Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  Jo-Jo took great pains to search her normally empty mind and dredge up every nasty phrase she could recall, all about how Oliver had been seen kissing another girl, that in fact he had a reputation as a womaniser. I listened, horrified.

  ‘That’s a complete lie, Oliver’s not like that at all. He would never cheat on me. He loves me. It was obviously written by one of his old flames, someone with a grievance, perhaps because he jilted her for me.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Jo-Jo airily remarked, turning to smile at me, dark eyes gleaming with triumph at my discomfiture.

  I pushed back my chair. ‘Some people simply can’t bear to see me happy,’ and I was no longer referring to the unknown writer of that letter. I walked away, head high, slamming the front door behind me. I’d no idea where I was going, feeling only a desperate need to escape. I certainly had no intention of asking Oliver any such thing. That was my first mistake.

  My home at that time was my parents’ bungalow, and it wasn’t easy to escape prying eyes when seeking a bit of privacy. There always seemed to be someone watching from behind twitching curtains.

  The hills surrounding the auld grey town, as Kendal is fondly known, are my favourite place to go when I’m troubled as you can walk for miles in absolute silence without seeing a soul, save for a lone buzzard or a few lapwing. But I didn’t go walking on the fells that evening as it was already growing dark. Instead, I wandered the streets in utter despair and disappointment. I don’t really remember where as my mind was taken up completely with wondering how I could possibly marry Oliver if this anonymous letter were found to be true. How could I even still love him? He’d betrayed me, so he couldn’t possibly love me, not as he should.

  It still seemed astonishing that he’d even looked my way. My puppy-fat might have fined down, the braces had done their work and were long gone, but I still felt lucky to have him. Oliver could have any girl, and there are plenty better looking than me.

  Stomach churning I worried over losing him, and of practical things like having to resell the new house we’d bought, let alone the embarrassment of calling off the wedding and returning all those lovely gifts. Nor was it a happy prospect, at twenty-five, to settle for staying on with my parents, not when I’d dreamed of happy-ever-after in a home of my own.

  Perhaps I was worrying unnecessarily. I told myself that Mum was probably right to throw the letter away. It was no doubt nothing more than jealous mischief from some ex-girl friend.

  When I got back to my parents’ bungalow, Jo-Jo had gone home to Ed and her children. Mum offered to make me a mug of hot chocolate, then started discussing our choice of hymns, the flowers in church and a myriad other details. I never plucked up the courage to ask her about the letter. I shut it right out of my mind, which was perhaps my second mistake.

  The wedding took place on a perfect, if rather breezy, summer’s day at the parish church where we threw pennies to the local children from the lych-gate, according to custom. Oliver thought I looked utterly beautiful in my satin gown. The wedding photos seemed to go on forever as he kept making the young photographer take a few extra shots, just in case he hadn’t quite captured the perfect picture of me. My face ached with all the smiling by the time he finally called a halt, but I was so happy, so proud to make my vows and start on our new life together.

  The reception followed with champagne flowing, a band playing, and everyone having a great time throwing themselves about like demented idiots, while Oliver and I enjoyed the sexy, smoochy dancing. My dizzy, tactless, interfering sister acted as if she hadn’t a care in the world, as if she hadn’t done her utmost to scupper my precious happiness.

  We enjoyed a wonderful honeymoon in Florence, visiting the Uffizi and the Ponte Veccio, marvelling at the pavement artists, exploring the narrow historic streets, the famous designer shops and the many museums and galleries of this beautiful, romantic city. And now here we are, newly married and settled in our beautiful dream home.

  But as I curve myself against the warmth of my husband’s body, I wonder why I don’t feel happier. I try to block the awful incident from my mind, tell myself the slap was nothing more than the result of stress, of my clumsy response to a perfectly reasonable question. And it’s true, I did smile at that damn waiter, so isn’t Oliver’s jealousy only proof of how very much he cares for me?

  Deep in the pit of my stomach there’s a knot of dull pain, and a solitary tear rolls down my cheek on to the pretty, lace-edged pillow. Stressed out by the wedding or not, he really shouldn’t have hit me.

  Chapter Two

  At breakfast the next morning Oliver is his normal self, behaving as if the assault of the night before never took place. I come swiftly to the conclusion that this is probably the right way to deal with the matter. The least said about that dreadful incident, the better. I’m quite sure he must be smarting with shame, and it won’t help one bit for me to add to his guilt by reminding him of it.

  He eats the breakfast I’ve cooked for him, gives me a long, lingering kiss, then grabs his briefcase and strides out the door, throwing the usual instructions over his shoulder as to when I might expect him home.

  ‘I could be late too,’ I say, as I rush after him with his mobile phone which he’s left on the kitchen table, and lean in through the open window of his Ford Mondeo to steal one last kiss. ‘I have to wait to hand over the key of Jasmine Cottage to the Williams family, and they warned me they might arrive a bit late.’

  Oliver pulls a face. ‘Leave it under the mat, for goodness sake. You’ve got the damn place ready for them, surely you don’t have to wait on them hand, foot and finger?’

  I smile at his impatience, understanding why he wants me home early. Even after almost a year of going out together, and a whole four weeks married we can still barely keep our hands off each other. Sex is very much an important part of each day, and dinner often comes second to this need in us both. I kiss him again. ‘I’ll be ready and waiting for you if it’s at all possible, I promise.’

  ‘I do hope so, Carly. I expect to come first in my wife’s life, not second to some tin-pot holiday business.’

  I’m annoyed by Oliver’s description. ‘It’s all part of the job, sweetie.’

  ‘No, it’s you allowing yourself to be put upon, as always.’

  This was too much. ‘Hardly, I’m my own boss, after all. Both Emma and I work very hard. Perfect Cottages are known for taking proper care of owners’ property, and we certainly wouldn’t dream of leaving keys lying about under mats where some sneak thief can easily find them. I’ll leave something in the fridge for you, in case I get held up.’

  ‘Just don’t expect me to cook it,’ Oliver growls, as he drives off frowning.

  I shake my head in fond despair. Nobody could accuse Oliver of being a ‘new man’.

  Shortly before we got together I’d started my new business, Perfect Cottages, a holiday letting agency. I’m not exactly the academic type and I’d been working in Mum and Dad’s shop, a Spar convenience store, up to a couple of years ago when I decided I wanted to do something more interesting and worthwhile with my life, something that suited me better.

  My best friend was equally frustrated with her job, so we happily teamed up as partners to start a new business. She’s great is Emma, a funky feminist with hazel eyes and pink tinted, auburn hair that looks as if its been cut with a knife and fork. She has a particular fancy for eating jam doughnuts, which she claims are not responsible for the way her backside fills out the dungarees she’s so fond of wearing. We sat next to each other all through school, shared homework, and endured heart-rending agonies over unrequited love during our teenage years.

  Emma was a bridesmaid at my wedding, and I would do the same for her only she’s opted for a more modern arrangement with Glen, her partner. She’s fiercely independent and absolutely refuses to marry him, on the grounds that a piece of paper will make not a scrap of difference to their happiness. My feminist friend sees no reason to ‘sign over h
er freedom’, as she puts it, and didn’t entirely approve of my doing so. Unconventional she may be, but she’s also loyal and great fun; warm, friendly and really quite shrewd. I’d trust her with my life.

  Setting up the business together was exciting. We devised a brochure outlining the services we had to offer, set up a website and advertised for property owners looking for rental income. We had to take out a small loan from the bank as it took a few months to really get going but gradually the bookings started coming in, and we’re building steadily, improving and growing all the time.

  Nothing ever fazes Emma. She’s calm and unruffled, the more organised of the two of us. I’m much more the ideas person, but Em is the practical one, the one who knows instinctively if something is possible. We make a good team, happily working side by side cleaning and making up beds, tidying gardens, and generally caring for the self-catering holiday cottages and apartments. The work is demanding and time consuming, with long, unsocial hours. We prepare the properties for occupation, and often answer calls at odd times if clients have a problem, such as the plumbing going wrong, or they can’t work out how to switch on the central heating, an essential here in the Lake District.

  Admittedly this did create a degree of tension between Oliver and me at the start of our relationship, still does occasionally if I’m honest. He wasn’t at all happy when our evenings together were interrupted by frequent calls on my mobile.

  ‘Can’t they find the damn thermostat?’ he’d complain, or curtly suggest they should call my partner, not me.

  ‘They do call Emma when she’s on duty, but I’m on call tonight, so it’s my responsibility to keep our clients happy. Sorry!’ I’d feel embarrassed and apologise profusely, but I’d no intention of giving up my job, which I love.

  Once, a poor woman needed to call an ambulance when her husband suffered a heart attack, and I went with her to the hospital. Oliver didn’t seem to think this should be part of my remit. Probably not, but I didn’t mind. It was really no trouble and as the couple were on holiday, she had no family or friends nearby to support her.

  I’d often find him waiting for me at the end of a shift. He’d unexpectedly turn up, quite out of the blue, just as Emma and I were off out for a drink. I’d apologise to Em, yet be secretly flattered that he couldn’t wait to see me. He hated every moment we were apart.

  It’s vitally important to Emma and me that we make everything as perfect as possible for our guests, including a welcome pack of groceries for their first day, which means a quick trip to Mum and Dad’s shop for fresh bread, cheese and wine. Clients are expected to vacate the apartments by ten-thirty, when we move in and blitz the place. We never know what we might find. Some guests leave a property immaculate, as if they’ve hardly slept there, while others somehow manage to leave evidence of every meal they’ve eaten.

  On days when there is no changeover to deal with, we work in a small rented room above a hairdressing salon in Bowness on Windermere which we use as an office to do paperwork, keep the website updated, and take bookings. We dream of employing someone to man the phone, and cleaners to help deal with the cottages, but can’t quite afford to yet. Maybe next year, when we hope to really break into profit. I enjoy my job enormously, and being able to share each day with the lively, ebullient Emma makes it so much more fun.

  I give her a quick ring now on my mobile. ‘Meet you on the roundabout at the top of Windermere Road on the dot of ten, then we’ll have time for a quick coffee at the Gateway before we start.’

  ‘Right you are, unless the lovely Oliver is still busy ravishing you, of course, then I’ll go on to the flats and start without you, shall I?’

  Jokes about newly wedded bliss somehow fall a bit flat this morning, but I attempt to laugh at her humour, promise to pick up a new pack of washing powder from my parents’ shop on the way, and ring off.

  I hurry to stack the dishwasher, quickly wipe down my new marble worktops, in which I take great pride, and glancing up at the kitchen clock hung high on the pristine white tiled wall, decide I’ve time to bake a quiche before I meet Emma, if I hurry. Then when I do get home, I need only quickly heat it up while I toss a green salad.

  Once the quiche is baking in the oven, I dash about running a duster over the polished surface of our new book shelves and display unit, plumping up cushions on the two white leather sofas. I’d thought these a touch impractical but Oliver fell in love with them at sight, so how could I refuse? He was lavishly generous when it came to choosing furniture for our new detached house, and I too have poured my small savings into it. He’s not a man to tolerate second best in anything. Again I think how lucky I am to have him, resolutely blocking last night’s petty display of jealousy from my mind.

  I carefully flick a feather duster over the backgammon set laid out on the smoked glass coffee table. He’s teaching me to play and I’ve discovered an amazing ability to throw doubles, which seems to give me an advantage. The very first time we played I won three games in a row. Oliver is hugely competitive and hates to be beaten, so he sulked for a while, putting it down to beginner’s luck. When it became clear I was about to win a fourth game, he suddenly leapt to his feet, for no reason I could see, and sent the board flying.

  ‘Oh, no, and I was doing so well,’ I cried.

  ‘For goodness sake,’ he laughed. ‘I didn’t knock it over on purpose. In any case, you were absolute rubbish. You have no skill at all. I was letting you win, you silly goose. Come on, time we went to bed and played more interesting games.’

  I frown now as I flick the duster over the pieces and wonder if it was really true about him not knocking the board over on purpose, or whether Oliver’s need to win had compelled him to act so childishly. I was beginning to see that my new husband was far more complicated, and a good deal more sensitive, than I’d given him credit for. I shake my head in fond despair. Men, they have such egos. Then I put away my dusters, set the quiche to cool in the fridge and head off to work.

  It’s just after nine as I call in at my parents’ shop, meaning to purchase one or two essential items before meeting up with Emma. Perfect Cottages has an account with them for the welcome packs, which makes it easier for us and keeps the trade in the family, as it were. My parents have always been business people and I know that they will have been working in the shop since seven o’clock this morning or even earlier, sorting newspapers, taking delivery of the milk and fresh bread. I put some of each in a basket, together with wine and cheese, not forgetting the washing powder for the never-ending laundry. I hope one day to be able to afford to pay Lakeland Laundry to do it for us, meanwhile I do the lion’s share myself since Emma has nowhere to dry sheets in her one-bedroom apartment.

  As I approach the counter with my loaded basket, Mum finishes serving a customer and turns to me with a distracted smile. ‘Hello, love, off to work?’

  I agree that I am and refuse her offer of coffee, but then as she checks the items on to the till, she looks at me keenly and makes some joke about married life making me look tired and how I should try to get more sleep. I laugh, explaining we were out late last night, and suddenly my eyes fill with a rush of tears.

  She’s immediately all concern. ‘What is it, love? Has something happened?’

  I shake my head and smile. ‘We had our first matrimonial tiff, that’s all. Nothing important. Oliver was a bit miffed because he thought I was flirting with the waiter.’

  Mum frowns her disapproval, an expression I’m very familiar with. ‘What a thing to do, and with a lovely new husband like Oliver. You don’t know when you’re well off, girl.’

  ‘It was only a smile,’ I say in my own defence. My mind is racing, wondering how much I should tell her, and what her reaction would be if I said that Oliver hit me, but her next words stop me in my tracks.

  ‘Actually, we’ve heard all about it. Oliver popped in earlier on his way to the office, explaining how you’d had a few words over an incident at the restaurant, and how concerned he w
as about your state of mind.’

  A few words! I stare at her in complete shock. Grabbing her arm, I draw her into the stockroom at the back, away from the queue of customers Dad is busily dealing with, all ear-wigging in on our conversation. ‘There was no incident at the restaurant,’ I hiss. ‘It was just a damn smile I gave that waiter, nothing more. I never even noticed it bothered Oliver until we got home.’ Again I hesitate to reveal exactly what did happen, not wanting to put my husband in a bad light, or admit to what felt like failure on my part.

  ‘Well, that just shows how very insensitive you can be at times, Carly. You always were very careless with those winning smiles of yours, imagining everyone will love and flatter you because you’re the baby of the family. Well it’s time you grew up a little, madam, and learned to be more circumspect and caring of a husband, like your big sister.’

  ‘What?’ I gasp in astonishment. ‘Jo-Jo is like a big kid, always spoiling for a fight. It’s a miracle Ed puts up with her.’

  ‘He absolutely worships her, and you know it. Jo-Jo may not be as fortunate as you are materially, but she’s blessed in her marriage. She’s a loyal, affectionate wife and mother. Untidy, a bit scatter-brained, and lacking in confidence I will admit, but without a selfish, cruel bone in her body.’

  ‘Oh, pleeease!’ My sister may be an over-anxious worrier at times, very like our mother, particularly where her children are concerned, but I’d never thought of her as lacking in confidence. Quite the opposite, in fact. A bit defensive because she married so young at just nineteen, but rather full of herself and certainly over-critical of me. ‘What about that anonymous letter you received, the one saying Oliver had been seen with another girl, which you failed to mention and Jo-Jo told me about just days before our wedding, bless her sweet heart?’

  Mum looks deeply uncomfortable for a moment, then turns away to glance anxiously through the open door, ostensibly to check that Dad is coping all right on his own, before folding her arms across her chest in that bossy way she has. A small, pretty woman with dark hair the colour of burnished chestnuts, and not a sign of grey, I notice for the first time that she’s looking tired herself. Her long face droops with unhappiness and the bags beneath her brown eyes have surely never been quite this bad before. I remember how burdened and inhibited she must feel, hemmed in by caring for elderly in-laws, and I’m filled with guilt for seeming to add to her difficulties.