Chapter Thirty-Three
Indoors, I’d asked Peter the question that had bothered me all the way home.
‘Do you think our kids were smoking… puff?’ I’d ventured.
‘Puff?’ he’d snorted. ‘God, hark at you, Jen. You sound like some prissy middle-aged mother with a cucumber up her arse.’
‘Do you mind?’ I’d rounded on him.
‘At least use its common slang term – weed, pot, dope, grass.’
‘I guess you’d know,’ I’d sneered. ‘Being that you have friends in high places who stuff coke up their noses. Or should I say blow or even snow?’
Peter had flashed me a warning look. Henry Rumbold’s disastrous fall from grace wasn’t mentioned in that moment, but we’d both been thinking of him. I’d belatedly realised that I’d opened myself up to a potential cross-examination over Henry and his being shopped to the police.
‘I’m simply a concerned parent,’ I’d conceded.
‘Well, don’t be. The twins are going to try things whether you like it or not. Stop wrapping them in cotton wool.’
‘I don’t want them ending up addicts and throwing their lives away,’ I’d reasoned.
‘Oh, do stop wittering. Go to bed.’
He’d taken himself off to his study. The door hadn’t been exactly slammed shut, but it had closed with force. This had conveyed that my husband was irked and didn’t want me around.
I’d taken myself upstairs. In our ensuite, I’d removed my makeup and cleaned my teeth. Slipping into my pyjamas, on a whim I’d decided that I would indeed sleep in the attic room that night.
Plucking my book from the bedside table, I’d taken myself up the second flight of stairs to the upper bedrooms in the roof space. These rooms were only ever used by guests. Naturally such visitors were handpicked by Peter. They were always beneficial to him in some way.
I went to the room at the far end of the landing. On this floor, each bedroom had its own bathroom – Peter had been insistent about guests having their own privacy.
My chosen room had an adjacent shower room, simply because under this part of the eaves there had not been the space for a bathtub.
The bed hadn’t been made up but there had been fresh linen in the wardrobe. Methodically, I’d set about tucking pillows into cases and the duvet into a crisp cotton cover.
As I’d propped myself up against the headboard, book in hand, a part of me had wondered how Sally’s party was progressing.
Whether Alec had made everyone giggle with his dad disco moves.
Whether Sally had joined in, raising a few chuckles as she’d done her best to be a dancing queen.
My sister had not been graced with a sense of rhythm.
Alec had once teased her, saying her dancing was akin to a joyful Ann Widdicombe on Strictly.
The bliss of reading a book was always twice as nice with a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Pushing back the covers, I’d returned downstairs to the kitchen, passing Peter’s study enroute.
The door had been wide open, but there had been no sign of him.
His laptop had been open, and the screen had been visible from the doorway.
A photograph of a beautiful spa hotel had been evident.
The picture had been overlayed with a booking form.
Not daring to go into the study in case my husband suddenly materialised from thin air, I’d instead narrowed my gaze and squinted.
I’d then been able to read a reservation.
It had been for the luxurious Kingfisher Suite, complete with a four-poster bed.
The booking had been in the names of Mr Peter Armstrong and Ms Joyce Hatton.
My heart had lurched. It had been one thing to know that my husband had periodically sought the company of women at gentlemen’s clubs. But it had been something else to discover his plans for a proper romantic weekend.
Those few seconds of discovery had seemed so much longer. A stream of questions had rushed through my brain, but the most obvious one was... if my husband had wanted to be with another woman, why did he remain with me?
But, deep down, I’d known the answer.
Because divorcing means halving everything, and Peter would never diminish his status or his coffers by going down that route.
So why didn’t I divorce him? Again, my inner voice had responded.
Because Peter – as a lawyer himself – will throw every trick in the book at you. He’ll make sure your legal costs will be so vast, you’ll end up walking away with diddly squat.
The final question was… who the hell was Joyce Hatton?