The Marriage War

Sancha made coffee, keeping her back to Zoe. ‘How’s the filming going? Smoothly, or are there problems?’

‘Only one problem—the casting director insisted on picking Hal Thaxford.’ Zoe’s dry voice made Sancha smile. She had heard her sister’s views on Hal Thaxford before.

‘I know you don’t like him—but he’s quite a good actor, isn’t he?’

‘He wouldn’t know how to act his way out of a paper bag. The man doesn’t act. He just stands about with folded arms, glowering like Heathcliff, or snarls his lines.’

‘He’s sexy, though,’ teased Sancha, getting down the mugs and pouring the coffee the way Zoe liked it—black and unsugared.

She almost dropped both mugs when she turned and found Zoe reading the letter Sancha had left on the table.

Zoe looked up and their eyes met. ‘So that’s why you look like death warmed up.’

First white, then scarlet, Sancha snapped, ‘How dare you read my letters?’

Putting down the coffee so suddenly it spilled a little, she snatched the letter from her sister.

Zoe was unrepentant. ‘It was open; I couldn’t help seeing a few words. Once I’d done that, I had to know the rest.’ She stared at Sancha with sharp, narrowed eyes. ‘Is it true?’

Sancha sat down, pushing the crumpled letter into her jeans pocket. ‘Of course not!’

There was a little silence and Zoe frowned at her sister, her face disbelieving. ‘Did you recognise her handwriting?’

Startled, Sancha shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she thought briefly. ‘What makes you think it was written by a woman?’

Zoe’s bright red mouth curled cynically. ‘They always are. Men get at people in other ways. They either come right out with it, give you a smack, or they make funny phone calls...heavy breathing... whispered threats...that sort of thing. But women send poison pen letters, usually hysterical stuff about sex. Obviously this is from someone in Mark’s office; maybe someone who fancies him herself, but never got a second look and is jealous of this assistant of his.’

Flora had drunk all her juice; she began banging her mug violently on her highchair tray. Zoe winced and took the mug away from her.

‘How do you stand it all day long? It would drive me crazy.’

Sancha picked Flora up and carried her over to her playpen; Flora immediately picked up a toy elephant and crushed it lovingly to her.

‘Mine effelunt,’ she cooed. ‘Mine, mine.’

Sancha ran a hand over the child’s red curls. ‘You know, she’s just like you,’ she told her sister, who looked indignant.

‘Do you mind? I was never that over-active or exhausting.’

‘Oh, yes, you were—Mum says you nearly drove her out of her mind. And you haven’t really changed, either.’

Zoe contemplated her niece, who stared back then put out her small pink tongue, clutching the elephant tighter.

‘Effelunt mine,’ she said, knowing her aunt to be very well capable of taking the toy away from her.

‘Monster,’ Zoe said automatically, then asked a little uneasily, ‘Is she really like me, or were you joking?’

‘It’s no joke. Of course she is,’ Sancha told her, sitting down at the table again, and her sister shuddered before turning thoughtful eyes back to Sancha’s face.

‘So what are you going to do about this letter?’

Sancha shrugged, drinking some more of her coffee before saying, ‘Ignore it, burn it in the Aga—that’s where it belongs.’

‘You’re really sure it’s a lie?’ Zoe’s eyes were shrewdly bright. She knew her sister far too well not to suspect she wasn’t being entirely honest. Sancha’s face, her eyes, her whole manner, were far too betraying.

Suddenly admitting the truth, Sancha gave a little wail. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It never entered my head until I got that letter, but it could be... We haven’t been getting on too well for months, not really since Flora was born. First I was tired and depressed, and I couldn’t...didn’t want to. I don’t know why—maybe my libido was flat after having three babies so close together. Mark was very good, at first, but it drifted on and on; we hardly talk, these days, let alone... It must be months since we...’

‘Made love?’ supplied Zoe when she stopped, and Sancha nodded, her face out of control now, anguished, tears standing in her eyes.

Zoe got up hurriedly, came round to put an arm round her, holding her tight.

‘Don’t, Sancha. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Sancha pulled herself together after a minute, rubbed a hand across her wet eyes. Zoe gave her a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes with it and then blew her nose.

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, for heaven’s sake!’ Zoe exploded. ‘In your place I’d be screaming the place down and breaking things, including Mark’s neck! If you’ve been too tired to make love it’s because of his children, after all! It takes two. They’re as much his problem as yours. You’ll have to tell him, Sancha, show him the letter—if it is a lie you’ll know when you see his face, and if it’s true he won’t be able to hide that, either.’

Sancha looked at her bleakly. ‘And then what do I do? If Mark tells me it’s true and he’s having an affair? How do I react to that? Do I say, Oh, well, carry on! I just wanted to know. Or do I give him some sort of ultimatum—me or her, choose now! And what if he chooses her? What if be walks out and leaves me and the children?’

‘If he’s likely to do that you’re better off knowing now. You can’t bury your head in the sand, pretend it isn’t happening or hope it will all go away. Where’s your pride, for heaven’s sake?’

Anguish made Sancha want to weep, but she fought it down, struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘There are more important things than pride!’

‘Is there anything more important than your marriage?’ Zoe demanded. ‘Come on, Sancha, you’ve got to face up to this. Do you know...what was her name? Jacqui something? What’s she like?’

‘I’ve no idea; I’ve never set eyes on her.’ Sancha’s voice broke, her whole body trembling as she tried to be calm. ‘Stop asking me questions. I need to think, but how can I think when there’s so much to do all the time? Just keeping up with Flora drains all my energy.’

Zoe contemplated the two-year-old jumping round her playpen. ‘I bet it does. Just watching her makes me feel drained.’ She shot Sancha a measuring glance. ‘Look, I have nothing much to do today. Why don’t I stay here and look after Flora while you go off by yourself and think things over?’

Sancha laughed shortly. ‘You’d be a nervous wreck in half an hour!’

‘I’ve babysat for you before!’

‘At night, when she was asleep—and not often, either. You have no idea what she’s like when she’s awake. You need eyes in the back of your head.’

Zoe shrugged. ‘I’ll manage; I’m not stupid. Off you go, forget about Flora for a few hours. Don’t just moon about—do something about the way you look. Have your hair done! You haven’t had a new hairstyle for years. That will make you feel a whole lot better. Don’t worry about the boys; I’ll pick them up from school. But can you be back by six because I’ve got a date at seven-thirty?’

Sancha hesitated a second or two more, then smiled at her sister. ‘OK, thanks, Zoe—if you’re sure...’

‘I’m sure!’

‘Well, thanks, you’re an angel. I will have my hair done. You’re right—I should. And if you have any real problems go to Martha—remember her? Lives across the street, only just five foot, with very short black hair? She’ll help out if something does go wrong.’

Zoe grinned and nodded. ‘OK, OK. Don’t fret so much. Now scoot, will you, while the monster isn’t looking.’

Flora was sitting with her back to them, struggling to force a small bear into one of her small plastic saucepans, far too absorbed to notice what was going on behind her.

Sancha gave her sister a grateful look, then grabbed up her purse and went out on tiptoe. Ten minutes later she was in her car, heading for the centre of town. First she went to the best hairstylist she knew, and managed to get an immediate appointment because someone had cancelled. The man who came to do her hair ran a comb through the thick curls with a grimace.

‘This is going to take me for ever!’ he groaned. ‘Any ideas about how you want it to look?’

‘Different,’ Sancha said, feeling reckless. What she really wanted to say was, Make me beautiful, make me glamorous, help me get my husband back! If only she could switch back six years, to the way she’d looked before she’d started having babies and ruined her figure!

While the stylist began thinning and cutting her hair she leaned back in the chair with closed eyes, thinking. But she was still going round in circles, deciding first to do this, then that, and afraid of doing anything at all in case it precipitated a crisis which could lead to the end of her marriage.

The letter might be a hoax, a wicked lie. She could be torturing herself over nothing. But if it was true? Her heart plummeted and she had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself crying. What was she going to do? Was Zoe right? Should she confront Mark, show him the letter, ask him if it was true?

No, she couldn‘t—she was too scared of what might happen next. She felt as if she were standing in the middle of a minefield. Any step she took might blow everything up around her. The only safety lay in not moving at all. Not yet.

First she had to find out if there was any truth in the allegation. But how could she do that without asking Mark?

Tonight he was supposed to be having dinner with his boss, Frank Monroe, the man who had started the construction company and still owned the majority of the shares. Mark hadn’t said where they were having dinner, but it was either at Monroe’s house, a big detached place outside town, or at one of the more expensive restaurants.

She could ring Frank Monroe’s house tonight and ask for Mark, make up some excuse about why she needed to talk to him. If Mark wasn’t there she would know he had lied.

She sighed, and the stylist said at once, ‘Don’t you like it?’

Startled, she looked into the mirror and saw how much hair he had cut off.

Stammering, she hardly knew how to react. ‘Oh...well...I...’

‘It will look much better once I’ve blowdried it and brushed it into shape,’ he promised. ‘You can’t see the full picture yet.’

‘No,’ she said with a wry twist of the lips. She could not see the full picture yet; she must wait until she could. But Zoe was absolutely right—she had to know the truth. She could not rest, now that the poison had been injected; she could feel it now, working away inside her, like liquid fire running through her veins.

An hour later she left the salon looking so different that she almost failed to recognise herself in the mirror. Her hair was now worn in a light mop of bright curls which framed her face and made her look younger.

Before her hair had been blowdried one of the young assistants had given her a facial and full make-up, using colours she would never have picked out for herself: a wild scarlet for her mouth, a soft apricot on her eyelids, a faint wash of pink blusher over her cheekbones. Then, while her hair was being blowdried, she had had her nails manicured, but had refused to have them varnished the same colour as her mouth.

So the girl had painted them with clear, pearly varnish, and added a strip of white behind the top of each nail. That had given her fingers a new elegance, made them look longer, more stylish. Mind you, how long that would last, under the onslaught of Flora and the boys, the washing-up, the floor-polishing, the cleaning... who knew?

‘You look great!’ the assistants had told her as she’d paid her bill, and Sancha had smiled, knowing they weren’t lying.

‘Thank you,’ she’d said, tipping them generously.

Walking along the main street of Hampton, the little English town an hour’s drive from London, she saw the church clock striking the hour and realised it was now one o’clock. Only then did she remember that she hadn’t eaten.

She would have lunch somewhere really exciting, she decided, feeling free and reckless. She walked along the High Street towards the best restaurant in town, a French bistro called L‘Esprit, and began to cross the road—only to stop dead in her tracks as she recognised Mark on the other side. He had his arm around the waist of a girl he was steering towards the swing doors of the restaurant.

A car screeched to a halt behind her, its bumper inches away—the driver leaned out and yelled angrily at her.

‘Are you crazy? I nearly hit you! What do you think you’re doing? Get out of the road, you imbecile!’

Automatically apologising, her nerves frantic, Sancha hurried to the kerb and stood on the pavement, realising that Mark had gone into L‘Esprit.

Who had the blonde been? A client? Sancha remembered Mark’s arm around the girl’s waist, his fingertips spread in a caressing fan.

The blonde had turned her head to look up into his eyes, saying something to him, her pink lips parted, their moist gleam sensual:

It’s her, Sancha thought. She had never yet set eyes on Jacqui Farrar, but she was suddenly certain she had now seen her for the first time, and that it was true, the accusation in the anonymous letter. Mark had lied about what he was doing that evening. He wasn’t having dinner with his boss—he was having it with Jacqui Farrar. They would go to her flat and...

Sancha took a deep, painful breath as her imagination ran ahead and pictured what Mark would be doing.

She wanted to stand there in the street and scream. She wanted to run into the restaurant, kill Mark. If she had a gun she would shoot him, or the blonde girl, or both of them. She wanted to hurt Mark as much as he had hurt her. She would like to go home and pull all his elegant, expensive suits out of the wardrobe and chuck them on the garden bonfire, watch them burn along with his beautiful designer shirts and silk ties. While she was wearing old jeans and shirts Mark was always beautifully dressed. He said it was necessary for his image as a top executive.

He frowned at her shabby clothes and unkempt hair, but he had never given her a personal allowance big enough to buy herself good clothes. Oh, he made her an allowance, but most of that money went on clothes for the children. They grew out of their clothes so fast, she was always having to buy them something, and there was never very much left over for her. No doubt that had never occurred to Mark; he left everything to do with the children to her, and never questioned what she did with the allowance he made her. If they went out together she always wore one of the outfits she had had for years, but which still looked smart. At least she hadn’t put on much weight, but all her nice clothes were faintly out of date—not that Mark ever seemed to notice that.

But for a long time he had been looking at her with those cold grey eyes as if he despised her, was bored by her. She tried to remember when it had started—soon after Flora was born? No, not that far back.

Around the time Jacqui Farrar joined the firm? Her stomach cramped in pain. Yes, it must have been then.

The blonde couldn’t be more than twenty-three; her figure hadn’t been ruined by having three babies and her salary was probably good enough for her to afford tight-fitting, sexy clothes which showed off her figure. Mark had said once that she was clever, an efficient and fast-thinking assistant, but obviously it had not been the girl’s brains that attracted him. Having seen her, Sancha was sure of that.

Sancha wanted to kill him. She hated him. Hated him so intensely that tears burnt behind her eyelids. Loved him so much that the possibility of losing him made her wish she was dead. There had never been anyone else for her; no other men before him had meant a thing. She had had a couple of boyfriends, but Mark had been the first man she’d fallen in love with, and for seven years Mark had been the breath of her being, the centre of her life. She could not bear to lose him.

I won’t lose him, she thought fiercely. That little blonde harpy isn’t getting him. He belongs to me.

CHAPTER TWO

SANCHA swung round and walked back along the High Street, not really seeing where she was going and with no idea of what she meant to do. She only knew she needed to think the situation through, and she couldn’t bear to face Zoe until she had herself under control. Her sister would take one look at her face and know that something had happened—they knew each other too well; they had few secrets from each other. Zoe already knew about the anonymous letter, and it was typical of her that she should have read it; it would never have occurred to her that she had no right to read her sister’s private mail.

There was one secret Sancha did not intend to share with Zoe. Zoe had asked her if she had any pride—oh, yes, she certainly did! She was far too proud to let anyone, even Zoe, see how much it hurt to know that Mark was unfaithful to her.

Again her dangerous imagination went haywire, sending her images of Mark with the blonde girl, kissing, in bed...

No! She would not think about that. That way madness lay. She would simply go out of her mind if she thought about Mark and that girl.

She opened her eyes and stared into a shop window. A dress shop. She tried to be interested in the dresses displayed on brightly smiling, stiffly posed mannequins. One dress did catch her eye, a jade-green shift dress with a little jacket—she loved that colour. She leaned closer to look at the price ticket and her brown eyes opened wide. Heavens! She had never bought a dress that expensive.

Turning, she was about to walk on when she paused, frowning. It was so long since she had bought anything that pretty—why shouldn’t she be extravagant for once? She was in a mood to do something reckless. And, anyway, Mark could afford to give her far more money than he did. He hadn’t increased her allowance for ages, but now she thought of it he was always buying himself new shirts, new suits, new ties.

Taking a deep breath, she walked into the shop, and a woman turned to look her up and down, sniffing at her old jeans and well-washed shirt.

Her expression said that customers who dressed like Sancha were not welcome in her shop. A small, birdlike woman, with dyed blueish hair, she wore a pale beige dress that made her almost vanish into the tasteful pale beige décor of the shop.

‘Can I help you?’ she enquired in a chilly tone.

Sancha stood her ground, her chin up. She was in no mood to put up with this sort of treatment. Anyone would think that nobody ever wore jeans—but you only had to look along the street to see hordes of people wearing them. Maybe they never came into this shop? If they got this sort of treatment, Sancha could understand why.

‘I want to try on the green shift dress in the window.’

The shop assistant did not like that. ‘I’m not sure if we have it in your size,’ she said icily, as if Sancha were the size of an elephant.

‘The one in the window looks as if it would fit me,’ Sancha said sharply, wanting to bite her, and maybe that showed in her face because, on hearing her size, the assistant reluctantly produced the dress and Sancha went into a cubicle to try it on.

It was a perfect fit. What was more, she loved it even more when she saw herself wearing it, so she got out her chequebook and bought it, although it made her nervous to see the price written down.

‘I’ll wear it,’ she told the assistant. ‘Could you give me a bag for the clothes I was wearing?’

Still not ready to thaw, the woman found a paper carrier bag and put Sancha’s jeans and shirt into it with the air of someone who wished she had tongs with which to pick up the clothes. Her gaze flicked down to Sancha’s feet; a sneer flitted over her face. Silently she conveyed the message that Sancha looked ridiculous in that stylish dress when she was wearing slightly grubby, well-worn track shoes.

She had a point. Sancha took the carrier bag and walked out of the shop. There was a shoe shop next door; she dived in there and bought some black high heels and a new black handbag that matched them. At least the girl in there was friendly, in her late teens, with pinky blonde hair and a lot of make-up on her face.

As Sancha paid for her purchases the girl said, ‘I love that dress. You got it next door, didn’t you? I saw it in the window.’

‘So did I, but the old misery who runs the shop almost put me off. She looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out from under a stone. Is she always like that?’

The teenager giggled. ‘Unless you have pots of money and she thinks you’re upper class. She’s a terrible snob. Take no notice of her. The dress looks wonderful on you.’

Sancha smiled at her gratefully. ‘Thanks.’ She needed a confidence-booster; her self-esteem had never been so low—practically on the floor.

She went on along the High Street, and was startled to get a wolf whistle from a window cleaner on a ladder who, when she looked up at him, gave her an enormous wink.

‘Hello, beautiful, where have you been all my life?’

Sancha gave a nervous giggle and walked quickly off, but kept taking sidelong glances at her reflection in the shop windows she passed. Each time she felt a little shock of surprise; she hadn’t yet got used to her new look—to the different hairstyle, the sleek green dress, the high heels which made her look taller, slimmer. It was surprising what a difference your appearance made to your whole state of mind. She had been going around feeling well-nigh invisible for years, as far as men were concerned. She didn’t expect attention; she avoided it. She was too busy with her children and the housework; she had no time to think of herself at all.

It was very late now; she ought to find somewhere to eat before they stopped serving lunch. Spotting a wine bar, she dived into it and chose a light lunch of poached salmon, salad and a glass of white wine. She sat in a corner, where nobody could see her, and ate slowly, brooding over Mark. She had to decide what to do, but each time she thought about it she felt a clutch of agony in her stomach; her mind stopped working and pain swamped everything else inside her.

She drove home around two o’clock and found Zoe slumped on the sitting-room floor in a litter of toys, a look of dazed exhaustion on her face.

‘Where’s Flora?’ asked Sancha, immediately anxious. Zoe groaned, running her hands through her hair.

‘Asleep upstairs. I ran out of ideas to keep her occupied so I asked her what she wanted to do and she said she wanted a bath. It seemed like a good idea, so I took her up there and ran a bath, and she had a great time—drowning her plastic toys, making tidal waves and splashing me head to toe—but I got so bored I could scream, so I decided it was time she came out. That was when the trouble started. I picked her up and she yelled and kicked while I tried to dry her. I finally dropped her naked in her cot while I looked for some clean clothes, but when I turned round she was fast asleep, so I covered her with her quilt and sneaked off and left her. My God, Sancha, how do you bear it, day after day? Why aren’t you dead?’

Sancha laughed. ‘I sometimes think I am.’

Zoe gave a start, her eyes widening. ‘Well, well,’ she said, looking her over from top to toe. ‘I only just noticed—you look terrific! I love the new hairstyle—you look years younger—and the dress is gorgeous. That should make Mark sit up.’

Sancha went a little pink, hoping she was right. ‘Glad you approve. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for some tea. Did you eat?’

‘After a fashion. I made a cheese salad for lunch; Flora ate some of the cheese and some tomato and celery, then threw the rest about until I took it away. Watching her eating habits put me off my own food so I didn’t eat much, either, but I’d love a cup of tea and a biscuit. My blood sugar is very low now.’

They drank their tea in the kitchen; the warm afternoon silence was distinctly soporific and Sancha felt her eyelids drooping—Zoe seemed half-asleep too.