Her relationship with Hunter was changing. Clandestine meetings had added an extra fuse to their affair but those rushed liaisons seemed tawdry compared to her sister’s glowing happiness when Rebecca walked up the aisle on a gloriously sunny day in September. Amanda walked behind her, accompanied by three other bridesmaids, all stepping carefully to the rhythm Rebecca had drilled into them. Hunter should have been sharing the day with her. This thought rasped like a burr on her skin and threatened their affair with self-destruction. She began to ask questions about his wife. Hunter dismissed her as ‘dumpy.’ Dumpy and dutiful, devoted to her husband and their three children. In the beginning, that was all Amanda needed to know. She imagined her in sturdy shoes behind the counter of a charity shop, or delivering meals on wheels to the aged. When she questioned Hunter more closely, though, he admitted that his wife worked part-time organising kids’ parties.
‘Clowns and magicians?’ Amanda asked. ‘Bouncy castles?’
He nodded. ‘Something like that. Now, can we please change the subject.’
Her questions irritated him. They filled a need in each other but she had no illusions about him and suspected he would find someone else to add that extra frisson to his life if he ended their affair.
He lived on the outskirts of Glenmoore in a detached house with two cars in the driveway and a garden riotous with colour. Was Mrs Dumpy green-fingered as well as an organiser of children’s parties, Amanda wondered on the morning she parked nearby and waited under the mature trees that shaded the road. She watched as the front door of his house was opened by a tall, blonde woman in fluttery clothes, who settled two boys and a small, wispy-haired replica of herself into a silver Porsche that shone with newness and style.
This willowy woman with her silky layers could not possibly be Mrs Dumpy. Where were the stout shoes and swollen ankles, the oversized bust and mousy hair? Just as Amanda had convinced herself that she was checking out the wrong house, Hunter appeared in the doorway, wearing a T-shirt and boxers. He waved a lunchbox and shouted something. Amanda was unable to hear him but his wife’s laughter was audible as she walked back up the driveway and grabbed the lunchbox. He swung her into his arms in a gesture that was all too reminiscent of Amanda’s first encounter with him. In the kiss they exchanged, she knew they had made love that morning; even from a distance, she recognised the signs of that shared intimacy. She had driven behind the Porsche. A school drop for the children, then his wife drove towards the city. Amanda lost her at traffic lights but, by then, she had the car’s registration.
As soon as she reached her desk, she checked it out. Sylvia Thornton. Hunter’s wife had obviously kept her maiden name. From there, it was only a short hop to her website. Mrs Dumpy did more than organise bouncy castles. She worked as an events organiser and publicist for Lar Richardson.
Amanda had attended the launch of his television station, LR 1. A magnificent occasion, hosted by Lar and his wife Rosalind. Top bands, dancers and guest singers had performed in a glittering marquee, all organised by Sylvia Thornton.
The next time she met Hunter in another anonymous hotel room with abstract prints on the walls and too much dry air, she asked him to tell her the real truth about his wife.
‘That sounds more like an interrogation than a question,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Curiosity,’ she replied. ‘What does Mrs Dumpy do when she’s not blowing up balloons?’
‘Don’t call her that,’ he snapped.
‘Why not?’ She hated the possessive timbre in her voice, a shrillness she was unable to control. ‘You do. And if you think she’s dumpy, you’re either visually impaired or lying. Which is it?’
‘Have you been spying on me?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I did it quite openly. You have a lovely house. And such adorable children… not to mention your garden. Love the gladioli.’
‘How dare you intrude on my private life.’ His tone chilled her. ‘We agreed in the beginning that my personal space was off-limits.’
‘Why lie to me about her?’
‘You’re so competitive.’ He made it sound like an accusation. ‘I knew you’d be jealous of her. I was right. Now, you want to change the whole dynamic of our relationship.’
‘How astute of you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise you were a behavioural expert as well as a liar.’
‘I’m not going to argue with you about Sylvia—’
‘Who’s arguing?’ She hated the name. Its sleekness was such a perfect fit for the woman she had seen in his arms. ‘I’m trying to understand why you stay with someone who makes you so unhappy.’
She listened to his blustering excuses and was sickened by them. Sylvia would get custody of their children and the house. Did Amanda want to see him reduced to living in a bedsit with damp walls? His mouth hardened when she suggested he move into her apartment. She offered to take his kids at weekends. If he was too scared to confront his dumpy wife, she would talk to Sylvia, explain that they were in love and intended building a new life together.
‘Don’t threaten me,’ he shouted, then, realising they were in a cheap hotel room with thin walls, he lowered his voice. ‘You knew from the beginning that I’d no intention of leaving my family. What we have in this hotel room is the sum of our relationship. Find another source if this one no longer works for you.’
There it was, their relationship grinding towards a halt on petty insults; but it had staggered on until Hunter rang her secret phone one night and asked to meet her. The gravity of his tone convinced her that his wife had finally discovered his infidelity. But nothing prepared her for the shock of hearing Karl Lawson’s name on his lips and the revelation that would follow.
Chapter Seventeen
Seven days to destroy his world. That was the length of time it took to end his marriage, deprive him of his daughter, his career, his home, his security. He saved his sanity, knowing that to lose it would mean he would never be able to extract revenge; for Karl Lawson, standing in the ruins of his life, staying sane was important.