The Forever Home by Sue Watson

Chapter Thirty-Four

Reading the newspaper story about Mark’s ‘Vengeful Ex-Wife’, it was clear they’d gone with the ‘blame Carly’ option. Erin was still telling lies and taking no responsibility for her actions, and Mark was telling lies and taking no responsibility for causing her to do what she did.

Erin Matthews, 24, partner of TV’s Mark Anderson, today spoke of her deep fear of Mark’s former wife Carly, 49, and explained how this fear forced her to leave the tiny cottage she lived in with the handsome TV presenter and their son, after bitter ex Carly refused their half-share of the house. ‘I have lived in fear every day since I moved in with Mark,’ new mum of one, Erin, told the Daily Mail. ‘Carly ended the marriage, but as soon as he started seeing me, she became jealous.’ Strange parcels started arriving at the £400,000 rented cottage the couple share, and Erin said she was very scared. Just a few weeks ago, when Erin was still heavily pregnant, staff and customers at The Silver Spoon Tearooms in Looe were horrified to hear the women trading insults, and when Erin disappeared recently, Carly was the number one suspect.

My mouth was dry. I didn’t know whether to cry, or break plates in anger. It just wasn’t true. I wondered again about my video diary. The police hadn’t leaked it after all; I almost wished they had. Then again, if it did get out, I shivered just imagining Mark’s retaliation, how he’d ‘repackage’ my mother’s death for the police – and the press. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Ryan was reading the same thing on his phone, and looking from me to the text. ‘Can’t you get lawyers onto this – she can’t say these things, can she?’

‘Well, she has. And as much as I’d love to get a lawyer onto it, lawyers are expensive, and Mark would just go bigger and better. Estelle would turn it into a circus, I just want a quiet life,’ I added.

‘Bloody newspapers!’ he said.

‘No, I don’t blame the press, I blame Mark – and Estelle – and Erin!’

So, call me predictable, but I did what I always did in times like this. I called Mark, yelled at his answer machine for a while, said mean things, swore a lot, and felt much better. I put down the phone, and Ryan was watching me.

‘You’re really pissed off, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘Yeah, I could kill both of them – and smack Estelle hard across the face. Like really hard,’ I said, flopping on the sofa next to him. ‘But what’s the point? I’ll only drive myself mad with all this. There’s no point in taking it any further, it’s already out there. I just hope that by not responding publicly or getting lawyered up, the whole story will die a natural death.’ I said, reminding myself that it wouldn’t do to wind Mark up too much, as he might finally do what he’d been threatening for years and call the police about my mum’s death. Erin was going to be the focus of the press for a while, and I worried he might even use my story to detract from his own sordid life. Even apart, the problems he created followed me and caught me tightly in their grip. How many more public humiliations could I take? I felt bruised and battered, and in my mind’s eye was making a noose and hanging my husband very, very high.

The next few days I spent regrouping. After everything else, the press mauling had left me feeling battered, and I just wanted to ignore everyone and everything – except my kids and Ryan. Being on the other end of Mark’s lies to the press made me realise he’d used them as much, if not more, than they’d used him. All those years when I lived in fear of the press, and all the time, they weren’t the problem – he was.

I spent the time trying to get back to where I was before the whole Erin ordeal, and heal by painting, planting bulbs in the garden, and working in the shop, which was proving to be a breath of fresh air and a break from all my problems.

Once I felt able to cope, I met with Lara in a hotel and we drank chilled white wine overlooking the beach. The bar was too dark for a sunny spring day; it smelt of old beer and one-night stands between middle-aged couples married to other people. But Lara liked it there and it wasn’t too far for me to walk. I’d both looked forward to and dreaded this meeting. I knew it would probably revive a lot of painful memories for me, but I needed to let go, and knew that meeting Lara would be good for me.

‘This is nice, like old times,’ I said.

‘Yes it is. I’ve missed you so much, Carly.’ She squeezed my arm, and smiled into my face.

‘How’s Erin?’ I asked, not really wanting to know.

‘She’s good,’ Lara said, not really wanting to tell me.

We sipped on our drinks, and she gazed around.

Eventually Lara said: ‘I do admire you, you’re so bloody resilient, you’ve come through the marriage and all the shit he’s put you through.’

‘I’m trying to be the bigger person, trying hard to forgive,’ I sighed, without adding, ‘but I’ll never forget,’ which was the truth.

‘Well, you’re bigger than me. I hate him, always have – and the fact he’s now with my daughter, it couldn’t be worse. It’s a nightmare.’

‘You’ve never liked Mark, have you?’ When I’d first introduced them years before when Steve, Erin’s father, was still alive, I’d invited them both over to dinner, and we all just hit it off. Even Mark and Lara got on with each other back then, and we did a lot of things together as a foursome, and with the kids too, but then when Steve died everything changed, and it was back to just Lara and me. I wasn’t aware of how much Lara hated Mark until, at the wake after Steve’s funeral, he tried to comfort her, just said a few kind words and put his arm around her. I remember her pulling away and being quite rude to him. I actually felt quite sorry for Mark; he wasn’t used to being treated like that by anyone. Afterwards, I subtly asked her about it, wondering what Mark had done to offend her, but she just said he was ‘a sodding narcissist’. I wondered if perhaps losing her husband meant she found it hard to see other couples together, so after that I just saw Lara on her own, without Mark.

Little did we know, he’d one day be the father of her grandson.

‘I always knew he was a womaniser,’ she said. ‘I spent years worrying about you, and now I’m going through it with my daughter – it’s awful, Carly, and we’ll never be free of him now, especially with the baby.’

I sympathised with her; I knew how I’d feel if Phoebe started going out with someone I knew was bad for her. Like Mark. ‘Oh, love, just try not to think about him and wait for her to come home. Because she will.’ Though I didn’t point out it may not be Erin’s choice, it may be because another blonde, or redhead, had moved in.

‘I sometimes felt like he flaunted it in your face, like he wanted to get caught almost. Do you think he did?’ she asked.

‘Perhaps? Without ever talking about it, we just agreed to live our own lives. I didn’t want to know what he was doing, or who with. I was in effect his enabler, but it was easier for both of us to leave it in Pandora’s box.’

‘But what kind of marriage is that?’ she said. ‘Christ, you were with him for twenty-five years and he just took the piss.’

‘It may have seemed that way, but I could have divorced him, I just didn’t want to leave the house, break up the family, and neither did he. Not good for his image,’ I said, raising my eyebrows.

She seemed to hesitate, then put her hand on mine. ‘Carly, I wanted to say sorry about the video. I had to send it to the police. I know you told me not to watch it, and for years I didn’t, I promise. But after Erin became involved with him, I had to know what was on it, what it was that you felt you had to record.’

I shrugged. ‘I understand, I’d have done the same if I thought Phoebe might be in danger. I just needed something to stop him, to put an end to the possibility of him hurting me too much, going too far.’

She rubbed my hand. ‘I wish I’d known, back then. I might have been able to help you. The injuries you photographed… but you should have called me, I could have helped. I’d have gone to the police, told them everything and—’

‘Just him knowing it existed was enough, and knowing someone else had a copy scared him. He stopped,’ I clicked my fingers, ‘just like that.’

She bit her lip angrily. ‘Funny how he could control himself when his precious career was involved, isn’t it?’

I nodded. ‘Always.’

‘God, I wish he’d walked into the sea that day instead of Steve,’ she suddenly said.

‘You must still wonder why?’ I said, referring to Steve’s suicide. We’d never really discussed this, it was too difficult for Lara, and I just took my lead from her, and was there to support her.

She nodded, tears in her eyes. ‘He’s been gone thirteen years now, and I wake up every morning and he’s the first person I think about, and then the guilt kicks in, and I hate myself all over again.’

‘You can’t blame yourself, he had his demons,’ I said.

‘No, no… you don’t know. I hurt him. Steve was a good man. He didn’t deserve what happened to him.’

‘No, he didn’t. We used to have some laughs, didn’t we, the four of us?’ I said, trying to lift her spirits.

‘Yeah, I guess so, but Mark was always so full of himself, wasn’t he? I think Steve felt like a loser next to him.’

She’d never said that before; perhaps that was why we stopped seeing them? It was so long ago, I barely remembered. Mark did have a tendency to take over, to charm all the women in the room, and other men didn’t always find that comfortable.

‘Mark’s just very confident, always has been, and it sometimes makes others feel intimidated, but he’s all talk,’ I said.

‘Don’t apologise for him, Carly, and don’t ever forgive him,’ Lara replied bitterly.

‘I don’t. He’s hurt me too much – all the nights I didn’t know where he was, all the whisperings on the phone, the looks of sympathy from other people when I turned up alone and he joined me later. I know most of the time it was work, but I spent so much of my marriage alone,’ I sighed.

‘Yes, but work was an excuse, wasn’t it? I remember your thirty-fifth; he hadn’t been there for your thirtieth, said he was working, so promised when you were thirty-five he was going to push the boat out. But what happened? He sent you a bunch of lilies,’ she said, ‘and told you he was working late, couldn’t make it home. And all the time he was down the road, in this hotel with someone else…’ She stopped herself.

‘I didn’t know that,’ I said, surprised at the sharp sting this information had caused. I was imagining him with one of the blonde, well-preserved groupies he kept close to home, like a stable of expensive horses. I didn’t think after all these years that hearing something from the past about my husband would hurt. But it did.

Seeing my face, Lara was clearly surprised too. ‘I thought you were over him?’

‘I am, but sometimes it feels raw, you know, even now?’

‘Yeah, men like Mark can hurt forever, can’t they… the gift that keeps on giving!’

All the pain from that birthday now reached out over the years and squeezed my chest, like it had just happened. Would I ever be free of him?

Lara could see I was upset. ‘I’m sorry, love.’ She reached out to touch my hand, but I slowly pulled it away. I was beginning to realise the significance of what she’d just said.

‘You knew he was with someone else on my birthday and you didn’t tell me?’

She sighed. ‘God, Carly, I’m sorry.’

We both sat, numb, and I felt saddened, let down – was anybody ever on my side?

‘Love,’ she started earnestly, ‘you knew what he was like. It’s all in the past, let’s order more drinks and forget about him.’

My thirty-fifth birthday, he was just minutes away in this hotel?He’d hurt and humiliated me, and didn’t even have the respect or decency to keep it from my doorstep. As Lara went to the bar, I tried to soothe myself; it was twelve years ago, a lot of water under the bridge, but who was it? Who spent my birthday with my husband in this hotel?

I took a large glug of wine; it soothed the prickling pain that had been dredged up again, but it didn’t eradicate it completely. Something was gnawing at me, but I couldn’t quite work out what it was, and though I stayed another half-hour, with Lara, talking about old times, something didn’t feel right, like a shadow had crossed the sun. When it came time to leave, Lara offered me a lift in her red sports car. ‘I’ll keep the roof down, we can play Thelma and Louise?’ she said, but I didn’t want to spend any longer with her.

‘Thanks, but I fancy a walk,’ I said, and promised to be in touch, knowing I probably wouldn’t.

Lara waved and beeped her car horn, soon disappearing into the distance, a flash of red, as I walked in the opposite direction back home. The weather was warm, but fresh with a salty sea breeze. I hoped the walk would shake off the feeling that had enveloped me in the rather dim hotel bar, but something weighed heavily on me. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

I walked through the village, and up towards the house. Reaching the brow of the hill, I was faced with the last person I wanted to see. She was walking in my direction, pushing the buggy with his baby in. And judging by the look on her face, and the diamond on her finger, she was back to feeling pretty good about life. As we got closer, she started to describe that feeling without being asked.

‘Hey, Carly, I’ve just been to take a look at the house. I think I’m going to have slatted blinds fitted on the front windows when you move out, what do you think?’

I was still walking towards her, as I had no choice; it was the only way home and she knew it.

‘Glad you got to spend some time outside, Erin. Better than sitting huddled under a load of coats at your old childminder’s, while your poor mother is frantic and the rest of us are being questioned by the police.’

Her face tightened.

‘You really didn’t think that one through, did you?’ I pressed.

‘Yeah well, it brought Mark to his senses, made him realise how amazing we are together.’

‘I’m very happy for you, but you’d better make room, Mark’s bed can get pretty crowded,’ I said, and moved on, without even thinking about asking to look at the baby.

An hour later, Estelle called. ‘Darling, how are you, my sweet?’

‘Okay,’ I said, wondering what the hell she was calling about. She never called me now if she didn’t have to.

‘It’s just – oh dear, this is rather delicate, but Mark just phoned me, said you’ve been leaving messages. On his phone?’

I had to think for a moment, then recalled the diatribe I’d left a couple of days before. ‘Yes, I have. Listening to recordings of my caterwauling seems to be his preferred method of contact these days. It must be, because he never calls me back.’

‘Ooh, don’t shoot the messenger, lovely. He’s such a busy boy at the moment, he barely gets time to answer his calls, but he just asked if I’d call you after you left some pretty unsavoury comments on his voicemail—’

‘Yes, they were deliciously unsavoury,’ I said proudly. ‘And it’s funny that he’s so busy but has the time to call you, to say I called,’ I snapped.

‘Oh sweetie, don’t take it to heart, there’s really no need to be jealous of little old me.’

‘I’m not. That isn’t what I meant!’ I said, frustrated, knowing full well she knew exactly what I’d meant but had decided to turn it into something else. I may find myself in the next day’s papers, at this rate: ‘Estranged Celebrity Wife in Jealous Phone Fracas With Agent!’

‘Ooh, it’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?’ she oozed. ‘Have a very happy birthday, I’ll send your usual white lilies,’ she said in retaliation. No one but me would see the hidden darkness here, but Mark always sent me white lilies. That was Estelle’s way of telling me he didn’t even do that. I should have guessed she’d been the one sending them on his behalf. Every time we had a row or I found out he’d been with someone else, a bouquet of white lilies would arrive. He must have discussed every row, every whisper with her, and along with everything else that had been wrong with me and Mark – to quote Princess Diana, ‘there were three of us in the marriage’.

‘Apart from calling to reprimand me for leaving messages with your client – who, by the way, is my husband, and old enough to fight his own battles – to what do I owe the pleasure of this call, Estelle?’

She made a weird laughing sound; laughter didn’t come easily to her. ‘Oh Carly, my love, none of my bloody clients are old enough to fight their own battles – that’s why they have me. You know what they say, an agent never sleeps; it’s like dealing with petulant toddlers, I tell you.’ Then she took a breath, like this was going to hurt. ‘The thing is, gorgeous – your messages – they are very, how shall I put it? Visceral?’ She paused for effect. ‘And might in… a certain context sound bitter? Can I say that, is that fair, darling?’

‘You can say bitter if you like.’

‘And how shall I put this, the phone messages, which are, of course, still on my client’s phone, have hurt him deeply. And may be deemed abusive enough to, dare I say, require police intervention?’

‘Okay, message received, Estelle,’ I said calmly, ‘and in response, would you pass on this message with my best wishes? “I am incandescent with the lies, the humiliation, the cheating, and the physical abuse I received from my husband. I’m finally ready to talk to the media.” Is that fair, darling?’

A nervous giggle emerged from somewhere in her throat, and I knew I’d hit her where it hurt. ‘You are hilarious. I’m always saying to Mark, I miss your humour. It’s funny, I always thought you’d be the star,’ she suddenly said.

‘Mmm, I’m sure you did,’ I said doubtfully.

‘No, you had it, my love, you were gorgeous and great in front of the camera.’

‘I couldn’t get anywhere near the camera, my husband was always elbowing me out of the way,’ I said.

‘Oh, you’re so naughty, stop making me laugh, this is serious,’ she said, and I wondered just who was being sarcastic with whom. ‘Thing is – Mark says these messages are bordering on – hate to use the word – but stalking.’ I swear I heard her salivating on the other end of the phone.

‘What? You’re telling me his ego is so big that he thinks I’m stalking him? He really doesn’t get it – I don’t want him anywhere near me, I just want money. My money!’

‘I might also remind you that my calls are recorded, sugarplum.’

‘Good, perhaps you can forward the recordings to him? Because he promised he’d repay what he took from our bank. And then there’s the money for the US deal too?’

‘I hear you, sweet cheeks… and that’s what this phone call is all about. Mark will shortly be in receipt of the US money, and would like to make you an offer. If you accept, we can put this straight through to the lawyers.’

‘Good. That sounds good,’ I said, hoping we could finally say goodbye forever.

‘So, let me just find the paperwork… Ah, here we are. Mark wants me to express his fondest wishes and to extend to you the rather generous offer of £5,000.’

I almost choked. ‘For what?’

‘Good will, dear. I happen to think it’s very generous.’

‘And I happen to think it’s a joke! We agreed on twenty per cent, and that is not £5,000, that doesn’t even cover the money he took from our accounts – let alone anything else. This has never been about “good will”, it’s about me collaborating. I came up with the original Forever Home concept, the American idea, the treatment, the—’

‘That’s his final offer, my darling. My hands are tied… and no, it isn’t a joke. I never joke about money. Love and light, Carly!’ She hung up. Estelle was like a jelly baby – all sugary and sweet on the surface but there was often a bitter aftertaste. She was clearly the sentinel at the gates of presenter hell, and wasn’t going to let me anywhere near Mark, nor was he going to face up to his responsibilities and pay me back.

I just stood in the kitchen and cried with frustration. What the hell was I going to do? In my heart, I knew then I had no choice. I’d have to sell my childhood home, and as joint owner he had first refusal. He and Erin would buy my forever home and use it as they wanted, even though they’d be based in the US. I’d have to live in the village, watching my home be changed, as she stripped the walls and he added more glass monstrosities to the back.

I suddenly heard a noise behind me, and ‘Happy birthday!’

It was Phoebe and Jake, standing in the living room, holding balloons and a cake, and smiling nervously.