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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

He walks across to the bedside table. His watch lies there, marking time – tick, tock – twelve years of my life, flushed down the toilet. It’s the last thing he takes off at night, always placing it next to the framed photo. A framed photo of me. I’m certain he won’t take that. Will he place the watch next to a similar photograph, I wonder? Will he compare us? If he lays his head down next to her, I’m sure he will.

‘Will you stay with her tonight?’ I ask him, eschewing silence for knowledge. ‘Your perfect woman?’ Jessie. I silently repeat it, recalling how the name rolled off my tongue the first time I mouthed it out loud. Meaning: Gift from God. This much I know. I smile insipidly. I won’t give vent to the emotion bubbling up inside me; fuel the argument that would allow him to slam out of our house without saying goodbye to his children. His choice will be to do that despicable thing all on his own. I won’t allow him to pretend he’s doing it to avoid confrontation with me.

‘Yes,’ he answers uncomfortably, meeting my eyes, finally. The look in his own is anguished, full of remorse, as if seeking forgiveness, as if he should perhaps receive a plaudit for that one single scrap of truth. ‘I’m sorry, Karla. I didn’t want things to end like this.’

‘Yes, you did.’ I laugh – a short, bitter laugh of contempt. How am I supposed not to? He’s not sorry. He’s excited, anticipating his new life, with her. He will already be imagining what he will do to her. What she will do with him. What positions he will take her in. I know this. I know him. All of him. His every aspiration. His every fantasy. Can he truly be so oblivious?

‘And you love her.’ It’s a statement, not a question. This much I know is true, too. His love for her is stronger than the love that should bind him to his children, to his wife, the woman he swore to love and cherish forever.

‘I don’t want to argue, Karla – not again. I should go.’ He avoids the question. Does he imagine his answer will hurt me? That, with my mother disappeared, hiding away from the press who have relentlessly hounded my father, and with my husband about to desert me too, I can possibly hurt any more than I do?

His eyes are downcast as he collects his case and walks towards me.