The Wife Who Ran Away Page 7

  My mobile beeps suddenly, signalling that the battery is low, and I jolt, spilling my wine. I didn’t bring my charger with me, of course, so I’ll have to go back into town and try to find one tomorrow. I should have thought about it when I was in Rome earlier.

  I’m still holding the phone when it suddenly rings. I stare at the number illuminated on the screen. Ned. Finally. More than twenty-four hours since I fled the country, and nearly two days since we last exchanged a word. Two days. Has it really taken him that long to notice his wife is missing, or does he just not care?

  My stomach tightens with a combination of nerves and suppressed fury as I hit the answer button. I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him. I’ve never lied to my husband before, but the thought of telling him exactly what I’ve done leaves me breathless.

  ‘Kate? Kate, is that you?’

  I open my mouth to reply.

  And then my battery dies.

  Guy

  No way am I telling anyone what happened. Not even Agness, and she pretty much knows the score about what goes on at my school. But I still wish Kate was home when I get in. I wish she was just there.

  I open the back door and hesitate just inside the hall, pulling out an earbud to listen. Over a backwash of Carnival of Rust, I hear Gran and Agness in the kitchen burbling on about a stupid pair of green gloves, but there’s no sign of Dad. I put the earphone back in and bolt up the stairs before anyone notices I’m home early. I spent the day at Liesl’s; I copped to bunking off, but she wasn’t bothered. She never is. Agness won’t let on, either. She’s a fine one to talk, anyway. She bunks off whenever she feels like it, and no one says a thing.

  Locking my door, I fling myself back on my bed, wincing with pain from yesterday’s assault. I stare up at the ceiling, dread settling like a cold stone in my stomach. I can’t take much more of this. If I have to go to that school much longer, I’m going to top myself.

  I fiddle with my iPod, looking for something angrier. I settle for Nightwish and lean back on my pillows again, folding one arm under my head. Maybe if I talk to Kate and try to explain. I’m not like the rest of the kids in my class. I may be at a twenty-grand-a-year school, but I’m not a twenty-grand-a-year kid. We don’t have a pad in Chelsea and a pile in Gloucestershire. We don’t spend every Christmas in the Caribbean or have our photos on the society pages of stupid magazines. My dad isn’t called Hector and doesn’t have a job in the City or wear mustard-coloured cords and a blazer at Speech Day. For Christ’s sake, Kate works. We’re not broke or anything. But I know it costs her to pay our school fees. It means not having other stuff, important stuff like a new car. Dessler and the rest of the tossers have got no idea what it means to earn money. They think it just arrives like magic on your twenty-first birthday.

  I’d be just as happy in a council flat and an allotment; happier, probably. I could go to the local comp and hang out with other kids like me. I wouldn’t have to listen to endless bullshit about Glastonbury and Henley and pretend to care. Why does anyone think this shit matters?

  After a bit, I realize I’m hungry. Not just hungry: fucking starving. I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours. I knock back a couple of painkillers from the bathroom cabinet and wipe my face. Quietly, I go downstairs to the kitchen, careful to miss the stair that squeaks. The place looks like a bomb’s hit it, with dirty plates and pans piled in the sink. Kate clearly didn’t come home last night; she’d never go to bed and leave it like this. She must’ve worked late and stayed in town.

  I lean against the counter and finish what’s left of the cold lasagne. I don’t want to go to school for my presentation tonight, but Kate promised she’d be there, and I don’t want to let her down. I couldn’t give a shit if Dad turns up or not.

  Gran limps into the kitchen as I swallow the last mouthful. I grab my backpack and bolt for the door.

  ‘What about all this mess?’ Gran demands.

  I shrug: Like, try tidying up, why don’t you? She’s only sprained her ankle, though you’d think it was broken from the way she’s carrying on. I hope she’s not staying long. She drives Kate mental.

  I help myself to a banana. ‘Late.’

  ‘But what about the dishes?’ she wails as the door shuts behind me.

  By the time the bus drops me off at school, the Founder’s Hall is already starting to fill as parents arrive in their blazers and pearls. This is the last show before A levels start, so it’s pretty packed. I don’t see Kate, but I’m not worried. She’s always running late because of work. She’ll be here before it begins, that’s the main thing.

  I wait nervously in the wings, running over my presentation in my head as the other kids go out and present theirs. When it’s finally my turn, I step out on to the stage, trying to catch sight of Kate in the darkened hall, but the audience is a blur of pink faces.

  ‘Fucking cool, man,’ Ivan whispers when I come off stage.

  ‘It was OK,’ I mutter, flushing with pleasure. It was bloody word-perfect.

  After it’s all over, I dive straight into the audience, trying to find Kate in the crowd. All around me, parents are hugging their kids and slapping them on the back. I thread my way through the throng, bobbing and weaving to try to see over people’s heads. We’re probably going round in circles looking for each other. Maybe if I keep still she’ll come to me.

  Gradually the crowd starts to thin. I still don’t see Kate, and I start to get a bit freaked. She should’ve found me by now. Where is she?

  I give it another fifteen minutes, just in case she’s in the bathroom or something. Finally, when it’s clear I’m on my own, I jerk my backpack over my shoulder and head towards the bus stop.

  She promised she’d be here. She promised. Isn’t that supposed to mean something?

  She acts like she’s on my side, but Kate’s no different from every other grown-up after all.

  Ned

  ‘Come on, my son,’ I mutter, leaning forward on the sofa. I need this damn nag to pull a fucking rabbit out of the hat or I’m in big shit. ‘Come on, you – Christ!’

  The horse falters as it lands the water jump, but his jockey manages to hold his seat, though the horse slips back from fifth to seventh place. I slam my fist on my knee, stomach churning with adrenalin.

  I need this race. I’ve had a run of bad luck lately; nothing I can’t handle, but I could seriously use a good result to get myself back in the black. Blind Beggar’s won his last eight races; he’s odds-on favourite. I don’t even need him to win. All he has to do is place. Place!

  Sweat trickles down my back. I’ve got a hard-on like a frigging flag pole. ‘Come on. Come on, you bastard!’

  The horse moves up the inside rail into fifth. Acid chews my gut. Neck and neck with the nag in fourth now.

  They move into the final bend. If Blind Beggar places in the first four, I’m up eight grand. Doesn’t sound like much, given the amount I owe, but it’ll hand me back my stake and give me something to play with for the four-thirty at Kempton this afternoon. If the horse wins, I’ll walk away with a cool forty. More than enough to wipe out the losses at Winchester this weekend.

  The third option doesn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘Yes!’ I shout as Blind Beggar edges into third. ‘You can do it, you fucker! Come on! Come on!’

  The last straight. He’s just a length behind the lead now, in second place. Talk about taking it down to the wire. I’m on my feet, willing the horse forward.

  ‘Come on! Come on, you beauty! You can do it!’

  He’s barely half a length behind the lead when he stumbles. The jockey struggles to keep it together, but the rest of the field is bearing down behind him. In a split second, everything falls apart. The horse staggers again, throwing his jockey, who tumbles into the path of the field and curls into a tight ball to protect himself from their hooves. Blind Beggar keeps running, effortlessly moving into the lead without the weight of the jockey to hold him back. He passes the winning post, empty stirru
ps flapping against his flanks.

  I fling myself back on the sofa. Eighty grand. I just lost eighty fucking grand.

  Jesus Christ. How the fuck am I going to cover this? I don’t have eight grand, never mind eighty. My bowels are suddenly liquid. What in God Almighty was I thinking?

  I was so sure my luck was going to change. The law of averages said I couldn’t keep on losing. Sooner or later, the tide would turn. Blind Beggar was a dead cert to win. Guaranteed to place. Guaranteed.

  Eighty grand on a single race. Plus what I already owe the bookies. And the loan I took out at Christmas. The second mortgage on Eleanor’s place. The money I borrowed from my brother. We’re talking close to two hundred thousand all told. Two hundred thousand!

  Kate swore she’d leave me if I got into trouble again. She had to cash in half her pension and her share portfolio to bail me out last time. She went round all the bookies in Salisbury and threatened to have their balls on a plate if they took another bet off me, which is why I ended up at the Tote in bloody Winchester. No way is she going to bail me out again. I’ll be out on my ear the moment she finds out. I forged her signature on the mortgage application, too; she could actually get me thrown in jail if she really wants to be vindictive.

  I can’t believe it has snowballed like this. It was just a few hundred quid in the beginning. I made some money, lost some, made some more, lost it again. That’s the way it goes. Luck of the draw and all that. Then I hit a bit of a losing streak, I’ll admit. Not enough to start a panic, but I needed to make it back. Every time, I had to lay out more to make enough back to cover my losses. I didn’t dare stop and think about the numbers.

  It’s not like I’m an addict, for God’s sake! I could stop if I felt like it. I went two years without placing a single bet, and I was totally fine. Then two months ago the rest of my life went to hell in a hand-basket and I figured, why not? In for a penny, right? It’s just a harmless thrill to take my mind off things, that’s all. Kate buys a lottery ticket every weekend when she goes to Tesco; what’s the difference?

  Except Kate doesn’t blow two hundred grand on scratch cards. Jesus Christ. What the fuck am I going to do?

  I sit on the sofa till it gets dark, too paralysed to move. When the back door slams, I leap half a foot with shock.

  Agness sticks her head round the door. ‘Mum didn’t leave anything out for dinner,’ she scowls. ‘I’m ordering pizza, OK?’

  She storms off before I have a chance to reply.

  My brain is working furiously, searching for a way out like a rat in a trap. I’ve got to find the money from somewhere. I’ve tapped every place I can think of: the bank, the house, anyone who’ll lend me a fiver. Only way I can get two hundred grand together is to win it. There’s no other way.

  Maybe if I sold the Suzuki, got some seed money together. Placed a few spread bets, small and cautious. It’s not impossible. If I can just keep Kate from finding out for a bit, until I get things sorted, I’ve got a chance.

  A couple of hours later, the door slams again and I hear the kids bickering in the hallway.

  ‘Why’s the kitchen still trashed?’ Guy demands. ‘Where’s Kate?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Agness retorts. ‘I haven’t seen her.’

  ‘What d’you mean, you don’t know?’

  ‘What are you, deaf?’

  ‘That haircut really makes you look fat,’ Guy yells as Agness storms back upstairs. The only response is the sound of a bedroom door slamming overhead.

  A few minutes later, Guy slouches into the room and hovers near me. ‘Where’s Kate?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Is she home yet?’

  ‘Work,’ I say shortly.

  ‘Did she come home last night? She’s not away or anything?’

  For crying out loud. How the fuck should I know? I’m just her husband. ‘No, not that I know of.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Guy presses.

  ‘What is this, twenty questions?’ I say irritably. ‘I don’t know what time she got in last night, I didn’t see her, and I haven’t seen her today. What’s so urgent it can’t wait?’

  ‘She missed my presentation,’ he mumbles, sounding about five years old again. ‘So did you.’

  Shit. Kate should’ve reminded me. I can’t be expected to remember these things on my own. ‘Yeah, well. I’m sure she meant to be there.’

  ‘She wouldn’t have missed it for no reason.’

  ‘Oh, there’ll have been a reason,’ I mutter. An important one, no doubt. After all, Kate is a very important person. She has important reasons for missing things, unlike me. I’m just a fuck-up with nothing better to do than bankrupt his family.

  Guy chews his thumbnail. ‘It’s just the kitchen’s still a mess. And she didn’t turn up to my presentation, and she promised.’

  I heave a sigh and point the remote at the TV to turn down the volume.

  ‘Look. I’m sorry we missed it, all right? Kate’s been flat out at work. I’m sure she’d have been at your presentation if she could. And quit worrying about the kitchen. She’s just been too busy to sort it, that’s all. She’ll get to it when she can.’

  He slumps on the sofa next to me. ‘Yeah. Right.’

  ‘Another time, mate. OK?’

  ‘Can you call her?’ he blurts suddenly.

  ‘What the fuck for?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘For God’s sake. Fine. Fine. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll call her.’ I fumble in my pocket, flip open my phone and hit speed-dial.

  She answers on the third ring. ‘Kate?’ I demand. ‘Kate, is that you?’

  Silence. And then suddenly I’m listening to the dial tone.

  I grab the remote and whack the TV volume back up, steaming with fury. Who the fuck does she think she is? Where in shit does she get off hanging up on me?

  I’m damned if I’m going to ring her back. The ball’s firmly in her court.

  She can bloody well call me.

  Kate

  My hand hovers over Julia’s ugly green seventies push-button telephone. I just have to tell Ned I’m away on business for a few days, apologize for the short notice, and ask him to hold the fort till the weekend. He won’t question it. As long as I’m back before Saturday, he probably won’t even care.

  Bile churns in my gut. I should’ve called him straight back last night, as soon as my mobile died on him. He’s probably beside himself with anxiety, wondering what on earth has happened to me. For all I know, he’s already got the police out dragging rivers and searching ditches. The longer I leave it before I call, the worse this is going to get. I’ve already passed the point where no one will notice my absence; even if I go home now, straightaway, there’ll be explanations, consequences. Paul Forde has abruptly stopped emailing and calling me, which is a bad sign. I’ve probably been fired already. Which means no money coming in to pay the mortgage, the school fees, the bills . . .

  Don’t go there. I’ll sort everything out when I go back. I’ve given Paul everything; he won’t hang me out to dry when I need him most.

  Ned did.

  The ginger kitten twines himself around my ankles and then suddenly runs up my capris and T-shirt, perching like a parrot on my shoulder. Laughing, I reach around and stroke him. He reminds me of my cat at home. ‘Sawyer two-point-O. Is that what we’ll call you? What would you do, Sawyer 2?’

  My newest friend purrs loudly in my ear. ‘That’s what I thought,’ I sigh.

  Picking up the green receiver, I twine the curly plastic cord round my index finger. I’m desperate to know how Agness and Guy are. I missed Guy’s presentation last night; I’m sure he won’t have minded, but it’d be nice to see how things went. And Eleanor had a nasty fall a few days ago; I really ought to check she’s OK. It’s not fair to leave her frantic with worry.

  It’s not fair to run away in the first place.

  Yet still I don’t dial, and suddenly I realize I actually can’t. I need Ned to make the first move. Wha
t he said two months ago cut deeper than either of us knew. Only he can put it right. Until he does, I can scarcely look after myself, let alone the children. They need me whole, healed. In the truest sense, I’m doing this for them.

  My stomach actually fizzes with tiny bubbles of relief as I put down the ugly phone.

  He’ll call me. He’ll miss me, and then he’ll call me, and we can put all of this right.

  Ned

  It’s not difficult to keep out of Kate’s way, since she’s apparently working all the hours God sends: getting home after I’ve gone to bed, and up and out before I wake up. There are times when I wonder if she even comes home at all. It pisses me off, but I don’t really have a leg to stand on; she’s the one actually earning money, after all.

  I’m in the shower, listening for the results from the race at Lingfield, when the phone rings. I’m tempted to leave it, but I’ve just listed the Suzuki for sale in the local paper, so I turn off the water and hop out, grabbing a towel as I run into the bedroom.

  ‘May I speak to Kate, please.’

  A man’s voice, crisp and impatient.

  I knot the towel at my waist with one hand, water dripping onto the carpet. ‘She’s not here, I’m afraid. D’you want me to take a message?’