouth, he cocks his head and holds his ear close to her lips. ‘I can’t hear her breathing.’

‘Try her wrist,’ the horse says. He approaches and feels along the inside of her wrist for a pulsating vein. ‘Nothing.’ Lifting the girl’s eyelids, he uselessly waves his hand in front of her glazed eyes. ‘You’ve fucking killed her, haven’t you?’ he says to The Wolf. ‘You absolute knob. We’re buggered.’ His voice is tremulous. He backs away from the scene, covering his waning erection with both hands as if he finally knows shame.

The Wolf, however, has no such compunction. Sated, he dismounts the teenage prostitute. She is nothing more to him than a spent horse after a long, hard ride. His work is done.

This is why he is the star of this little home movie, which Stan’s sweaty coke-head of a cameraman is still discretely shooting.

The girl’s limbs hang around her at odd angles like the arms of a broken clock, which is fitting as time no longer matters to her now.

The pig tugs at his mask as though he wants to remove it. He seems to think better of it, though. ‘Why the hell did you strangle her? You prat. This is going to come back on us. My wife will find out. We’ll all get nicked as accessories to murder. Christ’s sake, you brutal bastard! We’re ruined.’ Both anger and terror are audible in his voice.

‘Can you just stop panicking for five minutes?’ The cockerel speaks quickly to the pig. He turns to The Wolf. ‘We can’t just leave her like this . . . can we? We should at least find out who she is.’ He snatches up the girl’s handbag, perching it on his paunch. Starts to rummage through it. Clearly agitated, he empties it out onto the coffee table of the stylish apartment, rifling through the pile of contents. Painkillers. Phone. Lipstick. Lube. Condoms. A tampon. Purse.

The Wolf picks up what appears to be ID but it is only an Oyster Card. ‘Fake,’ he says. He holds the photo-card up. Compares the smiling girl in the photograph to the anguished death mask of the under-aged prostitute. ‘Emma Davies? Not bloody likely. This silly little bitch was Russian. She’s just another of Dmitri’s trafficked whores. Let’s face it, boys, nobody’s going to miss her.’

‘Look, you did this,’ the horse tells The Wolf, his voice sounding nasal as it filters down the long nose of the mask. ‘This is your problem.’ He holds his hands up, taking a step backwards. Shaking his head. ‘I’m off. I’m not getting involved. We were supposed to come here for a bit of fun. Let off some steam. But this . . .? You’re on your own, bud. I’ve got a family. A reputation . . .’

The bulldog pulls his foreskin back over his deflating penis, his doggy head cocked to one side as he contemplates the girl. His disbelief is audible in the high pitch of his speech. ‘The only way this disappears is if she disappears. You’re going to have to get rid of her. What are you going to do with her body?’

The Wolf turns to him. ‘What am I going to do with it? You mean, what are we going to do? We’re all in this together, remember?’

As the others start to back away from the body and the camera, covering themselves with cushions and items of clothing that they’d discarded gleefully only minutes earlier, The Wolf moves with stealth into the kitchen. He reappears, carrying a butcher’s knife block and a roll of black bin liners. Sets the block down onto the coffee table, knocking the girl’s things to the floor. He pulls out a meat cleaver and a bread knife, staring down at the glinting blades through the eyeholes of his wolfish mask. Still bearing a sizeable, angry erection.

‘I know exactly how to get rid of this little problem.’

The film clip ends.

The appeal of watching it over and over again in the privacy of his office never wanes, though he knows that it is now on the Dark Net for every Tom, Dick and Harry to savour too, provided they can get themselves beyond the paywall. Masturbating himself slowly, gripping the rosewood tabletop of his desk with his free hand, he muses that it makes him some sort of celebrity. He certainly feels like one, every time that piece of footage flickers into life on his laptop’s screen. He is The Wolf. Everyone else is an incidental character in that unfolding drama ; that perfect world, where he was the King of Everything in a penthouse in West London.

When the footage runs out, it freezes mid frame with an outstretched palm in close-up. His hand. He’d turned to Stan’s cameraman, telling him to switch it off and destroy the film. Except the money-grubbing moron had done no such thing. At Stan’s suggestion, to compensate for the lost income from his dead whore, he’d uploaded it onto the net instead where it could be monetised. At first, The Wolf had felt like the skies were about to collapse in on him. But they hadn’t. He has nothing to fear from the authorities or that scumbag, Stan. Time has elapsed, and still, nobody knows who was responsible for the appearance of the mystery girl, bagged in pieces in the butcher’s bin along with the other rotten meat. A broken Russian doll.

Cleaning himself up, he now prepares for another day as a man of unimpeachable standing. He is honourable and trustworthy and liked, just as his father was. They do not know about his starring role as The Wolf. That knowledge remains a secret which he is certain will be carried to the graves of all concerned. In those fleeting minutes captured on film, he will forever more be God’s own emissary on earth, dispensing judgement and death according to his whim.

He tucks himself back in, washes his hands and checks his reflection in the mirror. All is silent but for his footfalls and the persistent voice in his head that not even the clip can drown out :

‘No thanks. You’re not what I’m looking for.’

Her voice on a deafening loop. The time she rejected him and humiliated him publicly. But that is nothing compared to the gargantuan lie she has been telling for more than a decade. The woman he pictures in his mind’s eye has committed the ultimate act of betrayal. She has stolen from him in the worst way imaginable. But he will have his revenge.

The Wolf is watching her. He is hungry. And waiting.

‘Balls to Dr Mo and his group-therapy cobblers,’ she said, savouring the sight of the object of her desire. Endorphins fizzed in her bloodstream. The rush of a conquest was always a narcotic, numbing the jab, jab, jab of her conscience that insisted she was derailing her own fast-train back to a future worth having. With a quick glance up the double-parked street of elegant Edwardian brick terraces, she negotiated a traffic hump. The car shuddered and her teeth clacked. OK, perhaps she was going a little too fast. Eyes back on the prize. ‘Oh, Mama. I cannot wait to get you home and rip off your—’

When the 4x4 ploughed into her at speed, Beverley Saunders’ little VW Polo lurched improbably to the right, missing the parked Audi on the opposite side of the road by only inches.

Her airbag inflated immediately.

‘Jesuf pft.’ A muffled outcry was all she could manage until the bag deflated, leaving her gripping the steering wheel with white-knuckled, shaking hands. Stunned, she stared at the bag that now looked like an oversized, spent johnny. ‘What bastard . . .?’

Flushed through with adrenaline, she applied her handbrake, punched her hazard warning lights into life and stepped out of the car. The culprit was looking down at her from the elevated vantage point of an Overfinch Range Rover. Staring directly at Bev open-mouthed as though she couldn’t quite believe what had just come to pass.

Bev took in the devastation wrought on her beloved little VW by the unforgiving bulk of this pimped-up Chelsea Tractor – or rather, Hale Tractor in this overpriced pocket of Cheshire. Enraged, she marched up to the driver’s side window of the 4x4, expecting to find some washed up soap actress or footballer’s wife.

‘Get out of the fucking car, lady!’ she yelled.

The woman raised her hand to her mouth, but otherwise didn’t move.

She didn’t seem to be a celebrity, but Bev knew her type well. High blonde ponytail. Pearl earrings. Expensive-looking fur gilet that showed off the owner’s reed-like arms, accented with a shitty taupe silk scarf that chimed in perfect harmony with the Farrow and Ball-painted doors and window frames of the surrounding houses. Rocks on those bony fingers that could fund a developing country. That much she could see through the glass.

‘Entitled shitbag. I’m talking to you!’

Bev eyed the stoved-in passenger side of her Polo, noticing how the tyre was facing inwards at an untenable angle. A flicker of guilt strobed at the back of her mind, telling her that a crash was karmic payback for being weak. But that didn’t excuse this stupid cow. She thumped the bonnet of the Range Rover.

‘You killed my car!’

Shutters were twitching either side of the street. Cleaners and nannies peered out at the scene, no doubt making morality judgements as Bev cursed and the blonde finally emerged, tugging at the ties of her gilet.

‘I’m so, so sorry. My foot slipped and I just shot out.’ The blonde looked back regretfully at the give-way markings on the road.

‘I take it you’re not hurt.’ Bev eyed the pristine white Range Rover. It didn’t have a single dent in it. Naturally. And those gleaming black alloys were intact. Naturally. Only the Polo looked like it had been in a fight with Godzilla. ‘Details!’ Her heartbeat was thunderous as she proffered the brown envelope from a recent, terrifying HMRC communiqué and a pencil she’d stolen from IKEA. ‘I think we’ve got to call the police, get a reference number or something, but first, we exchange details.’

‘Yes. Of course.’ The blonde dithered, clearly looking for something to lean on. Opted for her bonnet. She wrote, ‘Angela Fitzwilliam’ in a shaky hand.

The crash threatened to send Bev careening to the rock bottom of a cliff face she had already been struggling to cling to, let alone scale. She was just about to subject the woman to another tirade of expletives, when the guilt flickered on again ; brighter and steadier, this time, like a searchlight shining on her shortcomings. She privately acknowledged that she hadn’t really been paying attention either. Too busy staring at the extremely rare, mint origami kit she’d bought off the old guy in Rusholme. A moment of eBay madness, indulging in the very compulsion she had sworn she would eschew. Dr Mo would remind her that she had taken four steps backwards in the board game of her life, sliding down yet another damned snake at a point where she’d hoped to climb the next ladder. Well, the self-appointed saviour of the obsessive, the compulsive and the habitually disorderly would have to damn well find out first.

Maybe she was equally to blame for being unobservant. But this woman looked loaded. She could almost certainly afford to lose her no claims bonus and pay the excess. Bev, on the other hand, had a stack of unopened bills waiting on the side in her crappy flat, not to mention the tax demand. Screw it.

‘So, you admit, it was your fault?’

The woman closed her large, deep-set eyes and held up hands that were beautifully manicured. ‘Oh, absolutely. Mine entirely.’

A fixed-up car, a month or two of lovely physio, being pummelled with warm oils by some beefcake – the nearest Bev would get to a massage now that she was permanently broke. A couple of grand in damages would clear some of those debts. Bish, bash, bosh. Bev mentally rubbed her hands together and thanked God for silver linings.

Driving the Polo back to the flat was a challenge. She crawled along at 5mph, rehearsing what she would say to her insurer on the phone : The other driver wasn’t watching where she was going ; my car’s had it ; will her insurance pay for a quality hire car? Can I have an Alfa Romeo please?

Barely managing to turn into Sophie’s gravelled driveway before her car breathed its last, Bev balked at the sight of the Range Rover already parked up outside the detached Victorian villa. A white Overfinch with black alloys. All thoughts of retiring to her mildewed basement to console herself with the rare origami contraband were long, long gone.

‘You are bloody kidding me. What the hell . . .?’

Upstairs, the stained-glass front door swung open. Sophie appeared in the doorway, a pearly grin plastered on her beautiful face. She draped a territorial arm around the shoulder of her guest who trotted forwards like a shy Bambi, with those skinny fawn-like legs and that expensive pelt on her back. ‘Bev, meet my friend, Angela Fitzwilliam. She’s the wife of one of Tim’s colleagues from way back. Angie, meet my oldest college pal and PI extraordinaire, Beverley Saunders.’

Angela Fitzwilliam looked as though she’d seen a ghost. ‘You?’

‘I’ve already had the pleasure,’ Bev said, grimacing pointedly at her mangled car. ‘What do you want, Sophie? I’ve got no wheels, thanks to her. How am I supposed to stake out cheating scumbags without a bloody car? I might have a job on in Warrington next week.’

‘Come on, Bev. There’s no need to be so unfriendly,’ Sophie said.

‘Oh, there’s every need.’

Learn to walk away from stressful situations when they threaten to overwhelm you, Dr Mo had told her. Don’t resort to your bad habits to regain control. Remember what’s at stake.

She needed to get out of there.

Pushing past both women, she picked her way around the pushchair, car seats and kid-paraphernalia that littered the otherwise pristine period chic of Sophie’s spacious hallway, and descended the narrow stone stairs to her poky basement flat. Sophie had deigned to rent to it to her at an only slightly discounted mates’ rates. Bev couldn’t stick her key in the lock quickly enough. She slammed the door behind her, praying that even someone as single-minded as her oldest friend would realise Bev was in no mood to make small talk with the reckless cow who had ruined her day.

Flinging herself onto the sofa, choking back a sob, she examined the origami kit. Obviously, once the delicate structure was complete, she would plonk it with the thousands of other cranes, flowers, dragons that were gathering dust on her display shelving. The itch would be scratched. She’d be back to buckling beneath the weight of disappointment, with the zero in her thirty years of age representing the emptiness of an existence where she felt distinctly sub-prime in the prime of her life ; where she’d failed with aplomb.

With determined fingers, she started to tear at the cellophane.

There was a knock at the door, leaving her poised mid-rip. Sophie shouted through from the other side. Her voice sounded tinny in the claustrophobic subterranean space at the bottom of the stairs, which constituted a vestibule of sorts.

‘Are you OK, sweets? Can we come in?’

Hiding her new acquisition in plain sight among the clutter on her coffee table, Bev opened the door. Both of them were standing there, a picture of Harper’s Bazaar perfection.

‘What do you want?’ she asked, suddenly feeling cheap and scruffy in supermarket jeans that were worn at the knees and a rower’s top from college that was stained on the belly. ‘I already gave her my details.’ She leaned against the architrave, arms folded. Legs crossed. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Oh, don’t be like that. Let us in.’ Sophie winked. Strong-armed her way past Bev as though she owned the place, which of course, she did. ‘Angie needs to talk to you.’

‘No! No, it’s fine,’ Angie said, folding her arms and turning to leave. ‘Let’s forget it.’

‘Nonsense.’ Sophie reached back and yanked her friend inside.

The dark, one-bedroomed flat felt overstuffed with three people in it. Bev waited for the kettle to boil, watching Angie through the crack in the kitchenette door. The two women were pointing at Bev’s origami collection, nodding and cooing over the delicate creations. But Bev could see them exchange a glance and wrinkle their noses. She was certain she heard the word, ‘dusty’ said by one of them.

‘Stinks in here, doesn’t it?’ she said, emerging with a cafetière of coffee and three cups on a tray. A packet of digestives that she knew only she would eat, judging by the telltale thick hair that grew on Angie’s forearms – a classic symptom of anorexia. And Sophie didn’t do carbs. ‘That’s because I collect black mould as well as origami. Tim won’t tank the basement properly. You’re married to a slum landlord, Soph. Ha ha.’

Dr Mo had told her to try to let go of her bitterness, thereby freeing up more positive energy with which to improve her life. But Mo hadn’t been taken for a ride by a disease like her ex, Rob. Mo wasn’t fighting to make ends meet. Mo wasn’t under the scrutiny of social services.

Ignoring the pointed comment, Sophie motioned regally that Angie should sit. Both of them perched gingerly on the edge of the sofa, like glittering Lalique vases wedged amongst the junk in a high street thrift shop.

Sipping her black coffee, Sophie waited until all eyes were on her. Then, finally, she revealed the reason for the visit. ‘Angie needs your help. Don’t you?’

Bev was surprised when tears started to fall freely from this stranger’s perfectly made-up eyes. The Bev of old would have clucked around her, knowing instinctively how to cope with this outpouring. But then, her former self wouldn’t have felt such an outsider in her own home. Who the hell was this woman, with her beige Gucci loafers and her silk scarf wrapped artfully around her neck? She looked as if she’d just come from a yoga session in some pocket-Ashram above an organic butchers or artisan bakery.

Whipping her new origami set from under her cup and replacing it with an unopened overdue gas bill, Bev offered her visitor the last tissue from a Kleenex box.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Angie said. ‘You don’t even know me and . . .’ She shook her head.

‘Jerry’s a bully,’ Sophie said. ‘Angie’s husband . . . he watches their bank account like a hawk, doesn’t he, Ange? And Angie’s certain he plays away when he’s down in London. Maybe up here, too.’ She turned to Bev, her porcelain cheeks flushed with the enthusiastic glow of a gossip who was on fire. Patted Angela’s leg as if she was a child who needed nothing more than a good bit of advocacy from a grown-up who knew best. ‘He’s a dog and she needs to put him down.’

Angie toyed with her rings. ‘Hang on a minute, Soph. I wouldn’t say that—’

But Sophie wasn’t listening. ‘Jerry used to work on the trading floor with Tim at Lieberman Brothers. The boys were so close, they got a pied-à-terre together, didn’t they, Angie?’ Her eyes were glassy as though she’d just hoovered a line of coke, though Sophie had always been steadfastly anti-drugs. She always got like this when she was on a mission. She’d been no different at college. Save the Children fund ; Oxfam ; Antonia on the ground corridor whose dad was being a pig. Do-gooding Sophie to the rescue with her sponsored walks and her Kum-Ba-Ya positivity and her leaflet-distributions. Tea, chat and a damp basement flat. ‘The two of them fast-tracked from being the hotshot new grad-trainees to masters of the universe in next to no time. They were quite the dream team. Before it all went . . .’ Her carefully shaped eyebrows bunched together as if in disbelief that those particular tits should have gone quite so spectacularly up in the period following the crash of 2009. ‘Jerry’s always been such an alpha. I’m not surprised Angie wants to make a break.’

‘What do you want, Angela?’ Bev watched the visitor’s spine curve like a whippy branch bent in a stiff wind. ‘You want a divorce?’

Those beautifully made-up eyes darted from Sophie to the iPhone she’d set down amongst the detritus on Bev’s coffee table. Her voice was small when she spoke. ‘Well, yes.’ A blotchy rash had started to crawl its way out of the bounds of the silk scarf and up towards her chin. She scratched the pad of her index finger with her thumbnail. Scratching. Scratching.

‘Angie needs to get irrefutable grounds for divorce. Dig up dirt on Jerry. That sort of thing.’ Sophie nudged her friend. ‘Show her the picture!’

Looking at the photo that Angie pushed into her hands, Bev studied Jerry Fitzwilliam’s face. Instant recognition. ‘The bloody shadow Science Minister? Are you kidding me?’ She started to laugh. ‘He was on breakfast telly this morning! The toast of Westminster and Labour’s great white hope? He’s our local MP too, isn’t he?’ She shook her head vociferously, imagining being revenge-stalked by some terrifying goon from MI5 or MI6 or whatever the hell it was. ‘I’m not poking my long-range lens anywhere near this guy. It’s beyond me. Seriously, Angela. I’m flattered you thought I’d be able to help, and God bless Sophie for believing in me. But I’m a marketing wonk who turned to a bit of PI work because . . . let’s just say, circumstances demanded it. Long story. Seriously. Get a pro with an expenses account and a five-star rating on Trustpilot. Actually, just get a bloody divorce lawyer like everyone else and get on with it.’

Angie reached out and snatched up her phone. Barely glancing at Bev. ‘I never should have come here. I’m sorry. It’s not as if I can pay you, anyway.’

‘You can’t pay?’ Bev was on her feet, now. What kind of bullshit had Sophie brought to her door? A woman with fashionably jutting hips and a high-profile husband who lacked the gumption to stand on her own two pedicured feet.

She ushered the two towards the front door. ‘Do me a favour, Soph. Don’t bring potential clients to me if they’re looking for a freebie. I can’t pay my bills with goodwill.’

‘She can pay, Bev!’ Sophie clearly wouldn’t admit defeat. Blustering like a WI federation leader. ‘Stop being so mean. You must help her. The impact that this is bound to be having on Angie’s children is just—’

‘Will you please not speak about me as if I’m not in the room?’ Angie said with a sudden acidity to her voice that seemed to change the pH value in the room. ‘That’s exactly the sort of thing Jerry does all the time. I’m quite capable of telling Bev myself.’

Feeling whiplash from the crash really starting to bite into her shoulder muscles, Bev just wanted to be alone. Two painkillers and a kip before Molly Peters, a paying client, turned up at 2 p.m. to see the photos Bev had taken of her shitehawk of a husband, holding hands with his pert work colleague in Blackpool Starbucks. Maybe the rescue truck would show up to take her broken car in the interim. That was the extent of her ambition.

She held the front door open. ‘Look, Angela. I take happy snaps of snogging builders and IT bods when they’re bonking in Travelodges. But digging up dirt about someone in the public eye? For free? You’re on your own. I’m sorry.’

The warm sun streaming in through the shutters meant it was a good day to ask for a divorce. Didn’t it? The paparazzi were outside. Sure. Poppy’s eczema had flared up again. Well, that was par for the course. Benjy was throwing his nibbled toast across the kitchen like a broken boomerang, screaming when he didn’t get it back. But Angie had been waiting for the right moment for weeks, before Sophie had put the idea of ‘making a case’ into her head. Today was the first day the rain had finally stopped. It was a sign. She’d do it now. She didn’t need Beverley Saunders.

‘Don’t want toast!’ Benjy yelled, banging his balled fist onto the table. ‘Benjy wants choccy. Get me choccy, Mummy.’

With a quailing heart, she took in the sight of her five-year-old son’s bright-red face. Her eyes. Her length of limb. Her platinum blonde hair. The temper was all his father’s.

‘No, darling.’ She picked the soggy, masticated toast up off the floor, hoping Jerry wouldn’t kick up a stink again that grease marks had permeated the wood. Reclaimed parquet from a French chateau needed to be treated with respect, he’d said. Why the hell couldn’t she just put a mat beneath the children when they ate? She’d conceded it was a fair point and had apologised. Now, here she was again, caught in the same predicament. Angry Benjy who hated the mat because it made him feel like a baby. Sneering Jerry, who couldn’t see why the hell she failed to mother her own children properly.

She sighed, rinsing out the cloth and cursing softly when she noticed the shellac polish on her nails had chipped.

The doorbell rang. Reporters, clamouring to get the press conference started. Jerry was keeping them waiting. Jolly whistling coming from the en suite as he prepared for the glare and flash of the cameras. If she asked quickly, he’d be so busy, he might not even process her request until the evening, giving him time to respond calmly, in a considered manner. I want a divorce, she’d say. It’s not you. It’s me. Let’s do this like civilised adults.

‘Choccy! Benjy wants choccy.’ Her son threw his plate at her head. ‘Get Benjy choccy, bitch!’

Poppy started to laugh hysterically at her brother, scratching and scratching at the florid, scabbed crooks of her arms. ‘You’re naughty!’

Angela reached out to her daughter, silently processing what Benjy had just called her. ‘Leave the scabs, darling. They’ll bleed. Mummy will put cream on for you after breakfast.’

‘I want Gretchen to do it,’ Poppy said, snatching her arm away. Clawing at the rash. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’s gone on holiday to Austria, sweetie, to see her family. Mummy will do your cream.’

Bitch. A spiteful word that made Angie’s stomach twist into knots. Benjy had overheard his father using it. Maybe she had driven him to it. That had been his excuse. Nagging bitch. Frigid bitch. Maybe she was at fault and should just be thankful for this w