Chapters (60)
- Cover
- Books by Sheryl Browne
- Dedication
- KARLA
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Forty-Five
- Forty-Six
- Forty-Seven
- Forty-Eight
- Epilogue
- The Affair
- Hear more from Sheryl
- Books by Sheryl Browne
- A Letter from Sheryl
- The Babysitter
- The Second Wife
- Acknowledgements
It’s Jason’s response to a message, though, that I can’t tear my gaze away from. Are you feeling lonely?
Bloody lonely, Jason answered.
Mega idiot. That would be me. My heart folds up inside me.
He was right. The raw ache in my chest turns to a hard kernel of anger. My father was right. I laugh, disbelieving.
But he’s a liar! Sarah shoots back.
He was right! The evidence is right there before my eyes. I heave out a gasp, feeling as if my lungs are turning inside out. Is this what he wants? These women, desperate for a man? Trembling with rage, I study the profile photographs – women as far from me as it’s possible to get. Fake faces caked in make-up, fake hair, fake photographs. False personas.
I can do fake. I can do false. I’m a fucking actress! An anguished moan escapes me.
I can do desperate.
I am desperate.
Twenty-Two
KARLA
‘You’ve decided to come home then?’ Working to keep any facetiousness from my voice, to stay in control while the cement that holds the foundations of my life together is crumbling to dust, I turn from the sink as Jason walks quietly from the front door to the kitchen.
Two days he’s been gone. Two whole days without even a word. Does he really care so little about me? Disillusioned, utterly, I simply stare at him. I know I will need to call upon all of my acting skills in order to detach from the crushing pain where my heart should be and carry on; to pretend I don’t know that he’s been doing what he so vehemently denied. I am so furious that he could do this, not just to me, but to our children, I have to force myself not to walk across the kitchen and punch him. Part of me is filled with hatred for him. There is part of me, though, the part that’s not bleeding inside, that still loves him, that truly is desperate to keep him, whatever it takes.
I have no idea how my legs are still holding me. They threatened to buckle beneath me when I saw him standing so uncertainly in the doorway: my husband, the man I gave everything to and imagined I would be spending the rest of my life with. I want to give in to it, to drop to the floor right here and weep like a baby, but I won’t. I don’t want his sympathy. I don’t want him to feel sorry for me. I want him to love me. But I want the impossible, because if he’s doing this, then in his heart, he has already left me.
Jason looks towards me. His expression is apprehensive. ‘I needed some time,’ he offers. A lame explanation. He knows it.