Chapter Twenty
The Devil’s Dyke had always been a memorable location. It was a place that Peter and I had regularly frequented whenever we’d visited one of his aunts. It was also where my husband had proposed marriage. For a moment, I was overwhelmed with memories.
Brighton had been the hometown of the rich and somewhat eccentric Josephine Armstrong. Retired, she’d lived alone in a huge pile of a house overlooking a ribbon of the English Channel.
Despite never riding a horse in her life, Aunt Josephine had spent her days dressed in jodhpurs, and her evenings roaring about in a car that could have doubled for Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
She’d never married or had children but once, in a booming voice, had confided she’d had more lovers than I’d had hot dinners.
Call me na?ve, but I hadn’t realised she was a lesbian. Not until she’d introduced us to her friend Clara. Just as I was shaking Clara’s dainty hand, Aunt Josephine had stuck her tongue down the woman’s throat. I’d not known where to look. Peter had thought it hilarious.
‘You might have told me,’ I’d later hissed.
‘Surely to goodness you’d sussed Aunt Josephine out when you first met her,’ he’d chortled, unrepentant. ‘How many women do you know who have voices like Brian Blessed and accessorise their outfits with a monocle? Anyway, what does it matter?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I’d blustered. ‘It’s simply that your aunt’s brazen snog somewhat flustered me.’
‘Oh, aye.’ Peter had raised his eyebrows enquiringly. ‘Fancy her, do you?’
‘What?’ I’d gasped. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Do you, per chance, swing both ways?’ he’d teased.
‘Stop it,’ I’d retorted crossly.
‘I don’t mind if you don’t,’ he’d said, waggling his eyebrows. ‘Just so long as you let me watch.’
It was only years later, that I’d realised Peter had likely meant it.
I grew very fond of Aunt Josephine. She was bold, brash and a laugh.
And she absolutely was not Peter’s cup of tea, which was why I’d privately puzzled about these regular visits to his aunt – especially when he hardly saw anything of his own parents and siblings.
Eventually I’d dared to ask the question. We’d been in his car at the time.
‘Why do you think?’ he’d said, answering my question with one of his own.
‘I have no idea,’ I’d confessed. ‘That’s why I’m asking.’
‘Because she’s rich,’ he’d explained. ‘Who else is she going to leave her fortune to?’ He’d glanced at me over the handbrake.
‘Not Ginnie, her latest.’ There had been many women since Clara.
Peter had grinned. ‘Aunt Josephine plays the field. She’s a free spirit.
She told me a long time ago that I’m her sole beneficiary, and I fully intend to keep it that way. ’
I’d felt somewhat repulsed at Peter’s – if nothing else – honest declaration. But it had seemed so… cold. So hard-hearted. In that moment, I’d had a memory of my colleague, Sue, telling me to watch out regarding Mister-Loves-Himself.
Don’t get mesmerised by the likes of him, she’d warned. He’s a user.
At the time I’d simply thought Sue was insinuating Peter liked pretty women and broke a lot of hearts. I hadn’t realised she’d also factored in Verity Henley-Brown – who I’d conveniently forgotten about – and how Peter had used Verity to help him achieve what otherwise might have been off limits.
Silently, I’d stared beyond the car’s window and watched the countryside flashing by.
As the car ate up the miles, Peter’s words – along with Sue’s remembered warning – had tumbled over and over in my head.
It had been an uncomfortable feeling. Like having bad indigestion in the brain.
Worse, Peter’s words and Sue’s warning had been true.
For, whether chasing a promotion or a stonking great inheritance, Peter had only ever courted those who were useful. It had rattled me.
I’d considered distancing myself from Peter.
Cooling things for a bit. After all, who wanted a boyfriend with such a ruthless streak?
But then I’d looked across the space between us and my throat had constricted.
I couldn’t bear not to see him. It would have been like trying to hide from the sun.
And I couldn’t imagine not basking in his light, even if dark shadows were starting to show themselves.
As I’d gazed silently at his handsome profile, I’d decided to overlook this part of Peter’s personality. After all, he couldn’t be a user in the true sense of the word, could he? Otherwise, what was he doing with me! I had nothing to offer. Certainly, no promise of promotion or inheritance.
At that tender age, I’d yet to realise that I could be used in other ways.
That, once the chase was over, Peter would discard respect.
Withdraw consideration for his future wife’s feelings or needs.
Not bother to take care with his words, actions or behaviours.
That there would be dishonesty, lies and deception.
Breaches of trust, and absolutely no attempt to repair the latter.
That there would be zero empathy or kindness.
That his spoken words would be to ridicule and humiliate.
And that sometimes his actions would have embarrassing repercussions – like the time I’d sat in my GP’s surgery with a diagnosis of gonorrhoea.
These behaviours, introduced slowly over time, meant that I would adjust. In other words, moderate my own behaviour to my partner’s needs.
This, of course, empowers an emotional bully on an ever-increasing upward scale, fuelling their sense of importance and further swelling their inflated ego.
From my perspective, Peter’s behaviour became the norm and, whilst not appreciated, it was accepted.
But such revelations to this side of my boyfriend’s nature were still some way off. Back then, I’d told myself – and certainly where Aunt Josephine was concerned – that Peter was merely ambitious.
And what was wrong with having a bit of ambition for goodness’ sake?
Nothing. Nothing at all.