Czytaj książkę: «Between You and Me: The bestselling psychological thriller with a twist you won’t see coming»

To Team Hall – for making me who I am.

Prologue

It happened so quickly, and now there is so much blood. More than I ever thought possible. One minute, he was shoving me backwards, into the kitchen counter, the air thick with anger and words spoken in temper that could never be taken back. The next, he was on the floor, the handle of the knife protruding from his ribs. I don’t even remember picking it up, only that I had to stop him. I back away, pushing myself up against the cold, granite surface, across the room from where he lies. I feel light-headed and sick, sweat prickling along my spine. He reaches up to me with a shaky hand, slick with his own blood, and I draw back even further. He is slumped on the floor, back resting against the kitchen counter, a lock of hair falling over his brow. He is pale, a sheen of sweat shining on his forehead. A coppery, iron tang fills the air and I want to retch. Turning, I lean over the kitchen sink, where I heave and heave but nothing comes up. I wipe my mouth on a tea towel and push my shaking hands through my hair. I need to try and think calmly, rationally. I need to phone for an ambulance, and I need to get my story straight. I’ll tell them that he slipped and fell on the knife, a brutal, heavy knife usually used for carving the Christmas turkey, not carving into other people. That we weren’t arguing, just talking. It was an accident; one minute he was fine, the next he was on the floor. I’ll tell them that I didn’t see what happened – I have to protect myself. I can’t tell them that I snapped. That a red mist descended and for just a few seconds I felt like I couldn’t take it any more, the shouting, the aggression and the lies. That in just a split second all rationality left me and I grabbed the knife and thrust it firmly into my husband’s stomach.

Chapter One

SAL

The first time you hit me it was a shock, but not a surprise. Surely this is the natural progression of things? Starting with the little things, like wanting to know where I’ve been, who I’ve spoken to, escalating to a little push here and a shove there, until now, when a slap almost feels like a reward – and I’m thankful that it wasn’t something worse, that there are no bones broken this time.

I remember the first time I saw you. Nothing on earth had prepared me for it and the sight of you hit me like a punch in the guts. Is that ironic? You stood there, in the Student Union bar, talking to a guy on your course I had seen around campus previously, a pint of Fosters in one hand. The sun was streaming in through a window behind you and you looked majestic, standing tall in a faded pair of Levi’s and battered Converse, your fair hair standing out around you like an aura. I was with a group of people from my own course, planning on spending the evening with them hashing over that day’s lectures over a few drinks and then maybe heading out for a bite to eat. Once I saw you, I knew my plans had changed and that I had to pluck up the courage to approach you. How would things have turned out if I hadn’t asked you if you wanted another pint? If you hadn’t accepted, and we hadn’t spent the entire evening holed up in one corner of the SU bar? If I hadn’t answered your call the next day and accepted your invitation to lunch? If we hadn’t spent the whole of that following weekend together, in your flat, ignoring your roommate, the phone, the world outside?

Maybe I would be married to someone who doesn’t think it’s OK to hit me. To throw things at me if I have a different opinion to the one I ‘should’ have. Someone who doesn’t think that being happily married means the other half of the partnership towing the line at all times, no questions asked. Maybe you would be settled with someone else, someone who knows the right thing to say and the best way to handle you. Maybe you would be with someone you don’t think defies you at every opportunity, although I don’t, I really don’t. You just think I do, regardless of what I do or what I say. Maybe both of us would be happier.

Chapter Two

CHARLIE

A file the size of a house brick lands on my desk and Geoff appears, throwing himself down in the chair opposite mine.

‘Another bunch of stuff for you to work through – looks like you’re not going home early tonight!’ he wheezes, his face bright red as he struggles to catch his breath. Geoff is the size of a house himself, his enormous belly straining at the buttons of his grubby white shirt. Geoff is a colleague, my equal, but as he’s fifteen years older than me he treats me like a five-year-old. The man has a serious lack of ambition, and a serious case of body odour.

‘Honestly, Geoff? It’s 8pm – surely you don’t think I’m even considering going home yet?’ I give a little laugh as I pull the file towards me and start leafing through it; despite the fact I still have a ton of paperwork next to me that needs going through before I can even consider leaving the office. I feel the beginnings of a migraine tapping at my temples, no doubt brought on by tiredness from a 5am start and the stress of the never-ending paperwork that comes with the case I’m working on. The pressures of being a corporate lawyer are well known, the long hours, the stressful cases that take over our lives and eat into our personal time with our families, but it is all worth it in the end. The salary and benefits make sure of that.

‘Well, don’t stay up too late. You don’t want to leave that pretty little family of yours too much; someone else might snap them up!’ Geoff heaves his massive bulk from the leather chair across the desk from me, leaning over to ruffle my hair as he leaves.

‘No chance of that, Geoff.’ I grin at him through gritted teeth, the thud of my headache growing louder and making me wish I could slap his meaty fingers from the top of my head. He breezes out of the room, as much as a twenty-stone, fifty-year-old corporate lawyer can, and I reach for the phone. I dial our home number, leafing through the new documents while I wait for Sal to pick up. Engaged. I hang up and redial, using the mobile number. It rings and rings, and I picture it sitting on the kitchen side where Sal always leaves it, the hideous Johnny Cash ringtone that Sal insists on blaring out. It rings out and goes to voicemail.

‘Sal, it’s me. Who the fuck are you talking to? Call me back.’ I slam the receiver down, and lean back in my chair, grinding the heels of my hands into my eyes to relieve the pressure that beats away there. I don’t need this shit – I have enough on my plate to deal with in the office, without wondering who the hell Sal is talking to at eight o’clock at night.

An hour later, when my call still hasn’t been returned, and I’ve tried the house phone numerous times, but to no avail, I bundle up the files and stuff them into my briefcase. I can’t concentrate on work all the time I am wondering why Sal isn’t answering the telephone. All sorts of scenarios cross my mind, ranging from Sal knocking the phone off the hook so as not to be disturbed with some illicit lover, through to Sal on the phone to some other person (Sal’s sister? Sal’s mum? Someone I don’t even know?), planning to leave me. I don’t know what the hell Sal is playing at, but I’m not happy. I thought I had made the rules perfectly clear – if I call, Sal should answer. I spend every waking hour working my butt off to make sure I can provide for my family – I think the least Sal can do is answer the phone when I call. I smooth down my fair hair, sticking up at all angles where I’ve been pushing my hands through it in an attempt to calm myself while I concentrate on those bloody files Geoff dumped on me, grab my black jacket and head out the door. When I get home, Sal had better be there – and if Sal is there, I’ll want to know why the bloody hell my calls this evening have gone unanswered. I’m not being ignored by anyone, least of all the person I chose to spend the rest of my life with.

Chapter Three

SAL

I hang up the phone and breathe a sigh of relief. My sister can talk the hind legs off a donkey, and although I love to speak to her I dread her calls, knowing as I do how you don’t really like for me to speak to my family. You think that we don’t need anyone else, in particular anyone else from my family. The difficulty with that is that I come from a large, chaotic, noisy family, who have a lot to say and only seem to want to say it to each other. I try my hardest to put them off when I can, just so I can avoid the inevitable row that follows when we do see them, but it’s difficult, and I’m not always sure that I want to put them off. My parents came to England from Italy in the 1980s, but haven’t lost any of their Italian ways – they love to have the whole family together in one room as often as possible, and the highlight of their day is if I take Maggie over to visit. As their only grandchild so far she is doted on, but you disapprove, saying that they interfere in our lives and that they shouldn’t have a say in how we bring Maggie up. I don’t always agree, but you have made it abundantly clear in various ways that in our house we do things your way, and, to be honest, the repercussions just aren’t worth it. So I don’t see as much of them as I would like any more, but my sister, Julia, has relocated back to Italy to be with her husband’s family, and she doesn’t see how it is here now. I don’t want to tell her how things are either, that the long, rambling phone calls put me on edge every time, with me completely unable to tell her that I need to get off the phone.

I run lightly up the stairs to check on our daughter. She’s curled up tight into a ball, only the top of her head visible above the duvet, the nightlight casting a warm glow across the bedroom. Nearly five, she has the most beautiful glossy, dark curls, a legacy from the Italian side of the family. She gives a little snore, and rolls over onto her other side and my heart squeezes as I gaze at her sleeping form. No matter what happens between us, no matter how difficult things get, I will always put her first. I will stay and tolerate your demands and rules, if only it means she has a stable family life, with two parents who love her.

Checking the Frozen clock that hangs on Maggie’s wall, I realise that it won’t be long before you are home, so I head downstairs to check on the lasagne that has been keeping warm in the oven, and to open the bottle of Malbec I bought earlier. Creeping down the stairs, avoiding the telltale creaky floorboard in order not to disturb Maggie, I hear the key in the door before I’m even halfway down and it’s obvious by the way the front door slams shut that tonight is not going to be a peaceful night.

‘What the fuck, Sal?’ you hiss into my face as I reach the bottom of the stairs. I wince, worried that the slamming of the front door will wake our sleeping daughter. Holding up one finger, I listen, but no sound comes from the bedroom above.

‘Charlie, please – Maggie’s asleep. What do you mean, what the fuck?’ Whispering, I skirt round you into the hallway so I can get you into the kitchen and away from the staircase before you start to shout and risk waking Maggie up. You throw your briefcase down and are following me into the kitchen when I see it. My mobile, sitting on the side where I left it, turned to silent after Maggie insisted on playing some ridiculous game on it and I had to turn the volume off to stop it from driving me insane. My mobile, sitting on the side, showing several missed calls from Charlie, alongside a text announcing that CHARLIE had left a voicemail. Oh, shit.

‘Charlie, I’m sorry. The volume was switched to silent. I didn’t realise, I promise. Maggie was playing a game; it was driving me bonkers. I had to turn it to silent before I went mad. I’m sorry, Charlie, really sorry. It was a mistake, that’s all.’ I know I am babbling, but your silence is making me nervous, even though I know it is ridiculous to feel this way over a missed call. I look over to where you’re standing in the doorway and, seeing you take off your black jacket, use the opportunity to open the oven door and pull out the steaming hot tray of lasagne.

‘Look, I’ve made your favourite: lasagne. Come and sit down. I’ve bought some wine; we can eat together.’

‘Who were you talking to, Sal? Huh? Who were you on the phone to that was SO FUCKING IMPORTANT that you couldn’t answer my call?’ Throwing your jacket onto the dining chair, you’re across the room before I even realise, standing so close to me that I can feel your hot breath in my face. Carefully, I lower the hot tray of food to the counter and turn towards you. I think about lying, but past experience has taught me that you always find out, which just makes things worse in the end. I decide to brave it out.

‘It was Julia. She was calling from Rome. She and Luca are staying at a hotel for a few days while Luca has business with a guy there. She was just calling to catch up, that’s all.’ I grab a dishcloth and wave it half-heartedly across the draining board in an attempt to avoid eye contact. To avoid the way you’ll be looking at me like I’m a bit of shit, anger and disgust crossing your perfectly aligned features, something that happens only too frequently these days.

‘To catch up, and to slag me off, no doubt. Jesus, Sal, do you think I’m some sort of idiot? I know what your family think of me, I know what you say about me behind my back!’

‘God, Charlie, NO. We didn’t speak about you – Julia asked how you were, that’s all. I told her you were fine, busy at work, you know. Nothing else, I swear to you, please. Please, Charlie.’ I try to take your hand, to reassure you that what I’m saying to you is true, that I’m not lying to you. Your icy blue eyes bore into mine, as you try to decide whether to believe me or not.

‘My phone was on silent, Charlie. Maggie was playing a game on it and it drove me crazy so I turned the ringer off. That’s all, I promise. I wasn’t ignoring you.’ Decision made, you turn on me, slapping my hands away from yours.

‘You’re a fucking liar, Sal. You always have been. You’ve lied to me from the word go and to be honest I don’t think you know how to tell the truth. I know what you and your family think about me; I’m not an idiot. I know you all think that poor old Sal could have done so much better. So what were you and Julia plotting? How to get rid of me? How you’ll leave and build a new life in the sun with your fucking sister? Is that it?’

You’re screaming into my face now, spittle landing on my cheek as I turn my face away from you. Raising my hands to ward you off, unsure as to whether a blow will be forthcoming or not, I shake my head, trying to get the words out before you hit me, trying to tell you, No. None of those things. Just talking. I don’t get the chance before you start yelling into my face again.

‘What, you think you’re going to raise your hands to me? I don’t think so, Sal. You need to remember who’s the boss here – who’s the one that goes out to work all hours so that you can live the life of fucking Riley? ME, that’s who. I have to deal with all the stress and demands, getting up at the crack of dawn every single day so you can live the life you want to lead. So you can sit on your arse at home, playing games with Maggie and slagging me off to your sister, you fucking ungrateful shit.’

You turn and, twisting your sleeve down over your hand so you don’t get burnt, grab the hot tray of lasagne, hurling it to the ground, smashing the porcelain dish into millions of pieces before stalking out of the kitchen. You don’t notice the shards of china cutting into the tops of my bare feet, and the steaming hot mince making burning arced splashes up my legs.

It takes me the best part of two hours to clean up, after I sit with a cold wet cloth pressed against my legs where the hot meat splashed up and scalded me. Tiny blisters have risen on my shins and calves and I know that tomorrow, despite the warm weather forecast, I will have to cover them up. Fighting the beginnings of a headache brought on by fear and exhaustion, I wipe up tomato sauce that has splattered all up the kitchen cupboards and sweep up the shards of porcelain. I mop the entire floor with bleach to get rid of the garlicky smell and make sure that not a single piece of china is left on the floor to pierce Maggie’s bare feet in the morning. I put antiseptic cream on the scalds on my legs, and wearily climb the stairs, praying that, as it’s after midnight, you’ll be asleep.

As I slide into bed, the sheets feeling blissfully cool on my hot, sore legs, you roll over towards me and I hold my breath, not sure if this is the start of another onslaught. I stiffen, waiting for you to speak.

‘I’m warning you, Sal.’ Your breath is hot and sour in my face, as I lie dead still. ‘I’m not having it. It’s your fault the dinner was ruined – if you hadn’t slagged me off to your sister, and then lied to me about it, it wouldn’t have happened. You bring all this on yourself.’

You roll away from me and assume the position you always do when you’re ready for sleep. I lay still; head pounding and blink back hot tears until sleep takes over.