Chapter Forty-Seven
Forty-seven
Martyn stood in the doorway. His shirt clung to his back in damp patches, creased as if he’d slept in it, while his skin had taken on a mustardish tinge.
Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and there were more around his eyes.
It was a far cry from the neat and put-together version of her husband Skye was used to seeing.
The contrast elicited something in her that she wasn’t expecting, though the flash of pity was there for less time than it took her to draw breath.
“I need to sit down,” he said. “Keep the ankle elevated.”
Sky stepped aside without a word, her expression flat. Martyn shuffled into the room awkwardly on his crutches, grimacing with every step.
“I’m never going to get used to these things,” he grumbled as he lowered himself down.
Skye’s mother got to her feet.
“I’ll make us all a hot drink, shall I?”
“I’d rather something more medicinal,” Martyn replied.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said coldly. “You have a suspected concussion, not to mention a stomach full of painkillers.”
“I don’t have any alcohol in the house anyway,” Skye said. “Not unless you want ouzo?”
Martyn pulled a face. He waited until Cassandra had gone, then turned to Skye.
“You left me,” he said. “Again.”
“You patronized me,” she countered. Tiredness slammed into her. Skye was sure that if she closed her eyes, she would sleep where she stood. From inside the kitchen came the burble of a kettle beginning to boil.
“What do you want?” Martyn said. “An apology?”
“How about a divorce?” she replied.
He rolled his eyes over a drawn-out sigh.
“On what grounds?” he demanded, wincing as he shifted position.
Skye stared at the floor, counted to five, tried in vain to calm the chaotic rhythm of her heart. Every part of her felt coiled tight, tension running across her shoulders and back, stiffening her legs, and locking her knees. Where had this strength been before when she’d needed it?
“I think,” she said, a slight tremble to her deliberately mocking tone, “that it’s referred to as ‘unreasonable behavior,’ though that’s a euphemism if I’ve ever heard one.”
“I’m the unreasonable one?” Martyn rocked back in his seat. “How about abandonment? You’re the one who walked out, remember.”
“Let’s ask my mum, shall we?” Skye replied as Cassandra came back into the room, a tray balanced in her hands. “She’s the lawyer.”
Martyn glowered.
“I suppose you’ve spun your mother quite the yarn,” he said. “Told her some sob story about how awful it was for you, being with someone like me, who supported you, believed in you—”
“Abused me,” Skye interrupted. “That’s right,” she went on, as Martyn shook his head in a show of disgust. “What you did to me, the bullying and belittling, that was abuse.”
Martyn turned to Cassandra.
“See what I mean? She’s a fantasist.”
Skye took a mug from the tray, deliberately selected one Andreas had given her. Chipped, faded, yet oddly comforting, much like the man himself. Her mother handed another tea to Martyn, then took her own and sat a few feet away from him.
“My daughter tells me you locked her in a room,” she said in the even-tempered yet mildly condescending tone Skye always imagined she employed in a court setting. “Do you deny it?”
An ugly shade of beetroot crept across Martyn’s neck.
“That was a joke,” he muttered. “We were fooling around.”
Skye’s mouth fell open.
“You dragged me up the stairs and threw me in there,” she cried. “How could that ever be classed as ‘fooling around’?”
“Listen,” he said, eyes darting from Skye to her mother. “Couples bicker all the time. Didn’t you and Cosmo have the odd run-in, Cassandra?”
“That’s your summation, is it?” she said pleasantly. “That dragging someone through a house and locking them up against their will is merely what all married couples do?”
“I never hit her.” Martyn pouted. “Tell her,” he ordered Skye. “Not once did I raise my hand to you.”
“What do you want?” she snapped. “A medal?”
“So I get angry sometimes,” he said defensively. “So what? Haven’t either of you ever lost your temper after a bad day? My job is extremely high pressure.”
“Well, yes,” Skye said, “the pressure tends to be high when you work at thirty thousand feet.”
“Now you’re being facetious.”
Cassandra cleared her throat.
“You hurt her, Martyn,” she said stonily. Her face remained impassive, devoid of emotion, though the anger was there in the rigid set of her jaw.
“You hurt her and you scared her—that’s not acceptable.”
The dark red flush spread to his cheeks.
Martyn took a furious sip of his tea, only to splutter as the hot liquid went down the wrong way.
He had never apologized to Skye, not since that first incident with the wineglass in the bath.
Was he truly not remorseful, or was it that to say sorry would mean admitting he was at fault?
Skye flexed and unflexed her fingers, moved her half-empty cup from one hand to the other.
“Did you ever consider trying therapy?” she asked him.
Martyn widened his eyes in theatrical disbelief.
“Why in God’s name would I do that?”
“For your grief,” she said. “It must have been difficult for you after Beatrice died.”
He let out a huff and tilted his head away.
“Who’s Beatrice?” her mother asked. Skye hadn’t divulged the story about Martyn’s sister.
He’d made it clear that nobody must ever mention her name to his parents.
Not that Skye had seen Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart much since the wedding.
She recalled their stiff smiles, the way his mother had always set the table with quiet precision, as if a single fork laid incorrectly would be intolerable.
Conversation at their few lunches had drifted like background music, quiet and polite, entirely forgettable.
Skye had no reason to respect their wishes in this scenario, yet as she started to speak, Martyn cut across her.
“We don’t talk about Beatrice,” he said.
“No,” Skye corrected, “you don’t talk about her—not nearly enough. Don’t you think you should? Don’t you wonder if all those repressed emotions, the anger and grief and frustration, could be the reason you have so many—what was it you called them? Bad days?”
“Grief has nothing to do with it,” he shot back. “It’s stress, plain and simple. After a long day of dealing with half-wits, I don’t want to come home and find another one waiting for me.”
Skye blurted out a laugh.
“I’m a half-wit now? Wow. I mean, wow, Martyn. That’s a nice thing to say about your wife.”
“Listen,” he said again.
Yet another command.
“It doesn’t do any good to keep dredging up the past. It may suit you to talk about your dad every goddamn opportunity you get, but not everyone is like that. Some of us would rather draw a line under the unpleasantness.”
What a strange word to use. More and more, it occurred to Skye that this man she’d married, whom she’d believed herself to love, was an actor. An enigma. She had no idea who Martyn was, though a phrase her father once said to her came to mind.
When people show you who they are, hen, believe them.
“Do you have a photo of her?” she asked. “In your wallet or on your phone—anywhere?” Turning to her mother, she added, “Beatrice was Martyn’s sister. She died in accident when he was—”
Martyn leaned forward.
“I said,” he growled, “that I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I want to see her,” Skye persisted. “There must be photos.”
“My mother burned the lot, you know that.”
“Do I? All I know is what you told me, and I’m afraid that doesn’t hold much value, not anymore. In fact,” Skye said, putting down her empty mug and taking out her phone, “I might just call your parents now and ask them.”
“Don’t you dare,” he said, grabbing for her.
Skye was too fast and far nimbler than him. She swept her phone easily out of reach, fingers already swiping through the list of contacts. Martyn swore under his breath.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll agree to the fucking divorce, OK? Now put the phone down.”
Skye lowered her arm, catching sight of her mother’s intent expression. Martyn adjusted his shirt cuff, the movements brisk, almost challenging. His eyes were trained down, looking anywhere but at her. And she knew then. She just knew.
“Beatrice,” she murmured. “She isn’t real, is she?”
A muscle flickered in his jaw.
“I’m right, aren’t I? She doesn’t exist. She never did. You made her up.”
Even her mother paled.
“You made her up to get closer to me, to make me feel as if we had something in common.”
Martyn said nothing, though his scowl deepened.
“I knew it.” Skye rubbed her hands across her face. “I knew something wasn’t quite right.”
“I won’t fight you on the divorce,” he reiterated, spitting the words out through clenched teeth. “And you can keep this place.” He glanced around her lounge with a faint sniff, his lip curling. “I won’t try to take half of it from you, even though I’d be well within my rights.”
“Debatable,” Cassandra interrupted.
“And you’ll agree to leave me alone?” Skye said. “We can do this thing amicably?”
“That depends.” Martyn took a sip of his tea and pulled a face.
It must have gone cold, just as his heart had, somewhere along the line.
“On what?” she asked.
“The Rolex,” he said, matching her glare with his own.
“Either you give it back, or I’ll fight you all the way to court.
I’ll force you to give up this house. You won’t be able to stay here, with your new community and your half-wit Greek boyfriend.
You’ll have to move back in with your mother here, and we both know that’s the last thing you want, given how much you hate her. ”
Skye began to fiddle with the frayed hem of her dress. She cast a quick look in Cassandra’s direction. Her mother’s hands had frozen mid-motion, one resting on the rim of her cup, the other curled tight in her lap. A moment later, she got swiftly to her feet and began to gather up the tray.
“Mum,” Skye began, the word clanging like a bell in the silence. But her mother had gone, cream slacks rustling as she hurried into the kitchen.
Skye turned slowly to Martyn.
“If you push this, you won’t win,” she told him, steady on the surface, though she could feel the tremor beneath.
“Won’t I?” he drawled. “You don’t have any proof of my supposed abuse,” he said. “It’ll be my word against yours, and my pockets are deeper. Or you can simply give me the watch back now, and I’ll be on my way. You’ll never have to see me again.”
“I told you,” she said with emphasis. “I don’t have it. I sold it.”
Martyn recoiled.
“You sold it? Theft and fraud—what a naughty girl.”
“You barely ever looked at it. And I only got back what I put into your house, so as far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”
“We are not even,” he snarled, reaching for his crutches. “Not even close.”
Skye shied away as he hauled himself upright, getting to her feet at the precise moment her mother reappeared.
“Where are you going?” she called as Martyn reached the door.
“To call for a taxi that will take me back to my hotel,” he said. “There’s a ferry tomorrow at five o’clock, so you have until then to contact whoever it was you sold my watch to and organize for it to be returned.”
“And if I don’t?” Skye said faintly.
“Then I’ll have no choice but to report you,” he said. “Like I said, wifey, you can run, but you can’t hide.”