A Whirlwind Marriage

And he did just that.

She waited until she heard the outer door bang shut and then sank down on to the sofa, her face awash with tears and the pain in her heart unbearable. Christmas was over.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MARIANNE saw the New Year in at a party at Pat’s parents’ house with her father, and during a quiet moment in the somewhat rowdy proceedings she filled Pat in on all that had happened since she had seen her last. She wished she hadn’t afterwards.

Zeke had never liked Pat, and Marianne knew her friend fully reciprocated the feeling, but she had expected Pat would try to understand all the complications that went hand in hand with their split. Not so.

‘He’s a male chauvinist pig and you’re well rid of him if you want my opinion,’ Pat said firmly. ‘A typical “keep ’em barefoot and in the kitchen”. He won’t be happy until you’re under his thumb.’

‘It’s not like that, Pat. Really.’

‘No? Get real, Annie. He manipulated you at Christmas and he’ll try and do it again, you mark my words.’

Marianne glanced at her friend’s scowling, obstinate face and was wise enough to change the subject. Pat didn’t understand. How could she? She herself had been Zeke’s wife for over two years and she barely had a handle on the thing.

‘So, what are you going to do?’ Pat asked a little later in the evening as they sat down with a plateful of food each. ‘Divorce him?’

Marianne’s stomach turned right over and suddenly she wasn’t hungry any more. ‘I don’t know,’ she said carefully, ‘but I suppose it will come to that. For the time being Mrs Polinkski has offered me a permanent job until I start college somewhere in the autumn. I’m looking into which one, out of the four I’ve narrowed it down to, would give me the best offer—or if any will,’ she added ruefully.

‘With your A level results? They’ll snap you up,’ Pat said positively. ‘They like a few mature students anyway, looks good on their records.’

‘Oh, thank you so much! I’ll take my walking stick and hairnet with me, shall I?’ Marianne said drily, both girls laughing.

‘So you’re definitely going for it, then?’ Pat was suddenly serious.

Marianne answered with equal solemnity, ‘You bet your sweet life I am, Pat.’

‘And you’re not going to take a penny from him? You’re mad, Annie. It’d make life so much easier, and he’s rich enough not to miss a few hundred thousand. He’ll be laughing all the way to the bank.’

‘I don’t think he’ll be laughing, Pat.’ And then Marianne raised her hand as Pat went to say something more. ‘Let’s agree to disagree about Zeke,’ she said very quietly. ‘I love him, Pat. I shall always love him but I can’t live with him, okay? Subject closed.’

Pat glanced at her friend’s straight face, sighed and then nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ she said flatly, ‘but not even a teeny-weeny allowance?’

‘Pat!’

‘My lips are sealed.’

When she returned to London on the third of January Mrs Polinkski had a parcel for her. ‘From your husband,’ the plump, motherly woman said conspiratorially.

‘Zeke came here?’ Marianne bit her lip. ‘When?’

‘The day after you go to see your father,’ said Mrs Polinkski, her accent very pronounced in her earnestness. ‘I tell him where you were, that you were going to the big party with friends and relations, and he asked me to give you this when you return.’

‘Thank you.’ Had Zeke spent New Year’s Eve at home alone, or had he had company? It was a thought that had tormented her all the time at Pat’s parents’ party. Or perhaps he’d gone to the theatre followed by a small, select dinner party? That was the way they had spent the previous New Year’s Eve.

When she opened the parcel she found it contained a

mobile phone and a note written in his crisp black handwriting.

My solicitors tell me you returned the second cheque I sent you three days ago, which is absolute foolishness, Marianne.

The writing became almost savage at this point.

However, I can’t force you to accept what is rightfully yours if you don’t want to. If you insist on living in that place at least let me sleep easy at night knowing you have some means of communication with the outside world. I’m seeing to the rental so please humour me and use the damn thing. Z

As a love letter it wasn’t exactly flowing poetry, but as Marianne gazed down at the package she felt as touched as if it had been. And then she wanted to cry and shout and wail, to stamp her feet and have a major paddy at the absolute waste of it all. Instead she took off her coat and started work.