Hell Hath No Fury Read online

  ‘I know the number of a clinic – it’s a good one and they’ll take care of you, but we’ll have to move quickly…’

  ‘What do you mean, a clinic? You mean to confirm the pregnancy? I can do that with my own doctor.’

  Looking back, I must have been the most stupid nineteen-year-old who ever existed, but you’ve got to understand that I was inexperienced and besotted with this person.

  This person who had cried on my shoulder about how much his wife hated him, but wouldn’t let him leave…

  This person who told me I was the only woman he had ever loved…

  This person who disappeared before my very eyes.

  Simon slumped onto the bed beside me, and grabbed my hand. His palm was cold and sweaty, and the complete opposite to how it felt every time he ran it up my thigh or over my breasts.

  ‘Lottie…’

  ‘Charlotte!’

  ‘Charlotte, you’re not seriously thinking that we can keep this baby, are you? It’s impossible under the circumstances. You know it is.’

  I didn’t hear his words in my ears alone. Instead, they travelled down to the depths of my stomach, where the tiny new life was just beginning. I had been hurt by men before, but Simon’s reaction had to be the worst I’d ever experienced. My lungs felt as though they were collapsing, and I wondered if I’d ever breathe again. This must be a joke. Cruel and senseless, yes, but a joke nonetheless.

  Except it wasn’t.

  I snatched my hand from under his, and rubbed it on the duvet; ridding myself of his touch and scent; trying to delete this conversation from my mind.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘You told me that once you’d left your wife, we would get our own place and settle down. I know it’s earlier than we thought it would be, but it’s still okay. Maybe if she knows about the baby, your wife will let you go and you can get on with your life.’

  His mobile rang, and he sprang up to decline the call.

  ‘That was her, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you just answer it and tell her what’s happened? You could have all of this sorted by lunchtime!’

  Simon curled his arms over his head, and groaned.

  ‘For God’s sake, Charlotte, will you grow up? I can’t tell my wife about this! She would use it against me when we do get divorced!’

  ‘But…’

  ‘No!’

  I threw my hands to my face and burst into tears, right there in that dingy little hotel room, with the UHT milk on the dresser, and the fake flowers on the table. Everything was fake in that room. Every little thing. The tears didn’t stop, and it was several minutes before I heard Simon sigh and sit down beside me. He nestled my head onto his shoulder and rocked me like a child… Rocked me like the child he didn’t want.

  ‘You know we can’t have this baby, don’t you, Charlotte? It’s too complicated. It’s not the way I imagined it to be.’

  I pulled myself away from his grasp, and wiped my eyes on the back of my sleeve.

  ‘What do you mean, not the way you imagined it to be? According to you, you couldn’t even have children naturally, so surely you didn’t imagine anything at all.’

  Simon touched the base of his neck, and swallowed so deeply that I could see his muscles contract.

  ‘I… I just thought that if a miracle happened and we were ever blessed with a child, it would be when all of this business with my marriage was over. We’d have our own place, and she – or he – would come racing into the bedroom in the morning, and throw themselves in the middle of us, demanding to watch Peppa Pig, or Mr Tumble, or whatever they watch nowadays…’

  He laughed as though he could actually imagine such a thing, and for a moment I felt certain that I could change his mind. I reached out and touched Simon’s shoulders. They were so tight they felt like granite.

  ‘If you leave her now, we can still have those things! We could get a house long before the baby is due! It doesn’t even need to be in Northamptonshire. We could go anywhere we like! We’ve got at least another seven or eight months…’

  Simon tightened his fists and lowered his voice.

  ‘No, Charlotte. It can’t happen like this. With a bit of luck, maybe we can have a baby in a few years, but we can’t have this one. Not now. Not this way. Besides, I’ve got my career to think about. I’m in line for a promotion, but this scandal could halt the whole thing. Do you understand?’

  I nodded, though in reality I didn’t understand a thing. Just months ago, I was a budding actress, content only when rehearsing a part or standing under the theatre lights. All I had ever wanted was to become a professional actress, but this man had entered my life and sent everything spiralling out of control. I’d have done anything for him, but the only thing he wanted from me now was to visit a clinic and rid him of the ‘problem’.

  And so, two days later, I sat at the traffic lights on a damp April day, and wished that the line of cars would never move. Or I hoped that if it did, we’d get to the clinic, and they would be closed… Forever. Or even better – I wished that Simon would realise what a terrible mistake he was making, and he’d scoop me into his arms like in this romantic comedy I had once watched with my mum.

  But as we pulled into the hospital car park, there was no sign of regret from him at all, and no change of plan. Instead, he pulled the car into a waiting spot, left the engine running and let out a sigh.

  ‘Don’t forget, if you’re ready after three, you’ll have to get a taxi. Just keep the receipt and I’ll pay you back.’ He put his hand on my shoulder, and I tried to shrug it off, but he was too strong. ‘If you’re out before three, give me a call and I’ll try to get out of work to pick you up. I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.’

  He gave me a quick kiss on the top of my head.

  ‘Good luck, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘I’ll be thinking of you.’

  My hands shook so much that I wondered if I’d get the door open, but a few seconds later, the cold, wet wind hit my face and I slid out of the car. I walked two steps and then turned to ask my lover if he was sure this was the right thing to do.

  But he had already closed the door and was driving across the car park.

  And I never saw him again…

  Until now…

  Ten years later.

  2

  Simon Travis. Simon Travis. His name whirrs around inside my head until I feel nauseous. What is he doing here? I can’t let him see me, and yet I’m not sure how I can escape without him bumping into me.

  I’m on the top floor of Waterstones bookshop in Northampton. I only popped in to see if they had the new Stephen King novel, but now I’m hiding in the horror section, book clutched to my chest and hoping that this won’t turn into my own version of a thriller. Simon stands in the sports section, looking at a book about Ian Botham. His hair is greyer now – salt and pepper my mum would call it – but he still looks the same. A little bigger perhaps, but aren’t we all, ten years later? He must be forty-five by now. Middle-aged, heading towards fifty, but still holding on to his looks.

  Blood rushes to my head, and I feel as though my arms are hanging by threads. My heart thumps so loudly that I half expect someone to tell me to be quiet. Twenty minutes ago, I was drinking coffee in the café next door, but now I feel dehydrated, as though I haven’t ingested any fluids in a week. I need to get out of here, but how? How can I escape this man I have avoided for the past decade?

  There is one route from the top floor to the bottom, and that is through a door right next to where Simon is standing. I can’t risk going past him, so instead, I continue to loiter in my section, half-hidden by a stack of new Dean Koontz books. I open up my Stephen King novel, and pretend to read, though in reality, my eyes are poking over the top, like in one of those bad 1930s spy films my gran loves so much. Simon is enthralled by his book, and next to him a woman crouches down, examining a book that I can’t make out. It isn’t until she stands up and talks to Simon that I realise who she must be.

  His wi
fe.

  So much for their marriage being over, ten years ago! If it was, they seem to have recovered rather nicely, I must say. What a fool I was to believe his lies, but at least I had an excuse – I was just nineteen years old. What’s his excuse for being a lying, manipulating bastard? I watch the couple cosy up amongst the sports biographies, and memories of that awful day come flooding back to me. Standing on the pavement outside the clinic; distressed and alone. Needing the father of my child to give me some kind of support, as I prepared to go through such a traumatising event, and yet receiving nothing but a view of the back end of his car. As I seethe at the obscenity of his behaviour, I lower the book from my face, and it is at that point that Simon looks up and sees me.

  Shit.

  His face is inquisitive at first. His eyebrows knit together and he tilts his head to one side, as if trying to figure out where he knows me from, and who I am. His wife recognises his curiosity and seconds later she, too, stares over in my direction. I lift the book once again but it’s too late. I can hear the woman ask who I am, and then they’re both next to me, close enough that I can smell her perfume and feel his aura wafting around my head.

  ‘Hey! Lottie, isn’t it?’

  I lower the book and there he is; eyes burrowing into my face. Still trying to infuriate me by calling me by the wrong name.

  ‘It’s Charlotte, actually. Hello.’

  ‘Right! Yeah! I thought it was you! How’ve you been?’

  ‘I’ve been fine, thank you.’

  Simon reaches over and grabs my hand, pumping it as though I’m some kind of long-lost business associate. I guess in a way, I am. Meanwhile, the woman stares at me, and I have no option but to meet her eyes and smile. She looks to be in her early forties: sleek, black bob, impeccable make-up, white jacket, high-heels and pencil skirt. She’s every inch the wife of a successful businessman, and the complete opposite of me, in my scruffy jeans, old winter coat and trainers.

  Simon drops my hand and I reach for his wife’s. It’s cold and clammy, and when she lets go, I have to resist the urge to reach into my bag for my antibacterial gel.

  ‘I’m Charlotte,’ I say. ‘I used to work with your husband. Kind of.’

  Her head flinches, and she scrunches her mouth into a ball.

  ‘I’m Monica. And you kind of worked with my husband? That sounds ominous.’

  There’s a chuckle, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. Simon recognises her confusion, and runs his hand through his hair. His wedding ring laughs at me; laughs at the way I let him walk all over me, back in the day.

  ‘Charlotte was in one of the plays I helped to publicise when I worked at my old place. A Christmas Carol, wasn’t it? 2010?’

  He’s such a bullshitter.

  ‘Oliver Twist. 2011.’

  ‘Right! I knew it was some Charles Dickens thing. I see you’ve moved on from the classics now though.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  Simon pulls the book away from my chest, and taps the cover.

  ‘Stephen King. I’ve just finished reading that one. It’s pretty good. Not as good as The Stand, but then again, what is?’

  Monica smirks.

  ‘Well, Misery is more my cup of tea, but it’s all subjective.’ She grabs Simon’s wrist and studies his watch. ‘Darling, we need to get a move on, if we’re going to pick up Betty.’

  ‘Oh right, yes. We need to shoot off, but it was nice to see you again, Charlotte.’

  I nod, and then without a goodbye, Simon and Monica head across the sales floor and disappear through the archway that leads to the staircase. As they round the bend, my former lover takes one last look, and then gives a brazen wave.

  I don’t respond.

  I can’t stop shaking as I drive away from the shopping centre and head back to Bromfield-on-the-water, the village where I have lived my whole life. What is he doing in Northampton? The last thing I heard about Simon fucking Travis was that he had moved to London to start his own marketing business, and I knew that because I looked him up on LinkedIn about six months after he did a runner. I breathed a sigh of relief, and tried not to think of him again. As far as I was concerned, he had gone and I hoped he’d never return. But now here he is in my nearest branch of Waterstones, and I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

  I pull into the Bromfield Primary car park and turn the radio up. The 1980s station blasts Wham! into the car, and I feel comforted. Not that I was around in the eighties, but my mum was, and she played those tunes all the time when I was a kid. And beyond. The man in the car next to me winds his window up. I crank the volume even more, and then I close my eyes and hum along to ‘Freedom’, trying to rid myself of the vision of Simon and his awful, understanding wife. Does she know what a lying creep he is? She can’t, otherwise she’d have divorced him by now. Just like he told me he was going to do, a decade ago.

  The passenger door flies open, and my almost-ten-year-old son, Tom, throws himself into the passenger seat. His strawberry-blond hair flops down into his eyes as he heaves his backpack onto the seat behind us.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ he says.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ I reply, and give him a kiss on the top of his head.

  ‘Eww! Don’t do that here! Somebody might see!’

  Tom rubs at the top of his head, and I laugh.

  ‘Had a good day?’

  He leans over and turns down the radio.

  ‘Why are you always listening to granny music?’ he asks. ‘Charlie’s mum listens to rap. Can we listen to rap?’

  ‘No, we can’t. Now pop your seat belt on. It’s Friday, and you know what that means!’

  ‘Lasagne!’ he shouts, and then licks his lips.

  I laugh, and ruffle his hair, and his little hand flies up to straighten it again. My beautiful boy. The same beautiful boy who wouldn’t even be here, if Simon Travis had had his way.

  3

  As I watched the red lights on Simon’s Audi head out of the clinic car park, the enormity of what I was about to do struck me right in the centre of my stomach. I knew I was still a teenager, but I had been grown up enough to get myself into this situation in the first place. I also felt that given the chance, I was more than capable of caring for my own baby. My mother’s four siblings were all younger than her, meaning that I had always been surrounded by cousins of various ages, so I knew the score.

  Every Sunday our families would get together, and me being the oldest, I would be put forward as an unpaid babysitter or children’s entertainer. I had lost count of the number of times I’d read them my mum’s old copies of The Magic Faraway Tree or The Naughtiest Girl in the School. I even changed more than my fair share of nappies, and was always eager to give a bottle to a hungry baby cousin. It was good training for the future, even if I hadn’t realised that the future would start so soon.

  I shuffled towards the clinic doors, and they slid open with a screeching, unwelcoming sound. I went inside, but not enough to ensure that the doors closed behind me. Instead, they made a juddering movement, as if they couldn’t decide if they were open, closed or somewhere in-between.

  A middle-aged woman with a 1950s hairdo and horn-rimmed glasses, looked up from the reception desk.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  Her smile was warm and comforting, and her voice managed to calm the beating in my chest, even for a moment.

  ‘I… I…’

  I turned to take one last look into the car park, and saw Simon heading out of the exit. His wheels made a squealing sound on the tarmac as he turned onto the road. He couldn’t get away quick enough.

  ‘Do you mind if I just sit here for a moment?’ I asked the lady with the warm smile.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Take all the time you need. When you’re ready, just let me know and we’ll get you booked in.’

  I nodded and sat down on one of the blue plastic chairs, lined up against the wall. Across from me, a young woman with flame-red hair filled in a form; her hand flying across the page as though he
r life depended on it. She sat with her boyfriend; his knees shaking up and down as he watched her write. His face was ashen, and every so often he rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand, and took a deep breath. He was nervous – terrified even – but at least he was there. At least he had come into the clinic with his partner, instead of dropping her at the door with barely a goodbye.

  I gazed at my surroundings in an attempt to calm myself, but it was a losing battle. I’d never been in a private clinic, and it was certainly more attractive than my local doctor’s surgery, but that said, I’d have rather been anywhere else than in that room. There was a wall-mounted television, showing a muted episode of This Morning, and a round, three-legged coffee table with a pile of old, ragged magazines on the top. Next to me, a table hosted a machine that offered free coffee in white paper cups, but my stomach gurgled to even think about drinking coffee at that moment in time.

  Across from me, the flame-haired girl finished filling in the form, and handed it to the receptionist. She caught my eye on the way back to her chair, but neither of us smiled, as though we thought maybe it was inappropriate under such circumstances. Her boyfriend picked up a copy of Vanity Fair magazine from the table, and offered it to her, but she shook her head, and he threw it back onto the pile. As they waited their turn to be called, I held no judgement towards them or anyone else who might find themselves in that room. But as I stared at a painting of a dense, foggy forest, I knew that I’d never be ready to book myself in. I couldn’t give up my baby just because Simon Travis told me to, and at that moment I realised just how controlling and domineering he had been, over the months I had known him. I had gone along with it all without question, but that was about to change.

  As soon as the realisation hit me, I sprung up from my chair. The kind lady at the desk smiled, and expected me to approach her, but instead, I turned and bolted for the door. It swished open and I threw myself out so quickly that I almost bumped into a passing woman. I mumbled an apology, and then threw up in a nearby flower bed.