‘You are, aren’t you? You’re fucking cheating on me! That’s why you won’t let me touch you. Have you just been with him now?’
‘Let go of me!’ The anger in Angela’s voice masked her fear. Brett was a big man, and though he’d never hurt her, there were many times when she’d felt intimidated by him.
‘Let go of you? Why? So you can run to your lover? I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t have a lover, Brett,’ said Angela, thinking of Didier and how easy it would have been all those years ago for her to jump into his arms and into his bed. Perhaps she should have? But she didn’t. Like a fool she’d put her dysfunctional wreck of a marriage first, as she always did. And for what? For this?
‘I said let go!’
They were three-quarters of the way up the stairs now, but Angela was still resisting Brett, trying to wrestle free from his vice-like grip.
‘How could you?’ Brett demanded, ignoring her. ‘How could you cheat on me?’
‘I haven’t cheated on you ever!’ Angela shot back angrily ‘But my God, why shouldn’t I, Brett? You tell me that. After all your bloody affairs! Why shouldn’t I cheat?’
‘It was different with me,’ mumbled Brett.
‘How? How was it different?’
‘Because I never loved them. If you had an affair it would be for love.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Angela muttered.
‘I never loved any of those women,’ Brett went on.
‘Well, they were lucky then, weren’t they?’ said Angela. ‘Because you loved me. And I can tell you, Brett Cranley, that being loved by you is a crock of shit. Being loved by you sucks.’
With a sharp cry of effort, she finally wrenched herself free from his grip.
‘I’m not cheating on you. I’ve never cheated on you. But I could have, once. And I wish I had. I wish I had, you selfish bloody hypocrite!’ She screamed at him, all the pent-up emotion of the past few months spewing out of her like lava. ‘Go to hell, Brett!’
‘If I’m going to hell I’m taking you with me,’ Brett yelled back. He lunged out, trying to catch hold of her wrist again. Angela leaned back to avoid him. As she did so, she slipped off the lip of the stair, losing her balance.
From that point on, it all happened in slow motion. Brett watched in horror as it dawned on both of them exactly what was happening. Angie began to windmill her arms frantically, trying to regain her footing, her fingers clutching vainly for the banister rail. Brett reached forward, trying to grab hold of her and stop her from falling, but it was too late. She tumbled backwards down the steep stairs, limbs flailing like a puppet whose strings have just been cut. A piercing scream was followed by a series of sickening thuds as her skull cracked down against the hard wood, boom, boom, boom. Brett closed his eyes. When he opened them, Angela was lying in a foetal position at the foot of the stairs, as still and lifeless as a ventriloquist’s dummy.
No!
Brett clutched at the handrail, feeling his own knees start to give way.
Dear God, please no.
Stella Goye had been enjoying a typically relaxed evening at home with Max when the doorbell rang. Max and Mutley had returned from a long afternoon walk, and Stella had whipped up a chicken and chorizo risotto, which was rather a triumph – even if Stella did say so herself. She and Max had washed it down with a decent bottle of claret before retiring to the sofa to watch their DVD box set of The Bridge.
Stella’s relationship with St Hilda’s Primary School’s headmaster was not what one would describe as passionate. Both Stella and Max had been married before, Max very happily, Stella less so. But at this point in their lives, neither of them had much appetite for the whipsawing emotional rollercoaster of an intense, sexual love affair. What they had instead was warm and comfortable and easy. They cared for one another, were interested in one another, and they made each other’s lives less lonely and infinitely more convivial. It was, by and large, enough for both of them, and more than they had expected to find at this point in their lives.
Every once in a while, Stella would feel a pang that there was something missing – a momentary flash of mourning for the deep love connections of her youth. But tonight she felt nothing but happy with her lot. She loved Max and Fittlescombe and their beautiful cottage and their scruffy little dog and the studio at the bottom of the garden where she could make as much mess with clay as she liked. She loved Scandi Noir DVD box sets, and mugs full of M&Ms to be scoffed while she watched them, curled up in front of the fire.
The ringing doorbell was an intrusion. Definitely not in the script.