Roses Are Red - Miranda Rijks Page 0,5

swimming lap after rapid lap, when I eventually got back yesterday, having collected the kids from school after my lunch with Ajay. Adam ignored me all evening and walked out of the room when I said we needed to talk.

We are running some big promotions on craft kits to get the kids (or, more appropriately, their parents) through the long summer holidays. Things such as ‘make your own wigwam’ or ‘crochet a bikini’. It’s up to me to come up with marketing slogans for our in-store promotions as well as articles for our blog and website. Business is never great in the summer, when people prefer to be outside rather than indoors making things. But I’m acutely aware of our poor sales and am desperate to come up with some bright ideas.

My mobile phone rings. Oliver’s name flashes up. My heart sinks. It’s never good when one of the kids calls me during the day.

‘What’s up, love?’

‘Mum, I forgot my games kit. We’ve got cricket this afternoon and I’m going to be in such trouble. Please, Mum, will you drop it into school?’ His voice trembles. This is Oliver’s first year at senior school and the transition has not been easy. He has moved from a small local primary where he was a big personality, well liked by all, to a big private school with kids from all over, and although my two are day children because we live nearby, half the pupils at the school board. He has two or three close friends, but he has definitely become more reserved over the past year, and I worry about him.

‘All right,’ I say, knowing that Adam would be livid if he finds out that I have helped Oliver out of a mess of his own making again. ‘I’ll wait outside the main gate in half an hour. Have you had lunch?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘Don’t miss lunch, Ollie. You need to keep up your energy.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ he says, with a drawl. ‘See ya.’

It will take me a good fifteen minutes to get home and then another ten minutes to drive to school, so I haven’t got long.

‘I’ll be back within the hour,’ I say to Nicky as I hurry out of the offices.

I drive home quickly. There’s little traffic at this time of day, but when I turn into the driveway of our beautiful eighteenth-century farmhouse, I’m surprised to see Adam’s Bentley parked outside the front door. I wasn’t expecting him to be home.

I unlock the front door, kick off my shoes and take the stairs two steps at a time, rushing up towards Oliver’s bedroom – the smallest of our six bedrooms. Goodness knows what sort of mess it will be in. Our lovely cleaner, Daria, comes twice a week, but her daughter was sick on Monday, so the house isn’t looking it’s best. At the top of the stairs, I turn left onto the upstairs corridor, past the modern abstract paintings that Adam bought three years ago at obscene expense, and then I glance down and notice that my toenails desperately need a new coat of nail polish when I run slap bang into…

‘Marianne? What the hell?’

She takes a step backwards, a look of absolute horror on her face. She has one of our large blue towels wrapped around her torso, her sunbed-bronzed legs and arms are bare, and her hair is wet. It is quite obvious that she has stepped straight out of the shower.

I stand stock-still and stare at her. Marianne is meant to be my friend. We have known each other most of our lives. She is married to my business partner.

And she is having an affair with my husband.

‘It’s not what it seems,’ she says pathetically, but the flush on her face, her oscillating eyes and the squirming of her hands betray her words.

‘You! You’re having an affair with my husband! How could you do that! How could you betray me?’

I know I’m shouting, stabbing my finger at her, but I don’t care. How dare she stand here, in my house, with my towel wrapped around her surgically enhanced bust!

‘Adam,’ I spit.

‘He’s in the shower. Please, Lydia. Please don’t create a fuss. I’m sorry that we hurt you, but Adam said you’re getting divorced and–’

‘Because he’s been cheating on me with you! That’s why we’re getting divorced. I thought he’d have better taste than…’ I change tack. ‘Ajay! Does your husband know? Does Ajay know that you’re a lying, scheming, unfaithful bitch?’

Tears spill down her cheeks.