Liz Fielding - The Three-Year Itch

It was a nightmare. A waking nightmare from which there could never be the escape of knowing that, no matter how dreadful, it had all been nothing but a horrible dream. But still Abbie pushed herself. The greater the betrayal, the more it hurt her, the better. With every thrust of the knife the easier it would be to do what she had once thought impossible and hate him.

‘A divorce is no big deal these days, surely?’ she insisted, denying herself any avenue of escape. Then she added hopefully, ‘Unless he’s your doctor?’

‘Oh, no!’ Emma exclaimed, horrified. ‘He’s …’ She hesitated, as if she shouldn’t say what he was. ‘He’s a lawyer.’

‘I see.’ And she did see—all too clearly. She had wanted to be sure and now Emma’s words rang like the clang of doom, slamming the door closed on any possibility of doubt. His confession written in blood couldn’t have been more convincing.

One of Grey’s associates had been obliged to resign from the firm a year or so back, after having an affair with one of his clients. Her husband had turned nasty. She looked at the hand linked with the baby’s fingers and she could see the telltale mark where a wedding ring had once rested. Was that how she had met Grey? Sobbing out her heartbreak in her husband’s office? How impossible to refuse this fragile creature a comfortable shoulder to cry on. How easy to become emotionally entangled when your wife was away for weeks at a time.

‘I don’t mind, really. I knew all along that he would never leave her and I accepted that. At least I have Matthew.’

‘Maybe it will all work out,’ Abbie said dully. ‘You mustn’t give up hope. Things change.’

‘Do you think so? I do sometimes dream about it.’ Emma gave a little smile. ‘Sometimes we can be together for a while and pretend. He has a cottage in the country that he shares with his brother. They’re very close, and he’s been so good about us using it …’ She glanced at her watch and leapt to her feet. ‘Is that the time? I must be off—it’ll soon be time for Matthew’s feed.’ She kicked off the buggy’s brake, then paused to look down at Abbie, her face creased in concern. ‘Are you all right? You look rather pale. Would you like a drink? I’ve got a can …’

‘No!’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘Really, I’m fine. Thank you.’

Civilised behaviour. She should be scratching the woman’s eyes out … but what good would that do? The woman called Emma smiled uncertainly. ‘If you’re sure?’

‘Don’t keep Matthew waiting for his lunch,’ she said, forcing a smile. For a moment she remained where she was, watching Emma wheel the jaunty little buggy around the bright flowerbeds. Then she too stood up and walked away, leaving her shopping behind her on the bench.

It was just after three when she arrived at the flat. Plenty of time to put the matter beyond all doubt before Grey came home. Not that there was any doubt left in her mind, but the evidence so far was purely circumstantial. She knew enough of the law to know the dangers of convicting on that.

She took the ring binders from the shelf and flicked back through the credit card accounts, meticulously filed month by month and paid on the dot. April. The day after she had flown out to Africa. Petrol purchased at a service station just inside the Welsh border. The same date. A trip to a supermarket in Carmarthen. She and Grey had shopped there the last time they had stayed at the cottage.

May. Where had she been in May? Two days on an oil rig in the north sea. More petrol. Another trip to the supermarket. She wondered what had headed the shopping list. Disposable nappies?

June. Another trip to Wales. Each entry was a knife wound in her heart.

The July account had not yet arrived, but the slips were there to prove his lie. On the day he had told her he was working in Manchester he had filled his petrol tank on the M4 near Cardiff. She remembered that he had been wearing jeans the day she’d come home, the scent of woodsmoke clinging to them. For a moment misery threatened to engulf her as she clung to the desk. Then, taking a deep breath, she forced herself to go on. There was no time for misery. Yet.

She put the file back on the shelf and took down the one containing the statements for Grey’s personal account.

He hadn’t even bothered to disguise his transactions. Large single payments of exactly the same amount for the last three months. And, remembering the envelope she had seen him pass to Emma, she had presumably witnessed another of those payments today. Tucked into the correspondence pocket of the file was a letter dated two days earlier from the bank, confirming that a trust fund had been set up in the name of Matthew Harper, using the proceeds of the sale of the Degas …

She had asked him what had happened to the painting. He had told her that it had been sold to help Robert out of a financial jam. And she had believed him.

FOR a long time Abbie sat there considering the possibility of revenge. Why not? She could wreck his career, drag in his brother, throw the kind of mud that, no matter how much you tried to wash it off, stuck like glue. One call to Steve and all the deceit, the lies would be plastered on the front page. Not because anyone would care about Grey or her, but because of Robert. And hurting Robert would hurt Grey. And she wanted to hurt him. She wanted him to know how it felt to be betrayed.

She knew all the right people to call in order to do the maximum amount of damage. She could break apart his life, make him suffer as she was suffering now. She was hunched over the desk, her head resting on tense little fists as she forced herself to believe what a week ago would have been unthinkable: that he had lied to her, deceived her, betrayed her. She had every right to hurt him with any weapon she could lay her hand on …

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