The Guilty Wife

by Sally Wentworth

  Unlocking the door, Lucie took Sam inside and let him watch television while she made herself a hot drink laced with brandy. She took it into the dining-area that opened off the sitting-room so that she could watch him while she slowly drank it. The torment she'd felt when Sam was lost still haunted her, but it had sharpened her brain, her reasoning, because now she knew that she must think only of him. And she began to think objectively almost for the first time since Rick had started threatening her.

  He was, she saw, ruining not only her own and Seton's lives, but now was affecting Sam's too. She couldn't allow that. So she was left with only three alternatives. The first, obviously, was to tell Seton everything. But it wouldn't stop the blackmail; Rick would simply apply pressure to them both. He still had the press cutting with the photograph of her, he still, knew everything about her and could sell the story to a newspaper, unless they paid him not to. Seton's career and ambitions would still be in ruins.

  It occurred to Lucie that perhaps Rick wanted her to tell Seton because he could get more money out of him than out of her. So telling Seton wouldn't be the end of it, wasn't a solution. The second alternative would be to go to the police, tell them everything and throw herself on their mercy. Surely if she told them that Rick had kidnapped Sam then they would have to help her? They would find Rick and put him back behind bars. But before they could do that there would have to be a trial, so it would all come out anyway. Again, it was no solution.

  Then there was the third way. Lucie didnt have to think much about it; in her heart she knew that it was the only way. And it had to be done now, tonight, because the autumn sessions had begun and Seton was away until the weekend. Picking up the phone, she called her mother-in-law and told another lie, having told so many that she was able to do it quite glibly by now.

  'There's beeiba break-in at Aunt Kate's house. You know she's away? I have to go up there straight away, I'm afraid, so I wondered if you'd mind having Sam?'

  She was assured that it was fine, Seton's mother obviously excited at the prospect.

  'I may be away for two or three days. I'm not really sure. So could you take him to school? But please make sure that you meet him, that you're there in plenty of time,' Lucie insisted.

  'Of course, my dear. He'll be perfectly safe with us.'

  After packing some clothes and toys for Sam, Lucie dropped him off at his grandparents'. She hugged him fiercely again when she said goodbye, then had to hurry away, ostensibly to drive to her aunt's house, in reality to hide her anguished face. Back home, she packed a couple of suitcases with her things, then sat down at the desk and wrote a note to Seton. It was extremely short because her hands were shaking and she couldn't keep back the tears.

  'I need some time alone. Please don't try to find me. Take care of Sam. Lucie.'

  She propped the letter on the hall table where Seton would be sure to see it, then let herself out of her home, her life, her happiness, and drove away to an unknown and unwanted future.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LUCIE spent that night at Aunt Kate's house. It was late when she got there, almost eleven o'clock—too late to phone her in-laws to see if Sam was all right. But he would be, she knew; he was a gregarious child and enjoyed visiting his grandparents. Would he tell them about Rick collecting him from school? she wondered. It was possible, because he had been taught not-to be secretive, but she had been angry with him and he knew that it had been wrong to go with Rick, so he might keep it to himself.

  The drive, and all that had happened that day, had made Lucie feel exhausted, but she didn't expect to sleep. But maybe having come to a decision at last, having taken the only step she could to get herself out of Rick's malevolent hold had given her some inner peace, because she fell asleep as soon as she got into Aunt Kale's guest bed, and slept deeply for the first tune in ages.

  At first, when she woke the next morning, Lucie couldn't think where she was, then she remembered and her heart filled with desolation, and it was then that she cried in heartbroken sobs of anguish for all she'd lost. When her sobs eased a little it occurred to her that it wasn't too late, that she could go back home, destroy her note to Seton and go on with her life. But that life had become intolerabte because of the damage it was doing to the two people she loved. She had made her decision and it must be irrevocable.

  Now and for always. There must be no going back, no weakness; she had to be strong for Seton's and Sam's sakes. She'd had over five wonderful, perfect years and that must be her only consolation, for the rest of her life. At just after eight she rang Seton's parents, spoke briefly to Sam, who was fine, and told them that she might have to stay in Derbyshire for several days. "There are quite a lot of repairs to be done, and the police want me to make an inventory of everything that's been taken,' she told them, dispiritedly extending her earlier story. They were sympathetic and told her to take her time, trying to hide their pleasure at having Sam to themselves for so long. Putting the phone down, Lucie wondered how they would feel when Seton got home and read her letter and they realised that they would have Sam to look after indefinitely.

  Her call over, Lucie turned her attention to her own future. It wasn't a subject that greatly interested her but she would have to do something. It would have been nice just to stay here at Aunt Kate's, but this was the first place Seton would look for her.

  That he would look for her, Lucie had no doubt, even though she'd asked him not to. She ought, she thought guiltily, to have made the note more definite, to have said that she would never go back, but she'd hoped that by implying she would return eventually she would gain more time. Seton might not start searching for her if he expected her to come home any day. But one thing was absolutely certain: Seton would never accept just a brief note as an end to their marriage.

  So she must move on before he got home and found her letter, find a place where she could lose herself, change her name and just go on existing. Because existing was all it would ever be; her life was over now; there would never again be anything to look forward to.

  Taking a road atlas from the bookcase, Lucie looked at it in a desultory way and decided to go to Manchester. It was a huge town where she could easily get lost in the crowds, and wasn't too far away. And there was bound to be a pawnshop there where she could raise money on the rest of her jewellery, her watch, which was a very good one, and the eternity ring that Seton had given her on their fifth wedding anniversary—things she hadn't been able to pawn before because Seton would have noticed.

  She thought also of pawning her engagement ring, but found the idea of parting with it unbearable. All she needed was enough money to last until she found a job. And if she couldn't find one right away there was always the car; that was hers, bought for her by Seton, admittedly, but it had been a surprise birthday present so was definitely hers. Lucie really wanted to keep it, though, because at the back of her mind was always the hope that when she got really desperate she could sneak back to get a glimpse of Sam, and perhaps Seton too, although that would be terribly risky. But she knew that she would have to sell it once the baby came. As yet, probably because of all the stress she'd been going through, Lucie was still slim and the baby didn't show very much, especially when she wore a loose sweater, which she hoped would be a help when she tried to get a job. Lucie put the thought of Seton's anger, if he ever found her, firmly from her mind and left shortly afterwards, stopping at a roadside cafe on the way and forcing herself to eat some breakfast, then driving on north-west to Manchester. It wasn't a place she'd been to before and the size of the city overwhelmed her. Where on earth should she start looking for a job, for somewhere to live?

  She found herself passing the university buildings and pulled into the side, near a pub. It was open and she went in, found, as she'd guessed she would, that there were several young people who looked like students there, although it was still early in the term. She got chatting to a couple of girls and asked them if they knew of any cheap digs, or where she should go to loo
k, implying that she was a mature student.

  They were friendly and helpful, and soon Lucie found herself with a long list of addresses, a pile of change, and a phone booth that she commandeered for the next hour. Most of the places were already full, but eventually she managed to find a bedsit in a house where a student had canceled only a couple of days earlier. Thankfully Lucie also found a pawnshop, hocked her jewellery, and drove round to the house to look at the room. It was small and the furniture cheap and basic, but at least it was newly decorated and clean. There was a handbasin in which she could wash but she would have to share the communal bathroom and kitchen. But just finding somewhere lifted her spirits; after all, when you'd lived in a cramped prison cell for nearly three years then this was paradise in comparison. That it was also the most dreadful comparison to the home she'd just left, Lucie tried not to think about.

  So now all she had to do was find a job. Here, too, she was lucky, the fact that she could work at any time and start at once allowing her to take temporary work as a candy-seller at a cinema complex where the permanent assistant had taken sick leave to have an emergency operation. There would be at least six weeks' work and possibly longer. The hours were unsociable—from two in the afternoon until ten at night, five nights a week—but LUCK didn't mind that in the least. The longer she worked, the less time she would have to think and fed bitter. It was strange, she thought wryly; now that she'd left home, now that nothing really mattered any more luck was coming her way. Maybe the goddesses of fate were trying to tell her that she'd made the right decision in leaving. The temptation to call her in-laws, to speak to Sam, had to be fought from the first day. Working evenings made it physically easier because that would have been the best time to phone, but the mental torture, the need for her child and to know that he was well, was almost overwhelming. As, too, was her need for Seton. She missed him every moment of the day, spent most of the time when she wasn't working imagining what he was doing. He would be home by now and would have found her note. How would he fed now that she'd gone?

  Knowing that their marriage was a mess, he would try to be understanding at first, she supposed, but as time went by and there was no word from her he would become impatient and then angry. And when that happened he would start searching for her. But she was using a false name and felt safe, secure, both from Seton and Rick. And being safe from Rick was like having a great weight lifted from her shoulders. It was a pity that it had now settled on her heart instead.

  Lucie got a half-hour break during her work shift, and took it in the staff rest-room, where she read the paper that she and Seton had always taken. Though tenuous, it was a link with home, and she liked to remember Seton flicking through the pages over breakfast and reading out some item of news that interested or amused him. Looking through it, she would try to guess which items he would have picked out. One night, only her third in Manchester, an item in the personal column caught her eye. 'L, darling, please come home or phone. We love and need you. S & S.'

  Lucie stared at it, knowing instinctively that it was meant for her. Her hand went to her mouth and pressed hard against her lips as she tried desperately to restrain sudden tears. She had never thought that he would do anything like this.

  Hastily Lucie went out to the ladies' cloakroom. Seton must have been pretty desperate, she realised, staring blindly at her reflection in the mirror. People— their neighbours—would realise that she'd left him; they would see that item and know it was meant for her. Maybe Anna would go round and offer him more 'comfort', she thought bitterly.

  Her eyes focused and she looked at her face. She had lost weight, become thin—too thin; her bones showed clearly in her cheeks. But she was fine-boned anyway, so didn't look haggard, just pale and fragile. It was her eyes that gave her away; nothing could disguise their unhappiness, then: bleak despair. After that day she didn't buy a paper again.

  The cinema complex was on the outskirts of the city, making Lucie glad that she'd kept the car—travelling home so late on buses wouldn't have been pleasant, but in the car it took hardly any time at all. It was a couple of days after she'd seen the ad in the paper when she saw flashing lights in her rear-view mirror as she was driving home after work, and saw that a police car was behind her. Surprised but obedient, she pulled into the side, worried that she might inadvertently have gone through a red light because her mind was elsewhere. Two policemen in uniform came up, one to each side of the car. She wound down the window and the one her side said, 'Are you the owner of this car, miss?'

  'Yes, I am. Have I done something wrong?'

  'Do you have the registration certificate for the car?'

  'I think so. Somewhere.' Picking up her bag from the passenger seat, Lucie started to search through it.

  'Your name, please?' the policeman asked white she was still searching.

  'Joan Wilson,' she answered, unthinkingly giving the name she was using. 'Oh, here it is.' She found the certificate and handed it to him.

  'And your driving license, please, miss.'

  She found that too, and handed it over.

  The policeman walked to the front of the car to read them in the light of the headlamps. Coming back, he said, 'You said your name is Joan Wilson?'

  'Yes, that's right.' Suddenly she realised where he was heading. Flustered, she said, 'I know that isn't the name on the driving license, but you see—well, I've decided to change my name, but I haven't got round to having the license altered yet.'

  'I see.' But he sounded very sceptical. 'It isn't die name on the vehicle registration form either,' he pointed out.

  'No, but it's my car.'

  'And is another of your names Seton Wallace?' he asked wryly.

  'No, that—that's my husband. He bought the car for me.'

  'Really? It may interest you to know that this vehicle has been reported as stolen.'

  'Stolen!' She stared at him. 'But it couldn't have been. I mean, it's mine.'

  'Could you get out of the car, please?' Slowly, reluctantly, she did so. 'I'm arresting you on suspicion of having stolen this car."

  'But you can't!'

  But they did, and what followed was a nightmare. They took her back to the police station where she was formally charged and then they put her in a cell. To Lucie it brought back that first time so many years ago all over again. The cell looked exactly the same, it even smelt the same—of disinfectant and fear. She sat down on the bunk bed, her back stiff, her hands clasped together in her lap, trying not to think of the past, while she waited. She knew what had happened, knew that Seton had reported the car stolen in a desperate bid to find her. And he wasn't to know, of course, just how traumatic being put in a cell was for her, or how she wanted to cringe away from the uniformed men. The whole purpose of her running away was so that he would never find out. A laugh of bitter self-mockery escaped her; she'd thought she'd been so clever, that she'd disappeared without trace, but Seton had found her so easily, after just a few days. She should have sold the car at once, bought another with the money. But now he had found her and would demand an explanation—and what on earth could she say?

  It was the next morning before Seton came. She had stayed quietly in her cell, refusing any breakfast, and didn't look up when the door opened. A policeman, a different one from the man who'd arrested her, said, 'You can come out now.'

  Lucie followed him into an office. Seton was there. Lucie glanced at him for the briefest moment, but her heart lurched sickeningly at the scorching look he gave her, in his eyes a mixture of anger and relief, of hope and resentment.

  'Do you confirm that this lady is your wife, sir?' a policeman in plain clothes asked him.

  'Yes.'

  'And do you confirm that you are formally withdrawing the charge against her?'

  'Yes.'

  'Very well. Here are the keys to your car, sir.'

  'Thank you—and thank you again for all your help.'

  The policeman nodded and looked at Lucie, not unkindly, as he
handed over her bag. 'You're free to go, Mrs Wallace.'

  Suddenly she was afraid. Lucie hesitated, looked at the man pleadingly for a moment, but then lowered her head, knowing it wasn't any use.

  But Seton had seen and his face hardened. Taking her arm in a grip that hurt, he walked her out of the police station and across to the car. 'Where are you staying?' he demanded curtly, pushing her inside. She told him, and mechanically gave him directions until they pulled up outside the house. Seton turned to look at her grimly. 'Ace you staying there alone?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  'Give me your keys.'

  Silently Lucie handed them over and he took hold of her arm as they went up to her room. The house was silent, empty, all the tenants having gone to work or college. He unlocked the door to her room and gave a small gasp as he saw its stark simplicity, the only ornament the photo of himself and Sam that she'd brought with her. Pushing her inside, he shut the door. Slowly Lucie turned to face him, her chin coming up to take the verbal blows that she knew would rain on her.

  'Well?' Seton said bitterly. 'Have you nothing to say, no explanation to give for walking out on us?'

  She swallowed, said huskily, 'Please don't do this. Please let me go.'

  Striding across the room in sudden rage, Seton caught hold of her shoulders and shook her. 'How dare you say that to me? How dare you? Can you imagine what these last days have been like, worried out of my mind, listening to Sam crying for you every night? Can you? Can you? He shook her again. 'Why did you leave us?' She lowered her head, tried to think of something to say, but he put a none too gentle hand under her chin, lifting her face. 'Damn you, Lucie. Look at me.'