The Guilty Wife (16 page)

Lucie stared at it, knowing instinctively that it was meant for her. Her hand went to her mouth and pressed hard against her lips as she tried desperately to restrain sudden tears. She had never thought that he would do anything like this.

Hastily Lucie went out to the ladies' cloakroom. Seton must have been pretty desperate, she realised, staring blindly at her reflection in the mirror. People— their neighbours—would realise that she'd left him; they would see that item and know it was meant for her. Maybe Anna would go round and offer him more 'comfort', she thought bitterly.

Her eyes focused and she looked at her face. She had lost weight, become thin—too thin; her bones showed clearly in her cheeks. But she was fine-boned anyway, so didn't look haggard, just pale and fragile. It was her eyes that gave her away; nothing could disguise their unhappiness, then: bleak despair. After that day she didn't buy a paper again.

The cinema complex was on the outskirts of the city, making Lucie glad that she'd kept the car—travelling home so late on buses wouldn't have been pleasant, but in the car it took hardly any time at all. It was a couple of days after she'd seen the ad in the paper when she saw flashing lights in her rear-view mirror as she was driving home after work, and saw that a police car was behind her. Surprised but obedient, she pulled into the side, worried that she might inadvertently have gone through a red light because her mind was elsewhere. Two policemen in uniform came up, one to each side of the car. She wound down the window and the one her side said, 'Are you the owner of this car, miss?'

'Yes, I am. Have I done something wrong?'

'Do you have the registration certificate for the car?'

'I think so. Somewhere.' Picking up her bag from the passenger seat, Lucie started to search through it.

'Your name, please?' the policeman asked white she was still searching.

'Joan Wilson,' she answered, unthinkingly giving the name she was using. 'Oh, here it is.' She found the certificate and handed it to him.

'And your driving license, please, miss.'

She found that too, and handed it over.

The policeman walked to the front of the car to read them in the light of the headlamps. Coming back, he said, 'You said your name is Joan Wilson?'

'Yes, that's right.' Suddenly she realised where he was heading. Flustered, she said, 'I know that isn't the name on the driving license, but you see—well, I've decided to change my name, but I haven't got round to having the license altered yet.'

'I see.' But he sounded very sceptical. 'It isn't die name on the vehicle registration form either,' he pointed out.

'No, but it's my car.'

'And is another of your names Seton Wallace?' he asked wryly.

'No, that—that's my husband. He bought the car for me.'

'Really? It may interest you to know that this vehicle has been reported as stolen.'

'Stolen!' She stared at him. 'But it couldn't have been. I mean, it's mine.'

'Could you get out of the car, please?' Slowly, reluctantly, she did so. 'I'm arresting you on suspicion of having stolen this car."

'But you can't!'

But they did, and what followed was a nightmare. They took her back to the police station where she was formally charged and then they put her in a cell. To Lucie it brought back that first time so many years ago all over again. The cell looked exactly the same, it even smelt the same—of disinfectant and fear. She sat down on the bunk bed, her back stiff, her hands clasped together in her lap, trying not to think of the past, while she waited. She knew what had happened, knew that Seton had reported the car stolen in a desperate bid to find her. And he wasn't to know, of course, just how traumatic being put in a cell was for her, or how she wanted to cringe away from the uniformed men. The whole purpose of her running away was so that he would never find out. A laugh of bitter self-mockery escaped her; she'd thought she'd been so clever, that she'd disappeared without trace, but Seton had found her so easily, after just a few days. She should have sold the car at once, bought another with the money. But now he had found her and would demand an explanation—and what on earth could she say?

It was the next morning before Seton came. She had stayed quietly in her cell, refusing any breakfast, and didn't look up when the door opened. A policeman, a different one from the man who'd arrested her, said, 'You can come out now.'

Lucie followed him into an office. Seton was there. Lucie glanced at him for the briefest moment, but her heart lurched sickeningly at the scorching look he gave her, in his eyes a mixture of anger and relief, of hope and resentment.

'Do you confirm that this lady is your wife, sir?' a policeman in plain clothes asked him.

'Yes.'

'And do you confirm that you are formally withdrawing the charge against her?'

'Yes.'

'Very well. Here are the keys to your car, sir.'

'Thank you—and thank you again for all your help.'

The policeman nodded and looked at Lucie, not unkindly, as he handed over her bag. 'You're free to go, Mrs Wallace.'

Suddenly she was afraid. Lucie hesitated, looked at the man pleadingly for a moment, but then lowered her head, knowing it wasn't any use.

But Seton had seen and his face hardened. Taking her arm in a grip that hurt, he walked her out of the police station and across to the car. 'Where are you staying?' he demanded curtly, pushing her inside. She told him, and mechanically gave him directions until they pulled up outside the house. Seton turned to look at her grimly. 'Ace you staying there alone?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Give me your keys.'

Silently Lucie handed them over and he took hold of her arm as they went up to her room. The house was silent, empty, all the tenants having gone to work or college. He unlocked the door to her room and gave a small gasp as he saw its stark simplicity, the only ornament the photo of himself and Sam that she'd brought with her. Pushing her inside, he shut the door. Slowly Lucie turned to face him, her chin coming up to take the verbal blows that she knew would rain on her.

'Well?' Seton said bitterly. 'Have you nothing to say, no explanation to give for walking out on us?'

She swallowed, said huskily, 'Please don't do this. Please let me go.'

Striding across the room in sudden rage, Seton caught hold of her shoulders and shook her. 'How dare you say that to me?
How dare you?
Can you imagine what these last days have been like, worried out of my mind, listening to Sam crying for you every night? Can you?
Can you?
He shook her again. 'Why did you leave us?' She lowered her head, tried to think of something to say, but he put a none too gentle hand under her chin, lifting her face. 'Damn you, Lucie. Look at me.'

Perhaps it wasn't what he meant, but when she did look at him fully she saw that his face was as drawn as her own, the time having taken a terrible toll on him too. There were smudges of sleeplessness and anxiety around his eyes and his mouth was set into a thin line of unhappiness.

It broke her heart. ‘I’m sorry,' she whispered. ‘I’m so terribly sorry.'

'Sorry!' He almost spat the word at her. 'Is that all you have to say? Well, it isn't enough. I want to know
why\
Why you walked away from us without a word. Is there someone else? You've got to tell me.'

'No.'

'Then for God's sake why? All right, I know that things weren't right between us—but to leave Sam! How could you possibly be so heartless?'

Lucie stood there, unable to answer, her eyes huge in her ashen face. Instead she said with difficulty, 'How is Sam?

Is he all right?'

'No, of course he damn well isn't. He misses you terribly and he can't understand why you've left him, why you don't come home.' He had phrased it almost as a question, but again she couldn't answer. With an exclamation he flung himself away from her, then looked round the room. 'Where's your suitcase?'

She began to tremble. 'Why?'

'Because I'm taking you home where you belong, that's why.'

'No! Please, no.'

He had opened the wardrobe, was checking to make sure only her things were there, but swung round to stare at her.

'You're going home.'

Lucie's voice rose. 'No, you can't make me.'

'Oh, can't I?' Coming over, he put his hand on her throat, his eyes filled with such anger and bitterness that she flinched away. 'You're going home and we're going to sort this thing out like civilised people. For Sam's sake. Do you understand?' he demanded harshly, his hand tightening. 'He is the only one that matters now, and I will
not
have his life torn apart. Whatever happens between us I will not let you make him unhappy any longer.'

He glared down at her, his gaze murderous, his breath harsh in his throat. Lucie looked away, closed her eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded, knowing that nothing would stop him.

He seemed reluctant to let her go, his eyes fixed on her face. 'Now, where's your case?'

'Under the bed,'

He brought it out, told her to start packing her things. Lucie did so, packing the photograph carefully so that it wouldn't get broken. Then she went to the bed and took something from under the pillow.

'What's that?' Seton asked sharply. She didn't answer, just held it tightly, so he came to look for himself. 'But that—

that's my sweater.' He stared at her hi perplexity. 'Why do you have it?'

Lucie shook her head and hastily bundled it in the case, unable to tell him that she held it close to her every night, that she drank hi the smell of him that still lingered hi its folds. Closing the case, she said stiltedly, 'You shouldn't have come here. You should have let me go.'

It angered him again, but took his mind off the sweater. 'Never!' he said curtly. 'Never like this.' He picked up her case. 'Do you owe anything here?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

'Then let's go.'

But Lucie hesitated. 'I have a job. I ought to tell them.'

'You can do that from home. Come on.' Again he took her arm, as if afraid that even now she might somehow run away from him again.

It was a long drive down to the south and the motorways were heavy with traffic, so Seton had to concentrate all the time. Lucie was glad; she didn't want to have to talk, even to ask more questions about her son. A great feeling of inevitability swept over her; it seemed she wasn't to be allowed to save the people she loved from the results of her past after all. Fate was being cruel, playing games with her, lifting her up one moment and throwing her down to the depths again the next. It just wasn't fair. One mistake when she was young didn't rate all this. Closing her eyes, she tried to shut everything out, desperately trying not to think of what would happen when they got home. And because she had spent the whole night sitting bolt upright in the police cell, Lucie eventually fell asleep, not even waking when Seton stopped for petrol.

They came off the motorway and Lucie stirred and woke when they stopped at a traffic light. She was resting against the seat with her head turned towards Seton, and when she opened her eyes she found him looking at her. In that moment his face was unguarded, his eyes full of bleak despair, full of the pain of raw hurt and rejection. But when he saw her eyes on him his expression immediately changed, became a cold mask almost of remoteness. Slowly Lucie sat up and turned to look out of the window.

They were on familiar streets now. Seton swept into their driveway and she was thankful that it was screened by bushes; it would have gone all round like wildfire if anyone had seen her being brought home so ignominiously. It seemed strange to walk into the house again, to see all the familiar things that she loved so much. Lucie felt as if she'd been away for years instead of just a few days. Walking in ahead of Seton, she paused to look at a picture, to touch an ornament, her heart filling with pleasure.

After shutting the door, he set down her case and watched her, saw the yearning, the nostalgia hi her face. Somehow that hurt more than he could bear. 'Why the hell did you go?' he demanded, the hurt plain in his voice. Lucie grew still, her hand raised to caress a figurine on the shelf. Slowly she turned to face him. 'I had to.'

'Without even trying to work things out? Had we become so incompatible that we couldn't communicate, couldn't even talk?'

Turning away from him, Lucie took off her coat and walked into the sitting-room. It was clean and tidy—no layers of dust, no scattered toys waiting to be put away. Of Sam, the only sign was a couple of reading books left on the coffee-table. Picking them up, Lucie held them tightly. 'Has your mother been looking after you, after the house?'

'Yes.' Seton's voice hardened. 'Are you implying that someone else might have? Are you still angry about Anna? My God, that isn't what this is all about, is it?'

His voice had filled with rage and Lucie swiftly said to placate him, 'No! Of course not.'

'What, then?'

Lucie pushed up the sleeves of her sweater, feeling suddenly chill, and rubbed her arms. 'I'm sorry, but I can't tell you.'

'What the hell is that supposed to mean?'

'Please don't keep on, Seton. I just can't tell you.'

He rounded on her in sudden, furious anger. 'You disrupt our lives, you drive me mad with worry, and then have the temerity to say that you can't tell me why! My God, Lucie, how can you do this to us? How can you be so cruel?'

'I'm not. I mean—I'm not deliberately trying to hurt you.' She put her hands up to her head and squeezed her fists against her temples. 'Oh, why did you have to follow me? I begged you not to.'

'Did you really expect me to just sit tamely by and let you destroy our lives? You left here without any word of explanation and—'

'I left you a note,' Lucie interrupted.

'The brevity of which was in itself an insult,' Seton bit back at her. 'You didn't even get in touch after you'd left; surely you must have realised how worried I was about you?' Lucie half turned away, not answering, and he gave her a suspicious look. 'I put an advert in the personal column of the paper, hoping that you would see it. Did you?'