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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

Hell! Panic-stricken, I throw back the duvet and stumble woozily to the window to see Jason walking our children to the car. Josh is lagging behind, as he always does, his eyes on his iPad. Holly has taken hold of Jason’s hand. She’s looking up at him, her little face serious, nodding thoughtfully as she digests whatever he’s telling her. Most likely he’s trying to reassure her about me. I’d overheard him telling them, ‘Mummy’s a bit poorly,’ after my deranged behaviour the other morning. What does he say to them in private, I wonder. How is he convincing them that this nightmare will have a fairy-tale ending?

I curse myself for going back to sleep. I should have been up, hugging them close, assuring them myself that I would be well soon, back to normal. Though, in truth, I don’t know that I ever will be. I feel as if I’m falling, that no matter how hard I flail out, there is no branch to hang on to, that when I land, the me I knew won’t exist any more.

Watching my babies climb into the car, I press the flat of my hand against the glass, as if I might draw them to look up at me. They don’t. They’re both too preoccupied with their father. I would never have disillusioned them about him, rubbished him in their eyes, had my grief and anger not driven me beyond rationality. I would have lied for him, whatever the future holds, because I love my children. Because I love him still. I can’t imagine a time when my heart won’t feel as if it’s bleeding steadily inside me. But the hateful words spilled from my mouth without process of forethought. Without a second’s consideration for Holly and Josh, who were just upstairs. What kind of mother am I, really? What kind of person am I?

Imperfect. A monster.

My mobile rings as I’m making my way back across the room, willing myself to shower and get dressed. I don’t want to answer it, but thinking it might be Mum, and knowing how worried she will be, I reach for it.

Not Mum. I note the number of the housing association I work for, and the knot of guilt in my stomach twists itself tighter. I’ve rung in, but I can’t bring myself to go back to work. A shudder runs through me as I recall my bitchy behaviour towards the girls in the admin office, who haven’t spoken to me since, other than out of necessity about anything work-related. I can’t face them, any of my colleagues. Not now. Not like this.