The Love Trap
Caroline Goldsworthy
Copyright © Caroline Goldsworthy, 2020
Gordian Knot Publishing Ltd, December 2020
ISBN: 978-1-9161221-7-8
Paperback Edition
All rights reserved.
The right of Caroline Goldsworthy to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover design copyright ©Caroline Goldsworthy
Created with Vellum
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Caroline Goldsworthy
Chapter One
Lily
A sudden scream from the garden pierced the air. I dropped the tray of chicken drumsticks I’d been taking from the oven. My pristine kitchen floor, which I cleaned first thing this morning, a jumble of sizzling chicken, as fat and greasy liquid oozed across the marble tiles.
For a moment I was conflicted. Run outside or stay and clean up? But my maternal instinct had taken over and I raced into the garden before my brain caught up. Guests turned to stare at my sudden arrival. Some stood open-mouthed, hugging themselves. Others turning away from the tableau in front of them. Roxy, Darcy’s rabbit, was lolloping across the garden and Topher, my husband, had a shotgun trained on it. Our five-year-old son, James, was mimicking his father’s actions and shouting, ‘Rabbit pie, rabbit pie.’ His little sister toddled after the rabbit, but was too slow to catch it.
‘Topher, what are you doing?’ I yelled at him, before I thought of the consequences. I chased Roxy to pick him up. Grasping the rabbit by the scruff of his neck, I scooped him into my arms and tried to calm him. Totally oblivious to the danger he was in, he wriggled to escape from my grip.
‘Open the hutch, please James.’ My son stomped over to the hutch and, pouting he opened the door. It ricocheted off the side of the hutch, catching me on the elbow. I grimaced. Glaring at Topher, I put the rabbit back in his hutch and, once Roxy was safe, I marched over to my husband. I held my hands out and, laughing he dropped the shotgun into my arms. I winced at the weight of it on my sprained wrist.
‘It was just a bit of fun,’ he laughed, glancing at our wide-eyed guests. Not one of them could meet his gaze. ‘You’re overreacting, darling.’ But I shook my head and refused to look at him.
How could he humiliate me like this? Our guests’ silence was oppressive. Their horror tangible, like a cloak of mist hanging over the celebrations. It was as heavy as the smoke from the sausages he’d left to burn on the barbeque. My eyes watered; I was queasy, but whether that caused by the charring sausages or my embarrassment I didn’t know. I wanted to run. To hide and cover my shame. My face burned as I focussed my attention on pushing the top lever to break the gun as Topher had shown me in the past. The brass bases of the cartridges glinted in the summer sun. Aghast I glanced up at him. This was his idea of fun?
I wedged it under my right elbow and took Darcy’s hand. We dashed into the house; I dried Darcy’s tears and put her in the highchair. Running upstairs, I locked the shotgun in the hidden eaves’ cupboard in our bedroom. You’d hardly know it was there, but having a loaded gun so close to where we slept made me shiver. Topher and I have argued about it many times, but he’s convinced we need to be prepared for possible intruders. I disagreed, believing that intruders could turn the gun on us. He knew better. Topher always knew better.
Returning to the kitchen, Darcy was happily banging a plastic spoon on the highchair’s tray and I remembered the chicken catastrophe. I kneeled to collect the dropped drumsticks together, wincing as I put weight on my right hand. Hearing the familiar click-clack of heels on the newly laid Italian Calacatta tiles, I hoped she didn’t mark them. The heels clacked closer into my line of vision and I recognised the slim ankles of Stephanie Silcott.
‘Lils, what are you doing down there?’ She reached down and grabbed my right hand pulling me to my feet. I couldn’t help myself and I squealed with the pain. She dropped my hand and I sank to the floor.
‘What have you done?’ She reached out to me, catching my gaze as I snatched my hand back,
‘I trapped it in the door. You know how clumsy I am. It just slammed back on me.’
Stephanie pursed her lips, brushing a strand of dark blonde hair behind her ear. ‘Of course it did.’
I forced brightness into my voice. ‘What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you outside with the rest of them?’
Stephanie sighed. ‘Topher was extolling your virtues to everyone after the rabbit rescue. I thought I’d come and talk to the real thing. He said you’ve got another part-time job teaching music?’
I nodded. ‘Yes I started a few weeks ago,’ I told her. ‘The head is nice and the children seem to want to learn.’
‘Don’t you miss it?’ She twirled her empty wine glass in her fingers, which gave me the chance to walk to the fridge so she couldn’t see my face. Naturally, I opened the door with my right hand, flinched and used my left. I retrieved the bottle of white Rioja, trying to ignore her question.
But it was no use. Of course I missed my other life. Who would not?
I closed my eyes, transporting myself back to another time.
Arms aloft, bow in one hand, violin in the other, I acknowledged the Lincoln Center audience. Sweat tricked down my face, down my back. I was exhausted and elated at the same time. My body vibrated in time with the cheers and the clapping. Another standing ovation. I quivered as goosebumps rose on my body. Lowering my arms, I gathered violin and bow in the same hand and curtsied to the crowd. They’d want an encore – they always did. I glanced at Phillip Trevelyan, the conductor, he smiled at me, nodded and we resumed our positions for the encore.
But that was before. Before marrying Topher Gundersen. Before my accident.
Stephanie took the bottle from my hands, dragging me out of my reverie. She unscrewed the cap, and poured herself a generous slug. Looking around for my wine glass, and not finding it, she took one from the cupboard.
I smiled at my oldest friend who knew her way around my kitchen almost as well as I do.
‘Well?’ She said, passing the glass to me. ‘Do you miss it?’
‘No of course not.’ I saw the slight rise in her eyebrows, her head angling to one side. We had been friends since meeting at university during Freshers’ Week fifteen years ago. She knew when I was lying. But she also knew me well enough to know when to push the topic and when not to.
I raised my wineglass to Stephanie and she returned the toast and sipped from the glass, leaving a hint of pale pink lipstick on the rim.
I found I’d drunk half of my wine in one mouthful and, horrified at my lack of control, I checked I’d collected all the drumsticks. I rinsed them under the tap, slamming the each one back into the roasting tin as I watched my guests wander around the garden. I bit my lip, holding back the tears which threatened to overwhelm me. Today is supposed to be a celebration and all I want to do is cry. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. Where’s my wine? But all the same I hesitated; Topher would be angry if I drank too much.
As if on cue he walked in from his duties as barbecue chef. ‘Lily, where the hell is the chicken and the steaks?’
I whirled to face him, my heart beating a little faster as my body tensed. Once seeing him would have created such pleasure. But no longer. Now all I can see is the man he’s become. I gasped for air, panting, my mind whirling. What was I supposed to be doing? I clutched my hands to my sides to stop them shaking.
‘I dropped the drumsticks.’
‘Well wash them off and bring everything out. No one will notice after I’ve saturated them in barbecue sauce.’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ I retorted. He smiled at me and, although Stephanie couldn’t see that the smile never reached his cold, ice-blue eyes, I could.
Chapter Two
Lily
I took the cooked chicken and the raw steaks to Topher. He greeted me with a huge smile and compliments as I approached him.
‘My beautiful and talented wife,’ he declared to everyone.
I blushed at his tributes to me, it’s as if the gun incident and the tantrum in the kitchen never happened. Perhaps he can change? He’s promised so many times.
‘Rabbit rescuer and outstanding cook. A round of applause people. Happy anniversary, darling.’ He raised his glass in salute and I smiled back at him. What else could I do?
‘Happy ‘versree, Mummy,’ said James, holding his plastic tumbler in the air. ‘See I’m being just like Papa.’
‘You’re going to be exactly like Papa when you grow up aren’t you James?’ said Topher.
The ah sound resonated around the garden. I covered my lips with my left hand, the bile burnt the back of my throat.
Topher gave me a nudge and I winced with pain. ‘Return the toast, darling,’ he said, tracing his fingers lightly down my arm. ‘I like the long sleeves. It reminds me of New York.’
‘No glass,’ I shivered, snatching my arm away. It’s our anniversary and he reminds me of that! No he was never going to change. Someone rushed forward with a flute and something bubbling within. I raised the glass to him, took a sip and shudder. It was lukewarm. ‘I must get back to the food.’ It was a well-worn excuse, despite wanting to spend time relaxing with the guests. I toasted everyone and pretended to take another mouthful. I left the glass on the buffet table as I passed. I’d collect it later.
Back in the kitchen, I found Stephanie perched on a barstool. The way she was rocking her Jimmy Choo’s on the toes of one foot reminded me of the first time we met. She was sat on a bar stool then, although the shoes were purple Doc Marten’s. She has filled out – sleeker than she was – the cat that got every single last drop of the cream.
Pushing my refilled wineglass towards me, she said, ‘Are you going to show me what else you’ve done since I was last here? This extension looks fabulous, but I want to see the rest of it.’ She raised her glass in a toast to the new garden room and the lantern roof-lights, which allowed the daylight to flood into the kitchen and dining areas.
‘Come on,’ I replied. We went out into the long, shadowy hallway and I wondered about whether the second set of doors should be kept open. Topher preferred them closed, keeping the front door area separate. It was another source of contention, but I had learned to pick my battles. All the same it was rather dark and dingy. Perhaps I should find a lighter paint, which would bounce light back?
‘Here,’ I announced pushing the door open. Stephanie stepped over the threshold ahead of me and gasped.
‘Oh, Lily. It’s beautiful.’
‘Thanks,’ I said as I stood beside her. I was proud of what I’d achieved in this room. The house, a substantial old vicarage, was early Victorian, with 1930s renovations. I’d spent time researching and sourcing the light fittings and a cast iron fireplace to replicate what had been stripped out by the previous owners. The trellis wallpaper, a copy of the Arts and Crafts era, wasn’t strictly correct for a Victorian house but I had always loved the designs of William Morris. I’d restricted the paper to the fireplace wall, picking out a salmon pink paint for the rest of the room. Stephanie strolled around touching things. The music stands, cushions, even running her long fingers over the wallpaper, whilst she sipped her wine and sighed happily.
She turned to face me and I was surprised to see tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve worked so hard,’ she said. ‘I love it.’
‘Thank you.’ But thank you seemed inadequate. I frowned. It was odd that Stephanie was crying. She hardly ever cried.
The last time I’d seen her cry was when we met after my fateful trip to the States. She came with us for the initial house viewing. That was nearly five years ago. I’d had a small baby on my hip and my fingers were still strapped up and sore. I took one look at the house – the rambling garden and weed strewn drive – sure it would be too much work. Topher convinced me the house was calling out to me, that it needed my help.
‘You need this project,’ he’d whispered to me. ‘I can see you’re entranced by it. Think what it could become. Plus, it will help you get over the accident.’
I’d clenched my jaw and squeezed my eyes shut, but that only brought the memories back. Exquisite pain as if my fingers were on fire. When I dared to open my eyes, my mangled digits were twisted and bloody before me. Bent like broken twigs, the vison of my lost future swam before me. My stomach clenched and I wanted to retch. Nearby I saw the root cellar doors where my fingers had been trapped; lifting and crashing down in the tornado and I wondered how I had been so stupid.
Deep down I knew Topher was right. He’d supported me through my accident, coming to terms with giving up my career and I felt indebted to him. A short while later the Old Vicarage was ours. ‘It’s a labour of love,’ I told Stephanie. ‘I spend a lot of time in reclamation yards.’ In fact, the battered old Volvo Topher bought me, had become a familiar sight at most of the yards locally, but I thought of Stephanie’s glamorous sports’ car and I didn’t mention this to her.
She tiptoed across the room to look at the photographs and certificates lining the wall opposite
the fireplace. ‘Oh Lily,’ she said, ‘are you sure you don’t miss playing in front of all those people? I know I would.’
I fixed my smile in place and shook my head. ‘It was never going to work with a baby, in any case,’ I replied. ‘Then…’ I shrugged and held up my hands. She looked at my poor fingers. They’ve recovered better than I thought they would, but I still couldn’t flex them as I used to be able to do. It was hard to grip the neck of a violin, but I could do it well enough to show students what they needed to do. I could still play a little, but I’ve lost my touch and the sounds I produced were nothing more than an annoyance.
I followed her gaze to the many photographs of me playing, eyes closed and lost in the music, bowing to the audiences. I traced my fingers over my violin case. My thumb rested on the clasp, rubbing it gently. For a moment I thought about what lay inside. I didn’t open the case. It was too distressing. Who would not miss the adulation and the foreign travel, but it was not always glamorous. One hotel looked pretty much like another and we rarely got to see much of the cities where we played.
The Love Trap: an unputdownable psychological thriller Page 1
