‘No. I think Terry has things on his mind right now, so don’t hold it against him. Do you want to be heading home soon?’
Home. The word brought Rosie up short. Matt’s place wasn’t home. It was a stop gap. But despite living in the place for all of five minutes, it certainly felt like home. The apartment had a lovely, peaceful atmosphere, and because it was situated on the ground floor, it felt more like a house. Big French doors issued out of almost every room. A flagstone terrace ran the length of the apartment. In one corner a set of feature steps led directly into the gardens. All forty acres of it. Rosie sighed and thought how much Luke would love running around that when he was older.
‘Rosie?’
‘Hmm?’
‘I asked if you wanted us to leave shortly.’
‘Sorry, I was miles away. Yes, okay. Luke has nearly finished, and then I’ll find Lucy and say good-bye to her and the oh-so-charming Terry.’
When Rosie fell into bed that night, almost immediately she drifted down the corridors of sleep. However, instead of her slumber being restful, she found herself in a tense dream with Dave. She was back in North London, hiding her purse and fending off debt collectors. The doorbell was ringing and ringing, and an angry man was shouting through the letterbox. ‘Open up! Your husband owes me two billion pounds and you’re the one who has to settle up. So how are you going to pay me?’ The dream turned into a nightmare with Luke wailing loudly. ‘No,’ Rosie screamed, ‘please, I’ll find the money somehow. I promise.’ The wails turned to full-on howls. The pounding was relentless. Suddenly the door gave way and the man burst into the hallway. As he came towards her, Rosie screamed again and shoved the man with all her might. Instead she lashed out at the mattress. Shocked, she rocketed upwards, heart pounding. Luke was crying in his cot, and Matt was knocking on her bedroom door.
‘Rosie? Rosie, wake up! Can you hear me?’
‘Yes, just a minute.’ Rosie swung her legs out of bed, pulled on her dressing gown and picked up Luke. ‘There, there, it’s all right. Mummy’s here.’
‘Hurry up, Rosie,’ Matt called from the other side of the door. ‘We have visitors.’
Rosie clutched her dressing gown about her. She felt bug-eyed and befuddled. The digital clock on the bedside table read half past three in the morning. Who on earth would want to talk to her at such a ridiculous hour? Was she still dreaming? She opened the bedroom door. Matt was standing in the hallway, his face grim. Behind him were two police officers. Rosie’s heart lurched. Had she done something wrong? Was she in trouble with the law because she hadn’t paid Dave’s debt collector?
‘What is it?’ Rosie whispered.
‘Rosie, darling,’ Matt said softly, ‘come into the lounge.’ He led her into the vast main room of the apartment. At this hour it felt cold and not so welcoming. Rosie shivered. ‘Sit down. The police need to talk to you.’
‘What is it?’ Rosie repeated, her eyes huge and fearful.
‘Mrs Perfect?’ said one of the policemen.
‘Yes?’
‘There is no easy way to tell you this. I’m very sorry to have to inform you that your husband is dead.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lucy stretched luxuriously. She was in Terry’s bed, and it was a little after nine on what promised to be a warm Sunday morning. Golden sunlight was streaming through gaps in the curtains, haloing her fiancé’s outline, while his gentle snores bore testament to a peaceful slumber. She turned to gaze at the man she would marry in three weeks’ time. Like Gregory Tibor, Terry was a good looking man with a great physique. Lucy edged closer. Her hand burrowed under the duvet and she let her fingers flutter across Terry’s chest, trailing over the smattering of soft hair. Terry stirred and sighed contentedly. Lucy began to work her way down, confident her hand would soon be grasping a huge erection which would end the recent drought in their sex life. Suddenly an arm wound its way around her shoulders and she found herself being pulled into Terry’s side. Lucy snuggled into the curves of Terry’s body and carried on working her magic. She gave a little moan of anticipation just as her fingers curled around Terry’s penis. It was as flaccid as a deflated balloon. He turned his head slightly and dropped a kiss on her forehead.
‘What do you fancy doing today, sweetheart?’
Lucy removed her hand and rolled onto her back. She stared up at the ceiling, desperately trying to hide a mix of disappointment and anger. ‘I was kind of hoping my future husband was going to make love to me,’ she said lightly.
‘There’s more to a relationship than sex, Luce,’ Terry replied. ‘What’s wrong with companionship and cuddles, hugs and holding hands?’
‘Nothing,’ Lucy shrugged, ‘nothing at all. That’s lovely.’
‘It is lovely,’ Terry sighed happily. ‘It’s the loveliest thing ever.’
Lucy nodded. ‘I agree. But sometimes it’s also nice to get physical. You know, as in having a roll around, getting the sheets all in a tangle, breaking out in a sweat and making lots of noise,’ she gave a tinkle of laughter, attempting humour. ‘I’d really love you to get a bit rough with me, make me moan and groan and reduce me to a gibbering wreck as I climax.’ She gave Terry a side-long glance. His eyes were closed. She stared at him in disbelief. Had he nodded off? When he failed to respond, she pushed herself upright. Bloody man. What was the matter with him? Was he impotent? Well, no, hardly. Not if this ruddy Tracey woman was on the scene. Perhaps she’d bonked him so hard, he was all bonked out. ‘Terry?’ Her voice came out harsher than she meant it to.
‘Yes, poppet?’
‘Do you love me?’
Terry sat up and looked at her incredulously. ‘Of course I love you. Why on earth do you ask such a question?’
Lucy folded her arms across her chest, grumpy now. ‘Because you don’t show it.’
‘Don’t be silly, darling. Come here! Let me show you how much I love you.’ Suddenly Lucy was enfolded in a huge bear hug, so tight she could hardly breathe. Moments later Terry planted a noisy smacker on her mouth. ‘There, that’s how much I love you, you silly goose. Happy now?’
Lucy was so stunned she didn’t know how to reply. Her initiation for sex had been politely but firmly rejected. For a moment she wanted to burst into tears. She felt a sexual failure with Terry. Quite clearly she just didn’t turn him on. Once again her thoughts strayed to Tracey. One way or another, she simply had to track this female down, then Lucy would confront Terry and...showdown time! Because there was no way on this earth she was walking down the aisle until she’d got to the bottom of this mystery woman.
‘I thought I might do some shopping today. You know, last minute bridal stuff.’
‘Excellent. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, you’d be bored in five minutes.’
Lucy slipped out of bed and padded off to the en-suite. Moments later she was in the shower, hoping the powerful spray would blast away the feelings of humiliation and resentment. Okay, she’d been no angel shagging Gregory Tibor, but affairs didn’t happen without just cause. In her case she’d suffered major neglect. And why? Because of this other woman. So who was the guilty party here – her or Terry? In Lucy’s book, it was a no-brainer. Reaching for a towel, she briskly dried herself off and walked, naked, into the master bedroom. Maybe, just maybe, Terry’s eyes would fall upon her luscious curves and he’d fling back the duvet, bound over to her, then pounce and – cave man style – drag her back to the bed before pinning her wrists to the mattress and making hot passionate love to her. Instead Terry was sending a text message to somebody. Lucy’s eyes narrowed. It was the BlackBerry she’d found hidden away in the drawer.
‘Who are you texting?’ she asked.
‘Just a business contact.’
‘That’s not your usual phone.’ Lucy tried to sound casual, but it came out as an accusation.
‘This is my old mobile. I keep it as a spare and like to put it through its paces every once in a while.’
Always an ans
wer for everything, and so blithely delivered. Unbelievable! Lucy stepped into her jeans and pulled a tee over her head. She couldn’t be bothered with make-up, or breakfast. ‘I’ll see you later.’ She slung her bag over one shoulder and stalked off.
‘No kiss good-bye?’ Terry called after her.
For a split second Lucy hesitated. And then she carried on walking. ‘No,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘I’ll leave you to work out why.’
Terry put the BlackBerry down and stared after his fiancée’s rigid back. Now what was the matter with her? Not more pre-menstrual tension surely? He sighed and contemplated on how to fill the time until Lucy was home. He knew she’d be gone for hours. His mind slid backwards, to his conversation with Matt yesterday. Oh God, the shame. Fancy Matt of all people finding out about Tracey. Terry rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. He didn’t want to jeopardise his marriage to Lucy. Besides, he’d given Matt his word. And if nothing else, Terry was an honourable man. A promise was a promise. It was time to give Tracey up. Terry had never attempted this before, and knew it would be both difficult and painful. He would probably cry. Tracey would definitely be in floods – the poor love would be devastated. Terry swallowed the lump in his throat and flung back the bed covers. He’d see her one more time. And it would be the last time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Rosie had spent the entirety of Sunday so far feeling most odd. Her movements were jerky, like one of those remote control toy cars. Earlier she’d bathed Luke, changed a nappy and spooned food into his mouth, feeling as though somebody else was pressing the necessary buttons to make her move forward, step back or swing her son onto her hip. A detached part of her had recognised she was just going through the motions.
Having a policeman inform her she was now a widow had felt bizarre. What, her drunken, gambling, useless husband was gone? Don’t be silly! Despite all Dave’s faults, she hadn’t ever wished him dead. Oh, she’d wanted to be free of him all right, but not via the Grim Reaper. Rosie had been convinced the policeman was wrong, and there had been some terrible mistake. Her persistent disbelief was partly why she’d agreed to see the body – not so much to formally identify her husband, but to bring home the shocking reality that Dave was most definitely no more.
Matt had driven her to Karen’s house. Rosie’s neighbour, white-faced and appalled, had taken Luke off her hands for a few hours. From there, a police liaison officer had taken Matt and Rosie to the hospital morgue. They’d gone into a little room, just like a normal hospital waiting room, nothing out of the ordinary whatsoever. Rosie had been perturbed by that – the seemingly everyday normalities in a day that was most definitely not bog standard. She’d not known what to expect. The police liaison officer had said that Dave had some bruising around his face.
And now, as Rosie stood with Matt viewing Dave’s body, the full enormity of what had happened began to sink in. She felt herself starting to tremble. Poor Luke. He would grow up never knowing his Daddy. Amazingly, Dave didn’t look awful. Apart from the contusion on his forehead in various shades of blue and black, he could have simply been sleeping. He was covered up to his neck with a sheet. One hand had been left out for Rosie to hold.
She felt a fraud. ‘We’d separated,’ she said to nobody in particular, and gestured at Dave’s hand. ‘We were getting divorced.’
The police liaison officer nodded, his expression benign. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, but I feel very cold,’ Rosie replied as her body’s tremors turned to full-on shivering.
Matt took off his jacket and draped it around Rosie’s shoulders. She stood rigidly next to him. Matt knew Rosie was in shock.
‘Do you think, maybe–?’ Matt trailed off.
Rosie nodded slowly before looking at the police liaison officer. ‘What happens now?’ she whispered. ‘Sorry to sound vague, but I don’t know what to do.’
‘That’s okay. Come with me and I’ll get you a hot, sweet tea and talk you through the formalities.’
By the time Rosie left the hospital, she only had a hazy idea of what would happen next. Something about a post-mortem and a police investigation. Or was it an inquest? Or both? Rosie sat in the passenger seat of Matt’s car and hunched deeper into the jacket still about her shoulders. She stared vacantly through the passenger window. She would apparently be advised when the body – the body! – would be released to a funeral director of her choice. Rosie hadn’t a clue which undertaker to use. She didn’t even know how much a funeral cost or, for that matter, how she was going to pay for it. Dear God, even in death her husband was bleeding her dry. And then Rosie was overcome with guilt at such a thought.
Matt pulled into Rosie’s road. His eyes scanned up and down the street, seeking a gap between the many cars lining the pavement. Ah, there was one! Just in front of a black Audi, perfect! Matt slowed the X5 down. The space was a bit tight. He glanced at the Audi. The driver was sitting behind the wheel, apparently reading a newspaper. Matt tooted his horn. The newspaper lowered slightly, revealing a pair of bushy eyebrows and suspicious eyes.
‘Are you going?’ Matt mouthed, while one hand pantomimed pulling out.
The driver shook his head and disappeared behind his newspaper again.
Matt sighed. Ah, well. The Beamer had parking sensors. He set about manoeuvring the vehicle backwards. Almost instantly the bleepers began to shriek. Shunting the gear into Drive, he carefully edged forward.
Rosie sat silently as Matt shoe-horned the Beamer into place. She gazed past him at Karen’s house and, next door, her own home. Except it had never felt like home. Suddenly Rosie felt as though her throat was constricting. She couldn’t breathe. Gasping, she found herself choking up. Frantically she stuffed a fist in her mouth, but it was too late. The dam burst and suddenly she was crying her eyes out.
Matt’s arms were around her in a trice. ‘It’s okay,’ he soothed, ‘it’s all right to cry. You’ve just been widowed, Rosie. Bawl all you like. Let it out.’
Rosie found herself sobbing even harder. How the hell could she explain that the catalyst for her tears wasn’t her husband being dead, but simply the monumental worry about paying for a funeral? She mentally berated herself. Where’s your sense of decency, Rosie? Dave is the father of your son. And then she rallied, took the giant Kleenex Matt was offering and blew her nose. For all Dave’s faults, he’d given her Luke, her darling baby boy, and for that Rosie thanked Dave from the bottom of her heart. So she would put aside issues about money. There must be loans available. She could pay for the funeral in instalments. And then Rosie remembered something that made her gasp with relief. There was life insurance! It was something Rosie had insisted she and Dave take out when Luke was born.
‘What if something awful happened to either of us,’ she’d said to Dave. ‘It’s important the survivor has a lump sum to assist with raising our child.’
Dave had been most reluctant to spend twenty pounds a month on the policy, and the thought of raising Luke himself, single-handed, had filled him with horror. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rosie,’ he’d protested, ‘we’re both young. What the devil do you want to waste twenty quid a month for?’
But Rosie had been adamant. Thank God for small mercies.
Feeling slightly calmer, Rosie unfastened her seatbelt. ‘I can see Karen looking at us from the window. Shall we go in?’
‘Of course. She’ll want to know what’s been happening.’
‘And you know, tomorrow, I think I’ll pack my stuff up from your apartment and come home. With Dave gone, there’s no reason for me not to live here now.’
‘Rosie, I don’t think you should be on your own at the moment.’
‘I’m not on my own. I have Luke.’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I don’t want to impinge on your hospitality any longer than is necessary.’
‘You’re not. I’ve told you that. Look, Rosie, why don’t you just leave it a few days. There’s no rush. At
least wait until after the funeral, eh? Come on. Let’s go and have a cup of tea with your neighbours.’
As Rosie and Matt walked up the path to Karen’s house, the front door flew open.
‘Thank God you’re back,’ Karen ushered them in, her eyes quickly scanning the street, before darting back inside the hallway.
Rosie’s heart picked up speed. ‘Is Luke all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He’s with Mike in the kitchen.’ Karen shut the door firmly behind them and then leant back on it. She exhaled shakily.
Rosie stared at her neighbour. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
Karen took a deep breath. ‘You’ve had a visitor.’
Rosie paled. ‘Oh God, not my mother? I haven’t even told her yet about–’
‘No, not Hester. Mike will tell you what’s been happening.’
‘Hello, love,’ Mike stood in the kitchen doorway, Luke in his arms. He pecked Rosie on the cheek as, gratefully, she took Luke from him. Mike turned to Matt. ‘Hello, matey, good to meet you, even though the circumstances could be happier.’
‘And you,’ Matt shook Mike’s hand, before following him into the kitchen. Mike indicated they should both sit down at the table, and pulled out chairs for them, while Karen flapped about putting the kettle on and rattling cups into saucers. ‘Rosie, before Dave died, he told me about a bit of bother he’d gotten himself into,’ he gave her a frank look, ‘over some illegal gambling. From what he told me, he was in a pickle with some rather unsavoury people.’
‘That would explain the recent visit by a charmless debt collector who nearly bashed the front door down,’ Rosie jiggled Luke on her lap as she listened to Mike.
‘Well, that charmless debt collector came back on Friday – while Dave was out. The person managed to let themselves into the house and out again undetected.’
Rosie gaped at Mike. ‘Were they looking for money?’
‘Possibly. But they left a calling card.’
The Perfect Marriage Page 10
