Free Other People's Husbands by Judy Astley Page A

pictured him post-pub in the flat, doing the one bit of multitasking he was well practised at: unfastening the pizza box (or a greasy, cooling bag from the Chinese takeout) while opening the fridge with his foot in pursuit of a can of Stella, and all the while somehow flipping through the TV channels in search of any kind of sport that involved at least twenty men and a lot of muddy running.
    â€˜Cass – fuk goin on?’ was the final message, timed at midnight. She could picture that process easily enough, too. After he’d come in, pleased with himself for bringing home the twenty-first-century equivalent of a felled ox, he’d have given it five minutes then eaten his way through very nearly the lot, leaving a token pancake roll or a third of an American Hot (extra cheese – which she hated). All the packaging would be half falling out of the overflowing rubbish bin. Comfortably full of e-numbers and/or MSG he would have been enjoying having the sofa to himself, with sole custody of the TV, and would not have given Cass and his son any more thought till he fancied going to bed and couldn’t help noticing that the bedroom looked strangely depleted without Cass’s clothes and the baby’s possessions.
    Whether or not he noticed (or minded) about Cass and Charlie’s absence, Paul would have immediately seen that the mobile over the cot had vanished. Intricately painted ponies dangled from coloured ribbons plaited with tiny crystals which caught the light and sent sparkles dancing across the walls. Conrad had made it for Charlie. She’d caught Paul having a good close look for that essential Conrad Blythe-Hamilton signature. It was there and he’d laughingly suggested they should put it on eBay and use the cash to pay the rent for the rest of the year, and possibly the one after that as well. Cass had given him the benefit of a big heap of doubt and asked what kind of father would steal his baby’s toys. So then he’d gone all mock-serious and said, ‘No, sorry, you’re right. Terrible idea. If we keep it till after your old man snuffs it it’ll be worth stacks more!’ She hadn’t been sure if he’d been serious. Maybe, maybe not. More benefit of doubt had been given, though in a very thin, slightly translucent layer this time.
    Miranda was waiting for Cass outside the bus station, her high-spiked pink hair seeing off a challenge from a strong breeze.
    â€˜Cass! Thanks for this – I just got here. Feeling a bit fragile today and soo didn’t fancy the trek up the hill!’ Miranda flopped into the Mini, bringing with her a scent of several clashing hair products. She propped her feet up on the dash-board, then slipped off a shoe and picked at shards of blue varnish on a toenail, dropping them on the floor.
    Cass laughed at her. ‘Good thing I’m not one of those freaks with car pride, Randa.’
    â€˜Sorry! Now Cass, what’s this about you and Paul?’ Cass fumbled with the gearstick, almost stalling. ‘What? What have you heard?’
    â€˜Only what everyone’s heard. That you walked out on him, took Charlie and all your stuff and vanished in the night! What’s the story? He’s been texting everyone, trying to find you!’
    â€˜Didn’t do the obvious though, didn’t call my folks, did he? Where else would I go? He’s just being a drama queen, probably hoping some girl will come to the flat and comfort him. I bet there were offers, starting with that skinny minger who hangs out with the skateboarders.’
    Cass slammed the brakes on sharply, almost driving into the back of a Range Rover at traffic lights she hadn’t even noticed. The Range Rover had a Baby on Board triangle in the rear window and she could see the backs of some small heads, probably on their way to school. Would that be her one day, all settled and comfortable with nothing more to worry about than whether Charlie should