Good Husbands , livre ebook

September Publishing - Cate Ray

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

189 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

'The most riveting and unflinching he said/she said novel to date ... absolutely staggering, insanely gripping and wholly unputdownable.' May Cobb, author of The Hunting WivesJess, Priyanka and Stephanie are all happily married to men they think they know inside out.Then each woman receives a letter accusing her husband of involvement in a sexual assault that took place 20 years ago.Who do they believe, what should they do and can they come together as their lives are upended?A compelling, beautifully crafted thriller about consent, friendship and prejudice which asks - would you sacrifice your family life in support of another woman?'In an emotional and powerfully evocative story, three women grapple with a discovery that could shatter their lives. Ray has expertly crafted a thoughtful and important read that ends with a stunning surprise.' Liv Constantine, author of The Last Mrs Parrish

Informations

Publié par	September Publishing
Date de parution	07 juin 2022
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781914613142
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0400€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Good Husbands
Good Husbands
Cate Ray

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
First published in 2022 by September Publishing
Copyright © Cate Ray 2022
The right of Cate Ray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder
Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, www.refinecatch.com
Printed in Poland on paper from responsibly managed, sustainable sources by Hussar Books
ISBN 9781914613135
EPUB ISBN 9781914613142
September Publishing
www.septemberpublishing.org
 For Bec Vaughan, with love
 Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right!
Anna Laetitia Barbauld, ‘The Rights of Woman’, c. 1795

It starts out as curiosity – the temptation to peep behind the door. Just one look, and maybe that will be enough to satisfy it. But that’s never going to happen because the door is always locked. They know what they’re doing.
Before long, the desire has grown so sharp it’s difficult to sleep through. Nothing dulls the pain. I carry it everywhere I go.
I begin to have the same dream, night after night … Someone opens the door for me and I turn to thank them, but they’re gone. A stranger who has done me an enormous kindness, perhaps without even knowing.
I don’t have time to think about it because the clock’s ticking. I’m taking in the palm-leaf wallpaper, inhaling the scent of lilies, knowing that at any moment they will spot me, eject me back onto the streets.
It happens all too soon. And I wake to a smell that isn’t lilies, to walls that aren’t palm leaves, and to bones that ache and creak. The longing becomes hostile in those moments; I hatch all kinds of plots, none of which will see the light of day.
And then, one night, in my dream, everything changes. The stranger reveals her face to me and suddenly the way forward is clear.
Maybe there’s a way inside, a way of staying longer, after all.

 PART ONE
The Letter
 Jess
I’m 100 per cent average – said no one, ever. Yet that’s what most of us are, myself included. I know the sum of my parts and it equals ordinary and there’s no shame in that. In fact, it’s a strength. My parents were ordinary too and as their only child they raised me to respect being a leaf on a tree, a grain of sand on the beach. You get the picture. But it doesn’t mean being insignificant, anonymous. It means being part of a community, a clan, a cause greater than yourself.
I realise this kind of thinking isn’t very now. The idea of being average scares my girls to death. I wouldn’t accuse them of it outright, yet it’s probably in their DNA too, and at some point, they’ll have to confront it. Mediocrity isn’t something they can deal with and perhaps that’s where we’re going wrong because ordinary is what gets you through. Ordinary is noble, life-affirming. It’s the heart of humanity and, somehow, we’ve forgotten that.
And then the letter arrives, and I know as soon as I read it that I’m going to have to rethink everything. Because I’m fairly sure that ordinary people don’t get letters like this.
It’s the first day of autumn and I don’t know if it’s actually colder or whether I’m imagining it, as though a door closed yesterday on summer and a chillier one opened, but I’m definitely feeling it today. The tip of my nose is icy and I would get a hot water bottle for my lap, only I’m leaving the house in twenty minutes.
I’m meeting Duane Dee, my favourite sculptor – the only sculptor – on my client list, and anything could happen. You never know what you’re going to get with artists, which is why I like working with them. They’re up and down but more than that, they’re honest. I’ve never known a profession like it. My artists talk about integrity and authenticity all the time and I lap it up. I love that the men don’t shave for meetings, the women don’t dye their greys, no one bothers ironing anything.
The investors are another sort altogether. People who buy and sell art are very different from those who create it. I know whose company I prefer, but I keep that to myself because even I know not to bite the hand that feeds me.
Max thinks it’s funny that I work for Moon & Co – he calls them the Moonies – even though he was the one who got me the job. He knows everyone in Bath because he grew up here, whereas I’m originally from the East End, London. I’ve been living here for twenty years and it still makes me laugh that locals think it’s urban, even though I can see cows from our bathroom window.
I’ve just got enough time for a quick look at Facebook. I don’t know why I do it to myself, but sometimes I feel that if I don’t keep up, I’ll be left behind. Which is odd because it’s not as if it’s a race, is it, being human?
I’m forty-six years old and still on the lookout for new friends. I’m pretty sure I won’t find them here in this endless scroll of happy images. People work so hard to make themselves appear perfect, it’s hard not to try to find faults. I don’t enjoy it. It makes me feel bitchy, but still I return and peek.
I glance at the time: ten minutes until I have to go. Outside, red leaves are hanging on the trees as though they’ve gone rusty and can’t move. There’s no wind today, the air completely still.
Duane Dee doesn’t use social media. He thinks the tech companies are using us to get rich and that it’s odd I’m willing to be a pawn in Silicon Valley, because I strike him as militant.
It’s probably because I still have a slight East End accent, which can sound blunt, tough, but I like to think of it more as plain-talking. My late dad used to say that the East Enders wore their hearts of gold on their sleeves. A firefighter all his life, he believed in helping people, especially along our street of identical terrace houses where no one could set themselves apart.
Enough of Facebook. I shut it down, telling it I won’t be back, knowing I will. And then I gather my things, ready to take off.
In the hallway, I sit on the stairs to put on my trainers, wondering when I started dressing like a teenager, and that’s when the postman comes. There’s only one small piece of mail, which slips in like a piece of confetti, drifting to the mat. I pick it up with interest because I can’t think when I last received a handwritten letter.
But it’s gone from my mind now because I’m locking up and putting on my puffa jacket as I walk to the car. And then I’m driving to town – the sun a pale wedge of lemon above me – running through what to say to Duane Dee.
Is he well? Is he pushing himself too hard? Is he sleeping enough? He always looks chronically tired.
I ask too many questions. ‘Intrusive.’ That’s the little bit of feedback my boss always gives me. Jess, here’s some feedback you didn’t ask for …
When people say you’re intrusive, assertive or direct, they’re basically telling you to be quiet. Are men given feedback like that? I don’t know. But I’m thinking about this as I enter the Sicilian café, which is my personal preference for brunch and not Duane’s. Whenever he chooses, we end up somewhere too dark to see our food, sitting on tasselled mats.
The service here is very good. Within seconds of my sitting down, the waitress hands me a menu even though I always have an Americano and an almond pastry.
Glancing in the wall mirror beside me, I note that my expression is severe. A semi-friend told me recently that I carry a lot of tension in my face. It wasn’t that kind of her to say, but I know what she means. I have bony cheekbones and thin lips that can look mean if I’m not careful.
So, I’ve been making an effort lately to smile more, worry less and unclench my hands. I also tend to tap my teeth together and I’m doing that now in time to the café music as I wait for Duane.
And then I remember the letter.
It takes me several moments to find it, as well as my reading glasses. Since hitting my mid-forties, I misplace things all the time. I normally ask myself, Where would I have put it? And it’s never there.
The letter is in the front compartment of my rucksack, which I haven’t used for so long there are still specks of food and foil from the school run years ago. Flicking the crumbs off the envelope, I examine the handwriting, feeling a pang of nostalgia at the idea of someone putting pen to paper just for me.
The writing is tiny and in capitals – internet code for shouting – but in this case is more like whispering. Something about it gives me the sense that it’s trying its hardest not to offend or take up too much space. I have to prise the paper out of the envelope, where it’s wedged, folded into eighths.

THURS 1st OCTOBER
DEAR JESSICA,
I HOPE YOU’RE SITTING DOWN TO READ THIS AND THAT YOU’RE ALONE.
THIS IS SO DIFFICULT. YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW OFTEN I IMAGINED TALKING TO YOU, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO GO ABOUT IT. AND NOW IT’S TOO LATE.
For what? I check the postmark on the envelope: Monday, 5 October, 5 p.m. That was last night. Shifting uneasily in my seat, I turn over the letter to see who sent it: Holly Waite.

I’VE KNOWN FOR SOME TIME THAT I WON’T MAKE OLD BONES, BUT NOW IT’S URGENT AND I’VE ONLY GOT A FEW DAYS LEFT. SO, I’LL JUST COME OUT WITH IT.
ON 22 DECEMBER 1990, MY MUM NICOLA WAITE WAS RAPED BY 3 MEN IN THE MONTAGUE CLUB, BATH. THE MEN WERE ANDREW LAWLEY, DANIEL BROOKE AND MAXIMILIAN JACKSON.
MY MUM FELL PREGNANT WITH ME. SHE ASKED THE MEN FOR HELP, BUT THEY DIDN’T WANT TO BE INVOLVED. SHE NEVER RECOVERED FROM WHAT HAPPENED AND DIED 9 YEARS AGO OF AN ACCIDENTAL OVERDOSE.
EVERYTHING I OWN IS AT STONE’S STORAGE, UNIT 21, 156 CLEVEDO