Free Untouchable by Ava Marsh Page A

and kindly as I can, that this is just what it is.
    ‘Issues at home.’ Roy clears his throat. ‘Big fuss about my daughter’s wedding. I couldn’t get away till it was all over.’
    Roy lives somewhere in the Home Counties. The kind of place where women like me exist only in the pages of the Daily Mail . I’m his treat, his dirty little secret, possibly his sole indiscretion in an otherwise ordinary, irreproachable life.
    ‘Did it go well?’ I ask.
    He gazes at me. He’s had a recent haircut, I notice. It makes his bald patch more pronounced.
    ‘Your daughter’s wedding,’ I prompt.
    ‘Ah. Yes. You know, the usual.’ He flushes slightly and looks away, as if he’s made some kind of faux pas.
    ‘You’re not keen on him then? Your son-in-law?’
    He presses his thin lips into a line. ‘No, it’s not that. He’s a nice enough chap, a doctor. Neurologist, I think – something like that. It’s more that … you know … you so desperately want them to be happy and …’
    He pauses. Regroups. ‘The whole marriage thing isn’t easy.’
    I turn on to my back. My sense of smell seems heightened somehow, and Roy’s aftershave is almost unbearably strong. I study the ceiling, still feeling a little queasy.
    ‘Yes, I know. I was married once.’
    ‘You were?’ Roy’s expression is incredulous. I wonder briefly if I should be insulted.
    ‘Seven years,’ I say.
    Why am I even telling him this? I close my eyes. It must be the dregs of my hangover. Or last night’s encounter, already leaving the stain of regret.
    ‘Seven years,’ he repeats.
    I reopen my eyes and turn to face Roy. He still looks faintly shocked. Or perhaps merely surprised.
    Too much detail, I scold myself, aware I can’t afford to get complacent. Clients don’t like having their idea of you shattered – even clients as devoted as Roy. Most prefer to believe you have absolutely nothing in common with their wives.
    ‘So what happened?’ he asks, and I can tell by his tone that he really wants to know. And seeing he cares somehow makes me feel worse.
    ‘I screwed it up.’ I try to sound upbeat. Obviously fail miserably, because his expression turns sympathetic, his hand reaching across to mine.
    ‘It takes two, though, Stella, to screw up a marriage.’
    I return his gaze. ‘Not in this case.’
    I say it quickly but it’s too late. My mind seizes on an image of my husband’s face after the police had dropped me home, his appalled, shell-shocked expression when I broke down and told him what had happened.
    A good marriage. A sane and useful life. Wiped out in one afternoon.
    I blink hard, squeezing away the memory. See Roy open his mouth to say something, then close it again. Knowing not to push things too far.
    ‘So,’ I say, as brightly as I can manage, ‘how’s it going at Twickers?’ It’s our joke, rugby being the standard excuse Roy gives for being here; though I do wonder how he makes this stick out of season.
    ‘I’m much more interested in the state of play here,’ he chuckles, his hand lowering itself to my breast, his face taking on an intense look that tells me he’s had enough of conversation.
    I manage a surreptitious glance at the clock on the bedside table. Only ten to three. Oh God, another two hours and ten minutes to go. Which might be fine with a man not well into his sixties. A man still up for doing it a couple of times in a row. But even with the aid of the little blue pills the GP prescribes for Roy, twice would be a stretch too far.
    So we need to make this one last. My heart sinks. All I want right now is to let my head droop on to the pillow and sleep off the aftermath of last night.
    Consequences, Grace. There’s always consequences.
    I turn to Roy and smile, but he doesn’t notice. He’s distracting himself with my nipple, twirling it in his fingers like a radio dial. I can’t even be bothered to pretend it’s erotic, just let him fiddle away while my thoughts drift to that place in my