The Marriage Betrayal Read online

  Lainy’s only here with all the cool kids because her older brother Jake is supposed to keep an eye on her during the half-term break while Mum and Dad are at work. To be fair to her brother, he doesn’t complain about her tagging along. But she’s careful not to annoy him, staying quiet and keeping herself to herself. Content to watch from the sidelines.

  The irony is, her parents could easily leave her on her own. Lainy always gets her homework done on time, meets her curfew and keeps her room tidy. She has no interest in being a rebellious teenager. She’s far more sensible than her older brother and is perfectly capable of looking after herself. She’s fourteen, not four. Although these ghost stories are definitely starting to freak her out. She’s trying not to listen too hard to her brother’s best friend Mark’s creepy urban myth about a woman lured from her car by an axe murderer. But snippets of the story keep penetrating her brain. She’s probably going to have nightmares later. Her mum says she has an overactive imagination.

  The only bad thing Lainy’s ever done is coming here. The caves are supposed to be a totally out-of-bounds place. All the local kids grew up with strict instructions never to go in them, their parents warning about the perils of rockfalls and dangerous tides and a million and one other disasters waiting to happen. I mean, if they were so worried, why did they even live in such a treacherous place? Lainy’s sure her parents must have snuck into the caves when they were young, so, if you ask her, it’s hypocritical of them to keep going on about it. And it’s not like there’s anything else to do around here. But all the same, she can’t help imagining the horror of what it would be like to get trapped in here by a rockfall or an incoming tide. She’ll probably breathe easier once she’s back out in the open air.

  Instead of listening to Mark’s story, Lainy lets her mind drift. Cath, from the year above, is sitting opposite, and she definitely has a crush on Mark. She keeps touching his arm and thrusting her huge boobs in his direction. Lainy can only dream of having boobs like that. Her own meagre chest barely fills out a training bra. She can’t tell if Mark likes Cath back. But, then again, boys are so hard to read.

  Mark must have reached the punchline of his story because Kayla – also in her brother’s year – suddenly grabs hold of Lainy’s arm and gives a squeal. For a small person, Kayla’s grip is surprisingly firm, and Lainy flinches. The cavern is filled with screams and squeals. The boys’ delighted laughter echoes around the dark chamber. Lainy’s glad she didn’t listen to the awful story. She shifts and re-crosses her legs, the hard rock floor becoming uncomfortable.

  ‘You okay, Lainy?’ Cath asks, her voice carrying above the laughter.

  Everyone turns to look at Lainy, who flushes, embarrassed to be the focus of everyone’s attention.

  ‘Weren’t you freaked out by that story?’ Cath asks. ‘You didn’t even jump.’

  ‘I wasn’t really listening.’

  Cath gives her an odd look and Lainy realises she should have pretended to be scared. Now everyone will think she’s weird.

  ‘I was thinking about the summer holidays,’ Lainy mumbles.

  ‘Oh yeah, summer holidays!’ Cath glances around the small circle of friends, her eyes shining. ‘We should have an end-of-year party down at Smugglers’ Cove!’

  This suggestion is met with murmurs of excitement, and suggestions for when to hold it and who to invite. Smugglers’ Cove is a small sandy beach at the base of the cliffs. Lainy and her family often go there, as it’s the closest beach to their house, accessed by a steep, little-known path. Most tourists don’t know about it, so it’s become a locals’ well-kept secret. Lainy hopes her parents will let her go to the party. She’ll have to get Jake to plead her case.

  She twists a strand of hair around her little finger and finally catches Owen’s eye. He smiles, and Lainy swears it’s a smile of promise. A smile of what’s to come…

  Five

  Now

  After a somewhat disappointing day, including a lacklustre rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ in Durlston Castle and the unexpected arrival of torrential rain, I drag everyone down to a pub in town for Jake’s birthday dinner. I would have booked a posh restaurant, but we wouldn’t have been able to relax with the kids in tow, so the Jolly Sailor is the next best thing. The menu is good and the place is jammed, its windows steamed up and the rain still bucketing down outside. It’s lucky I booked a table. I’m hoping a few glasses of wine will cheer everyone up. I haven’t smoked for years – not since college – but I’d kill for a cigarette right now. Even a hit of second-hand smoke would be better than nothing. Something to quell this jittery feeling.

  Having ordered our food at the bar, I make my way back to the table with a tray of drinks. Our little group is seated by the front window, at two dark-wood tables pushed together. Anyone looking would see two young families having a relaxed evening out. They wouldn’t see the discomfort, the anxiety, the resentment. They might even be envious. Two handsome men, two well-dressed women, three beautiful children… but looks can be deceiving. Nothing is ever as it seems. And we are all as far from relaxed as it’s possible to be. Miles out of our comfort zones. Pretending to be enjoying ourselves.

  I should probably ask Jake what’s wrong. In fact, he’s probably waiting for me to ask. For me to be concerned. To apologise once more for bringing him back to his childhood home. But I don’t want to risk an argument this evening. I already want to relegate this trip to history.

  ‘The food will take about half an hour,’ I say, sliding back into my seat between Lainy and Dylan.

  ‘That’s ages!’ Dylan cries. ‘I’m sooo hungry.’

  ‘They’re bringing bread,’ I reply. ‘But I don’t see how you can be hungry. You haven’t stopped eating all day.’ I poke Dylan’s tummy, making him giggle.

  As it turns out, the food arrives quite quickly and we tuck into our traditional pub fare – lasagnes, sausages and chips, fish pie. I can tell it’s good, not because I’m enjoying it – I’m too keyed up for that – but rather because I’m experiencing it on a detached level. Like a wine-taster or food technician who might appreciate the quality of something without dwelling on it. Jake and I give one another polite smiles. His mouth is drawn into a taut line and the skin around his eyes is strained. We’re pulling apart, like a frayed piece of elastic.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ Tom says, holding up one of his chips, ‘why did the chip cross the road?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Poppy replies with a giggle.

  ‘Because he saw a fork up ahead.’

  Poppy and Dylan groan, but Annabel doesn’t understand, so Lainy starts explaining what a fork in the road is.

  Tom catches my eye and shrugs. It was a terrible joke, and Tom knows it, but at least he’s trying to jolly everyone along.

  Much like earlier in the day, our evening revolves around the children. Focusing on them stops us focusing on ourselves. Checking if they’ve eaten enough, if their hands are too sticky, if they’re being too noisy, if they’re having fun… Suddenly, I’m desperate to get back to the house. To slip into bed and pull the covers over my head. To not have to pretend we’re all having such a wonderful time. But it’s Jake’s birthday, I need to pull myself together and be happy for his sake – even though he’s not himself either. Normally, when we’re in company, he’s confident, sociable, upbeat. Not today.

  The meal is soon finished, a generous tip left on the tray, and we vacate our table, much to the excitement of another hovering family who pounce on our seats before we’ve even gathered our belongings.

  Outside, the evening is warm and drizzly – a small respite after the sticky heat of the pub. With Dylan’s hand in his, Jake turns to head back up the hill.

  ‘It’s only eight thirty,’ Lainy says. ‘We can’t go back yet. It’s your birthday, Jake, we should go somewhere, do something.’

  Jake stops and turns around. ‘I’m not that big on birthdays, guys. And anyway, the kids are yawning and the weather’s vile. We should probably get them in
to bed.’

  ‘The kids will be fine, mate.’ Tom claps Jake on the shoulder. ‘If they have a late night we might even get a lie-in tomorrow. We’re on holiday. Come on!’

  Jake hesitates. I can tell he wants to go back, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to offend Tom. ‘What do you suggest? Pretty sure my clubbing days are over, and anyway, where can we go with the children in tow?’

  ‘Look.’ Lainy points down the street. ‘There’s an art gallery down there. Looks like they’re having an exhibition. Why don’t we all take a look and get out of the rain? Then we can see what we feel like doing afterwards.’

  Poppy pulls at Jake’s hand. ‘Can we go to the art place, Uncle Jake? For your birthday?’

  Jake always manages to be won over by his nieces. He sighs. ‘Sure, Poppy. Okay, why not.’

  We troop down the road to the gallery, where visitors are spilling out onto the pavement, taking shelter under a sky-blue canopy, glasses of fizz in hand. A damp-looking dog has been tied up outside and it lies on the pavement beneath the canopy, forlorn, its nose between its front paws.

  ‘Aw, a doggy!’ Poppy cries. ‘Can we stroke him?’

  ‘Better not,’ Tom replies. ‘We don’t know if he’s friendly. Come on, let’s go inside.’

  It appears to be an exhibition of local artists – landscapes and seascapes of the surrounding area. My heart gives a little tug as we walk into the gallery, the chatter and buzz embracing us in its warmth. The atmosphere is friendly and inviting, welcoming smiles aimed in our direction.

  The girls pull Tom and Jake across the room to a striking mermaid watercolour.

  ‘Lainy, look.’ I nudge her with my elbow.

  She follows my line of sight to see a blonde woman walk across the room towards Jake. ‘It’s the woman who owns our holiday home.’

  ‘Yasmin Belmont.’

  Her blonde hair is pulled up into an artful knot that looks like something out of a style magazine.

  ‘I think she fancies Jake.’ I roll my eyes.

  ‘Do you want to go over there?’ Lainy asks.

  I shake my head. ‘He’s with the children. What’s she going to do, force her tongue down his throat?’

  ‘She might. She looks the type.’ Lainy gives me a quick grin to show she’s joking, and then cries, ‘I’ve got it!’

  ‘Got what?’

  ‘I’ve remembered where I know her from.’

  I’m only half listening, watching Jake laugh at something Yasmin has said. He hasn’t shown half as much interest in me this holiday. Unless you count the routine sex we had last night.

  ‘Faye, are you listening?’

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘I said I’ve remembered where I know her from – Yasmin. She grew up around here. Only I never knew her full name back then.’

  ‘Did she go to your school?’

  ‘No, she lived at the top of the cliff in this massive house. Went to a private school outside town. She was always being chauffeured around in this huge, shiny black car. Thought she was better than everyone else because her family was loaded. We thought she was a bit of a stuck-up bitch. I never realised she was French, or whatever that accent is.’

  ‘Maybe she wasn’t stuck up. Maybe she was just… rich.’

  ‘Perhaps. But you saw what she was like when she met us at the house.’

  ‘Hmm.’ I don’t want to speak badly about someone I’ve only just met. But I have to admit, I didn’t take to the woman. Mainly because she pinched Dylan’s cheek so hard. ‘She certainly seems to like Jake.’

  ‘Don’t worry about my brother,’ Lainy replies. ‘Where’s the alcohol? That’s what I want to know.’ She glances around, her forehead wrinkling.

  ‘Over there.’ I point to a table on our right. We link arms, walk over and help ourselves to a glass of bubbly. ‘Do you think we need to pay someone for these?’

  ‘No one’s here asking for cash,’ Lainy says. ‘I think it must be complementary.’

  ‘Nice.’ I take a sip; it’s a little warm and a little flat, but still tastes pretty good.

  ‘Do you miss it?’ Lainy asks, touching my arm. ‘Your art?’

  I flinch. It’s a straightforward question, but one that I’m not sure how to answer. The truth is, I try not to think about what might have been. Art has always been in my blood. A way to lose myself. To work through the feelings of losing my mother to cancer when I was ten years old. A way to deal with having a grieving father who was unable to cope with his distraught, angry daughter. I lost myself in the images I created. Painted away my pain. Exorcised demons.

  Eight years ago, I won a coveted award from the London art college I attended. At my graduation show, I sold all my paintings to several well-known collectors. I was also offered representation by two prestigious galleries. But then, a week later, I discovered I was pregnant. I suppose I could have continued down both paths, having a child while continuing to pursue my career – plenty of people do. But I was in a relationship with Jake. I was in love. Infatuated. And everything else seemed pale by comparison. I had this image of the three of us making a wonderful little family without any outside distractions – creating a family to replace the one I lost. I would paint in the evenings while our baby slept. My inspiration would be limitless. So, I foolishly let those early offers of representation fall by the wayside, assuming there would be plenty more opportunities in the future. I was wrong. After Dylan was born, there was no more interest. No more offers.

  But I wasn’t unhappy about it. I didn’t regret my choice. Instead, I threw myself into motherhood and helping Jake with his web design business. He likes me working for him – says it makes more sense for me to use my artistic talents for his clients. Plus it helps with the tax side of things. I missed having my own income though, so now I do a bit of freelance illustrating on the side – children’s books and personalised kids’ art for a little extra. It’s not the big, shiny career I was primed for, but at least it’s creative. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

  Yet a part of me misses the raw creativity that comes with painting for pleasure. The release of letting the paint fall on canvas without thinking about clients or money. The sheer freedom of it.

  People occasionally ask why I don’t start painting again. Now that Dylan is at school, I could make time. Make space. But the truth is I don’t want to. Or rather, I’m scared. What if I can’t do it? What if I’ve lost that spark? What if I can’t regain that feeling that my art once gave me? If it’s gone forever, I think I would rather not know. Which is why I never usually walk into galleries. They remind me too much of what I left behind. Of what I’m too insecure to return to.

  ‘Faye?’ Lainy prompts me to answer her question.

  ‘Do I miss it?’ I pretend to consider her question, like it’s something I’ve never thought about before. ‘Not really. Too busy with Dylan and the business. You know what it’s like. Real life takes over.’

  ‘Tell me about it. In my case, my life is all about planning and marking.’

  ‘Don’t forget the nice long teachers’ holidays,’ I add.

  ‘True,’ Lainy replies with a smile. Her eyes suddenly narrow, and she nods her head towards the rear of the gallery.

  I look across to see Dylan chatting animatedly to a dark-haired man. ‘Back in a mo,’ I say, already heading over to my son.

  ‘So, are you an artist, young man?’ the man asks Dylan, his voice gravelly, with a faint Dorset accent.

  ‘My mummy is,’ Dylan says with pride in his voice.

  ‘If only that were true,’ I interject.

  ‘You are!’ Dylan looks up, cross with me for playing down my status. ‘She’s done pictures in books and on websites too.’

  ‘Is that right?’ He gives me an appraising look and holds out his hand. ‘Louis Michael.’ He pronounces his name without the ‘s’.

  ‘Faye Townsend, and this is Dylan.’ We shake. His hand is firm and calloused.

  ‘Are you an artist too
?’ Dylan asks.

  ‘Sort of. I’m a stonemason.’

  ‘What’s a stone basin?’

  ‘Mason. I make things out of stone. Local Purbeck stone. You can come up to the quarry if you like. Have a go yourself. It’s good fun, chipping away at bits of rock.’

  I clear my throat.

  ‘With your mum of course. The more the merrier. I sell my work, maybe you’d like a piece for your garden? A stone bench, a bird bath, or maybe something more interesting like a lion?’

  ‘A lion?’ Dylan’s eyes widen. ‘Can we, Mummy?’

  ‘We’ll see. Thanks for the invitation, Louis.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  ‘Faye?’

  I jump at the sound of my husband’s deep voice behind me. Put a hand to my chest. ‘Jake! You startled me.’

  ‘Who’s this you’re talking to?’

  ‘Oh!’ I’m still flustered. ‘Dylan was chatting to this stonemason – Louis, is that right?’

  The man nods and gives me a smile.

  ‘Louis works locally, and Dylan was saying he’d like to go to the quarry to see some of his work.’

  ‘Sounds interesting, but I doubt we’ll have the time.’ Jake looks regretful. ‘We’re here on holiday. Only staying for a few days.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ Louis says. ‘Your son tells me your wife’s an artist.’

  Jake nods. ‘She illustrates and designs web pages for my company.’

  ‘Very nice.’

  ‘Well, we should be getting back.’ Jake takes hold of my hand and rubs his thumb across my palm.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ Louis says. ‘Enjoy the rest of your stay.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jake nods.

  ‘Bye, Louis!’ Dylan waves enthusiastically.

  ‘Bye, Dylan.’ Louis gives him a wink.

  The three of us walk back to the others, weaving our way through the crowded gallery. Suddenly, everything feels too hot. Too bright. Too loud.