Skye’s mouth fell open.
“You dragged me up the stairs and threw me in there,” she cried. “How could that ever be classed as ‘fooling around’?”
“Listen,” he said, eyes darting from Skye to her mother. “Couples bicker all the time. Didn’t you and Cosmo have the odd run-in, Cassandra?”
“That’s your summation, is it?” she said pleasantly. “That dragging someone through a house and locking them up against their will is merely what all married couples do?”
“I never hit her.” Martyn pouted. “Tell her,” he ordered Skye. “Not once did I raise my hand to you.”
“What do you want?” she snapped. “A medal?”
“So I get angry sometimes,” he said defensively. “So what? Haven’t either of you ever lost your temper after a bad day? My job is extremely high pressure.”
“Well, yes,” Skye said, “the pressure tends to be high when you work at thirty thousand feet.”
“Now you’re being facetious.”
Cassandra cleared her throat.
“You hurt her, Martyn,” she said stonily. Her face remained impassive, devoid of emotion, though the anger was there in the rigid set of her jaw.
“You hurt her and you scared her—that’s not acceptable.”
The dark red flush spread to his cheeks. Martyn took a furious sip of his tea, only to splutter as the hot liquid went down the wrong way. He had never apologized to Skye, not since that first incident with the wineglass in the bath. Was he truly not remorseful, or was it that to say sorry would mean admitting he was at fault? Skye flexed and unflexed her fingers, moved her half-empty cup from one hand to the other.
“Did you ever consider trying therapy?” she asked him.
Martyn widened his eyes in theatrical disbelief.
“Why in God’s name would I do that?”
“For your grief,” she said. “It must have been difficult for you after Beatrice died.”
He let out a huff and tilted his head away.
“Who’s Beatrice?” her mother asked. Skye hadn’t divulged the story about Martyn’s sister. He’d made it clear that nobody must ever mention her name to his parents. Not that Skye had seen Mr. and Mrs. Lockhart much since the wedding. She recalled their stiff smiles, the way his mother had always set the table with quiet precision, as if a single fork laid incorrectly would be intolerable. Conversation at their few lunches had drifted like background music, quiet and polite, entirely forgettable. Skye had no reason to respect their wishes in this scenario, yet as she started to speak, Martyn cut across her.
“We don’t talk about Beatrice,” he said.
“No,” Skye corrected, “youdon’t talk about her—not nearly enough. Don’t you think you should? Don’t you wonder if all those repressed emotions, the anger and grief and frustration, could be the reason you have so many—what was it you called them? Bad days?”
“Grief has nothing to do with it,” he shot back. “It’s stress, plain and simple. After a long day of dealing with half-wits, I don’t want to come home and find another one waiting for me.”
Skye blurted out a laugh.
“I’m a half-wit now? Wow. I mean, wow, Martyn. That’s a nice thing to say about your wife.”
“Listen,” he said again.
Yet another command.
“It doesn’t do any good to keep dredging up the past. It may suit you to talk about your dad every goddamn opportunity you get, but not everyone is like that. Some of us would rather draw a line under the unpleasantness.”
What a strange word to use. More and more, it occurred to Skye that this man she’d married, whom she’d believed herself to love, was an actor. An enigma. She had no idea who Martyn was, though a phrase her father once said to her came to mind.
When people show you who they are, hen, believe them.
“Do you have a photo of her?” she asked. “In your wallet or on your phone—anywhere?” Turning to her mother, she added, “Beatrice was Martyn’s sister. She died in accident when he was—”
