Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘I meant in other ways. If you need support of any kind . . . protection . . . or just a friend. I’m here for you.’

  I’m touched by his offer, and deeply embarrassed, but instead of thanking him gracefully, I mumble something incoherent about having to get back to the decorating, and scurry away.

  By the end of a long tiring day, the cottage is stripped and ready for painting, and we relax, chatting happily together as we sit eating fish and chips and drinking beer. Tim and Glen are talking through the mechanics of installing the stove, and the long black pipe that acts as a chimney. It sounds very complicated but the pair of them seem quite optimistic they can manage it okay. Emma and I are discussing colours of paint for the various rooms, how to eradicate the green.

  I’m exhausted from all the hard work, but it’s a happy sort of weariness, with hope and optimism in it, something I haven’t felt in a long time. I still have to work out how I can afford to furnish the cottage, let alone find the money to finish the renovations and actually buy the place. Oliver invested most money into the matrimonial home, nevertheless I did put all my savings into it too, and for the two years of our marriage paid a share of its upkeep. It may not be much, but surely I’ll get something out of the break-up?

  Except that we need to find him first, issue the necessary papers, work out an agreement on property and custody. It all seems too much and I wouldn’t even have got this far without the help of these marvellous friends. I’m suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. Tears well up in my eyes and Emma is at once all concern.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong? Have I said something?’ She has streaks of dust and cement on her pretty face, her pink-tinged hair looks wilder than ever and her usually pristine nails are a total mess.

  I shake my head, try to smile and start to cry instead. ‘I’m sorry but I’m trying to find the words to tell you all how very grateful I am,’ I sob, sounding very like a child in infant school. ‘You’ve all been so kind. I don’t know how I could have coped without you.’

  They watch appalled as I start to blub, my cheeks growing pinker by the second, rush in with comforting words, saying how it was no trouble, how much they’ve enjoyed it. Thankfully, Tim deflects their attention away from my embarrassment by starting to tell some tale about being chased by geese on his last walk over Scafell. He makes it sound so funny that in seconds we’re all hooting with laughter.

  Then my phone bleeps. It’s a text from Oliver, warning me that he wishes to pick up Katie at noon tomorrow. My good humour and fragile happiness evaporate instantly, and a familiar dark cloud descends.

  ‘Oh goodness, that means I’ll have to slip round to Jo-Jo’s, she won’t want the responsibility of handing her over.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Emma says, slipping an arm about my shoulder. ‘We’ll hold the fort here while you do the necessary. And don’t let him bully you. That man has put the cause of women back fifty years. Don’t let him get away with any more. Remember you’re free now.’

  I respond with a vague smile, not wishing to discuss my personal affairs in front of Tim, but I see by the way his brow creases into a small frown that he’s concerned by Emma’s words. He senses me looking at him and our eyes meet. For once he doesn’t break the moment with his usual casual grin or one of his bad jokes, instead he holds my gaze without smiling. He seems to be attempting to remind me of his earlier offer, to instil some sort of strength into me, and for the life of me I can’t tear my own eyes away.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that I like him, but it’s far too soon to be even considering another relationship. Apart from tying up the loose ends of my failed marriage and starting the long slow climb to rebuild my life, I know there is still a great deal of healing to be done. I’m still raw and sore inside from all I’ve been through. More than anything I need time to find myself again, to restore my confidence and self-esteem, and to learn to trust again. Besides all of that, it would be foolish and dangerous for me to take any sort of risk where Katie is concerned. My child is everything to me, and I will do nothing which might damage my hopes for full custody. I finally manage a feeble smile in an effort to convey these thoughts to him. His eyes kindle with warmth and I see that he understands.

  ‘Here’s to a brighter future,’ he says, raising a bottle of beer by way of salute.

  ‘To a brighter future,’ everyone echoes, and I see at last that I’m not alone at all. I have friends.

  It’s difficult coping with a young child and a stressful job. Katie seems unsettled by the move, cries a good deal, and I don’t get much sleep from having to keep getting up to comfort her. I’m still working on the cottage, putting the finishing touches to the paintwork, and constantly making improvements. The walls are now covered with a smooth lining paper and painted a tasteful cream, except for Katie’s room which is a pale shell pink. Emma has revealed an amazing talent for painting cartoon characters, which she is creating in bright colours all over the walls. So far she has done Squirrel Nutkin and Mrs Tiggy Winkle. Katie is entranced. Tim has installed the multi-fuel stove, with Glen’s help, and it works beautifully, so we’re cosy and warm, our home clean and bright.

  Friends and family generously lend me some basic pieces of furniture: a small sofa with squashy cushions, bed, kitchen table and chairs, a pretty rug, enough to get by for the moment. Mum has provided curtains for the living room and Gran has given me a set of crockery which she insists she never uses. Even Jo-Jo comes up trumps by lending me a few pots and pans for the kitchen.

  I’m grateful for everyone’s help. Money is tight and I’m very much on the breadline, with still no progress made on the divorce. I realise I’ll have to go through all the rigmarole of getting maintenance set up, either coming to some agreement privately with Oliver, or, more likely since he’s already proving hard to pin down, through the Child Support Agency, or whatever it’s called now. But I can’t quite bring myself to do that, not yet. Hard up as I am, it’s such a good feeling to be completely free and independent of Oliver, that I’m putting off the evil moment.

  I’m told that the divorce could take anything from four to six months to come through, once we get it underway. I’ve put everyone on the alert to keep a look-out for him, even the nosy neighbours are keeping an eye out, and of course he hasn’t even been in his office for the past few weeks. Stalemate.

  ‘He can’t hide forever,’ Dad keeps muttering.

  ‘And at least while he’s in hiding he isn’t pestering to take Katie out,’ Gran adds with a wicked wink.

  I smile to disguise my impatience. I’m so anxious to get on with things, now that I’ve finally summoned up the courage to leave him, and I can hardly wait for the decree absolute, when I really will be free at last. I’m troubled by Tim’s warning: how the moment of a permanent break is the most dangerous but I firmly shake the fear away. I just long to be normal, to have my life back.

  Dad takes me over to the house to collect my clothes and books, and personal belongings. I insist he leaves me to go through things quietly, on my own.

  ‘Put everything you want to take in the kitchen. I’ll be back in an hour to load up. Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’

  I’m very far from fine as I watch my father drive away. It feels strange to be in the place I once called home, which was supposed to represent a happy future with the man of my dreams. A dream that never materialised. I wonder where he is right at this moment, if he’ll ever come back to live here in his beloved house which he took such care in designing. But he needs to come out of hiding and face reality first, something Oliver isn’t too good at.

  I try to imagine another woman living in our house. Her toiletries in the bathroom, her clothes in my wardrobe, her dressing gown behind the door where mine used to hang. A stab of pain takes my breath away at the thought. Is that because I still love him, or regret the loss of what we might have had together if things had been different?

  Does Oliver love her, I wonder?
Or is it simply convenient for him to have found another woman willing to look after him? Does he humiliate and criticise her? Has he hit her yet? Or is he waiting until he’s more sure of her, as he did with me? Once I’d said those fatal words, I do, signed the register which seemed to also sign away my freedom, his attitude towards me began to change. I became his possession and not a real person with a mind of my own any longer. If only I’d realised how bad it would get and broken away sooner.

  I turn away from these thoughts, unable to bear them. I did break free in the end, and now it’s time to move on, to look forward, not back.

  I wonder what he’s told his boss about our separation. I’ve no doubt he will be putting the blame for our break-up entirely upon me, concerned that his personal life doesn’t interfere with his standing in the office, or his opportunities for promotion.

  I take only what is necessary, some essential bed linen, my own clothes and Katie’s. I dismantle her cot and stack it in the kitchen together with her high chair and other bits and bobs. Oliver may well need to buy replacement items for the times she visits him, but he can afford to. I’m not interested in any of the furniture, which was all Oliver’s choice, not mine, and certainly wouldn’t fit into my tiny cottage.

  My heart twists as I discover our wedding album in a drawer, and I find myself quietly weeping over the photographs which he insisted must be absolutely perfect. Everything had to be perfect that day, I remember. He would constantly be making requests for changes, apologising for any inconvenience even as he changed things to suit himself. I recall the excessive care he took over making the arrangements, which at the time I believed was out of a need to help, a way of showing consideration to my parents. I should have recognised then his obsessive need to control.

  I can see now that there was evidence of his true nature even before we married, while we were still going out, in the way we always did what he wanted, mainly saw his friends. I was so besotted I allowed him to make all the decisions, whether it was which film we went to see or where we went for our honeymoon. He even chose where we were to live. I had no say in the choice of our home or its furnishings whatsoever, and that too had to be perfect.

  He always was jealous and possessive, contriving to distance me from my friends right from the start. Instead of being concerned by this attitude, I was flattered. But then he was always so charming, so adoring, putting me up on a pedestal and worshipping me like some sort of goddess. Any reservations I might have had were overshadowed by what I saw as evidence of his love.

  I’m sobbing by this time, overwhelmed by sad memories, and I jump with fear as a hand touches my shoulder.

  ‘Come on, love,’ Dad says. ‘No point in dwelling on the past or on what might have been.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it all gets a bit much at times.’

  ‘Course it does. I only wish you’d felt able to tell me what was going on.’

  ‘That wasn’t your fault,’ I insist, pressing my face into his broad chest as he strokes my hair. ‘I was too screwed up, too brain washed to keep quiet. Too full of shame and guilt, and obsessed by the desperate, futile hope that I could put things right. In the end I came to be too much under his control to find the courage to break free.’

  ‘Well, you have now, so don’t worry about Oliver Sheldon any more. Your mum’s got a bit of dinner waiting for us back home. You take one last look around, while I start loading the car.’

  At the cottage later, I take great pleasure in setting out my books on shelves Dad has knocked up for me, hanging my favourite pictures on the nice clean walls, dressing my bed with my own duvet and bed linen. It’s starting to look like home at last. Katie beams at me as she bangs on her pegs with a wooden hammer.

  ‘We’re going to be fine,’ I tell her, popping a kiss on top of her head. ‘We’re going to be absolutely fine.’

  And then my phone starts to ring.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I see Oliver‘s name flash up on the screen of my mobile phone, but even though I’m keen to find him, I’m reluctant to take the call. This is my first night sleeping under my own roof, now that the smell of paint is less overpowering, and I don’t want my peace disturbed right at this moment. But Oliver is still the father of my child, arrangements need to be made concerning Katie, the divorce, and more pressing financial matters, so finally I ring him back to see what it is he wants.

  My ear is instantly assaulted by the volume of his anger. He’s furious that I dared to take stuff out of the house without asking him first, demanding to know how he can possibly cope with Katie now that I’ve taken all the baby equipment away.

  I patiently answer his question. ‘You could buy new equipment.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because we can no longer share, now that we are living apart.’

  ‘We shouldn’t be living apart. You should be here, with me.’

  I ignore this remark. ‘In any case, Oliver, Katie will be living with me, not you, so you won’t need quite so much. And while we’re on the subject, where exactly are you living? My solicitor could do with an address, so that we can get this divorce underway. I assume you’re with your lady friend?’

  ‘No, I am not!’ he roars, rushing to assure me that he’s split up with Jane. ‘And I never wanted this bloody divorce in the first place.’

  ‘I’m not talking about Jane. I mean your latest mistress, who I believe you are living with in Heversham?’

  I seem to have caught him off guard as there’s a short startled silence. He seems stunned that I know this. ‘That’s not true,’ he growls, his voice low and filled with a raw anger that makes me shiver, even down the phone. ‘As a matter of fact I’m back in my own house. She was nothing more than a friend who helped me when I was low, almost suicidal. Not that you would care.’

  I know that he’s lying, on all counts, but the next instant he’s weeping, telling me it was all a bad mistake, that she wasn’t right for him. It’s me he really wants, not some old married woman. He’ll never stray again, blah, blah, blah. He’s begging me to come home, telling me how much he misses and needs me, how he cannot bear to live without me.

  My heart lurches and I steel myself against weakening.

  ‘I’m so miserable without you Carly, I’m not sure I can go on,’ he groans, that oh-so-familiar note of self-pity creeping into his voice. Why are you putting me through all of this? You’re being so silly, sweetie. I know that you love me really. We need each other. We belong together. You can’t possibly cope without me.’

  ‘I’m doing fine, actually.’

  He hears an unexpected confidence in my voice and his tone hardens. ‘What the hell’s going on? Is there someone there with you, telling you what to say, what to do?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There must be. Is it your father? Tell him to mind his own bloody business. You can’t possibly deal with the complexities of a divorce, or of life on your own with a small child. You need me!’

  ‘I don’t need anyone, Oliver.’

  His voice roars down the phone. ‘You bloody do!’

  ‘Don’t swear at me, Oliver, or I’ll ring off.’ I’m not feeling half so brave as I sound, but I grit my teeth and plough on. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me what you’ve decided about the house.’

  ‘I think you mean my house.’

  I decide to leave this part of the argument to my lawyer. ‘Do you intend to sell it, or to pay me out? I would at least like the money back that I invested in it. We ought to be working out these sort of details. I need to know where I stand.’

  l hear him take an exasperated breath. ‘You’re the one who left me. You deserve nothing.’

  ‘I think I do, for putting up with you for so long, if nothing else.’

  ‘You’re getting damned stroppy all of a sudden. And I want a list of the items you stole from me!’

  ‘I didn’t steal anything. I merely took what I needed, mainly personal possessions, plus a few essentials to which I’m su
rely entitled.’

  ‘You’re entitled to nothing! You should be at home with me now, being a proper wife, not sneaking about stealing sheets and towels, or living in some God-forsaken cottage in the back of beyond.’

  A chill creeps down my spine. How does Oliver know where I’m living? How can he know unless . . . ‘Who told you . . . ? I mean . . . what makes you think I’m living . . .’ I blurt out, before I have time to stop myself.

  He interrupts me with a laugh that drenches me in ice cold fear, and I have to sit down as my legs will no longer support me. ‘I know all about your pretty little country cottage, about your friends and your lover helping you to do it up. In fact I know where you go and what you do every minute of every day. I even saw lover-boy canoodling you by the river.’

  ‘What? We weren’t canoodling, we were talking. Were you watching, you bastard? Where were you?’

  I instantly regret letting him get to me but his chuckle chills me to the bone. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? Close enough to recognise the identity of lover-boy. But then I’m never far away from you, my darling. I need to watch over you and look after you, don’t I? You’re my wife for God’s sake! There’s no one for me but you, and vice versa. You surely know that’s true, Carly?’ His voice purrs seductively in my ear.

  My teeth are chattering and I can hardly hold the phone I’m shaking so much. I cut him off and slam the phone down on the table. My reaction must have infuriated him because seconds later it rings again, the phone almost bouncing with fury across the table. I take the call and his anger booms out at me, filling my peaceful haven with his ominous presence.

  ‘You bitch! Don’t you dare hang up on me. You get back home this minute or you’ll be bloody sorry! And you can forget about any pay-out from the house. It’s mine, as are you. You belong to me, Carly, remember that. Don’t imagine for one minute that you can just walk away and . . .’