Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending. Amanda Robson
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Название: Obsession: The bestselling psychological thriller with a shocking ending
Автор: Amanda Robson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780008212223
isbn:
He pulls me towards him and kisses me, pushing me back on the bed and undoing my bathrobe. I start to undress him, pushing my breasts into his face. Our usual moves. In their exact order. No variation. What we do always works.
It’s over. I really need that shower now. He is collecting his clothes from around the bedroom where I have thrown them, grinning from ear to ear, and whistling. Rob always whistles when he is happy. He turns to me.
‘Maybe Jenni should try revenge sex,’ he says, erect at his own suggestion.
I look away without bringing myself to reply.
From the moment I enter the church, its silence presses down on me, filling me with the presence of God. Light pushes through the stained glass window behind the altar, dust dancing in its pathway, illuminating baby Jesus. He sits on a stern-faced Mary’s knee, pointing his index finger at me. Pointing, through a fog of dust and incense – making me feel his love.
I pray. Or try to. Closing my eyes tight and pushing the world away. Turning my mind in on itself and concentrating on my husband, on every detail of his body, from the freckle to the side of his ear to the long slender line of his feet. His laugh, his smile, his face when he told me he had been unfaithful. I look up at the stained window, at the fine-coloured beauty of Madonna and child staring down at me. As I continue to stare, transfixed by the beauty of the Madonna, Mary is becoming Carly. Soft dark hair thickened by peroxide, face fattening and starting to laugh. She is pointing at me, mocking me. Her laugh, gentle at first, becomes harsher and harsher. A mechanical, piped laugh. And then the laughing fades, and behind the laughing I hear choral music. Through the beauty of the music, Carly holds her arms out to me.
‘Forgive me,’ she begs.
Forgive you? Not ever. Or at least not yet.
My mother tries to suppress the frown that is trying to furrow her forehead. She stands up and starts to clear the dishes. I sit and watch her bustling about my kitchen in the Jamie Oliver apron that Rob bought her. She is squeezing out too much washing-up liquid in her usual way; banging the pans together. My headache reaches a crescendo. I put my head in my hands, rubbing my temples to try to ease it. My mother looks across and sees me watching her.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
She walks towards me, smelling of soap suds.
I try to form the right words. ‘It’s just that everything seems so heavy. So difficult. Some days I just feel as if I can hardly move.’
‘What do you mean?’ she asks.
Silence suppurates because try as I do, I cannot explain the vacuum I am living in. I cannot break through the loneliness of it. The fug in the room tightens around me. I am looking at my mother from inside a plastic bubble. A plastic bubble I cannot reach through.
Another week gone by. Saturday morning again. Getting up at 6 a.m. to look after the children so that Carly can have a lie-in. Carly, so exhausted recently. Thank goodness for CBeebies, even if its name sounds like baby dribble. I sit dozing on the sofa for hours, curled up with my offspring. Enjoying the warmth of them, the scent of them, as they watch TV. When Carly eventually staggers downstairs in her pink fluffy dressing gown I extricate myself and step into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea. She follows me. We sit at our antique pine table sipping Earl Grey.
‘Did you sleep OK?’ I ask.
‘No.’
She is sitting, head in her hands, tears pricking at the edges of her eyes.
‘I’ve been awake since four.’
‘Carly, you need help.’ I pause.
‘Because I can’t sleep?’
‘Because you’re depressed. You need to go and see a psychiatrist.’
‘Of course I don’t need a psychiatrist.’
‘You could just go for an assessment.’
‘Why should I?’ There is a pause. ‘Why do I need a psychiatrist when I’ve got you?’
‘I’m a GP. I only know a little about depression.’
‘Why do you think I’m depressed?’
I reach across the table to hold her hand. ‘Because the light has gone out of you.’
Tears begin to stream down her cheeks. She squeezes my hand so tight I fear she might break it.
‘Please, Rob. Promise me you won’t send me to someone. Can’t you see that it will destroy me?’
‘Why will getting help destroy you?’
‘Because … because …’ she stammers. ‘I need to cope on my own.’
I see a flash of determination in her eyes. The determination that I fear will be her downfall.
I press the buzzer of Jenni and Craig’s now Craig-less mockGeorgian townhouse. Craig has moved round the corner, back into his parents’ house where his old bedroom is still intact; a mausoleum waiting for him, walls still covered with school team photos and a poster of Pamela Anderson after her first boob job, so old now that it’s curling at the edges. The door opens and Matt and John are standing in the hallway.
‘Uncle Rob,’ they say almost in unison, clinging to my legs. ‘We thought you were Daddy. Daddy’s coming round now.’
And then Craig is there behind me, and the boys have relinquished my legs and are climbing up their father’s body. He hoists them up, one in each arm. They wrap their legs around his waist and for a second my heart lurches in agreement with Carly, who insists Jenni is being selfish, splitting up the family. But when I see Jenni standing in front of me, thin as a rake, her large eyes circled by the black tell-tale rings denoting lack of sleep, my heart lurches again.
‘Hello, Craig,’ she says, voice clipped, managing a tight smile in his direction.
Her hands are trembling. I want to take her in my arms and protect her. As Craig leaves with his sons, he whispers in my ear.
‘Thanks, mate. Thanks for coming to stick up for me.’
Jenni and I are alone in her hallway. She bursts СКАЧАТЬ