Forty-seven
Martyn stood in the doorway. His shirt clung to his back in damp patches, creased as if he’d slept in it, while his skin had taken on a mustardish tinge. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and there were more around his eyes. It was a far cry from the neat and put-together version of her husband Skye was used to seeing. The contrast elicited something in her that she wasn’t expecting, though the flash of pity was there for less time than it took her to draw breath.
“I need to sit down,” he said. “Keep the ankle elevated.”
Sky stepped aside without a word, her expression flat. Martyn shuffled into the room awkwardly on his crutches, grimacing with every step.
“I’m never going to get used to these things,” he grumbled as he lowered himself down.
Skye’s mother got to her feet.
“I’ll make us all a hot drink, shall I?”
“I’d rather something more medicinal,” Martyn replied.
“Don’t be absurd,” she said coldly. “You have a suspected concussion, not to mention a stomach full of painkillers.”
“I don’t have any alcohol in the house anyway,” Skye said. “Not unless you want ouzo?”
Martyn pulled a face. He waited until Cassandra had gone, then turned to Skye.
“You left me,” he said. “Again.”
“You patronized me,” she countered. Tiredness slammed into her. Skye was sure that if she closed her eyes, she would sleep where she stood. From inside the kitchen came the burble of a kettle beginning to boil.
“What do you want?” Martyn said. “An apology?”
“How about a divorce?” she replied.
He rolled his eyes over a drawn-out sigh.
“On what grounds?” he demanded, wincing as he shifted position.
Skye stared at the floor, counted to five, tried in vain to calm the chaotic rhythm of her heart. Every part of her felt coiled tight, tension running across her shoulders and back, stiffening her legs, and locking her knees. Where had this strength been before when she’d needed it?
“I think,” she said, a slight tremble to her deliberately mocking tone, “that it’s referred to as ‘unreasonable behavior,’ though that’s a euphemism if I’ve ever heard one.”
“I’mthe unreasonable one?” Martyn rocked back in his seat. “How about abandonment? You’re the one who walked out, remember.”
“Let’s ask my mum, shall we?” Skye replied as Cassandra came back into the room, a tray balanced in her hands. “She’s the lawyer.”
Martyn glowered.
“I suppose you’ve spun your mother quite the yarn,” he said. “Told her some sob story about how awful it was for you, being with someone like me, who supported you, believed in you—”
“Abused me,” Skye interrupted. “That’s right,” she went on, as Martyn shook his head in a show of disgust. “What you did to me, the bullying and belittling, that was abuse.”
Martyn turned to Cassandra.
“See what I mean? She’s a fantasist.”
Skye took a mug from the tray, deliberately selected one Andreas had given her. Chipped, faded, yet oddly comforting, much like the man himself. Her mother handed another tea to Martyn, then took her own and sat a few feet away from him.
“My daughter tells me you locked her in a room,” she said in the even-tempered yet mildly condescending tone Skye always imagined she employed in a court setting. “Do you deny it?”
An ugly shade of beetroot crept across Martyn’s neck.
“That was a joke,” he muttered. “We were fooling around.”
