The Marriage Trap: A completely addictive psychological thriller

by Sheryl Browne

  Running a hand tiredly over his face, he made his way to the spare room, supposing he should take Jessie’s advice and lie down. He wouldn’t sleep. He rarely did when Karla was out. He intended to go in to the office tomorrow, to tie up some loose ends, but he’d already told Mark it might be late morning, so that wasn’t a problem. Mark was pretty much running the place now anyway. He would probably run it a damn sight better than he had. He’d given Jason the option to buy back into the business at some future point, if things didn’t work out at the extreme sports company he’d approached in Ireland. Jason didn’t envisage going back. He’d had it with ecommerce. He needed a clean break, a new future, to be able to live a life that hadn’t been built on a lie. That future may or may not be with Jessie, but her cottage in County Carlow made Ireland seem like a haven – for a few days, at least, while he tried to sort things out.

  Jessie had been thrilled for him about the job. Jason guessed he was pleased too. Assuming they offered him a position, it would give him the chance to indulge his passion. Sadly, extreme sports weren’t something he’d done much of since he’d been married. He hadn’t really minded, figuring that, as a father, one of his responsibilities was not to risk life and limb thrill-seeking.

  But wasn’t he doing just that? His marriage was over – it couldn’t survive now – but didn’t making plans to build a new life so far away mean he was taking risks with his children’s future? He was their father. He was responsible for them, their health and happiness. He had yet to tell Karla he was going. Having made arrangements to meet Jessie’s incoming flight and then fly back to Ireland with her, once she’d visited her family here, he had no choice now but to tell Karla.

  Whether he would get on the flight, though, he wasn’t yet sure. The way Karla was behaving now, he wasn’t confident he could leave Holly and Josh safely in her care, particularly with her mother having left her shit of a father for a safe haven of her own away from the media.

  Dammit. He needed to talk to Karla, but how, when they were barely speaking? When they did, it was only to argue. He would have to find a way, assuming she came home before he left for the airport tomorrow, that was. He wouldn’t come back to the house while Jessie was here. That wouldn’t be fair on Karla or Jessie.

  FORTY-SIX

  KARLA

  I wake with the stale taste of alcohol and cigarette smoke in my mouth. My stomach churns, but I’m too queasy to trust myself to make it to the bathroom. Prising my grainy eyelids open, I squint towards the window. I’m in the Travelodge, I realise. I grope for some recollection of how I got here and then squeeze my eyes closed, mortification crashing through me as I recall stumbling drunkenly into a taxi, spilling from it here with a beer bottle in my hand.

  I fell. I swallow back my shame as an image of an out-of-control, brazenly dressed woman weaving across the car park assaults me. I lift my hand. The sharp shards of grit embedded in my palm confirm it.

  My eyes stray to the window. It’s still early. By the thin blue light filtering through the blind, I judge that it’s approaching dawn. There’s no birdsong to greet it; just the distant rumble of traffic on the dual carriageway. But then, there’s been no birdsong in my life since my marriage began to crumble; no sunshine. Just this cold, empty bleakness that surrounds me and seems to reside inside me.

  My gaze travels to the bland, cream-coloured walls. The room is still spinning, though not with the nauseating merry-go-round momentum it did last night. More like a slowly turning roundabout in some sad, forgotten park. I can almost hear the haunting laughter of the children who’ve abandoned it.

  Gulping back the acrid taste in my throat, I twist my head to the side. He’s lying on his back, his face turned towards me, one arm crooked under his head. His hair is dark, military-cut, with just a sprinkling of grey. His eyelashes are long, luxuriant, sweeping his high cheekbones as he sleeps. He’s obviously well groomed. I try to take some small comfort from that. He reminds me of Jason. I feel my insides knot. The same sharp spasm I feel every time I realise I’ve almost certainly lost him: my husband, the person who is fundamentally part of me. This man is not Jason. Jason doesn’t have tattoos. Jason doesn’t like rough sex. I know this person intimately – my body, sore and raw, tells me I do – but I don’t know him at all.

  Did I have sex with him at the nightclub? My heart thumps in my chest; broken thoughts leap around in my head. I see the overly made-up face of the woman looking back at me in the mirror and my stomach recoils, rebelling against the memory, as well as the wine I poured into it, so easily, so carelessly. God, what am I doing?

  Who am I? I don’t know any more. This person lying here with a stranger is not me. Not the me I used to be: a mother, a wife. A good mother, I’d thought. A good wife. But not good enough. Inhaling, I hold my breath, try to stop a silent tear sliding from my eye.

  Did Jason miss me last night? My heart stalls at that thought. Jason doesn’t try to stop me going out. He knows that, in choosing to throw away what we had, he forfeited the right to interfere. He asked me not to go one night. I told him he could stop me by telling me he wouldn’t leave me. He didn’t. I bite back a low moan. He doesn’t want me. He’s not jealous. Why did I imagine he would be, when emotionally he’s already left me? He’s staying for the children. He doesn’t want to rock their worlds. He will miss them if he goes, that much I do know: Josh, his scrawny ten-year-old son, who’s already decided he wants to do computer science, to grow up to be clever and big and strong, just like his father. Poor Josh. How badly will his illusions be shattered? Holly, the baby I refused to abort, despite my father pressurising me to. His granddaughter. Even now, knowing the truth about the kind of man my father is, I struggle to believe he would have had me snuff out her life.

  Jason worships her. He has loved her ferociously since the first time he glimpsed her tiny form on the monitor. He swore he would die to protect her when he first cradled her gently in his arms; that he would kill anyone who dared hurt her. Would he die for her now? Would he stay if he realised that, by leaving, he would be killing part of his daughter, crushing her childhood innocence and showing her how cruel life can be? How cruel love can be? Does he realise that he, her father, would be the man who would hurt her most of all?

  Just like my father, he will destroy the child he created. I never imagined Jason capable of that. There’s part of me that still hopes he won’t, that somehow I can make him believe that our love for each other is strong enough to endure. He has been sidetracked by an illusion of his perfect woman, that’s all. I have to make him see that the person he wants to be with is me. But it’s not me, is it? I reach to wipe away another slow tear. What would he think if he could see me now: this sad morning-after creature, lying under sheets that smell of sex, next to a complete stranger?

  Is he still in bed, I wonder? I picture him, his arm thrown across his forehead, lying next to the ghost of me, dreaming of a new life without his wife.

  He stirs, my military-haired stranger, grunting slightly as he does, reaching for me in his drowsiness. He probably doesn’t know who it is he’s reaching for – soft flesh, female flesh, that’s all. Wriggling away from him, I ease myself woozily to a sitting position and realise dawn has turned to day. And then it occurs to me: I don’t know what day. Is it a school day? Frantically, I sift through my alcohol-induced haze. I can’t remember. Panic engulfs me, and I wonder again whether I might be losing my grip on reality. I’m drinking too much, thinking too much, struggling to keep track. Friday. I seize on it. It’s Friday. Breathing a slow breath, I feel calmer for anchoring this piece of knowledge in the sea of madness my life has become.

  God, what time is it? I fumble for my phone on the bedside locker. Eight a.m.? But how? I would have sworn it was only six o’clock a moment ago. And then I hear the unmistakable spatter of rain outside, which explains the drab blue-grey start to the day. Instantly, I am transported back to the dark, defining days of my childhood – the rain lashing the windows, the cloying
air of the steamy kitchen.

  My dad is circulating, shaking hands with the funeral guests, sombre black-clad figures with pitying faces. He is stoic, despite the cross he bears. And my eight-year-old self watches him. And she knows. She knows the secret that will stay forever hidden within the walls of that grand house, the house my sister should have grown up in. His cross to bear is that the small body in the ground lies there because of him.

  My mind fast-forwards, jerking through the images I try to keep stored away. I’m at Mum’s sixtieth birthday party. My father’s talking to Jason as I watch from the dance floor, belittling him, humiliating him. Always doing that. I humiliated him that night, not once, not twice, but three times: dancing with the toy boy, bringing up the subject of the loan, finally turning him down in bed. I see Jason’s frustration. I feel it: a sharp painful knot right at the core of me. That was when I realised the foundations of my marriage had truly been rocked. One final push from my father ensured it would topple. He’d known it. He set Jason up, and then sat back and watched while we fell apart.

  I have to go. I pull myself to my feet. I have to try to reassure my sweet little girl, who’s not much older than that lonely little girl at the funeral. But Holly’s not me. She’s extroverted, confident, bright and sassy. Innocent. Blinking away the tears, I head shakily to the bathroom, pee quickly, gulp tap water into my mouth, spit it out. I think of Josh: the constant reminders to brush his teeth, his confusion, his palpable anger. I have to go. I collect up my scattered clothes, my cheeks burning with shame. They will be missing me. I’m not the same mummy I used to be. I have seen the bewilderment in their little faces. Things are not running as smoothly as they were when I was organised – smiling and caring, not ranting and raving, slightly insane. But my children still love me. This is my one certainty in a life that’s unravelling around me.

  I should be there. I hastily tug on my underwear.

  My mum, she was always there. And now… I so wish she would call. There are many words unspoken between us, secrets we’ve both chosen to bury, but she must realise I need her. Wiping my nose with the back of my hand, I grab my phone. My thumb hovers over her number, but I hesitate. What if it goes to voicemail again. What will I do then?

  I’m about to call Jason when my phone pings: Hope you had a good night. Taking the kids to school, he’s sent. There’s no sign-off, no ‘see you soon’. The three kisses he would normally send are obvious by their absence. They’re an expression of love, after all, and he no longer loves me.

  But he does – if only he would believe it. I have to make him. I have to make him realise he wants me. I reach to smooth back my hair before I remember it’s no longer there. Short is easier to keep while I live my double life: mother when I’m home, a bad mother now, no longer a wife; and someone the complete opposite of me when I’m not. Will the fragmented sides ever come together, I wonder? Would Jason find that person enticing, exciting?’

  ‘Hey.’ I feel an arm snake around my waist as I pick up my holdall. ‘Where are you off to in such a hurry? It wasn’t that bad, was it?’

  I clamp my mind down on the memories – jagged memories, incomplete and broken: a woman’s body going through the motions, somewhere else in her head. ‘Home,’ I say. I unfurl his arm and step away from him, then drag my change of clothes from my bag – clothing more suitable than the ridiculous outfit I was wearing last night. ‘I have to get back to my children.’

  ‘Children?’ I hear the surprise in his voice.

  ‘Two,’ I tell him, tugging on my jeans. ‘A girl and a boy, aged eleven and ten.’

  ‘Blimey, you must have had them young,’ he says. ‘You’re married then?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pulling my jumper over my head, I turn to face him.

  ‘Right.’ He smiles a c’est la vie smile and shrugs. And I thank God he appears to be quite reasonable. It could have ended differently. Badly. I didn’t care last night. I truly believed it wouldn’t matter if I ceased to exist. How could I have thought that? However unbearable my life has become, how could I have been so selfish I hadn’t considered my children?

  Guilt twisting my stomach, I retrieve my pumps from my bag and push my feet into them. ‘See you around.’ I give him a small smile before I leave. I don’t owe him anything. The room was already paid for. And he owes me nothing; I think he’s aware of that.

  He nods and then cocks his head to one side. ‘You look different without the make-up and stuff,’ he observes.

  ‘Better or worse?’ I ask, curious as to how other men perceive me.

  ‘Just different,’ he answers.

  Yes, I am. Giving him another smile for his tactfulness, I collect my bag and turn for the door. I’m not the woman my husband imagines I am.

  I am reminded of something as I leave: ‘Paradox of the Actor’, an essay written by prominent historical philosopher Denis Diderot. Abstractedly, I recall a class on the subject. Diderot believed the actor should be ‘free of sensibility’, likening him to a blank slate. Waiting to be drawn upon, the slate sits unblemished. An empty vessel, it becomes filled by observations which are then poured into the performance; the actor has the ability to shape his observations to become anything or anyone.

  I liked that metaphor. But what happens when you strip away the personas, I wonder, as I wait for my taxi. When the performance is poured into the audience and the vessel is empty, where is the person beneath?

  FORTY-SEVEN

  JASON

  After fumbling to open the front door and get into the house, Karla came into the kitchen. ‘I thought you’d be gone,’ she said, clearly surprised to find he’d come back after dropping the kids off at school.

  Stifling a sigh, Jason continued to unload the dishwasher to make room for the detritus that still littered the breakfast table. It was fairly obvious why Karla had struggled to get her key in the lock. He could smell the alcohol on her breath. She’d had a good night then, out with the ‘friends’ she didn’t care to share details about.

  ‘There’s fresh coffee in the jug,’ he said, assuming she could use some.

  Prising her pumps off and kicking them into a corner, Karla didn’t answer him. She didn’t look at him as she headed towards the coffee machine. Jason didn’t pursue it. There wasn’t much point when they couldn’t even communicate civilly for the sake of the kids any more. His fault. He hadn’t meant it to be this way, but he couldn’t change things any more than he could change who he was. At least he now knew why Fenton had always seemed to openly loathe him. The feeling was mutual. It was small compensation that the world’s smuggest fat cat and self-proclaimed ‘entrepreneurial genius’ was getting his just deserts for the destruction he’d caused.

  How the mighty had fallen, Jason thought, a sour taste in his mouth as he recalled how he’d seen him in action that day at his offices. If he hadn’t been appalled by the sheer obnoxiousness of the man before that, there was now no doubt in his mind. The media had finally named him, thanks to Abbie’s courage in outing him. In so doing, other people felt encouraged to come forward, which had started a ball rolling that Jason guessed would only gather momentum, injunction or not. Naturally, Fenton was still denying the allegations, but while Karla and her mother had closed their eyes to his odious behaviour, Jason had been on to him for years. Even without knowing what he now did, he’d always thought Robert Fenton was a pitiless and ruthless bastard. People simply didn’t matter to him. If he had to trample them underfoot in order to preserve what he’d ‘fought for’, so be it, even if those people were his own flesh and blood.

  Jason supposed he should be feeling some kind of satisfaction. Strangely, he still didn’t. All he felt was battle-worn. He simply wanted out. Closing the dishwasher door, he braced himself to make his announcement. He had no idea what her reaction would be. Apathy or anger? Relief? He just couldn’t read her any more. ‘I’m going,’ he said quietly.

  ‘And coming back when you feel like it, no doubt,’ Karla said, pouring coffee into her
mug.

  ‘No.’ Jason pulled in a long breath. ‘I won’t be back, Karla,’ he continued carefully. He had to do this now. He’d searched his conscience over and over, but his mind was made up. He’d stayed home specifically to catch her and deliver the news. He hoped it wouldn’t destroy her, but this, being in a relationship that couldn’t survive, should never have been. She needed to be free of him. To be able to move forwards without him.

  At least selling the business would leave her debt-free and with some funds in the bank, though he doubted he would get much credit for that. Jason prayed that his kids would understand, that they would realise nothing could ever diminish his love for them. But the raw reality was that he was about to turn their world upside down, no matter how hard he tried to rationalise what he was doing. It had to be better than them hearing the arguments, feeling the antagonism, though, didn’t it? With Karla seeming more unpredictable lately, determined to do her own thing, and him basically miserable, this environment couldn’t be good for them.

  Karla put down her mug and turned to look at him as if she hadn’t quite registered what he was saying. ‘You’re… leaving?’ She laughed, her expression a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment.

  Closing his eyes, Jason nodded regretfully and supressed an urge to go to her and hold her.

  ‘To be with some online… slut?’ Karla stared at him, her eyes now a kaleidoscope of emotion, from shock through to heart-wrenching, palpable hurt.

  Jason kneaded his forehead. He didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t lead to yet another argument.

  ‘When?’ Karla demanded, lifting her chin, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘Soon.’ Jason glanced guiltily away. Whether or not there was any future with Jessie, he had no choice. How the hell was he supposed to tell Karla that? ‘Today.’

  ‘Now? While the kids are at school? Without telling them?’ Karla’s expression was one of astonishment, and then her eyes darkened. ‘Coward!’ she screamed suddenly, causing him to step back.