Crazy Over You Read online

  Copyright © 2015 Carol Thomas

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 9781 784625 924

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Abby’s Notebook

  Acknowledgements

  For Mason, Kirsti, Amelia, Madison and Edward with lots of love xx

  Benson and Milo

  Chapter 1

  Having finally got her girls to bed, Abby slouched on the sofa with her laptop. The computer had become a distraction, perhaps even an obsession. In her spare moments at work and in the evenings when the children slept, when she should have been doing so many other things, Abby was on the Internet.

  She knew the routine off by heart – typing in their names singularly, their names together, her name with variations on the spelling, her name and Washington (the place ‘it’ happened), their joint names and Washington. Simon Turner and Helen Herne were now so familiar to Abby’s search terms that her computer was automatically putting them in for her after she typed the first letters. She wasn’t quite sure what she hoped to find. She didn’t know and didn’t stop to think it through. She was fired by an obsession to find anything that would help her understand, to see who it was who had changed her life forever.

  Googling, scrolling through countless pages of images and searching… Facebook, Twitter, LinkedIn, YouTube, even MySpace. Abby lurked on them all. And the irony was, she didn’t actually know what the woman looked like so she was never really going to find her. Abby knew, in the sea of Helen Hernes she had stalked via the Internet, she could have been staring right at her face but she wouldn’t have known it. The searches were utterly, irrefutably, mind-blowingly pointless. She knew it but she couldn’t stop!

  Aware she was driving herself steadily crazy with the futility of it all, Abby threw her head back and growled. Staring back at the screen, she had an idea. A different search. Same theme. New approach. Sitting up, she typed adultery help forums into Google and swallowed hard as she watched the search results appear on the screen. Wow! There were so many of them. Intrigued, she clicked on the first site. A long list of topics appeared with titles highlighting the types of discussion threads they would reveal: Just found out, separation, divorce, the other woman, the other man, investigative tips, reoffenders, revenge is sweet… Abby let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. There was such a lot to take in.

  Clicking on Just found out, she began to scroll through, skim-reading as she went. There seemed to be endless amounts of scorned women sharing their joint angst. And they certainly didn’t hold back when it came to giving all the details. Abby read scenario after scenario, found opinion after opinion. It was all so compulsive and yet horribly overwhelming to read; a melting pot of confusion, sympathy, anger and conflicting advice.

  Abby shivered. Noticing the you’ve-stayed-up-too-late-again chill in the room, she threw a cushion down to cover her cold feet and slipped Jessica’s school cardigan over her shoulders. Stretching the crick forming in her neck, she realised she must have spent several hours scrolling through it all; even the dog had given up on her and gone to bed. Thanks for the company Bramble! Abby knew she should follow, but the thought of going up to her empty bed and trying to sleep seemed even less appealing than continuing on through her list of search results.

  On opening the next site yet another pop-up window appeared, trying to encourage her to sign up or log in. Abby crossed it off, just as she had all the others. She didn’t actually want to join in. She didn’t want to be part of their sect. Perhaps it was denial but joining in, becoming part of the ‘victims of adultery’ gang, would make it all too real. She didn’t want to be a fully-fledged member.

  The sites were all very similar. She knew what she would find as she opened each new one. Despite the fact each seemed to have its own angle – coping with infidelity for… insert your religion, gender, sexual preference or ethnic origin here (apparently infidelity had no bias) – the topic list was largely the same. Abby was running out of steam. She knew she should stop; sleeping wasn’t going to be any easier with everybody else’s anger in her head as well as her own issues.

  About to close her laptop, she noticed a thread titled Tears are us! That was a first. She opened it. The first comment simply said, Found this and thought I’d share… Abby read the quote that followed. Sitting back, she read it again. It was hard to focus her tired mind but the more she read it, the more she liked it. It seemed to speak directly to her. She wanted to remember it. She read it again before leaping from her seat, fuelled by an idea.

  Rummaging in her bag, she found her notebook. When she’d taken it from the stationary cupboard at work, more than a week ago, it had seemed so full of promise. She remembered the brief feeling of determination she’d had as she’d sat in her empty classroom and written her first words in it. Opening it now, she read: I’m writing this because I hope it will show my journey back to me – to being positive, happy and not confused. I hope I will find a day where my head is not scrambled, full of a name I hate, a name I don’t want to hear and horrible imagined images I don’t want to see!

  Since then, Abby hadn’t known what to put next or where that journey might begin. But now it was clear. With no words of her own to write, she should copy the quote instead. It wasn’t quite what she was supposed to be using her notebook for, but putting something had to be better than nothing. She couldn’t bear staring at all those empty pages any longer.

&nbs
p; Notebook in hand, she rooted round for a pen. Cursing the fact that the contents of her pen pot amounted to a few old fuzzy-ended felt-tips, three chubby crayons and several blunt pencils, she went to her school bag. At least the girls knew they weren’t allowed to raid that. Ah ha! Armed with her green Bic Cristal, Abby returned to her discarded laptop and kicked the abandoned cushion and cardigan to one side.

  Pleased to finally have something to write after her bold opening statement, she copied the quote from the forum into her notebook and read over it again.

  “There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.”

  OK, so the language was ridiculously flowery, but she really liked its poignancy. Abby thought of all the time she had spent crying or holding back tears at inappropriate moments – like waiting at the traffic lights, walking the dog, in the middle of lessons or staff meetings, standing in the queue at Tesco… the list was endless! And yet the quote seemed to say it was OK to feel so sad, that all those tears were justified. It was a weird relief to read it. She felt pathetic and hated herself each time she descended into tears. It was so bloody unproductive. But maybe she should forgive herself for some of it… maybe it wasn’t as pathetic as she thought.

  Abby wanted to put the reference. She knew it was a bit anal and she didn’t actually need to add it; the notebook was just for her after all. But then again she knew not writing it would just annoy her. If she didn’t do it now she’d only do it at some other point. It was an ingrained habit from college; even with her mind in shreds she couldn’t let the detail go.

  The forum post didn’t cite the reference, so she Googled the quote. Staring at the name as it appeared on the screen, Abby shrunk back from the computer, stunned by the irony.

  “Washington Irving, Washington bloody Irving!” She said it aloud. It wasn’t like Washington was a common name, and yet there it definitely was. What a git irony could be; it might as well have slapped her in the face. The first positive thing she’d put since starting her notebook and the man saying it shared a name with the very place her husband chose to have an affair. Abby actually couldn’t believe it! Without pausing for thought she scribbled Arghhhhhh! in big black letters where the reference should have been.

  Less than twelve hours later and too many hours spent Googling were taking their toll. Abby sat watching her class swim, thirty-two heads bobbing around in yellow swimming caps, while tears rolled down her face. She was tired from her lack of sleep the night before; it never helped her control her mind, inhibiting the energy and inclination she needed to hold back tears and remain focused.

  Being the last swim before half-term, the session had been designated a play swim. Abby was only needed to supervise general behaviour and children in need of the toilet. The young lifeguards, all keen sporty types, probably awaiting college or university places, were watching the children splashing around on the inflatables, ensuring their safety in the water. Abby felt redundant and it left her mind too idle, too free, too able to think.

  Sitting and watching was so very hot; the atmosphere was sauna-like. Outside the sun was shining brightly and inside the heat pricked at her nerves. It was noisy too. The children’s excited voices echoed loudly as they bounced off the high, beamed ceiling. Abby loved to see them happy, and to hear them having so much fun would ordinarily lift her spirits but this time it was not enough to remove the ache from her chest, or prevent the incessant tears that stung her sleep-deprived eyes.

  Thoughts kept slipping into her mind as scenes of her husband and her played out in her imagination. She didn’t actually know the details. These images were based on things she’d seen in films and on television. She knew it was nonsense but she couldn’t stop it. They were coming from that dark part of her mind she couldn’t always control. She looked at the hard tiled floor at her feet and, in an Ally McBeal moment, imagined smashing her head against it. Would that help? She knew she wouldn’t actually do it. She was too sensible; too mindful of her responsibilities and too conscious of her girls who needed her, no matter how tempting it might seem.

  Shuddering at how broken she had become, Abby cringed as her dad’s words echoed through her mind, as they had many times over the past weeks. ‘Empowering yourself with the new possibilities created by any given situation is the only way forward.’ She had heard it all so many times and knew it all off by heart (the Scott girls were their father’s daughters after all). But no matter how many times she tried to remind herself that ‘problems are there to be assessed and overcome’, or that ‘dwelling gets in the way of fixing what needs to be fixed’, the words all felt empty. The mantras of a man whose life had been spent as an engineer were no match for her current situation, no help to her thoroughly muddled mind. Sorry Dad!

  Wringing her hands in her lap, Abby shifted in her seat.

  “Look Miss. Look what I can do!”

  Wiping the sweat that beaded on her skin, Abby attempted to focus on the young, smiley face beaming at her from the water. April was a happy girl who loved life and always exuded energy. Pleased to have her teacher’s seemingly full attention April spun into a roly-poly in the water, followed by a flamboyant handstand with her wrinkled toes waving in the air. She was a confident girl. The type of bold, bright and spirited child Abby had never been. Her beaming face bobbed back up to its rightful place above the water as she looked over for recognition of her efforts. Rewarded by Abby’s big smile and thumbs-up April splashed off happily to find her friends.

  Abby knew teaching was part acting. It was a part she usually played with devoted conviction from 8:45am until the bell rang to mark the end of the day. Then she got to exhale, enter the staffroom to get a well deserved hot drink, and discuss the lighter moments of the day – like Jack in year five asking the overweight deputy when her baby was due or Mercedes in year four secretly bringing in her mum’s pink furry handcuffs for show and tell. It was a job she generally loved. But lately she was struggling. Sitting by the poolside, 3:15pm seemed too far away. She scolded herself for the tears that threatened to let her façade down. The children didn’t deserve to see her like that. To them she was their teacher, a person who only existed in their presence. They didn’t want or need her to have a life beyond the classroom. Seeing her in the supermarket was enough to send them silly.

  As the whistle blew, Abby was pleased she wouldn’t be able to sit and think any longer. Ensuring seventeen girls all got changed into their own clothes, had their knickers on and didn’t leave their sodden swimsuits behind was a welcome distraction. They dressed speedily as Abby encouraged them on.

  Once the children were all counted onto the coach and settled ready to head back for lunch, Abby took her seat. Patty, the year six teaching assistant, who had met with groans from the boys as she led them onto the coach in a rare second place to the girls, sat next to her.

  “You going to sign up then?”

  “Sign up?” Abby had no idea what she was talking about. Patty was one of those people who always started sentences as if you had been present in their head for the preliminary thoughts that led to the final utterance. Abby wasn’t sure she had the patience for guessing games and hoped she’d soon get to the point.

  “Year six. The trip. Isle of Wight residential. The thing Brad is organising… the list is up. It’s open to all teachers. You not seen it?”

  “Oh!” Why didn’t she just say so?! “No. No, I don’t normally go. Jessica and Grace are still a bit little for me to go away.”

  “I think you should, it’d do you good to get away. Have a bit of fun.”

  Abby cringed at the word; her mum and sister had been telling her she needed to ‘have a bit of fun’ – when really it was the last thing she felt like doing.

  “Your Simon could cope couldn’t he?”

  Abby sat for a moment, pondering this question and the wry l
ook on Patty’s face that suggested she was fishing for gossip. Rumours in school tended to spread at a speed the year six athletics team could only dream of achieving. She didn’t answer.

  “How old are the girls now? They’d be OK wouldn’t they?”

  Abby took a moment to consider the idea of going away for a weekend. She wasn’t sure she’d like to be away from the girls, and she really wasn’t sure she was up for any ‘fun’, but then again getting away from the house and all that had happened might be good. It wouldn’t be like going away alone. She wouldn’t have too much time to think; she’d be busy. So busy in fact it might actually be like… escaping!

  “Maybe…” She bit her lip. Would it work, could I? Absolutely sure that the thought of having the girls to himself for three whole days would hit Simon like a left hook, she felt a sense of satisfied determination spread through her. She should go. She should bloody do it. Make a stand. “You’re right. I should go.” Her voice was full of conviction. “Simon could cope I’m sure. The girls are six and two now. They’d be OK.”

  “Oh… yes, yes you should.”

  Abby sat back in her seat folding her arms determinedly. “Thanks Patty, I’ll sign up when I get back.”

  Having clearly not gained the nugget of gossip she had sought Patty harrumphed back against her seat.

  As doubt began to seep in almost as soon as the coach pulled off Abby reminded herself that this could be good for all of them. It certainly wasn’t that she would use the girls in a battle between herself and Simon. In fact she had been careful not to say anything to them about all that had occurred. Keeping things as normal as possible for them was another façade she was upholding. But in truth they had barely noticed he had moved out; too many hours spent working, too many hours away, always something more important to do – such was Simon’s input in their lives since his business had almost gone bust around the time of Grace’s birth. Clearly the girls, Grace especially, needed to get to know him better and Simon needed to know them. Abby wanted him to know all that he had discarded. What little treasures he had neglected to notice; she wasn’t the only one he had let down. Jessica and Grace hadn’t featured in his egocentric worldview either. And she couldn’t deny the thought of him coping alone with them for a whole weekend did vaguely amuse her and spur her determination.