The Marriage War. CHARLOTTE LAMB
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cover her distress, she picked up the white envelope. The name and address had been typed. ‘I wonder who this is from?’ she thought aloud, studying the postmark. It was local, which didn’t help.
‘Open it and find out,’ Mark snapped.
What was the matter with him this morning? Hadn’t he slept? Or was he worried about work? Sancha wished there was time to ask him, but Flora had knocked over her mug of milk. Sighing, Sancha mopped up the damage while Mark averted his gaze.
‘None of the boys were this much trouble,’ he muttered.
‘You just don’t remember, and she isn’t really naughty, Mark. Just high-spirited.’ Sancha wiped Flora’s sticky face, kissing her on her snub nose. ‘You’re no trouble, are you, sweetheart?’
Flora leaned forward and gave her a loving bang on the forehead with her porridgy spoon, beaming. Sancha couldn’t help laughing. ‘Finish your breakfast, you little monkey!’
Mark got to his feet, looking out of place in this cosy, domestic room with its clutter of children, pine furnishings and cheerful yellow curtains. He was a big man, over six feet, with a tough, determined face and a body to match—broad shoulders, a powerful chest, long, long legs. His nature matched, too. People who had never met him before always gave him a wary look at first—he had an air of danger about him when he didn’t smile, and he wasn’t smiling now. He looked as if he might explode at any minute. He often had, over the last few months.
A pang of uneasiness hit Sancha—was Mark tired of family life after six years of babies? He was a man of tremendous drives; their sex life had been tumultuous before the children arrived, and Sancha missed those passionate nights. And his work as a civil engineer demanded a lot of energy, though he no longer spent so much time out on any of the sites where his firm were building. Mark was more often in the office now, planning, organising, working out on paper rather than physically, in the field, and she suspected he regretted the change in his working pattern. Did he also regret being married, having children, being tied down?
Curtly he said, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ll be late tonight.’ Sancha’s heart sank. He was always being kept late at the office. ‘What, again? What is it this time?’
‘Dinner with the boss again. Can’t get out of it. He wants to talk about the new development at Angels Field. We’re running late on the schedule, and time is money.’ But he didn’t meet her eyes, and she felt another twinge of uneasiness.
Oh, no doubt she was imagining things, but her intuition told her something was wrong—what, though?
He turned away and said impatiently, ‘Are you ready, boys? Come on, I can’t wait any longer.’ He always drove the boys to school, and Sancha picked them up again at three-thirty.
They clambered down from the table and headed for the door into the hall, but Sancha caught them before they could get away. ‘Wash your hands and faces. You’ve got more porridge on your face than you got into your mouth, Charlie.’
Mark had gone to get the car. Sancha dealt with the boys and followed them to the front door, with Flora lurching along behind her.
‘Try not to be too late,’ Sancha called to Mark when the car drew up outside, and the boys got into the back seat and began doing up their seat belts.
Mark nodded. Early May sunlight gleamed on his smooth black hair; she couldn’t see his eyes, they were veiled by heavy lids, but that air of smouldering anger came through all the same. What was the matter? Was something wrong at work? This weekend she must try to find time to sit down and talk to him, alone, once the children were in bed.
The car slid away; Sancha waved goodbye and stood in the porch for a few moments, enjoying the touch of morning sunlight on her face. It would soon be high summer; the sky was blue, cloudless, and there were roses out, and pansies, with those dark markings that looked like mischievous faces peeping from under leaves. The lilac tree was covered with plumes of white blossom which gave the air a warm, honeyed fragrance.
The house was a modern one, gabled, with bay windows on both floors. Detached, it was set in a large garden, with a low redbrick wall both front and back and a garage on one side. Mark’s firm had built it for him when they’d got married, but they had a large mortgage and at times money had been tight—although it seemed easier now that Mark had been promoted and had a better-paid job. That meant working longer hours, however, and Sancha often wished he had fewer responsibilities.
Flora had taken the opportunity of her mother’s absent-mindedness to sneak off into the garden, her eyes set on the yellow tulips edging the lawn.
‘No, you don’t,’ Sancha said, pursuing her. ‘We’ll go for a walk when I’ve done all my jobs.’ She picked her up, took another long look at the morning radiance of the garden and went back indoors, closing the door with one foot.
Her routine was the same every day. She worked in the kitchen first—cleared the table, piled dirty dishes into the washing-up machine and switched it on, sorted out the day’s washing and put that into the washing machine to soak for half an hour—then carried Flora upstairs and dumped her into her cot while Sancha had a quick shower, herself, then dressed in jeans and an old blue shirt.
It was an hour later, when she had finished vacuum cleaning the sitting-room and hall, that she remembered the letter and went to the kitchen to find it. She made herself a cup of coffee, gave Flora a piece of apple to eat in her playpen, and opened the envelope. The letter was typed and unsigned. It wasn’t very long; she read it almost in a glance, her ears deafened with the rapid bloodbeat of fear and jealousy.
Do you know where your husband will be tonight? Do you know who he’ll be with? Her name is Jacqui Farrar, she’s his assistant, and she has an apartment in the Crown Tower in Alamo Street. Number 8 on the second floor. They’ve been having an affair for weeks.
Sancha’s heart lurched. She put a hand up to her mouth to stop a cry of shock escaping, caught the edge of her cup and knocked over her coffee. The hot black liquid splashed down her shirt, soaked through the legs of her jeans. She leapt up, sobbing, swearing.
‘Naughty Mummy,’ Flora scolded, looking pleasantly scandalised. Primly she added, ‘Bad word. Bad Mummy.’
Sancha said it again furiously, looking for kitchen roll to do more of her habitual mopping up—only this time it was she who had made the mess, not Flora.
It can’t be true, she thought; he wouldn’t. Mark wouldn’t have an affair. She would have known; she would have noticed.
Or would she? Yes! she thought defiantly, refusing to admit that her stomach was cramped with fear. He was her husband; she knew him. He loved her; he wouldn’t get involved with anyone else.
But did he still love her? She remembered the distaste in his face that morning, over breakfast, and bit her lower lip. Mark no longer looked at her the way he used to; she couldn’t deny that. Somehow, without her noticing it, love and passion had seeped out of their relationship, but that didn’t mean there was anyone else. She couldn’t believe he would be unfaithful to her. Not Mark. He wouldn’t.
She had never met his assistant, although she knew the name. Jacqui Farrar had joined the firm only six months ago, from another civil engineering company. Mark had mentioned her a few times at first, but not lately.
Sancha had no idea what she looked like, even how old she was. It had never entered her head that there could be anything going on between her and Mark.
Of course there isn’t! she told herself. Don’t even think about it. Whoever had written that letter was crazy.
Sancha ran an angry hand over her tearstained face and then picked up Flora. At the moment they could never be apart, they were handcuffed together for all Flora’s waking hours—she could not be left alone for a second or she got into some sort of mischief.
Sancha often felt exhausted by the sheer, unrelenting nature of motherhood, longing for a few hours alone, a day when she did not have to think about other people all the time, when