The Marriage War. CHARLOTTE LAMBЧитать онлайн книгу.

      CHAPTER TWO

      SANCHA swung round and walked back along the High Street, not really seeing where she was going and with no idea of what she meant to do. She only knew she needed to think the situation through, and she couldn’t bear to face Zoe until she had herself under control. Her sister would take one look at her face and know that something had happened—they knew each other too well; they had few secrets from each other. Zoe already knew about the anonymous letter, and it was typical of her that she should have read it; it would never have occurred to her that she had no right to read her sister’s private mail.

      There was one secret Sancha did not intend to share with Zoe. Zoe had asked her if she had any pride—oh, yes, she certainly did! She was far too proud to let anyone, even Zoe, see how much it hurt to know that Mark was unfaithful to her.

      Again her dangerous imagination went haywire, sending her images of Mark with the blonde girl, kissing, in bed...

      No! She would not think about that. That way madness lay. She would simply go out of her mind if she thought about Mark and that girl.

      She opened her eyes and stared into a shop window. A dress shop. She tried to be interested in the dresses displayed on brightly smiling, stiffly posed mannequins. One dress did catch her eye, a jade-green shift dress with a little jacket—she loved that colour. She leaned closer to look at the price ticket and her brown eyes opened wide. Heavens! She had never bought a dress that expensive.

      Turning, she was about to walk on when she paused, frowning. It was so long since she had bought anything that pretty—why shouldn’t she be extravagant for once? She was in a mood to do something reckless. And, anyway, Mark could afford to give her far more money than he did. He hadn’t increased her allowance for ages, but now she thought of it he was always buying himself new shirts, new suits, new ties.

      Taking a deep breath, she walked into the shop, and a woman turned to look her up and down, sniffing at her old jeans and well-washed shirt.

      Her expression said that customers who dressed like Sancha were not welcome in her shop. A small, birdlike woman, with dyed blueish hair, she wore a pale beige dress that made her almost vanish into the tasteful pale beige décor of the shop.

      ‘Can I help you?’ she enquired in a chilly tone.

      Sancha stood her ground, her chin up. She was in no mood to put up with this sort of treatment. Anyone would think that nobody ever wore jeans—but you only had to look along the street to see hordes of people wearing them. Maybe they never came into this shop? If they got this sort of treatment, Sancha could understand why.

      ‘I want to try on the green shift dress in the window.’

      The shop assistant did not like that. ‘I’m not sure if we have it in your size,’ she said icily, as if Sancha were the size of an elephant.

      ‘The one in the window looks as if it would fit me,’ Sancha said sharply, wanting to bite her, and maybe that showed in her face because, on hearing her size, the assistant reluctantly produced the dress and Sancha went into a cubicle to try it on.

      It was a perfect fit. What was more, she loved it even more when she saw herself wearing it, so she got out her chequebook and bought it, although it made her nervous to see the price written down.

      ‘I’ll wear it,’ she told the assistant. ‘Could you give me a bag for the clothes I was wearing?’

      Still not ready to thaw, the woman found a paper carrier bag and put Sancha’s jeans and shirt into it with the air of someone who wished she had tongs with which to pick up the clothes. Her gaze flicked down to Sancha’s feet; a sneer flitted over her face. Silently she conveyed the message that Sancha looked ridiculous in that stylish dress when she was wearing slightly grubby, well-worn track shoes.

      She had a point. Sancha took the carrier bag and walked out of the shop. There was a shoe shop next door; she dived in there and bought some black high heels and a new black handbag that matched them. At least the girl in there was friendly, in her late teens, with pinky blonde hair and a lot of make-up on her face.

      As Sancha paid for her purchases the girl said, ‘I love that dress. You got it next door, didn’t you? I saw it in the window.’

      ‘So did I, but the old misery who runs the shop almost put me off. She looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out from under a stone. Is she always like that?’

      The teenager giggled. ‘Unless you have pots of money and she thinks you’re upper class. She’s a terrible snob. Take no notice of her. The dress looks wonderful on you.’

      Sancha smiled at her gratefully. ‘Thanks.’ She needed a confidence-booster; her self-esteem had never been so low—practically on the floor.

      She went on along the High Street, and was startled to get a wolf whistle from a window cleaner on a ladder who, when she looked up at him, gave her an enormous wink.

      ‘Hello, beautiful, where have you been all my life?’

      Sancha gave a nervous giggle and walked quickly off, but kept taking sidelong glances at her reflection in the shop windows she passed. Each time she felt a little shock of surprise; she hadn’t yet got used to her new look—to the different hairstyle, the sleek green dress, the high heels which made her look taller, slimmer. It was surprising what a difference your appearance made to your whole state of mind. She had been going around feeling well-nigh invisible for years, as far as men were concerned. She didn’t expect attention; she avoided it. She was too busy with her children and the housework; she had no time to think of herself at all.

      It was very late now; she ought to find somewhere to eat before they stopped serving lunch. Spotting a wine bar, she dived into it and chose a light lunch of poached salmon, salad and a glass of white wine. She sat in a corner, where nobody could see her, and ate slowly, brooding over Mark. She had to decide what to do, but each time she thought about it she felt a clutch of agony in her stomach; her mind stopped working and pain swamped everything else inside her.

      She drove home around two o’clock and found Zoe slumped on the sitting-room floor in a litter of toys, a look of dazed exhaustion on her face.

      ‘Where’s Flora?’ asked Sancha, immediately anxious. Zoe groaned, running her hands through her hair.

      ‘Asleep upstairs. I ran out of ideas to keep her occupied so I asked her what she wanted to do and she said she wanted a bath. It seemed like a good idea, so I took her up there and ran a bath, and she had a great time—drowning her plastic toys, making tidal waves and splashing me head to toe—but I got so bored I could scream, so I decided it was time she came out. That was when the trouble started. I picked her up and she yelled and kicked while I tried to dry her. I finally dropped her naked in her cot while I looked for some clean clothes, but when I turned round she was fast asleep, so I covered her with her quilt and sneaked off and left her. My God, Sancha, how do you bear it, day after day? Why aren’t you dead?’

      Sancha laughed. ‘I sometimes think I am.’

      Zoe gave a start, her eyes widening. ‘Well, well,’ she said, looking her over from top to toe. ‘I only just noticed—you look terrific! I love the new hairstyle—you look years younger—and the dress is gorgeous. That should make Mark sit up.’

      Sancha went a little pink, hoping she was right. ‘Glad you approve. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for some tea. Did you eat?’

      ‘After a fashion. I made a cheese