Читать книгу Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending - Amanda Robson, Amanda Robson - Страница 17

Rob is away. Jenni is away. The children are all at my house for a blast – as much fun as it is possible for young people to have. I have taken them to Snakes and Ladders again. I hope they don’t get fed up of it. I can’t cope with looking after so many children if I have to do anything more strenuous. I’ve taken them to McDonalds, too. I have let them choose a bag of sweets each at the sweet shop on Church Street, the old-fashioned one with a bow window, black and white floor tiles and rows of jars containing everything from aniseed balls to toffee bon-bons. Now they are wide-eyed with exhaustion, ready for bed, sitting in a row on our sofa watching a weird cartoon, a cross between Pokémon and Frozen. If Jenni knew about the sugar they’ve eaten I know she wouldn’t approve. Her nose would wriggle in that strange way I used to think was cute. I am sick of the bitch-whore’s tricks – wriggling her nose like Samantha in Bewitched.

I open a bottle of wine while the children watch the end of the cartoon. Just one glass before Craig arrives. It slips down so quickly; I can’t have poured as much as I thought, so I top it up. Melon and blackcurrant. Perhaps a hint of raspberry. As soon as the cartoon is over, I snap off the TV. I stand up and try and look jovial, smiling like one of those inane CBeebies presenters.

‘Race time. Upstairs and into bed. The winner gets a surprise tomorrow.’

And so they hurtle past me, squealing and shoving. I have to intervene as Luke is almost pushed down the stairs. Pippa is the winner. Matt and John whinge. Mark and Luke don’t complain; they have been well trained by Jenni. They clean their teeth and snuggle into bed like a pair of little angels. As soon as I’ve got them all settled, the doorbell rings.

Craig.

He is here. Stepping into my hallway, handing me a bottle of Merlot and a bunch of pink carnations. He plants a kiss on each of my cheeks, irradiating me with the scent of his aftershave. I thank him and he follows me into our compact, candlelit kitchen where the table is laid for supper. I retrieve the opened wine from the sitting room, surprised to see that only half of the bottle is left, and pour us two large glasses. He watches me serve up the oysters I nipped off to buy while the children were choosing sweets. I’ve never liked them, they taste of seawater, but Jenni once told me they were Craig’s favourite. So tonight, oysters it is.

We sit at the table, slurping them from their shells and wiping our plates with ciabatta bread. I wince inside every time I swallow one. We drink too much wine, finishing my bottle, his bottle and opening another one. We look at one another in the candlelight, playing with one another’s eyes. He seems smaller in the candlelight, the shadows softening his bulk.

‘How’s Jenni getting on?’ I ask topping up his glass.

His eyes harden. ‘Her mother’s dying, so how do you think?’

‘I can’t think about death, it terrifies me. I have a head in the sand approach to it. Maybe if you’re religious it’s easier.’

I’m aware that I’m having to concentrate not to slur my words; deliberately clipping my consonants and shortening my vowels.

‘Maybe everything’s easier if you’re religious,’ Craig says, leaning forward intensely.

‘Jenni and Rob, our God Squad,’ I say and laugh.

I am sober enough to see his hard eyes piercing towards me.

‘God Squad – sounds like an army. It’s not as intense as that.’

‘I know, I know,’ I slur quickly, ‘I was only joking.’

Bitch-whore Jenni, when I’ve seduced your husband the joke will be on you.

‘Well, it can’t be that bad if you can joke about it.’

‘Craig, I never said it was bad. Come on, time for the next course.’

I stand up and start to clatter runny French cheese and Waitrose sunflower seed biscuits onto the table. We pick at the cheese and finish the wine. We devour lemon tart from the local bakery and open a bottle of Tokai. As I reach for the coffee machine, the room starts swaying gently. Time for coffee and San Pellegrino.

I balance my way from the kitchen into the sitting room, concentrating hard not to drop the tray loaded with water and coffee. Craig follows me; we slump next to one another on the sofa. I hand him a glass of water and a cup of espresso, aware that my hand is trembling.

‘You can stay the night if you want.’

His face blurs in front of me. Even though I can hardly see them, I try to focus on his eyes and give him my come to bed look. Through the fug of my mind, I hear him say,

‘Carly, you must know I can’t do that.’