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Back The Marriage Trap: A completely addictive psychological thriller Save as PDF
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. Books by Sheryl Browne
  3. Dedication
  4. KARLA
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-One
  36. Thirty-Two
  37. Thirty-Three
  38. Thirty-Four
  39. Thirty-Five
  40. Thirty-Six
  41. Thirty-Seven
  42. Thirty-Eight
  43. Thirty-Nine
  44. Forty
  45. Forty-One
  46. Forty-Two
  47. Forty-Three
  48. Forty-Four
  49. Forty-Five
  50. Forty-Six
  51. Forty-Seven
  52. Forty-Eight
  53. Epilogue
  54. The Affair
  55. Hear more from Sheryl
  56. Books by Sheryl Browne
  57. A Letter from Sheryl
  58. The Babysitter
  59. The Second Wife
  60. Acknowledgements

Men half my age, no more than boys, look me over as I flag down a black cab. They don’t comment. One of them even smiles. I don’t flatter myself they like what they see. They’re probably wondering what I’m doing here, a woman of my age, wearing spaghetti straps and lace and boots that belong on the thighs of a teenager.

Do you know why you’re here? Sarah whispers.

After almost missing the seat as I get in, I give the taxi driver my address, right myself and close my eyes. Playing the dating game. But I’m not sure I’m winning, I answer, wishing I could sleep as I listen to the rhythmic swish of the windscreen wipers. Sleep until my nightmare is over. Or else forever.

Fifteen minutes later, I ask the taxi driver to keep going and stop a few houses past my own, take several slow breaths and try to still the wooziness in my head. I note as we pass that, apart from the mellow glow from the children’s nightlights, all the lights are off. I breathe a sigh of relief, glad that Jason appears to have gone to bed. Sometimes he waits up for me, even though he doesn’t know when I will be back – whether I’ll be back. I have no idea why he does it, since he obviously cares nothing for me. I am disposable, interchangeable. He’s bored with the marriage, the monotony, the responsibility; ready to reclaim his freedom and move on. Is it so wrong of me to want him to realise that I can do the same, if I choose to? If I want to. But I don’t. I swallow back the grief that’s now lodged like a stone in my throat. How will I bear it, having half of my soul ripped again from inside me?

The taxi driver’s expression, as I fumble my purse from my pocket and thrust the fare into his hand, is one of ill-concealed disdain. ‘You need to take more water with it, love,’ he comments, as I turn to shove my door open and stumble to the pavement.

Steadying myself, I quash down my irritation. How dare he make assumptions? He knows nothing about my life, who I am. I don’t know who I am. When I look at myself in the mirror, I don’t recognise the person looking back. The photos I posted online, they’re not me, but facets of me. In some, I look like Sarah, with her cropped hair and feisty attitude. In others, I can see my fun-loving, free-spirited self – someone who’s got lost along the way. I’m fractured, falling apart. Will I recognise the body that lies on the ground when everything stops?