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What if I don’t?
I bully myself into my truck and pull off quickly before I can argue with myself anymore. I can see her later.
As I drive up the high street, I spot Molly on a stepladder reaching up a lamppost. For a moment, I wonder what the hell she’s doing. Then I register the small army of children on the playing field, and I remember . . .
‘The town fete,’ I mutter under my breath, my mood taking a nosedive. I think of Alex, of every year she’s been paraded around the stage like a show pig in drag. I should put my foot down and end that madness. She’s ten, for crying out loud. Enough is enough.
I nod to myself as I take the turn up to the Hampton Estate, my attention diverted from the upcoming annual fete when I see a Rolls-Royce idling outside the main house. I know that car. I slow to a stop as Darcy’s husband, Casper, marches out of the house, dragging a suitcase across the even gravel. He’s leaving tracks in his wake that are sure to send Lady Hampton into meltdown. Darcy’s mother will have the groundsman out here with a click of her fingers to rake everything back into perfect place.
As I get out of my truck, Casper clocks me, and I raise my hand in a civilized hello. He nods sharply, as brusque as ever with me, and carries on his way, hauling his case into the boot of his car without waiting for one of the household staff to help. He looks like he’s in a hurry. Then I hear her. The delightful mother of my child.
‘Casper!’ Darcy flies out of the house, looking as frantic as she sounds. ‘Casper, wait!’ She’s in a satin robe that’s wafting behind her as she scuttles along in the most ridiculous slippers I’ve ever seen, though they’re perfectly Darcy. They’re fucking heeled, with baby-pink pom-poms on the toes and a huge sparkling diamantés nestled in the fluffy bobbles. I sigh in disbelief, though I don’t know why. This is Darcy Hampton, after all. The woman has been staggering me with her stiff upper lip and bejewelled body for too many years.
She doesn’t notice me and my big truck as she hobbles precariously across the gravel in those ankle-breakers, wailing like a banshee. ‘Casper, you can’t go!’
‘I’m leaving, Darcy,’ he grunts as he slams his boot shut and makes his way to the driver’s door. I don’t know how, it’s really quite a miracle, but Darcy makes it in time to stop Casper closing the door. ‘Darcy, get out of my way!’
‘No, I won’t let you leave. I can’t be without you, Casper. What will people say? I’ll be a laughing stock!’
I shake my head in disappointment. A laughing stock. I take the tips of my fingers to my temples and rub firmly, listening to her squawk on about the family name, the scandal, the embarrassment she’ll have to face.
‘Casper, be reasonable.’ She grips his arm with her perfectly manicured fingers. ‘I’ll try harder. Spend less.’
‘I’ve met someone else, Darcy,’ Casper grates, and I snap my head up, shocked. He’s leaving her for another woman? ‘I’m in love with her.’
I wince on Darcy’s behalf.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she says, her desperation growing. ‘We’ll figure it out. There has to be a way.’ She reaches in to cuddle him, but he pushes her away. ‘Casper, please. Don’t do this to me. I can’t face the humiliation.’
‘Get away, woman!’ he yells, shoving her aggressively. Darcy staggers back, those heels doing her no favours to help keep her upright, and she falls to her posh arse with a surprised cry, her palms hitting the gravel with a slap.
What the hell? I run across the driveway in a blind rage, my blood boiling, and yank Casper out of his fine car, thrusting him up against it by the scruff of his fine shirt. ‘Seriously?’ I growl. ‘Where do you get off, you string of piss?’ His eyes are wide and alarmed, his head rearing back.
‘She wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t let me leave.’
‘I don’t care if she held a fucking gun to your head. You do not raise your hand to a woman, do you fucking hear me?’
He nods, looking away, and though I’m fucking raging, I can see through my anger that he’s ashamed. Good. I release him with a shove and turn to Darcy. She’s staring up at me, a messy tangle of glamour splayed on the gravel driveway. Yes, I despise the woman, constantly mentally threaten to strangle her, but it’s all in jest. Kind of.
I offer her my hand, and her lip wobbles as she takes it, letting me help her up. ‘Okay?’ I ask, and she quickly releases me, setting about fixing her hair and robe. I take no pleasure from her mortification, though why she’s mortified is up for debate. Because I’ve witnessed this little domestic, or because I’ve seen Darcy with a strand of hair out of place?
