Free Marriage and Other Games by Veronica Henry

place to die. Never mind - she’s got her Gucci!
     
     
    ‘It’s not fair!’ Charlotte stormed to Gussie on the phone. ‘They must have tailed me for days before they got me parked outside there. I wasn’t going to Gucci! I was going to a client, for heaven’s sake, not bloody shopping. And I have to look the part. I can’t turn up in dungarees and a headscarf. I’m selling a lifestyle.’
     
    ‘In two weeks’ time they’ll have forgotten all about it,’ soothed Gussie.
     
    ‘But it’s so unfair. I knew nothing about it.’
     
    ‘You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last, to be made guilty by association.’
     
    ‘Fucking Ed.’
     
    ‘Forget it. Chuck it in the bin. No one who knows you will believe it. And it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks.’
     
    But it did. That afternoon, Charlotte had a call from Connor.
     
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, sounding quite genuine. ‘I can’t let you work on any of my projects for the time being. My clients are very high profile. They won’t want to be associated with a scandal like this.’
     
    ‘But it wasn’t anything to do with me!’
     
    ‘Darling, I know that. But that’s not how it works.’
     
    ‘So, I’m sacked?’
     
    ‘Not sacked, because I don’t actually employ you. I’ll honour your most recent contract, but that’s it.’
     
    ‘Thanks for nothing, Connor.’
     
    ‘It’s business, sweetie.’
     
    ‘Well, I hope I can return the favour one day,’ snapped Charlotte and hung up with trembling hands. She thought of all the times she had worked into the small hours to help him meet a deadline, the work she had put his way, the trade secrets she had shared with him. And this was how he repaid her loyalty.
     
    Her palms were sweating. Her chest felt tight. The edges of her vision went blurry. She thought she might be having a panic attack. She sat down and took several slow deep breaths to calm herself. She had to pull herself together. She’d already lost her husband, her job, and her home. She didn’t want to lose her mind.
     
     
    On Saturday, another of the tabloids ran a heart-wrenching story about a little girl who had been waiting for a place at the hospice. Next to her photograph were juxtaposed pictures of Charlotte and Ed holidaying and partying - pictures that could only have come from friends. Charlotte wondered just how much money they had got for their betrayal. Probably not even enough to cover a decent meal out, but they obviously hadn’t been able to resist. Did it make them feel better about themselves in some way? She couldn’t imagine wanting to put someone else through the degradation she was now going through.
     
    As she came out of the newsagent’s she bumped into a thickset middle-aged man with a plethora of tattoos.
     
    ‘I’m so sorry,’ she apologised automatically, then frowned as he folded his arms and looked into her eyes. She could feel the hostility radiating from him, and her stomach twitched with fear. She hadn’t meant to bump into him—
     
    Then she understood. He knew who she was. And what she was supposed to have done. He turned his head and spat on the pavement next to her, a magnificent quivering blob of spittle that said everything.
     
    She drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster.
     
    ‘For your information,’ she informed him, ‘it was nothing to do with me.’
     
    ‘Yeah, right,’ he sneered, pushing past her.
     
    Charlotte stood in the centre of the pavement with her eyes shut. She wanted the ground to swallow her up. She felt as if everyone’s gaze was upon her, as if every last whispered word was directed at her, as if people were crossing the street to avoid her. A double-decker bus drew up next to her, and without thinking she jumped on it, ran upstairs and hid herself away in the furthest corner, away from any other passengers. She sat on it for miles, with no idea where it was heading, until she alighted in some far-off corner