Ashley Fontainne - Marriage Made Me Do It - An addictive dark comedy you will devour in one sitting

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2017

Copyright © Ashley Fontainne 2017

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2017

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Ashley Fontainne asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © September 2017 ISBN: 9780008266899

Version: 2017-08-16

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page Marriage Made Me Do It ASHLEY FONTAINNE A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1 This Is The Life I Wanted, Right?

Chapter 2 Don’t Bite The Hand That Feeds You

Chapter 3 I’m Supposed To Handle This How?

Chapter 4 Fifty Shades Of Ginger

Chapter 5 Book Club Revelations

Chapter 6 Welcome To Hell – Also Known As Entering The Workforce

Chapter 7 A Visit Goes Awry

Chapter 8 Rambling Dreams Of A Crazed Housewife

Chapter 9 Unraveling At The Seams

Chapter 10 Fun Q&A At The Police Station

Chapter 11 Jailhouse Visit

Chapter 12 Hot Headlines – Suburbia Made Her Do It!

Chapter 13 Coming Clean

Chapter 14 Orange Is Not A Good Color On Anyone

Epilogue Tainted Fruit

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

For Rebecca Roberts - voice talent extraordinaire, relentless cheerleader and amazing friend

Ignoring the droning voice of the old man talking up front, I let my thoughts wander. As usual, they went back to my youth. Growing up in the Seventies and Eighties, I was blissfully ignorant of how screwed-up my life would turn out when I reached the A-word: Adulthood.

I’m the oldest sibling of three girls born into a middle-class family. We grew up living in the suburbs, safely hidden from the dangers of “the big city.” God, life back then had been a breeze. We walked to school, without fear of stranger danger, on sidewalks wide enough for three people to stand side by side, with shade provided by sprawling oak trees. We played with our friends—outside, mind you—until the streetlight in our cul-de-sac buzzed, ready to come on. We didn’t have electric gadgets to tether us inside, weakening our bodies and turning our minds to mush. Nope! We survived skinned knees and bike wrecks, eager to go out and do the same thing again the next day after school. We’d run to the house and land on the porch before the streetlight sparked to life and eat a home cooked meal at—of all places—the dinner table.

We weren’t rich, like my best friend Elizabeth Gelmini’s family—they had a swimming pool and a tennis court, for Godsakes, and both her parents drove BMWs—but we weren’t poor, either. Since I was the oldest, I got the new clothes, and my younger sisters, Rebecca and Rachel, were forced to wear my hand-me-downs. Boy, do I miss the days when Rebecca whined and complained while stomping around in her Pepto-Bismol-colored room throwing hissy fits as only a pre-pubescent girl can.

“I don’t want Roxy’s clothes! Look, Mom! There’s a stain on these jeans. And this shirt is so out of style! No one wears puffed sleeves anymore! I’ll look like a fool and all my friends will laugh at me. Why can’t I get a new pair of Calvin’s or Jordache’s? Tennis shoes without holes in them, or even the latest design of a shirt?”

“Rebecca Denise, that’s enough. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know. Your father works very hard to provide a good life for you girls so I can stay home and raise you. Stop being so unappreciative. I didn’t give up a chance for a career in nursing just to listen to an ungrateful child yell at me.”

“Mom! I can’t wear her shirts. Roxy’s big boobs stretched them out! I’ll have to stuff my bra!”

The memory made me smile, which I quickly concealed with my hand. This was not the place or appropriate time to be happy.

I glanced over at Rebecca. Though her features had matured and changed, her attitude certainly remained the same. Rebecca was the quintessential middle child. Textbook case. Hell, her picture was probably underneath the caption “Middle Child Syndrome” in every psychology book on the planet. If it wasn’t, they were missing out on the perfect poster child.

Cosmos, forgive me, but I’ve hated her ever since the day my parents brought her whiny ass home from the hospital.

Mom and Dad lived by The Suburbia Handbook . Roger and Claire Rayburn built their lives around the ancient, mental code of ethics. Mom and Dad almost nailed Rule Number Two, chapter and verse.

All married couples must procreate and raise, at a minimum, 3.2 children, preferably staggered in ages by three years.

They missed the target goal by having offspring of the same sex. They needed at least one with a set of balls to pass with flying colors. Unfortunately, the estrogen pool was deeper and stronger—or perhaps Daddy’s sperm refused to bring forth another knuckle-dragger into the world. Who knows? But, they made up for missing the bar by acing Rule Number One:

High school sweethearts must marry; the wife is to stay at home and raise the children while the husband brings home the bacon.

Nailed it.

Like my mother, I aced Rule Number One—the track star married the football jock. Boom! Item number one checked off the list. I didn’t count the demerit (we had to get married our second year of college). Getting married at 20 wasn’t because of overwhelming, all-consuming, mind-altering love. Nope. I tied the knot with Carl A. Davenport because I neglected to read the instructions that came along with the prescription—taking antibiotics might disrupt the effectiveness of birth control pills.