The Marriage Trap: A completely addictive psychological thriller

by Sheryl Browne

  Every day, he’d acknowledged a quiet dread in the pit of his stomach that she might leave him. But not now. She couldn’t! The media would have a field day with it. It would be proof positive that he was guilty, in the eyes of the public. She knew that. He couldn’t do this on his own. Face the press, who – if, God forbid, he wasn’t granted an injunction – would dig mercilessly through every aspect of his life, seizing on anything to paint him as a bully and a sexual predator, no matter how baseless. Face the police, if these ludicrous claims were taken seriously. The courts! God help him.

  ‘It wasn’t true, Diana!’ Sweat wetting his forehead, he repeated what he’d always maintained. ‘I have no idea why Sarah’s friend would claim I did such a thing. She was a child – confused. A little liar, obviously. Karla was there, for God’s sake. She corroborated my story. I was nowhere near her.’

  Diana didn’t move when he stepped towards her, his hands outstretched, desperate to feel her hands in his, to be held by the woman who was the one constant in his life. She just kept right on looking at him, right down into the depths of his soul.

  Robert glanced away. Closing his eyes, he was assaulted by harsh memories of the day of Sarah’s death, one he would never forget: Diana turning from the phone, her face distraught, her eyes awash with tears. ‘I have to be with my mother,’ she’d said. ‘Please, Robert…’

  ‘I know.’ He’d nodded, his heart sinking. Bloody woman, he’d thought. Could she have chosen a more inconvenient time to die? ‘Of course you do.’ He heard himself saying it, his voice sympathetic, his irritation immense, knowing he would stand little to no chance of getting his tender for a huge contract in.

  A tight band of tension tightening between his temples, he’d been sweating profusely in the stifling heat of the long summer, playing childminder while he attempted to work from home. Nausea – he felt it again – swilled around in his belly from the vast amount of brandy he’d consumed at the golf club the night before, the whisky he’d imbibed before lunch. The children – he heard them, above the distracting whine of the lawnmowers. The neighbour’s unruly kids too, screeching and screaming right outside his study window. The phone ringing incessantly: his new secretary, pissing about at the office rather than getting her arse over to the house, where he needed her.

  Utterly fucking useless.

  The children, their noise escalating – unacceptable, raucous shrieking – grating against the inside of his skull. His rage, building steadily inside him.

  Sarah calling him a miserable bastard as he strode into the garden, bawling at them to keep the noise down. This from the mouth of an eight-year-old child? His temper had exploded. He hadn’t meant to do it. It was if a switch had flicked inside him.

  Picturing the shock on Sarah’s face when he’d lashed out, her hand clutched to her cheek as she backed away from him, falling as she did, Robert felt afresh his shame and deep, deep remorse. His horror, when he’d realised what he’d done. He heard it now, the sickening crack as her head made contact with the garden path. His heart had stopped beating as she lay there, unmoving. When her eyes had finally fluttered open, and he’d been able to breathe again, she’d looked at him as if he were some kind of monster.

  He’d only wanted to apologise to her that night. To have Sarah forgive him, not look at him as if he were something abhorrent. He recalled stumbling home after several brandies at the club. He’d needed them. Knowing he’d be highly unlikely to get a warm reception if he went to his own bedroom reeking of alcohol, he went into the girls’ room – he could remember that much. After that, nothing.

  ‘I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper as he looked again at Diana, his heart leaden with the weight of the guilt he’d borne since that night. Would always.

  ‘She was your daughter,’ Diana seethed. ‘I loved her. Karla loved her. She was her sister! She never knew her as anything but. And you had her blaming herself for her death, you despicable bastard!’

  ‘I didn’t want her to do that.’ Robert took a faltering step towards her. ‘I—’

  ‘You lied!’ Diana’s voice was shrill, her face tight with fury. And now Robert was truly scared. She’d never spoken to him like that before. ‘You made Karla lie for you! Have you any idea what that would do to a child? The guilt you caused? The heartbreak?’

  ‘It broke my heart, too.’ Desperate, Robert took another step. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

  ‘I’m going,’ Diana stated flatly. There was no compassion in her expression. Not a smidgeon. Just a pitying look in her eyes as she walked past him to the door.

  Robert felt his chest tighten, his heart rate quicken. He would have a heart attack before the day was through, he swore. He breathed in hard, feeling his fury at the unjustness of it all, the suffering he’d endured at the hands of other people, mounting inside him. ‘You won’t get a penny from me!’ he yelled, whirling around after her. ‘Not a penny! Do you hear me? Don’t even bother trying, Diana!’

  Diana stopped, and faced him. ‘I don’t need to. The house is half mine and I have investments of my own, Robert; something you wouldn’t be aware of.’

  ‘What investments?’ Robert scoffed. He gave her a monthly allowance – a generous one, he considered. He permitted her access to certain accounts, but she would never have been able to stow away enough to afford the lifestyle to which she’d become accustomed. Unless… Recalling the discrepancies on his statements, funds not showing that should have, Robert blinked, stupefied. Had she somehow accessed his business accounts? Was his accountant aware that she had?

  Diana didn’t answer; she simply studied him for a long unnerving moment, then, ‘I know what you did,’ she announced. ‘I know why Jason turned down the loan.’

  Robert felt the blood drain from his face. ‘What are you talking about?’ His voice came out a croak.

  ‘I imagine this will add fuel to the press pyre,’ Diana replied calmly. ‘I haven’t informed Karla yet. Naturally, I want to do that sensitively. Goodbye, Robert.’

  Cold foreboding clutching his stomach, Robert stared at her. Then, as the implication of what she was saying began to sink in, he felt something snap dangerously inside him. The rage that consumed him was so blinding, so all-encompassing, he had no awareness of crossing the room. He was appalled when he realised what he’d done. He hadn’t meant to. He’d never laid a hand on her before. He didn’t realise he had, until he saw the terror in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, God, Diana… I’m sorry. I didn’t…’ he stuttered, reaching for her – but Diana recoiled in an instant, that same shocked look on her face he’d seen on Sarah’s.

  Robert watched hopelessly, powerless to stop her, as Diana grabbed up her things and fled. He’d only ever cried twice before in his adult life. Once at the funeral. Once afterwards, when he’d realised his wife would never again look at him with affection. By then, he’d accepted that things had fizzled out sexually between them – he’d had no choice – but he’d still needed her affection. He’d sought an outlet for his needs, of course he had, but he’d loved her still, in his own way. She must have known he did. Must have known that, as intolerable as things had sometimes seemed, he’d never envisaged a life without her. Why else would he have bothered working day after day, working himself into an early grave?

  How could she do this to him? Feeling a tear spill from his chin as he stood amongst the ruins of his life, he reached to wipe it away. Attempting to compose himself after a while, he walked to the bathroom, where he extracted a bandage from the medicine cabinet and wrapped it round the hand he’d cut while retrieving large slivers of glass from the carpet. Going back to the bedroom, he paused, surveying himself in the shattered mirror. He didn’t recognise the broken person looking back: a worry-worn, defeated man with tell-tale ruddy cheeks and sagging jowls. A much older man than he perceived himself to be. That wasn’t him. Pulling himself taller, Robert squared his shoulders and braced himself to face those who would see him
fall.

  Moving back to the window, he looked out, feeling deep loathing for the money-grabbing rabble outside who would revel in his humiliation. Human flotsam. Robert peeled his disgusted gaze away and went to attend to the necessary clearing up. Minutes later, he descended the stairs with his stained dressing gown and the duvet cover. It took him a while, but he managed to work out how to put the washing machine on. The newspaper plopped through the letterbox as he walked back. Tiredly, Robert bent to pick it up.

  UK BUSINESSMAN NAMED IN #METOO SCANDAL, blazed the headline.

  His chest constricting painfully, Robert read on: ‘Robert Fenton – who grew his hugely successful plumbing and bespoke bathroom business from the basement of a bookshop and is now worth an estimated £50m – is reportedly seeking to obtain an interim injunction preventing the press from publishing allegations of sexual harassment and abuse of staff. Fenton, who has “categorically” denied the allegations, is accused of using non-disclosure agreements in an attempt to prevent staff speaking out…’

  Robert folded the newspaper, placed it on the hall table, sucked in a deep breath and held it. He should clean the bedroom carpet, he decided, and then get dressed. The premium wool suit in blue or the grey tailored fit, he pondered, as he went back to the utility for whatever cleaning paraphernalia he might need. Impressions were important, after all.

  All-important, to Robert. One of six kids, brought up on an estate notorious for petty crime and drug dealing, he’d fought hard to free himself of his roots. He’d built his business with nothing but the sweat of his brow, better than his competitors, bigger and infinitely more successful. Finally establishing himself as one of the UK’s leading businessmen, he’d made sure to leave poverty behind him. He’d worked equally hard on his image, dressing stylishly but not flashily. He commanded respect amongst his peers, and had been paid substantial amounts to head up seminars and give inspirational talks. He’d been someone. Yes, he’d made mistakes along the way. Might have misread one or two signals, but what’s a red-blooded man supposed to do when a lithe young thing smiles coquettishly and encourages him on? He would never have overstepped any boundaries had he not thought a little harmless flirtation was on offer. He’d had one or two women making silly noises after the event, forcing him to pay them off and remind them of the stipulations of their contracts. Overall, though, Robert considered he’d been more than reasonable. Generous, even.

  Now it appeared that those who had benefitted from his generosity were determined to bring him down. Robert only had to look and see the great men falling around him to realise that eventually they would destroy him, too. He wouldn’t wait for the ignominy of that, for kiss-and-tell stories in the tacky tabloids. Lies. Unflattering photographs portraying him as a lecherous pervert.

  No, he wouldn’t let them see a beaten man. His pride simply wouldn’t allow it. He would do as he’d always done: maintain his image, dress for the occasion and exit in style.

  FORTY-THREE

  KARLA

  ‘Were they late?’ I ask Jason, as he comes back after dropping Holly and Josh off at school. I know they will have been, because I overslept again and didn’t have time to prepare their lunches, meaning they would have had to stop and buy something on the way. But I overslept because of him, what he’s doing to this family. Yet still he plays the martyr to the children, the hard-done-by party. He’s painting me as the villain, trying to win them over. He’s stealing them away from me. I can’t let him. My heart thrashes, palpitating inside me.

  ‘A bit,’ he says, closing the door. ‘I had a quick word with their teachers though, so the kids were okay.’

  ‘A quick word communicating what?’ Anger surfaces above the fear twisting inside me. ‘That their mother is incapable of looking after them?’

  Emitting a heavy sigh, Jason turns to face me, though he doesn’t look at me.

  ‘No doubt the poor harassed father dashing in with his children earned himself some sympathy?’ I add, my tone facetious, because I know that’s exactly what he would invite. Tongues will have been wagging, heads shaking and hearts going out to a lonely-looking man who’s suddenly started bringing his children to school.

  Jason shakes his head wearily. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Karla.’

  Yes, he does, Sarah says knowingly.

  Of course he does. Won’t he be milking it? Wouldn’t I, in his shoes? ‘I’m not sure they’d be giving you any father of the year awards if they knew the truth,’ I go on, a toxic mixture of bitterness and cynicism simmering inside me, ‘that you’re the sort who picks up cheap little—’

  ‘Jesus Christ, Karla, will you just stop!’ Jason shouts over me. ‘I can’t do this again.’

  ‘You stop!’ I yell back, my anger rising. ‘Pretending you’re the victim in all of this. As if you’ve been driven to it. You’re cheating on me! With some—’

  ‘We’re both victims!’ Jason yells, louder. ‘For fu—’ Banging the heel of his hand against his forehead in frustration, he stops and meets my gaze at last, and then emits a ragged sigh. ‘It’s better for you if you don’t know.’

  ‘Know what?’ Goosebumps prickle my skin as I note the wariness in his eyes.

  Jason scans my face tiredly for a second, then, ‘Talk to your mother, Karla,’ he suggests quietly, turning back to the front door. ‘You need to.’

  Destabilised, with apprehension creeping through me, I don’t try to stop him going. There’s no point demanding explanations. He will refuse point-blank to discuss anything to do with my father, and this has to be about him.

  Grabbing my phone from my bag, I call my mother, my tummy clenching with a combination of nerves and nausea as I wonder whether she knows something I don’t. Something Jason has confided in her? Something she’s been keeping from me? She wouldn’t, surely?

  Her phone goes to voicemail. Impatiently, I text her. And then, receiving no response, I call her again. Nothing. Ten minutes later, I’m halfway to my car when my phone beeps. I read the message twice, and then stare at it, stupefied.

  I’ve left your father, it says. I need to get away from the attention. We need to talk, darling, but first I need a little time. Can you give me that?

  Time? For what? My hands shake as I text quickly back: Where are you?

  The airport, she replies, after a pause. Going to stay with a friend for a while. Will be in touch soon.

  The airport? Which airport? What friend. Where? I try again to call her. Again, her phone goes to voicemail. And now I’m growing desperate. I don’t want her to ‘be in touch soon’. I need to be in touch with her now. I need her to be here. I have no one else. No one.

  Throwing myself in my car, I drive frantically to my parents’ house. Something’s happened. Is this what Jason meant? Is he aware of something I’m not? Yet more worms crawling out of the woodwork regarding my father? Even with the press interest, the stories in the papers, my mum wouldn’t just go. After all this time staying with him, she wouldn’t go now unless something awful had happened to make her.

  Turning into my parents’ road, I slow, glancing towards their house with deep apprehension. It’s beautiful, a grand three-storey Georgian house, with picturesque views overlooking the park from the back windows. When she was alive, Sarah and I had shared the attic bedroom on the third floor, the room with the best views. We used to sit outside on the wide window ledge on hot summer days, telling each other stories, dreaming and dangling our feet. It should have been paradise. It turned into a nightmare. For a second, I’m back there, waiting outside the house on the day of the funeral. But the people congregated here now are not here to mourn, to stand and watch the hearse arrive in respectful silence. Jostling each other, running towards me, this crowd is hungry, ready to close in for the kill.

  My heart rate escalates. I am hot and clammy under my too-heavy parka coat, a bead of sweat snaking its way down my throat to trickle over the soft hollow of my neck. I should have approached the house from the back, snuc
k through the garden gate adjoining the park and gone in through the conservatory. It’s too late now.

  Inhaling deeply, I clutch the steering wheel and ram my foot down on the accelerator, causing the bloodsuckers with press badges to scatter as I screech to a stop.

  ‘Mrs Connolly!’ One of the reporters follows me through the un-gated drive and pushes a microphone in my face as I spill from the car. ‘How do you feel about the allegations made against your father?’

  ‘Karla!’ a female reporter shouts, nudging him aside. ‘Can you give us a brief comment? It would be invaluable to the MeToo campaign.’

  ‘Piss off,’ I hiss. Key poised, I make my way to the front door. He’s my father. What do they want me to say? I’m not here to comment. I have no idea how I feel about him, the man who robbed me of my sister. The man who played a part in the failure of my marriage; who has almost been a third person in my marriage. I’m not sure what he did, what he said to Jason that finally drove home the last nail, but I felt my husband withdraw from me that day. I knew it was only a matter of time before he walked away.

  My father categorically denied having said or done anything, according to my mother. I don’t believe it. I don’t trust him. All of my life, I have wondered about him. When I was younger, looking at him through a tiny child’s eyes, I couldn’t conceive of the possibility that this big businessman in his smart blue suits, the man I revered, might tell anything but the truth. As I grew up, I learned differently, and I simply stopped looking. Mum turned a blind eye to his ‘indiscretions’, indiscretions which I came to realise had gone on for longer than I could remember, and I did too. And then came the tragedy that rocked our world. I stopped listening to the voice in my head that whispered the word ‘liar’. I shut it down.

  I’m not sure how much of what the press is accusing him of is true. I’m not sure of anything, other than that it’s not my father I’m here for. I’m here because my mother is not. Perhaps all of this, the clamouring reporters who will undoubtedly dig up the past, is the final straw that’s driven her to do what I never imagined she would. But for her not to have discussed it with me, with all I have happening in my life? For her not to have at least rung me? I don’t understand. She’s left so suddenly, and I need to know why. I need to know where she is.