Sancha, don’t stop now.... You want it, I want it, we both need it—you know we do!“ About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE Copyright

Sancha, don’t stop now.... You want it, I want it, we both need it—you know we do!“

He held out his hands; they were trembling slightly. “See that? That’s how much I want you.”

“As much as you wanted her the other night?” she asked bitterly, and he shut his eyes, groaning, turning away.

“Oh, not again! Do we have to bring that up again? Forget Jacqui!”

“I can’t. Can you? Working with her every day, seeing her, being alone with her? You may not have slept with her—but you admit you almost did. Is she going to accept the end of the affair...?”

“We never had an affair!”

CHARLOTTE LAMB was born in London, England, in time for World War II, and spent most of the war moving from relative to relative to escape bombing. Educated at a convent, she married a journalist, and now has five children. The family lives on the Isle of Man. Charlotte Lamb has written over a hundred books for Harlequin Presents.

The Marriage War

Charlotte Lamb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

THE morning the anonymous letter arrived was no different from any other Sancha had had over the past six years.

She had opened her brown eyes with a reluctant jerk when the alarm went off, hearing Mark stir in the twin bed beside hers before he stretched, yawning. For a second or two Sancha had fantasised about the years before the children started arriving, remembering waking up in a double bed, naked and sleepy, to find his hands wandering in lazy exploration. In those far-off, halcyon days they had usually made love in the early mornings as well as at night.

They had switched to twin beds a couple of years ago because she was always having to get up in the night, either to feed a baby or comfort a child, and Mark had complained about being woken whenever she left their bed. Sancha had often wished, since, that they had not stopped sharing a bed. They had lost their old, loving intimacy; making love could no longer be so spontaneous or casual, and since Flora’s birth they’d rarely made love at all. At night Sancha was always too tired and in the mornings there was never time.

This morning she reluctantly pushed her memories aside and made herself fling back the duvet, her feet fumbling for slippers, groping her way into her dressing-gown. She rushed into the bathroom, cleaned her teeth, splashed cold water on her face, ran a comb through her curly red-brown hair and then began the job of waking the children. She didn’t have to wake Flora, who was already bouncing noisily round and round her cot, stark naked, with her red hair in tangled curls around her pink face.

‘I’m a kangaroo! Look at me, Mummy, I’m a kangaroo-roo-roo...’

‘Lovely, darling,’ Sancha said absently, retrieving the small nightdress from the floor and dropping it into the washing basket before picking Flora up with one arm and carrying her into the childrens’ bathroom. ‘Get up now!’ she yelled into the room the two boys shared. Six-year-old Felix was still lying in bed, with his duvet pulled over his head. Five-year-old Charlie was up, pulling off his pyjamas with his eyes shut.

By the time Sancha had dealt with Flora and was heading for the stairs Felix was up, still yawning, and Charlie was in the bathroom. Sancha could hear Mark having his shower.

Downstairs, she scooped the letters and a daily newspaper off the front doormat, with Flora squirming under her arm, her dimpled legs in green dungarees kicking vigorously. Sancha disliked wasting money, so she had kept all Charlie’s baby clothes, washed and neatly folded away in a drawer, in case another baby came along. It had saved a fortune. She hadn’t needed to buy any new clothes at all and Flora looked great in them. The fashion for unisex baby clothes suited her.

Turning towards the kitchen, Sancha shouted back up the stairs to the two boys to hurry up or else. A sound of stampeding feet followed; at least they were both up.

Dropping the handful of letters and the newspaper onto the table, beside Mark’s place, she pushed Flora into her highchair, handing her a spoon to bang, and then put the coffee percolator on.

She didn’t bother to look through the letters—she rarely got any: just the odd postcard from a friend or relative who was abroad on holiday, brown envelopes from a wishful tax inspector who refused to believe she no longer earned any money, or offers from catalogues and firms trying to sell her something which came in envelopes marked urgently ‘Open me and win a fortune!’ She read the postcards, but the rest of her mail was usually discarded into the kitchen bin at once.

All Sancha’s movements at this hour of the morning were automatic; she often felt like a robot, moving and whirling around the kitchen. She had so much to do and so little time to do it in that she had worked out long ago the fastest way to get the coffee percolating, the porridge cooking, slip a couple of croissants into the microwave to warm through, set out cups, cutlery and mugs of cold milk, pour the orange juice and spoon prunes into a bowl for Mark. All with the minimum of effort.

Hearing the crash of feet on the stairs, she turned off the porridge, poured it into the childrens’ bowls, put the saucepan into the sink and ran cold water into it to make it easier to clean later, then grabbed Flora, who was climbing out of her highchair, and put her back into it just as Felix and Charlie tore into the kitchen.

Sancha caught them and checked that their faces and hands were clean, their teeth and hair brushed, their clothes all present and correct—Charlie often forgot important items, like his underpants or one sock. He was very absent-minded.

By the time Mark got down his children were all busy eating their breakfast. Flora beamed at him, showing him a mouthful of porridge and little pearly teeth. ‘Dadda!’ she fondly greeted him.

Mark looked pained. ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, Flora!’ He sat down and drank some of his orange juice, looking at his watch with a distracted expression. ‘I’m going to be late. Hurry up, boys, we have to go soon.’

He ate his prunes while glancing through his mail. “This is for you,’ he said, tossing one envelope over to Sancha, his grey eyes briefly touching her then moving away, a frown pulling his black brows together.

She felt a sting of hurt over that look—had that been distaste in his eyes? Of course, at this hour, in her shabby old dressing-gown and no make-up, she wasn’t exactly glamorous, but there was no time to do much about how she looked until he and the boys had left. She really must make more effort, though—it made her unhappy to have Mark look at her like that, as if he didn’t love her any more. Her love for him was just as strong; she needed him.

To cover her distress, she picked up the white envelope. The name and address had been typed. ‘I wonder who this is from?’ she thought aloud, studying the postmark. It was local, which didn’t help.

‘Open it and find out,’ Mark snapped.

What was the matter with him this morning? Hadn’t he slept? Or was he worried about work? Sancha wished there was time to ask him, but Flora had knocked over her mug of milk. Sighing, Sancha mopped up the damage while Mark averted his gaze.

‘None of the boys were this much trouble,’ he muttered.

‘You just don’t remember, and she isn’t really naughty, Mark. Just high-spirited.’ Sancha wiped Flora’s sticky face, kissing her on her snub nose. ‘You’re no trouble, are you, sweetheart?’

Flora leaned forward and gave her a loving bang on the forehead with her porridgy spoon, beaming. Sancha couldn’t help laughing. ‘Finish your breakfast, you little monkey!’

Mark got to his feet, looking out of place in this cosy, domestic room with its clutter of children, pine furnishings and cheerful yellow curtains. He was a big man, over six feet, with a tough, determined face and a body to match—broad shoulders, a powerful chest, long, long legs. His nature matched, too. People who had never met him before always gave him a wary look at first—he had an air of danger about him when he didn’t smile, and he wasn’t smiling now. He looked as if he might explode at any minute. He often had, over the last few months.

A pang of uneasiness hit Sancha—was Mark tired of family life after six years of babies? He was a man of tremendous drives; their sex life had been tumultuous before the children arrived, and Sancha missed those passionate nights. And his work as a civil engineer demanded a lot of energy, though he no longer spent so much time out on any of the sites where his firm were building. Mark was more often in the office now, planning, organising, working out on paper rather than physically, in the field, and she suspected he regretted the change in his working pattern. Did he also regret being married, having children, being tied down?

Curtly he said, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ll be late tonight.’ Sancha’s heart sank. He was always being kept late at the office. ‘What, again? What is it this time?’

‘Dinner with the boss again. Can’t get out of it. He wants to talk about the new development at Angels Field. We’re running late on the schedule, and time is money.’ But he didn’t meet her eyes, and she felt another twinge of uneasiness.

Oh, no doubt she was imagining things, but her intuition told her something was wrong—what, though?

He turned away and said impatiently, ‘Are you ready, boys? Come on, I can’t wait any longer.’ He always drove the boys to school, and Sancha picked them up again at three-thirty.

They clambered down from the table and headed for the door into the hall, but Sancha caught them before they could get away. ‘Wash your hands and faces. You’ve got more porridge on your face than you got into your mouth, Charlie.’

Mark had gone to get the car. Sancha dealt with the boys and followed them to the front door, with Flora lurching along behind her.

‘Try not to be too late,’ Sancha called to Mark when the car drew up outside, and the boys got into the back seat and began doing up their seat belts.

Mark nodded. Early May sunlight gleamed on his smooth black hair; she couldn’t see his eyes, they were veiled by heavy lids, but that air of smouldering anger came through all the same. What was the matter? Was something wrong at work? This weekend she must try to find time to sit down and talk to him, alone, once the children were in bed.

The car slid away; Sancha waved goodbye and stood in the porch for a few moments, enjoying the touch of morning sunlight on her face. It would soon be high summer; the sky was blue, cloudless, and there were roses out, and pansies, with those dark markings that looked like mischievous faces peeping from under leaves. The lilac tree was covered with plumes of white blossom which gave the air a warm, honeyed fragrance.

The house was a modern one, gabled, with bay windows on both floors. Detached, it was set in a large garden, with a low redbrick wall both front and back and a garage on one side. Mark’s firm had built it for him when they’d got married, but they had a large mortgage and at times money had been tight—although it seemed easier now that Mark had been promoted and had a better-paid job. That meant working longer hours, however, and Sancha often wished he had fewer responsibilities.

Flora had taken the opportunity of her mother’s absent-mindedness to sneak off into the garden, her eyes set on the yellow tulips edging the lawn.

‘No, you don’t,’ Sancha said, pursuing her. ‘We’ll go for a walk when I’ve done all my jobs.’ She picked her up, took another long look at the morning radiance of the garden and went back indoors, closing the door with one foot.

Her routine was the same every day. She worked in the kitchen first—cleared the table, piled dirty dishes into the washing-up machine and switched it on, sorted out the day’s washing and put that into the washing machine to soak for half an hour—then carried Flora upstairs and dumped her into her cot while Sancha had a quick shower, herself, then dressed in jeans and an old blue shirt.

It was an hour later, when she had finished vacuum cleaning the sitting-room and hall, that she remembered the letter and went to the kitchen to find it. She made herself a cup of coffee, gave Flora a piece of apple to eat in her playpen, and opened the envelope. The letter was typed and unsigned. It wasn’t very long; she read it almost in a glance, her ears deafened with the rapid bloodbeat of fear and jealousy.

Do you know where your husband will be tonight? Do you know who he’ll be with? Her name is Jacqui Farrar, she’s his assistant, and she has an apartment in the Crown Tower in Alamo Street. Number 8 on the second floor. They’ve been having an affair for weeks.

Sancha’s heart lurched. She put a hand up to her mouth to stop a cry of shock escaping, caught the edge of her cup and knocked over her coffee. The hot black liquid splashed down her shirt, soaked through the legs of her jeans. She leapt up, sobbing, swearing.

‘Naughty Mummy,’ Flora scolded, looking pleasantly scandalised. Primly she added, ‘Bad word. Bad Mummy.’

Sancha said it again furiously, looking for kitchen roll to do more of her habitual mopping up—only this time it was she who had made the mess, not Flora.

It can’t be true, she thought; he wouldn’t. Mark wouldn’t have an affair. She would have known; she would have noticed.

Or would she? Yes! she thought defiantly, refusing to admit that her stomach was cramped with fear. He was her husband; she knew him. He loved her; he wouldn’t get involved with anyone else.

But did he still love her? She remembered the distaste in his face that morning, over breakfast, and bit her lower lip. Mark no longer looked at her the way he used to; she couldn’t deny that. Somehow, without her noticing it, love and passion had seeped out of their relationship, but that didn’t mean there was anyone else. She couldn’t believe he would be unfaithful to her. Not Mark. He wouldn’t.

She had never met his assistant, although she knew the name. Jacqui Farrar had joined the firm only six months ago, from another civil engineering company. Mark had mentioned her a few times at first, but not lately.

Sancha had no idea what she looked like, even how old she was. It had never entered her head that there could be anything going on between her and Mark.

Of course there isn’t! she told herself. Don’t even think about it. Whoever had written that letter was crazy.

Sancha ran an angry hand over her tearstained face and then picked up Flora. At the moment they could never be apart, they were handcuffed together for all Flora’s waking hours—she could not be left alone for a second or she got into some sort of mischief.

Sancha often felt exhausted by the sheer, unrelenting nature of motherhood, longing for a few hours alone, a day when she did not have to think about other people all the time, when she could be lazy, sleep late, get up whenever she pleased or put on something more elegant than jeans, wear high heels, have her hair done, buy expensive make-up, shower herself with delicious French perfume—anything to feel like a woman rather than a mother.

But it was what she and Mark had wanted when they got married. They had talked about it from the start, in perfect accord in both longing for children. Mark had been an only child of older parents. His mother had been over forty when he was born, his father even older than that. Mark had had a lonely childhood and dreamt of having a brother or sister. His parents had died before he met Sancha; she’d never known them, but she had realised Mark’s deep need to be part of a family at last. Sancha had been broody, too, had ached to have a baby, had seen herself as some sort of Mother Earth, creating this wonderful, close, warm family life, without any idea of how much work and sacrifice on her part would be involved.

Sighing, she popped Flora back into her cot, gave her a handful of toys to play with, then had another hurried shower and changed into clean jeans, a clean shirt. She stood in front of the dressing-table and studied herself bleakly. What did she look like? What on earth did she look like? A hag, she thought. I’m turning into a positive hag. No wonder Mark had given her a disgusted look this morning. She couldn’t blame him. How long was it since she’d even thought about the way she looked?

Or had the energy to try to seduce Mark in bed, the way she once had, years ago, when they were first married? Once upon a time she would slide into bed naked and tease him with stroking fingers and soft, light kisses, but hold him off as long as possible, arouse him to a point of frenzy before she let him take her. They had been passionate lovers, hadn’t they?

Biting her lip, she tried to remember when they had last made love, but couldn’t. It must be weeks. A dull, cynical voice whispered to her. Months! It was months!

Since Flora’s birth they had made love less and less often, and at first it had been she who had never felt like it. Mark had been gentle, sympathetic, understanding; he hadn’t got angry or complained. She had had three babies in six years; it wasn’t surprising that she was so tired and listless.

They hadn’t planned to have more than two children. Flora had been an accident, and that last pregnancy had been the worst. Sancha had had morning sickness, backache, cramp in her legs, restless nights—and even when she had had the baby she’d felt no better. She’d been too exhausted after being in labour for two days, in great pain much of the time. Afterwards she had kept crying; the changes in her hormones during and after her pregnancy had left her in emotional turmoil. A fit of the blues, her sister, Zoe, had called it. Her doctor had called it depression, but all Sancha knew was that the smallest thing could set her off on a crying jag and nothing seemed to help.

It hadn’t lasted very long—a month or two, three at the most—but Flora, from the first moment of her arrival in the world, had been difficult; a restless, crying baby at night and in the daytime needing permanent attention.

Sancha had never really got back her energy, her enjoyment of life, her desire to make love. What energy she did have went into Flora and into her daily routine—the two boys, the house, the garden. Only now did she realise how little time she had spent alone with Mark over the past couple of years.

It had happened so gradually that she hadn’t understood until now that they were drifting apart, inch by inch, hour by hour.

The jangle of the front doorbell made her jump. Who on earth could that be? She collected Flora and carried her back downstairs.

She was startled, and a little embarrassed, to find her sister standing on the doorstep. ‘Oh, hello, Zoe,’ she murmured, rather huskily. ‘I thought you were filming in the Lake District this week?’

‘We finished there yesterday so I drove back last night. I told you we were all going to be filming on location around here, didn’t I? I’ve got a few days off before we start,’ Zoe said, eying her shrewdly. ‘Your eyes are pink—have you been crying?’

‘No,’ lied Sancha, wishing her sister was not so observant, did not see so much. Zoe had always been far too sharp and quick.

‘Mummy swore,’ Flora informed her aunt. ‘Bad Mummy.’

‘Bad Mummy,’ agreed Zoe, watching Sancha. ‘Who were you swearing at? The little love-bug, here? Having a bad day with her, or is something wrong?’

‘I knocked my coffee over, that’s all—no big deal,’ Sancha said, but didn’t meet her sister’s thoughtful stare.

‘Hmm.’ Zoe grinned at Flora. ‘Was it you who knocked Mummy’s coffee over? I bet it was. Come to Auntie Zoe?’

Flora went willingly, and at once began to investigate the dangling, sparkly earrings Zoe was wearing.

‘Hands off, monster,’ Zoe told her, pushing her small pink hands down. ‘Into everything, aren’t you? Boy, am I glad I don’t have any kids.’

‘Time you had some,’ Sancha said, getting a sardonic look from Zoe.

‘Says who? You’re no advertisement for the maternal state. Every time I see you, you look worse. How about a cup of coffee, or are you too busy?’

‘Of course I’m not.’ Sancha walked through into the kitchen and Zoe followed her. She was wearing what she no doubt thought of as ‘casual’ clothes—elegant, tight-fitting black leather trousers, a vivid emerald silk top. Sancha inspected them with envy. They were probably designer clothes, their cut was so good; they had ‘chic’ written all over them and had undoubtedly cost an arm and a leg.

She couldn’t afford clothes like that—and even if she could she would never be able to wear them. Flora would ruin them in no time, would spill food on them, crayon all over them or be sick on them. Flora had a dozen charming ways of ruining clothes, and all without really trying. You couldn’t accuse her of doing it deliberately.

They wouldn’t look that good on Sancha, anyway. Zoe, however, was dazzling whatever she wore—a tall woman, already thirty-two, with flame-red hair and cat-like green eyes, beautiful, sophisticated, clever, talented and highly paid. She worked for a TV production company, and was currently making a four-part series of a bestseller novel with household names in the starring roles.

She had a small cottage outside town, but was barely there because her work took her all over the world. You never knew where she would be filming next. Last year she had worked on films in Spain and California. So far this year all her work had been back home, in the United Kingdom.

The sisters had always been very close, and since Sancha had got married they still saw a good deal of each other; Zoe was Sancha’s closest friend, although their lives were so different.

Zoe’s private life was usually as busy as her career. Sancha could not keep up with the men Zoe dated, often very starry, famous men, but none of them had ever been important enough for Zoe to introduce them to her sister, or her parents, which meant she’d never considered marrying them, or even setting up house with them. The only thing that mattered to Zoe seemed to be her career.

Before she’d met Mark, Sancha had been set on a career, too, but in photography, not films. She had been working for a top Bond Street photographer, specialising in the fashion business, and had had her eyes set on the heights. One day she’d meant to have her own salon, make her name world-famous. She had had dreams.

Mark’s arrival in her life had changed all that. One minute she was focused entirely on her work—the next it didn’t matter a damn to her. Only Mark mattered. She forgot everything but being with him, loving him, going to bed with him. He ate up her entire life.

Zoe had had very few problems in climbing to the top; her abilities were too outstanding and her personality too powerful. Sancha had grown up in her shadow, knowing she was not as beautiful or as brilliant. She might have been overshadowed by Zoe, lost confidence in herself—instead she had competed with her, in a perfectly cheerful way, had been determined to be as successful as her older sister, make her own name, become famous.

The competition between them had ended when Sancha got married and had children. She no longer cared about success, about beating Zoe; she was too happy to think about a career any more. In fact, the only time she touched a camera lately was to take pictures of her children.

Putting Flora into her highchair, Zoe opened the fridge and found some orange juice, poured a little into a mug and gave it to her, then sat down at the pine table, keeping a safe distance from her little niece and the possibility of getting splashed with juice.

Sancha made coffee, keeping her back to Zoe. ‘How’s the filming going? Smoothly, or are there problems?’

‘Only one problem—the casting director insisted on picking Hal Thaxford.’ Zoe’s dry voice made Sancha smile. She had heard her sister’s views on Hal Thaxford before.

‘I know you don’t like him—but he’s quite a good actor, isn’t he?’

‘He wouldn’t know how to act his way out of a paper bag. The man doesn’t act. He just stands about with folded arms, glowering like Heathcliff, or snarls his lines.’

‘He’s sexy, though,’ teased Sancha, getting down the mugs and pouring the coffee the way Zoe liked it—black and unsugared.

She almost dropped both mugs when she turned and found Zoe reading the letter Sancha had left on the table.

Zoe looked up and their eyes met. ‘So that’s why you look like death warmed up.’

First white, then scarlet, Sancha snapped, ‘How dare you read my letters?’

Putting down the coffee so suddenly it spilled a little, she snatched the letter from her sister.

Zoe was unrepentant. ‘It was open; I couldn’t help seeing a few words. Once I’d done that, I had to know the rest.’ She stared at Sancha with sharp, narrowed eyes. ‘Is it true?’

Sancha sat down, pushing the crumpled letter into her jeans pocket. ‘Of course not!’

There was a little silence and Zoe frowned at her sister, her face disbelieving. ‘Did you recognise her handwriting?’

Startled, Sancha shook her head. ‘No.’ Then she thought briefly. ‘What makes you think it was written by a woman?’

Zoe’s bright red mouth curled cynically. ‘They always are. Men get at people in other ways. They either come right out with it, give you a smack, or they make funny phone calls...heavy breathing... whispered threats...that sort of thing. But women send poison pen letters, usually hysterical stuff about sex. Obviously this is from someone in Mark’s office; maybe someone who fancies him herself, but never got a second look and is jealous of this assistant of his.’

Flora had drunk all her juice; she began banging her mug violently on her highchair tray. Zoe winced and took the mug away from her.

‘How do you stand it all day long? It would drive me crazy.’

Sancha picked Flora up and carried her over to her playpen; Flora immediately picked up a toy elephant and crushed it lovingly to her.

‘Mine effelunt,’ she cooed. ‘Mine, mine.’

Sancha ran a hand over the child’s red curls. ‘You know, she’s just like you,’ she told her sister, who looked indignant.

‘Do you mind? I was never that over-active or exhausting.’

‘Oh, yes, you were—Mum says you nearly drove her out of her mind. And you haven’t really changed, either.’

Zoe contemplated her niece, who stared back then put out her small pink tongue, clutching the elephant tighter.

‘Effelunt mine,’ she said, knowing her aunt to be very well capable of taking the toy away from her.

‘Monster,’ Zoe said automatically, then asked a little uneasily, ‘Is she really like me, or were you joking?’

‘It’s no joke. Of course she is,’ Sancha told her, sitting down at the table again, and her sister shuddered before turning thoughtful eyes back to Sancha’s face.

‘So what are you going to do about this letter?’

Sancha shrugged, drinking some more of her coffee before saying, ‘Ignore it, burn it in the Aga—that’s where it belongs.’

‘You’re really sure it’s a lie?’ Zoe’s eyes were shrewdly bright. She knew her sister far too well not to suspect she wasn’t being entirely honest. Sancha’s face, her eyes, her whole manner, were far too betraying.

Suddenly admitting the truth, Sancha gave a little wail. ‘Oh, I don’t know. It never entered my head until I got that letter, but it could be... We haven’t been getting on too well for months, not really since Flora was born. First I was tired and depressed, and I couldn’t...didn’t want to. I don’t know why—maybe my libido was flat after having three babies so close together. Mark was very good, at first, but it drifted on and on; we hardly talk, these days, let alone... It must be months since we...’

‘Made love?’ supplied Zoe when she stopped, and Sancha nodded, her face out of control now, anguished, tears standing in her eyes.

Zoe got up hurriedly, came round to put an arm round her, holding her tight.

‘Don’t, Sancha. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

Sancha pulled herself together after a minute, rubbed a hand across her wet eyes. Zoe gave her a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes with it and then blew her nose.

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise, for heaven’s sake!’ Zoe exploded. ‘In your place I’d be screaming the place down and breaking things, including Mark’s neck! If you’ve been too tired to make love it’s because of his children, after all! It takes two. They’re as much his problem as yours. You’ll have to tell him, Sancha, show him the letter—if it is a lie you’ll know when you see his face, and if it’s true he won’t be able to hide that, either.’

Sancha looked at her bleakly. ‘And then what do I do? If Mark tells me it’s true and he’s having an affair? How do I react to that? Do I say, Oh, well, carry on! I just wanted to know. Or do I give him some sort of ultimatum—me or her, choose now! And what if he chooses her? What if be walks out and leaves me and the children?’

‘If he’s likely to do that you’re better off knowing now. You can’t bury your head in the sand, pretend it isn’t happening or hope it will all go away. Where’s your pride, for heaven’s sake?’

Anguish made Sancha want to weep, but she fought it down, struggled to keep her voice calm. ‘There are more important things than pride!’

‘Is there anything more important than your marriage?’ Zoe demanded. ‘Come on, Sancha, you’ve got to face up to this. Do you know...what was her name? Jacqui something? What’s she like?’

‘I’ve no idea; I’ve never set eyes on her.’ Sancha’s voice broke, her whole body trembling as she tried to be calm. ‘Stop asking me questions. I need to think, but how can I think when there’s so much to do all the time? Just keeping up with Flora drains all my energy.’

Zoe contemplated the two-year-old jumping round her playpen. ‘I bet it does. Just watching her makes me feel drained.’ She shot Sancha a measuring glance. ‘Look, I have nothing much to do today. Why don’t I stay here and look after Flora while you go off by yourself and think things over?’

Sancha laughed shortly. ‘You’d be a nervous wreck in half an hour!’

‘I’ve babysat for you before!’

‘At night, when she was asleep—and not often, either. You have no idea what she’s like when she’s awake. You need eyes in the back of your head.’

Zoe shrugged. ‘I’ll manage; I’m not stupid. Off you go, forget about Flora for a few hours. Don’t just moon about—do something about the way you look. Have your hair done! You haven’t had a new hairstyle for years. That will make you feel a whole lot better. Don’t worry about the boys; I’ll pick them up from school. But can you be back by six because I’ve got a date at seven-thirty?’

Sancha hesitated a second or two more, then smiled at her sister. ‘OK, thanks, Zoe—if you’re sure...’

‘I’m sure!’

‘Well, thanks, you’re an angel. I will have my hair done. You’re right—I should. And if you have any real problems go to Martha—remember her? Lives across the street, only just five foot, with very short black hair? She’ll help out if something does go wrong.’

Zoe grinned and nodded. ‘OK, OK. Don’t fret so much. Now scoot, will you, while the monster isn’t looking.’

Flora was sitting with her back to them, struggling to force a small bear into one of her small plastic saucepans, far too absorbed to notice what was going on behind her.

Sancha gave her sister a grateful look, then grabbed up her purse and went out on tiptoe. Ten minutes later she was in her car, heading for the centre of town. First she went to the best hairstylist she knew, and managed to get an immediate appointment because someone had cancelled. The man who came to do her hair ran a comb through the thick curls with a grimace.

‘This is going to take me for ever!’ he groaned. ‘Any ideas about how you want it to look?’

‘Different,’ Sancha said, feeling reckless. What she really wanted to say was, Make me beautiful, make me glamorous, help me get my husband back! If only she could switch back six years, to the way she’d looked before she’d started having babies and ruined her figure!

While the stylist began thinning and cutting her hair she leaned back in the chair with closed eyes, thinking. But she was still going round in circles, deciding first to do this, then that, and afraid of doing anything at all in case it precipitated a crisis which could lead to the end of her marriage.

The letter might be a hoax, a wicked lie. She could be torturing herself over nothing. But if it was true? Her heart plummeted and she had to bite the inside of her lip to stop herself crying. What was she going to do? Was Zoe right? Should she confront Mark, show him the letter, ask him if it was true?

No, she couldn‘t—she was too scared of what might happen next. She felt as if she were standing in the middle of a minefield. Any step she took might blow everything up around her. The only safety lay in not moving at all. Not yet.

First she had to find out if there was any truth in the allegation. But how could she do that without asking Mark?

Tonight he was supposed to be having dinner with his boss, Frank Monroe, the man who had started the construction company and still owned the majority of the shares. Mark hadn’t said where they were having dinner, but it was either at Monroe’s house, a big detached place outside town, or at one of the more expensive restaurants.

She could ring Frank Monroe’s house tonight and ask for Mark, make up some excuse about why she needed to talk to him. If Mark wasn’t there she would know he had lied.

She sighed, and the stylist said at once, ‘Don’t you like it?’

Startled, she looked into the mirror and saw how much hair he had cut off.

Stammering, she hardly knew how to react. ‘Oh...well...I...’

‘It will look much better once I’ve blowdried it and brushed it into shape,’ he promised. ‘You can’t see the full picture yet.’

‘No,’ she said with a wry twist of the lips. She could not see the full picture yet; she must wait until she could. But Zoe was absolutely right—she had to know the truth. She could not rest, now that the poison had been injected; she could feel it now, working away inside her, like liquid fire running through her veins.

An hour later she left the salon looking so different that she almost failed to recognise herself in the mirror. Her hair was now worn in a light mop of bright curls which framed her face and made her look younger.

Before her hair had been blowdried one of the young assistants had given her a facial and full make-up, using colours she would never have picked out for herself: a wild scarlet for her mouth, a soft apricot on her eyelids, a faint wash of pink blusher over her cheekbones. Then, while her hair was being blowdried, she had had her nails manicured, but had refused to have them varnished the same colour as her mouth.

So the girl had painted them with clear, pearly varnish, and added a strip of white behind the top of each nail. That had given her fingers a new elegance, made them look longer, more stylish. Mind you, how long that would last, under the onslaught of Flora and the boys, the washing-up, the floor-polishing, the cleaning... who knew?

‘You look great!’ the assistants had told her as she’d paid her bill, and Sancha had smiled, knowing they weren’t lying.

‘Thank you,’ she’d said, tipping them generously.

Walking along the main street of Hampton, the little English town an hour’s drive from London, she saw the church clock striking the hour and realised it was now one o’clock. Only then did she remember that she hadn’t eaten.

She would have lunch somewhere really exciting, she decided, feeling free and reckless. She walked along the High Street towards the best restaurant in town, a French bistro called L‘Esprit, and began to cross the road—only to stop dead in her tracks as she recognised Mark on the other side. He had his arm around the waist of a girl he was steering towards the swing doors of the restaurant.

A car screeched to a halt behind her, its bumper inches away—the driver leaned out and yelled angrily at her.

‘Are you crazy? I nearly hit you! What do you think you’re doing? Get out of the road, you imbecile!’

Automatically apologising, her nerves frantic, Sancha hurried to the kerb and stood on the pavement, realising that Mark had gone into L‘Esprit.

Who had the blonde been? A client? Sancha remembered Mark’s arm around the girl’s waist, his fingertips spread in a caressing fan.

The blonde had turned her head to look up into his eyes, saying something to him, her pink lips parted, their moist gleam sensual:

It’s her, Sancha thought. She had never yet set eyes on Jacqui Farrar, but she was suddenly certain she had now seen her for the first time, and that it was true, the accusation in the anonymous letter. Mark had lied about what he was doing that evening. He wasn’t having dinner with his boss—he was having it with Jacqui Farrar. They would go to her flat and...

Sancha took a deep, painful breath as her imagination ran ahead and pictured what Mark would be doing.

She wanted to stand there in the street and scream. She wanted to run into the restaurant, kill Mark. If she had a gun she would shoot him, or the blonde girl, or both of them. She wanted to hurt Mark as much as he had hurt her. She would like to go home and pull all his elegant, expensive suits out of the wardrobe and chuck them on the garden bonfire, watch them burn along with his beautiful designer shirts and silk ties. While she was wearing old jeans and shirts Mark was always beautifully dressed. He said it was necessary for his image as a top executive.

He frowned at her shabby clothes and unkempt hair, but he had never given her a personal allowance big enough to buy herself good clothes. Oh, he made her an allowance, but most of that money went on clothes for the children. They grew out of their clothes so fast, she was always having to buy them something, and there was never very much left over for her. No doubt that had never occurred to Mark; he left everything to do with the children to her, and never questioned what she did with the allowance he made her. If they went out together she always wore one of the outfits she had had for years, but which still looked smart. At least she hadn’t put on much weight, but all her nice clothes were faintly out of date—not that Mark ever seemed to notice that.

But for a long time he had been looking at her with those cold grey eyes as if he despised her, was bored by her. She tried to remember when it had started—soon after Flora was born? No, not that far back.

Around the time Jacqui Farrar joined the firm? Her stomach cramped in pain. Yes, it must have been then.

The blonde couldn’t be more than twenty-three; her figure hadn’t been ruined by having three babies and her salary was probably good enough for her to afford tight-fitting, sexy clothes which showed off her figure. Mark had said once that she was clever, an efficient and fast-thinking assistant, but obviously it had not been the girl’s brains that attracted him. Having seen her, Sancha was sure of that.

Sancha wanted to kill him. She hated him. Hated him so intensely that tears burnt behind her eyelids. Loved him so much that the possibility of losing him made her wish she was dead. There had never been anyone else for her; no other men before him had meant a thing. She had had a couple of boyfriends, but Mark had been the first man she’d fallen in love with, and for seven years Mark had been the breath of her being, the centre of her life. She could not bear to lose him.

I won’t lose him, she thought fiercely. That little blonde harpy isn’t getting him. He belongs to me.

CHAPTER TWO

SANCHA swung round and walked back along the High Street, not really seeing where she was going and with no idea of what she meant to do. She only knew she needed to think the situation through, and she couldn’t bear to face Zoe until she had herself under control. Her sister would take one look at her face and know that something had happened—they knew each other too well; they had few secrets from each other. Zoe already knew about the anonymous letter, and it was typical of her that she should have read it; it would never have occurred to her that she had no right to read her sister’s private mail.

There was one secret Sancha did not intend to share with Zoe. Zoe had asked her if she had any pride—oh, yes, she certainly did! She was far too proud to let anyone, even Zoe, see how much it hurt to know that Mark was unfaithful to her.

Again her dangerous imagination went haywire, sending her images of Mark with the blonde girl, kissing, in bed...

No! She would not think about that. That way madness lay. She would simply go out of her mind if she thought about Mark and that girl.

She opened her eyes and stared into a shop window. A dress shop. She tried to be interested in the dresses displayed on brightly smiling, stiffly posed mannequins. One dress did catch her eye, a jade-green shift dress with a little jacket—she loved that colour. She leaned closer to look at the price ticket and her brown eyes opened wide. Heavens! She had never bought a dress that expensive.

Turning, she was about to walk on when she paused, frowning. It was so long since she had bought anything that pretty—why shouldn’t she be extravagant for once? She was in a mood to do something reckless. And, anyway, Mark could afford to give her far more money than he did. He hadn’t increased her allowance for ages, but now she thought of it he was always buying himself new shirts, new suits, new ties.

Taking a deep breath, she walked into the shop, and a woman turned to look her up and down, sniffing at her old jeans and well-washed shirt.

Her expression said that customers who dressed like Sancha were not welcome in her shop. A small, birdlike woman, with dyed blueish hair, she wore a pale beige dress that made her almost vanish into the tasteful pale beige décor of the shop.

‘Can I help you?’ she enquired in a chilly tone.

Sancha stood her ground, her chin up. She was in no mood to put up with this sort of treatment. Anyone would think that nobody ever wore jeans—but you only had to look along the street to see hordes of people wearing them. Maybe they never came into this shop? If they got this sort of treatment, Sancha could understand why.

‘I want to try on the green shift dress in the window.’

The shop assistant did not like that. ‘I’m not sure if we have it in your size,’ she said icily, as if Sancha were the size of an elephant.

‘The one in the window looks as if it would fit me,’ Sancha said sharply, wanting to bite her, and maybe that showed in her face because, on hearing her size, the assistant reluctantly produced the dress and Sancha went into a cubicle to try it on.

It was a perfect fit. What was more, she loved it even more when she saw herself wearing it, so she got out her chequebook and bought it, although it made her nervous to see the price written down.

‘I’ll wear it,’ she told the assistant. ‘Could you give me a bag for the clothes I was wearing?’

Still not ready to thaw, the woman found a paper carrier bag and put Sancha’s jeans and shirt into it with the air of someone who wished she had tongs with which to pick up the clothes. Her gaze flicked down to Sancha’s feet; a sneer flitted over her face. Silently she conveyed the message that Sancha looked ridiculous in that stylish dress when she was wearing slightly grubby, well-worn track shoes.

She had a point. Sancha took the carrier bag and walked out of the shop. There was a shoe shop next door; she dived in there and bought some black high heels and a new black handbag that matched them. At least the girl in there was friendly, in her late teens, with pinky blonde hair and a lot of make-up on her face.

As Sancha paid for her purchases the girl said, ‘I love that dress. You got it next door, didn’t you? I saw it in the window.’

‘So did I, but the old misery who runs the shop almost put me off. She looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out from under a stone. Is she always like that?’

The teenager giggled. ‘Unless you have pots of money and she thinks you’re upper class. She’s a terrible snob. Take no notice of her. The dress looks wonderful on you.’

Sancha smiled at her gratefully. ‘Thanks.’ She needed a confidence-booster; her self-esteem had never been so low—practically on the floor.

She went on along the High Street, and was startled to get a wolf whistle from a window cleaner on a ladder who, when she looked up at him, gave her an enormous wink.

‘Hello, beautiful, where have you been all my life?’

Sancha gave a nervous giggle and walked quickly off, but kept taking sidelong glances at her reflection in the shop windows she passed. Each time she felt a little shock of surprise; she hadn’t yet got used to her new look—to the different hairstyle, the sleek green dress, the high heels which made her look taller, slimmer. It was surprising what a difference your appearance made to your whole state of mind. She had been going around feeling well-nigh invisible for years, as far as men were concerned. She didn’t expect attention; she avoided it. She was too busy with her children and the housework; she had no time to think of herself at all.

It was very late now; she ought to find somewhere to eat before they stopped serving lunch. Spotting a wine bar, she dived into it and chose a light lunch of poached salmon, salad and a glass of white wine. She sat in a corner, where nobody could see her, and ate slowly, brooding over Mark. She had to decide what to do, but each time she thought about it she felt a clutch of agony in her stomach; her mind stopped working and pain swamped everything else inside her.

She drove home around two o’clock and found Zoe slumped on the sitting-room floor in a litter of toys, a look of dazed exhaustion on her face.

‘Where’s Flora?’ asked Sancha, immediately anxious. Zoe groaned, running her hands through her hair.

‘Asleep upstairs. I ran out of ideas to keep her occupied so I asked her what she wanted to do and she said she wanted a bath. It seemed like a good idea, so I took her up there and ran a bath, and she had a great time—drowning her plastic toys, making tidal waves and splashing me head to toe—but I got so bored I could scream, so I decided it was time she came out. That was when the trouble started. I picked her up and she yelled and kicked while I tried to dry her. I finally dropped her naked in her cot while I looked for some clean clothes, but when I turned round she was fast asleep, so I covered her with her quilt and sneaked off and left her. My God, Sancha, how do you bear it, day after day? Why aren’t you dead?’

Sancha laughed. ‘I sometimes think I am.’

Zoe gave a start, her eyes widening. ‘Well, well,’ she said, looking her over from top to toe. ‘I only just noticed—you look terrific! I love the new hairstyle—you look years younger—and the dress is gorgeous. That should make Mark sit up.’

Sancha went a little pink, hoping she was right. ‘Glad you approve. I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for some tea. Did you eat?’

‘After a fashion. I made a cheese salad for lunch; Flora ate some of the cheese and some tomato and celery, then threw the rest about until I took it away. Watching her eating habits put me off my own food so I didn’t eat much, either, but I’d love a cup of tea and a biscuit. My blood sugar is very low now.’

They drank their tea in the kitchen; the warm afternoon silence was distinctly soporific and Sancha felt her eyelids drooping—Zoe seemed half-asleep too.

Zoe yawned, gave her sister a glance across the table, then asked, ‘What have you decided to do?’

‘Do?’ Sancha pretended not to understand, but Zoe wasn’t letting her off the hook.

‘About Mark and this woman,’ she said bluntly.

‘I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.’

‘Show him the letter,’ advised Zoe. ‘Don’t be an ostrich. You have to talk to him, Sancha.’

‘I know. I will.’ Sancha did not tell her that she had seen Mark, or mention the blonde girl. She knew she wouldn’t be able to talk about it without breaking down, and if she did tell Zoe her sister would urge her to leave Mark or have a confrontation with him. Sancha needed more time to think.

Zoe finished her tea and looked at her watch. ‘Do you feel up to collecting the boys, after all? Because I really need to go home and have a soak in the bathtub.’ She gave her sister a comical look, rolling her eyes. ‘I need rest and silence.’

‘I know just how you feel. Flora is quite an experience—I shouldn’t have left you with her,’ Sancha said, smiling. ‘Of course I’ll get the boys—no problem.’

Zoe got up, stretching. ‘I am completely whacked! You know, anyone who can cope with that little monster day after day has to be a superwoman. You’re my hero.’

She kissed her on the top of her head and left, and Sancha sat in the kitchen with another cup of tea, listening to the silence in the house and grateful for it, hoping Flora would not wake up just yet. They had an hour before they had to collect the boys.

She had a bad feeling that the next few months were going to be the worst in her life. Zoe had been joking when she’d called her a superwoman—she only wished she was! But she wasn’t. She was just a very ordinary woman in a very painful situation, and she did not really know what she was going to do. She only knew she loved her husband deeply, and couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

But she couldn’t bear, either, the idea of him with another woman. That was eating at her, driving her crazy.

What was she going to do?

That evening she put the boys and Flora to bed at their usual time, after feeding them one of their favourite suppers—a horrifying mix of scrambled egg and baked beans on toast which Charlie had invented one evening and which they had kept demanding ever since. She gave them some fruit, after that, and plain vanilla ice-cream.

Sancha had not eaten with them. She could never really enjoy a meal eaten with her children. Her digestion couldn’t cope with the constant getting up and down, the nervous tension of watching Flora carefully drop beans on the floor, or the two boys kicking each other under the table.

She often did eat with them, of course, but it was never a pleasure. Tonight she had decided to wait until they were in bed and then heat herself some soup. She wasn’t hungry.

By the time she had finished her soup and a slice of toast there was silence upstairs. The children were all fast asleep. Sancha curled up in front of the electric log fire and ate an apple, staring into the flickering flame effect of the fire and brooding on Mark and his woman.

She wished she knew if he was with the blonde tonight, or if he was genuinely having dinner with his boss. Her eye fell on the telephone and she jumped up, picked up the telephone book which lay beside it, and began flicking through the pages. She found Jacqui Farrar’s name quite quickly, stared at the number, hesitated, then on an impulse dialled it.

The phone rang and rang; she was about to hang up when the ringing stopped and a low, husky voice slurred, ‘Yes?’

Sancha couldn’t think what to say.

‘Hello? This is Jacqui Farrar,’ the voice at the other end said.

Sancha was still silent, wanting to hang up but transfixed, listening to the voice of this woman who might be her husband’s mistress.

‘Hello? Hello?’ the other woman said, and then, in the background a man’s voice spoke.

‘Is there anyone on the line? Can you hear breathing? Here, give me the phone. Those pests make me sick. I’ll get rid of him for you.’

It was Mark’s voice. Sancha’s heart hurt as if a giant hand were squeezing all the life-blood out of it.

A second later he was snarling in her ear. ‘Look, you creep, get off this line and don’t—’

Sancha put the phone down and stood there, eyes closed, trembling. It was all true. He was there, now, with Jacqui Farrar. Had they already made love, or were they going to?

No, she couldn’t bear to think about it.

She turned off the electric fire and the lights, closed all the doors, going through her nightly routine with the dull plodding of a robot, moving heavily, not seeing anything around her because her mind was so possessed with unbearable images. She wished she could shut them all off, like the television; she wished she could stop the pictures coming, but she was helpless in the grip of jealousy and pain.

She would never sleep tonight, but tomorrow she would have to go through the usual round of duties-taking care of the children, doing the housework, the shopping, the cooking. Well, that would be easier than sitting around with nothing to do but brood. She would try to keep busy, try not to have time to think.

She was still awake when Mark got home. She heard the car purr slowly up the drive into the garage, then a few minutes later the front door opened and closed quietly. Sancha sat up on one elbow and looked at the green glow of the alarm clock—it was nearly one in the morning. He had been with that woman all this time.

She lay down again, staring up at the ceiling, listening to Mark moving about downstairs. The fridge door opened and shut; he was probably getting himself a glass of iced water to drink if he woke up in the night.

He began coming upstairs. She would know his footsteps if she were dead, and knew which stair he stood on by the muted creaking. He was trying not to wake her. He didn’t want her to know he was coming home at that hour. He didn’t want to answer any questions about where he had been, what he had been doing until this time of night.

He was trying to get away with it, betraying her and their marriage but unwilling to pay the price, face the consequences.

Well, he was going to have to! She was going to take Zoe’s advice and confront him, tell him she knew and he could stop lying. Either he stopped seeing his girlfriend or their marriage was over.

Holding her breath, she waited for him to open their bedroom door and come into the room, but he didn’t. He walked on past and went into the little spare bedroom at the end of the corridor.

It was like a blow in the face. He wasn’t even going to share her room tonight—maybe not any other night!

Of course, he had slept in the spare room before—when she’d first come home from hospital with Flora he had slept elsewhere because of the constant interruption during the night, when the new baby woke up yelling for food or attention. But that had only been for the first couple of weeks. When the new twin beds had been delivered Mark had rejoined her in this room.

Rage suddenly exploded in Sancha’s head. She jumped out of bed and ran down the corridor, bursting into the spare room just as Mark was getting into bed.

He was naked. The angry, accusing words froze on Sancha’s lips. She hadn’t seen him naked for months. When you had children you didn’t wander about without any clothes on, and they hadn’t been making love. Now her heart began to race, and her ears were deafened with the sound of her own blood rushing round her body.

She couldn’t take her eyes off that powerful, lean body; he was intensely masculine, with a muscled width of shoulder and deep chest, dark, rough hair curling down towards the strong thighs and long legs.

Her mouth went dry. She had not felt this intense desire for so long she almost didn’t know what was happening to her. Heat began to burn deep inside her; she could scarcely breathe.

‘Did I wake you up? Sorry, I tried to be very quiet,’ Mark said curtly, looking away with that frown of irritation, and slid between the sheets, pulling them up to his neck as if to hide his nakedness from her, as if he disliked having her look at him.

She swallowed, fighting a longing to go over and touch him, run her hand down over that strong male body; she would have given anything to get into bed with him and caress him but she didn’t dare risk a rejection. ‘Why are you sleeping in here?’

‘So I shouldn’t wake you, obviously,’ he said, sardonic and offhand. He wasn’t even looking at her now. He had his eyes fixed on a space beside her. She realised he did not want to see her; her presence in the room was an embarrassment to him. There was a trace of dark red along his cheekbones and his jawline was tightly clenched.

‘I am awake now,’ she said fiercely, the pain of his indifference stabbing at her. ‘Why were you so late? Where were you tonight, Mark?’

He snapped, ‘I told you. Having dinner with my boss.’ Then he carefully yawned, not a very convincing performance. His face and body were too tense to be relaxed enough for sleep. ‘Look, I’m tired—we’ll talk in the morning. I might as well sleep here tonight, now I’m in bed.’ He leaned over and switched off his bedside lamp. ‘Goodnight, Sancha.’

Angry words seethed inside Sancha’s head, almost came out of her in a hot gush, but the habit of years took over. Since the birth of her first child she had learned to take second place, to accept the way things were, not to fight the inevitable. Mothers had to; the self had to step back for a while, let the child take precedence over any personal needs or desires. She wanted to scream at Mark, but she forced her rage down, drew breath, very quietly closed the door—although she wanted to slam it, she mustn’t wake the children—and walked back along the landing somehow. She wasn’t sure how she kept one foot moving in front of the other.

In the bedroom she sank down on her bed, shaking so much she felt as if she were falling to bits. The scream was trapped in her throat; she felt it trying to come out, put her balled fist into her mouth to silence it and bit down on her knuckles. Bit until she felt the saltness of her own blood seep into her mouth.

How dared he? How dared he talk to her in that brusque voice, look at her with such cold, remote eyes? When he was lying to her, betraying her with another woman? Well, he needn’t think he was getting away with it. She knew what he was up to—it was some sort of male power game. Typical of them, utterly typical—shifting the blame, trying to make it look as if it was she who was in the wrong, she who was behaving badly, not him, never him.

Their sons did it all the time—played the same game, put up the same instinctive defence. ‘Me? Mum, you don’t think I’d do that. I didn’t—not me—it wasn’t me. It must have been Flora who spilt the milk, tore the comic, broke the cup, ate the chocolate...’ Or any of the hundred tiny crimes committed in this house every day while Sancha was cast in the role of detective, judge and jury all in one, trying hopelessly to pin the blame on one of her children while suspecting all of them. The boys always tried to accuse Flora, but if she was asleep in her cot and couldn’t be proved guilty they turned on each other, both equally full of righteous indignation and wide-eyed innocence.

But they were children. Mark was a grown man. He needn’t think he was getting away with anything. She would talk to him tomorrow morning, before the children woke up.

She set her alarm for half an hour before she needed to get up, but when she went along to wake Mark the spare room was empty. He must already be up. Sancha ran downstairs, but he wasn’t there, either. He had left the house while she was asleep.

There was a note on the kitchen table. She snatched it up and read it hurriedly. ‘Had to get to work early. Mark.’

She screwed the paper up and threw it across the room, sobbing with pain and anger.

He was lying; she knew it. He had left to avoid facing her. He had sensed she was going to ask awkward questions and didn’t want to answer them.

But he was going to. Sooner or later he was going to have to talk to her.

Later in the morning she and Flora set off to the small neighbourhood shopping centre and were heavily laden by the time they ran into Martha Adams, the only neighbour who was really friendly with Sancha.

She stared, grinned. ‘You’ve had your hair done! Marvellous! You look years younger—suits you shorter.’

‘Thanks. I feel lighter, too.’

Martha contemplated Sancha’s three shopping bags. ‘Been on a buying spree?’

‘It’s just food,’ Sancha groaned. ‘The boys eat an incredible amount every day. Between them and Flora we went through half a box of cornflakes this morning alone. I can only just keep up with them.’

‘Come and have a coffee,’ invited Martha, and they walked across the street to the Victorian Coffee House, which had been built a year earlier to look around a hundred years old.

The waitresses were all young and pretty, and wore Victorian black and red print dresses with starched caps and aprons. The menu was couched in Victorian language, too. Sancha and Martha didn’t need to read it; they had been there before and knew the menu by heart.

Martha ordered what they always had. ‘Two coffees, two hot buttered muffins and hot chocolate with a marshmallow on top for the little girl.’

‘You got it,’ said the waitress, and vanished with a swish of long skirts.

Flora had spotted the Victorian rocking-horse which was one of the major attractions of the place for her. For once there was no other child riding it.

‘Want a ride, want a ride,’ she began to chant, trying to climb down out of the highchair Sancha had popped her into.

Martha lifted her out and carried her over to the rocking-horse. Flora at once began to gallop, crowing with delight.

Sancha watched her with fierce love; Flora was demanding, exhausting, but above all adorable, and Sancha would die to protect her. Yet by one of fate’s strange ironies it had been Flora’s birth that had driven Sancha and Mark apart.

It wasn’t that Mark didn’t love the child or hadn’t wanted her—more that by needing her mother’s full-time attention Flora had driven a wedge between her parents, had soaked up so much of Sancha’s time and care that there had been nothing left for Mark.

While Sancha watched her child Martha had been watching Sancha, her forehead creased.

‘Is something wrong?’

The question made Sancha start. Only then did she realise she was on the point of tears again. It kept happening since she’d got the anonymous letter. Turning her head away, she brushed a hand across her eyes.

‘No, of course not,’ she lied, forcing a smile as she turned back to face Martha’s intent gaze.

Just five feet tall, and built on a diminutive scale to match, with a slender body and short legs, Martha had a mobile, heart-shaped face and bobbed black hair without a trace of grey yet—although she was forty years old. She lived alone in the house across the street from Mark and Sancha and her home was a magnet for all Sancha’s children because Martha kept a cat and two dogs—sleek red setters, with gleaming manes and liquid dark eyes.

Her eyes shrewd, she refused to accept Sancha’s lie. ‘Come on, you know you can talk to me. I won’t repeat anything you tell me,’ she murmured, with one eye on Flora. ‘Having problems? Not Flora?’

Sancha laughed. ‘Flora’s always a problem!’

‘That’s true,’ Martha said, smiling. ‘But there is something wrong, isn’t there? Is it the boys? Or Mark?’

Her quick ears caught Sancha’s faint, quickly suppressed sigh.

‘It’s Mark?’ Martha deduced immediately. ‘He isn’t ill? Or is it his job? Is he having trouble at work?’

Sancha gave her a wry look. ‘What a little Sherlock Holmes you are! It’s nothing. Forget it.’

Martha studied her face. ‘You look terrible—did you know that? As if you haven’t slept a wink all night. You seemed fine last time I saw you—when was that? Couple of days ago? Nothing was wrong then. So what’s happened since?’

Sancha glanced at Flora’s small, wildly rocking body. Flora was oblivious of everything going on around her, could not hear their lowered voices, anyway.

It was tempting to talk to Martha, who had been the first neighbour to visit them when they had moved into the newly built house across the street from her, bringing a plate of home-baked biscuits and a bunch of roses from her beautiful garden. She had been a rock during the years since—had done the shopping for Sancha whenever she couldn’t get out, babysat, been ready to listen to Sancha’s problems with the children and given advice and practical help whenever she could.

Sancha had always felt very lucky to have such a good neighbour, and she, in her turn, had tried to be very supportive to Martha during her own time of trouble, when Martha’s schoolteacher husband, Jimmy, had run off with an eighteen-year-old he had been teaching at the nearby college. Their elopement had caused a scandal and the local newspapers had been full of the story; reporters had badgered Martha, waited outside her house for her to emerge, called questions through the letterbox, and photographers had rushed to get snatched photos of her if she came out.

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