Philippa had winced. She had borne the burden of knowing she was a disappointment to her parents all her life. Ideally, they would have preferred another boy, not a girl, and then, when they had discovered that their third child could in no way compete intellectually with their elder two, they had turned away from her, concentrating instead on her brothers. She felt that they had been relieved when Andrew had asked her to marry him. She had only been nineteen, inexperienced and confused about what to make of her life.
‘I don’t want my wife working,’ Andrew had told her importantly once they were married, and she had resigned herself to giving up ideas of a career.
All he wanted her to do was to be a good wife and mother, Andrew had told her. He was the breadwinner, the wage earner. He didn’t like these strident modern women who seemed so out of touch with their femininity.
On their first wedding anniversary he had given her a diamond bracelet.
‘For my good, pretty girl,’ he had told her and then he had made love to her with the thing glittering on her arm. He had spent himself quickly and fiercely, leaving her slightly sore inside and unsatisfied. She remembered that when she had opened her eyes he had not been looking at her but at the bracelet.
She had worn it for the birthday meal he had insisted she invite her parents to. She had felt sick and headachy; she had just been pregnant with Rory, although she hadn’t known it at the time.
Andrew had lost his temper with her because the soufflé he had told her to make hadn’t risen, his mouth thinning into an angry, tight line.
He had never been a violent husband, but he had always resented anything that challenged his authority in even the smallest way. Her inability to make a perfect soufflé had been a challenge to that authority. His authority over her. His desire that she at all times reflect his success … his power … his massive ego.
When the children had been born it was just the same. They had to be a credit to him … always.
No, he had never been an easy man to live with, although no one else seemed to be aware of it. She was lucky to be married to him, other people told her. He was a good husband, her family said … adding approvingly that he had done well.
Just lately, though, he had seemed increasingly on edge, his temper flaring over the smallest thing. One moment he would be complaining about the amount she had spent on housekeeping, or protesting furiously about money she had spent on plants for the garden, the next he was announcing that he was buying a new car … that they were going on an expensive holiday.
When she had protested bewilderedly at his attitude, he had told her harshly that it was important to keep up appearances.
Appearances … Appearances were all-important to Andrew. She might not have much intelligence but at least she was pretty, her father had once said disparagingly.
Pretty …
‘Why do I want to marry you? Because I love you, pretty little thing,’ Andrew had told her when he proposed, then, ‘I can’t wait to show you off to everyone,’ he had told her when they got engaged, and, looking back, it seemed to her now that he had enjoyed her company in public far more than he had ever done in private.
Pretty … How she had grown to dislike that word.
She could hear a car coming up the drive. She got up, sliding out of bed and pulling on her housecoat. It was silk … a Christmas present from Andrew, ‘To wear when we stay with the Ronaldsons,’ he had told her with a smile.
‘I feel so sorry for him. That wife of his isn’t just plain, she’s downright ugly.’
‘He loves her,’ she had told him quietly.
‘Don’t be a fool. No man would love a woman who looks like that. He married her for her money; everyone knows that.’
The car had stopped. She frowned as she opened the bedroom door. The engine had sounded different from Andrew’s new Jaguar.
At first when he had started coming home later and later, she had assumed he was having an affair, and she had been surprised at how little she had minded, but then she had discovered that what he had actually been doing was working.
She had begun to worry then, but when she had tried to talk to him he had told her not to pester him.
‘For God’s sake, I’ve got enough on my mind without you nagging me,’ he had told her. ‘Just leave me alone, will you? This damned recession …’
‘If things are that bad, perhaps we should sell the house,’ she had suggested, ‘take the boys out of private school.’
‘Do what … ? You stupid fool, we might as well take out an advertisement in The Times to announce that we’re going bust as do that … have you no sense? The last thing I need right now is to have people losing confidence in us, and that’s exactly what will happen if we sell this place.’
Last weekend they had gone to se
e her brother and Robert and Andrew had played golf, leaving Philippa and Lydia to a rather disjointed afternoon of talk. When the men had got back there was a strained atmosphere between them and Andrew had announced that they had to leave.
Philippa hadn’t been sorry to go. She and Robert had never been close. She had always been much closer to her other brother, Michael, and Lydia she had never liked at all. Andrew still hadn’t come in. She went downstairs, thinking he must have forgotten his keys. When she opened the door and saw the police car outside, she tensed.
‘Mrs Ryecart?’