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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

‘You’re going into the office?’ I ask him, trying not to sound peeved that he’s working again at the weekend. I feel awful about him sleeping in the spare room. And, judging by the shadows under his eyes, which seem to grow darker every day, he doesn’t look as if he’s actually slept much. I wish I hadn’t turned him down in bed last night. That would have been so humiliating for him, given how dejected he must already have been feeling. He probably assumed I was upset about his refusal to approach my father for financial help. I was, but it was more the things he’d said about Dad that got to me. I just couldn’t push them away this time – the memories, the empty loneliness I’d felt after Sarah had gone. My mother hardly ever talks about her, and my father… It’s as if he’s forgotten she existed. How does a person do that? Forget about their own flesh and blood?

I watched him as a child sometimes, willing him to look at me with some acknowledgement of the unbearable guilt I was carrying. He did occasionally, but his eyes always held a warning. As time went on, I stopped believing his threats that terrible things would happen if I told what had happened on the day Sarah died. But I never did tell, for my Mum’s sake. I tried to bury it instead. As I watch my father through adult eyes, though, I wonder, does he realise the psychological damage he’s caused me? I don’t think I’ll ever sleep soundly again. I will always have this knot of anger curled tight inside me. Sometimes, when something reminds me and my mind plays it over, I want to scream, to release the anger – and shut out Sarah’s voice, which is always there, constantly whispering in my head. I never do. My acting skills allow me to switch off, to be somewhere else.

Last night at the party, I channelled my emotions into the dance, feeling blissfully carefree for a while. I still can’t quite believe Jason was jealous of the toy boy, though I understand why he would have been, having been made to feel useless by my father. I feel bad for him. Yet, when we came home, I turned on him. Or that’s how it must have seemed to Jason. I wish he would believe that my loyalties lie with him, that I believe in him. If only he could believe in himself. Yes, I want him to do something that goes against his principles, but only because accepting a loan from my father will allow his business to survive; allow us to move house eventually, and get him out of our lives.