Chapter Thirty-Four
The sound of the backdoor opening had put wings on my heels.
I’d shot into the kitchen just as Peter had come in via the utility room.
He’d had his phone in one hand. For a split second he’d looked guilty.
I’d assumed he’d physically removed himself to the garden to reduce any risk of being overheard talking to his mistress – for surely that was who Joyce Hatton was.
‘How long have you been down here?’ he’d demanded.
‘Hm?’ I’d said, feigning vagueness. Reaching for the kettle, I’d stuck it under the tap. ‘I fancy a cuppa. Do you want one?’
‘No,’ he’d answered curtly.
The situation had been beyond ridiculous, but I’d not known how to confront him.
Look, Peter. Neither of us are happy. Why don’t we just cut our losses, eh? And who the fuck is Joyce Hatton?
But I’d decided there and then to pick my moment. Not to wind him up. Peter – especially if on the defensive – could be like an angry rattlesnake.
He’d briefly disappeared into the study. I’d not realised it at the time, but it had been to close the tab on his laptop. He’d then returned to the kitchen.
‘I said’ – he’d not been prepared to let his question go – ‘how long have you been downstairs?’
‘Why?’ Nothing like answering a question with a question.
‘What do you mean, why?’ he’d demanded.
I’d ignored him and poured boiling water over a teabag in a mug. Forget the biscuit. My appetite for something sweet had been replaced by a desire to know more about Joyce Hatton.
‘I mean’ – my manner had been casual as I’d gone to the fridge for milk – ‘why are you quizzing me about my movements. You sound like a man hugging a secret. What have you been up to?’
There! I’d challenged him. I’d gazed at him innocently as he’d stared back at me. There had been a highly charged silence as I’d slopped milk into my drink. Giving it a quick stir, I’d picked up the mug and turned to properly face my husband. My gaze had shifted to the phone in his hand.
‘Who were you speaking to at this time of night?’ I’d asked.
Peter had narrowed his eyes as he’d regarded me. And then his features had relaxed. Such body language conveyed he’d felt safe. In the clear. That I’d not been in his study or seen things that shouldn’t have been seen.
‘I was talking to Alec,’ he’d said.
‘Oh?’
‘Just checking to see that Joy and James are okay.’
I’d raised an eyebrow.
‘And are they?’
‘Of course,’ he’d said contemptuously. ‘I might not catch the twins before they fall – like you – but I’m still a caring parent.’
I’d endeavoured not to give him a withering look, especially as he’d just used our children as an excuse to cover his tracks.
‘Are Alec and Sally now home?’
His eyes had flickered.
‘No.’
‘In which case I’m amazed Alec heard his phone ringing. After all, party music is loud.’
‘I texted him earlier, so he rang me from the Gents.’
‘Right.’ I’d given Peter a puzzled look. ‘And you felt the need to take Alec’s call in the garden?’
Careful, Jen. You’re doing it again. Peter doesn’t take kindly to being questioned about his actions.
‘I didn’t feel a need – as you put it – to speak to my brother-in-law in the garden. I’d gone outside for a cigarette.’
‘You told me you’d given up.’
‘So I lied,’ he’d shrugged.
‘No surprises there,’ I’d muttered, making to brush past him.
I’d headed out of the kitchen towards the first staircase. Peter had followed me.
‘What’s that comment supposed to mean?’ he’d said, grabbing my shoulder.
‘Careful,’ I’d warned. Hot tea had slopped over my hand. I’d quickly used my pyjama sleeve to dab the liquid and wipe the cup. Perish the thought of tea stains on a cream carpet.
‘Well?’ he’d demanded.
I’d shrugged carelessly.
‘Merely that I’m annoyed, Peter, at your lies about me having a migraine. I was enjoying the party, even if you weren’t. Now, was there anything else? Or can I take my tea upstairs and return to my book?’
I’d turned on my heel and flounced – as best one can with a hot drink in one’s hand – up the staircase to the first-floor landing. But Peter’s gander had been up, and he’d once again followed me.
‘Don’t speak to me like that.’ His eyes had flashed angrily.
‘Like what?’
I’d carefully set the tea down on a nearby console table, then stuck my hands on my hips.
I was aware that such an action was like throwing down the gauntlet, but in that moment something inside me had snapped.
Despite knowing that a terrifying outcome was now on the cards, I hadn’t been able to stop myself.
In that moment all the years of Peter’s infidelities, his narcissistic behaviour, the emotional abuse, his terrifying temper, and the sustained threat of violence, was like a domino effect on my emotions.
And even though I knew I was moments away from cowering, I still couldn’t stop. Enough was enough.
‘Like what?’ I’d repeated.
‘You speak to me like I’m a bit of shit on your shoe,’ he’d snarled. He’d clenched his fists, but I’d held my ground. This time I would do my absolute best not to show fear.
‘I think you’ve muddled us up,’ I’d cheeked. ‘You’re the one who does that.’
‘This time, Jen, you’ve gone too far.’
My lip had curled as he’d towered over me. One of his fists had started to rise. I never knew if it was a bluff, or if it really would deliver a blow. Either way, this time I’d been ready for him.
‘And while we’re at it’ – I’d hissed – ‘let’s not pussyfoot around, Peter. Yes, I saw your laptop. And yes, I know all about you and Joyce Hatton.’
His eyes had glittered with malice as his fist had zoomed towards my face. In that split second, I’d known that this time I wouldn’t get away with ducking, cowering or grovelling by way of apology.
My reaction had been instinctive and immediate. A reflex. It was delivered without any reasoning other than preserving my face, my body, and possibly my life.
My had arms whooshed up, and my hands had pushed out. As my palms had landed flat against the barrel of my husband’s chest, I’d shoved with all my might. For Peter, my action had been neither anticipated nor expected.
Caught off guard, he’d stumbled backwards – but with the staircase immediately behind him, his foot had met empty air. His arms had flailed wildly, one hand making to grab the banister rail, but it had eluded him.
There had been a moment where we’d both stared at each other… him shocked at my defensive action… me watching in horrified fascination as the outcome began to play out.
Down he’d gone. From top to bottom. And when his body had tumbled off the last stair tread and he’d lain in an awkward heap on the floor, I’d known from the sickening angle of his neck that my husband was dead.