Bad Wife Read online

  Bad Wife

  Bad Series #3

  Sarah Michelle Lynch

  Copyright © Sarah Michelle Lynch 2020

  The moral right of SARAH MICHELLE LYNCH to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 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 owner. You must not circulate this book without the authority to do so.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  For more info visit sarahmichellelynch.com

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Reading Order So Far

  Bad Friends

  Bad Actor

  Bad Wife

  Bad Girl

  Bad Guys

  Bad Lover

  Prologue

  Dressed in black, the skirt of her dress puffy and pretty, but the colour dour and depressing, the little red ribbon in her hair was all that stood out. The daughter of Polish immigrants, dark and beautiful, her physique perfect for ballet she’d been told numerous times (if not for a pair of weak knees sustained from meningitis), Susan was already a great beauty at eight years old. To a certain extent, a lot of what was going on around her went unnoticed by her childish eyes. As far as she was concerned, she was dressed up pretty and off to a party. One for her mummy. Her dead mummy.

  She held Daddy’s hand in the car and as they sat in the pews. When they sang songs and prayed, she remained seated, wondering when her time to shine would come.

  Back at their mansion, which Daddy had built himself once his construction business was thriving, she waited for the moment to come.

  It never came.

  Nobody wanted to see her sing and dance that day.

  Mummy was gone.

  People milled around and ate little bits of food off a plate. There were no other children to play with and only sad, dejected husks wandering around their big, beautiful house.

  Once everyone was gone, she said to Daddy, “Can we go to McDonald’s?”

  “Okay, angel,” he said, his thick accent not softening with the years.

  Her mother had adopted a little of the Yorkshire twang that Susan spoke, but Daddy was still the same old guy, same old beaming eyes, balding head and sure hands.

  She had a Happy Meal while her dad picked at his fries.

  “Why are you sad, Daddy?” she asked, not understanding.

  “I’m very sad I’m not going to see Mummy again.”

  “I know.” She looked down at her lap, because that’s what sad people do.

  “We have each other… and we have to believe Mummy is happy, and free of pain, wherever she is.”

  Her mother Alicja died of something Daddy had called an auto-immune disease. It was one of the reasons they came to the UK before Susan was born, so that her mummy could get better medical care. Susan was named after her grandmother Zuzanna, her mother having decided it was better to pick the English equivalent. Zuzanna was Alicja’s mother and had also died when she was very young. Susan wondered if she would die young, too although she’d had lots of tests and had been told that apart from the unfortunate bout of meningitis (due to the uncertainty of life and constant moving around when her parents were first in the UK – missing one of Susan’s booster jabs), Susan was very healthy and so far hadn’t shown any signs of having the same disease her mother and grandmother had died of.

  After finishing her Happy Meal, her father took her home and she looked around the big house, wondering what there was to do.

  “Daddy, I want to have a party.”

  “Maybe in a few weeks,” he said sadly as he climbed the stairs alone.

  “Maybe this week?” she tried to convince him. “A sleepover?”

  “Your nanny starts on Thursday, you can ask her.”

  Well, Susan did ask… and did get what she wanted.

  And if the nanny didn’t keep giving her what she wanted, she would get Daddy to force the nanny… and Susan soon realised she could get anything.

  Anything at all.

  Chapter One

  On the train home from having witnessed Theo perform in the most radical version of Hamlet I’ve ever seen, I’m full of thoughts and new ideas and musings on life in general. Theo really is one of those guys you look at and think, “Man, I wish I were you,” but also, I guess, there’s a downside to being him. He grew up without a father and it must have been hard. True, some people never know any different and adore their single parent, but the thing is, Theo’s mother is one of those people you never can work out – and it must have had an effect on him. Sure, he’s going to be rich, marry Lily and have a brood of kids, but I know deep down he will always feel something like inadequacy, because when you are made to feel insignificant by a parent, that stays with you forever. It’s obviously driven him to do what he’s doing now and utilising that pain, he’s beginning to carve out the most amazing career. I’m happy for him. He deserves all the best. He’s worked so hard. And when I look at them together, I see two people perfect for one another in every way. She never would’ve made it work with Paul, we all knew that. Paul’s issues are deeper and more trauma-based than anybody else’s. Paul never looked at Lily like he would die for her. Instead he seemed to hate that she was so beautiful and meant so much to him, as though he could do without being attached to any other human being. Theo, on the other hand, would do anything for Lily. He’d lie, commit murder, steal… whatever. I have no doubt they will stay the distance and it’s with that thought in mind, I’m looking at my own relationship – a marriage no less – and wondering how the hell my wife and I have got to the stage where we are sleeping in separate beds, all because of something that is totally outside of my control. It’s my own health issue but I didn’t exactly ask for this – I had wanted to give her kids right after we were married – but when that didn’t happen within the year, she insisted on tests and now here we are. I’m low on sperm and she’s impatient to have herself up the duff.

  Feeling high from having watched Theo up there on stage, so mesmerizing and full of life and energy, I am also more aware than ever before that my marriage isn’t what I thought it was going to be. It isn’t two people supporting each other through thick and thin, it’s actually one of us always laying down the law and the other never getting a word in edgewise.

  And this? This has stopped her in her tracks. She can’t make demands anymore.

  This is about my shortcomings and about my choices.

  I choose not to have IVF until we absolutely have to.

  I choose to continue to be young, to work hard, to love my wife and have fun. We’re only twenty-five. We shouldn’t be worrying about these things yet. It’s ridiculous.

  I sigh and steel myself for what will no doubt be waiting at home. It probably won’t be a warm welcome, I know that. Still, imbued by what I’ve seen and witnessed this weekend, I feel a new sense of pride and determination not to be pushed down anymore.

  It’s time for me to take back control.

  Or not.

  She could
dump me on the spot when I tell her I haven’t changed my mind, despite her having given me some time out to think it over.

  I keep willing her to change… hoping my love might mellow her, eventually.

  But I wait to see.

  Walking through the front door, the first thing I notice is the smell of food. Anyone can say what they want about my wife – that’s she’s demanding, unforgiving and ferocious – but she really does know how to cook. You cannot fault her there. I think it must be in her genes because everything else around the house is done by our cleaner and laundrywoman. With Susan, I also do wonder if she feels like cooking is one area of her life she can control and control well, so maybe that’s why else she has a particular thing for it.

  “Hey, it’s just me,” I holler.

  She arrives in the hallway, beaming with smiles, helping me with my bag and jacket, putting it on the peg for me. She wraps her arms around my neck and pushes her beautiful, immaculate breasts into my body, her slick, lip-glossed mouth on mine and owning me, instantly. My trousers stir when I taste her mouth, sweet and wet and fresh, just like her pussy is, always. This woman is a joy to fuck. Simple as that.

  She pulls back, her eyes dancing. “Come on, you must be starving.”

  The way she gets you is like this. There’s the food first… and it’s bloody good. Always.

  She comes over so charming, so classy, so beautiful. You get trapped in her web and then there’s the sex… it’s always good. Always.

  However, the minute you say or do something she doesn’t like, you’re Enemy No.1 and the real Susan emerges.

  I first encountered the real Susan just before our wedding and put it down to wedding jitters, stress and everything else. However, since we married, this same character has continued to pop up and when she does, my balls shrink and all I want to do is leave the house, go someplace dark and play video games for six days straight, resting on the seventh day with nothing else but sleep to look forward to.

  Some people think she’s domesticated me, but privately, I feel it’s me trying to civilize her.

  I’ve seen and witnessed some things since marrying Susan I didn’t imagine her capable of.

  And yet, I still love her… and I live for the happy moments like this, when she’s bustling around the kitchen, a little red-cheeked and happy, dressed in her finest tight trousers and a flouncy blouse, her hair pinned up, face full of make-up and a smile in her eyes.

  When you see her without her smile, you see someone else entirely.

  I’m eagerly anticipating what’s for dinner when she brings out a lovely potato and leek soup served alongside my favourite, olive bread.

  “This looks so good.”

  “It really is,” she says.

  We get halfway into it before she says, “So, how was it?”

  “The play?”

  “What else?”

  I shake my head, like I can’t find the words. “He’s unbelievable. I can see why she’s fallen right into his arms. He’s absolutely un-fucking-believable. He gave it so much physicality and atmosphere, too. He’s going to be a star. Like the next Benedict Cumberbatch or Adam Driver or something. A proper actor with proper enunciation.”

  She laughs and flirts, “Sounds like someone has a man-crush.”

  “You’d have a definite crush if you saw it. He’s shirtless at one point and I think he has an eight-pack. Once or twice he turned and I was blinking to check. All I can say is the man has certainly filled out since school.”

  “Well…” She slips her foot under the hem of my jeans beneath the table. “I’ve always loved your soft middle. More for me to bounce on.”

  She leans over and we share a kiss. Her remark is truth, I know this; but I only know it because if I looked and acted like Theo, her ego wouldn’t take it.

  She needs someone like me to make her feel good. Feel safe. Feel wanted and loved.

  Trust me, in the beginning that was a massive turn-on for me – that she needed me for all those things. It still is to an extent, but sometimes when I need her, she’s just not there… unavailable.

  She takes our spoons and bowls away and begins serving up roast dinner.

  My favourite… pork with crackling, apple sauce, roast vegetables, long green beans, Yorkshire puddings, cauliflower cheese and mashed sweet potato.

  I’m dribbling before it’s even in front of me. All the aggro might be worth it, just for this.

  “So, did you get chance to talk with Lily on the drive down?”

  I try not to choke on my pork, delicious though it is. “Yeah.”

  “And you told her about our little problem?”

  It sounds as though she has herself convinced it’s just me with the problem… and that Lily, being a professional, no doubt spelt that out to me.

  “Lily said she’ll listen if you want to talk.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “If you want to talk, she’ll listen. Just call her and arrange a meet-up. She said she’s free most Wednesday or Thursday evenings.”

  I briefly catch a look at her, going back to my dinner almost instantly. She’s definitely fuming.

  “Are you telling me she thinks I have a problem?”

  “No, not at all.” I try to keep my voice as monosyllabic as possible, so as not to rile her. “I’m just not going to change my mind, Suze. My mind is made up. I told Lily this and she respects my choice. Her offer was just so that you can have someone to talk to who’s impartial…”

  “…you mean, like, basically a fucking shrink?” she almost yells.

  “No, well… she wouldn’t be charging you, would she?” I realise I’ve let my mouth run away from me before thinking, and I look up, catching the vicious look in her eyes.

  “Adam, we talked about this. You either agree or we get a divorce.”

  Calmly, I put down my cutlery and stare at the delicious food I would really love to be enjoying right now but can only look at like it’s another of her tactics to get what she wants.

  “I’m not agreeing and you need to see sense. We’re only twenty-five years old. This is ridiculous. It’s not the end of the world!”

  Her chair scrapes across the tiled floor and she yells, “I’m not twenty fucking five! I’m thirty, alright? I’m fucking thirty. I never corrected you when you assumed we were the same age. It got to be so stupid, I didn’t want you to find out the truth in case you decided you didn’t want to be with me anymore. I hid the certificates and whatever and when you asked why Anabel looks older, I told you it’s because she is older… and you just assumed I have an older best friend, even though we went to school together.”

  She huffs and retakes her seat like it must be all my fault.

  “But, I got you a cake last year… it had a ‘25’ on it.”

  She looks at me like she’s not amused. “Yeah, and remember what my dad said? He was like, ‘What a strange sense of humour Adam has.’ Well, now you know why.”

  This isn’t just a little white lie. Now I look back, this is months of her carefully hiding documents like her degree certificate, her birth certificate, driving licence…

  …just what else has she hidden?

  “Well, you don’t look thirty. You look much younger.” But that would be all the spa time and having lived a sheltered and privileged life before I came along – me looking the same age but being five years younger.

  How did I never discover she’s five years older? We worked together for goodness sake. Why did nobody tell me? Not that it really matters, but I would’ve just liked to know.

  Turns out, she’s unwilling to divulge her age – unless it means getting something she wants.

  I look down at my dinner and because I want to enjoy it that much, I decide to give her a little bit of a compromise.

  “Give me six months to keep trying naturally. Lily says we can try natural remedies. I don’t know, I’ll wear different pants. I’ll drink green gunge. I’ll stop drinking. I’ll do whatever it takes. But please, I d
on’t want you to undergo IVF. All those hormones could be damaging to your body and if we still have a chance to conceive naturally, it might just mean having more sex. That’s not a bad thing, right?”

  She looks at me with those huge green eyes of hers and whispers, “No.”

  “I’m not taking your father’s money,” I repeat.

  “It’s not his money, it’s mine. He gave it to me.”

  My throat feels hoarse at having to say it again, “It’s his money. Even if it was a gift or as you put it, your early inheritance, it’s still his money. I’m not having it, Susan. No way.”

  “This is your male pride, your fucking male pride,” she barks.

  “My balls are my balls. No. You can keep asking, but I will still say no.”

  She’s quiet for a long time, then she perks up. “If I give you six months, what if we still don’t manage it?”

  I stare into her eyes and whisper, “Then I’ll let you divorce me. Because until I can afford to pay for it myself, we’re not doing it. Do you understand? I’m not taking his money for this. We don’t even know if it will work. They might have difficulty taking your eggs. I’m just, nope, it’s not something I can conceive of right now. I’m twenty-six next month, but that’s still too young. Women are also having kids into their forties these days. Why can’t we just keep having sex? We loved having sex before this!”

  I actually have nothing against Boris as an individual. He’s a funny, caring guy. As for how he spoilt his daughter after she lost her mother and survived meningitis, I have everything against him.

  “You just don’t want to admit you have an issue facing up to your shortcomings.”

  Well, well, how new to hear her say that. She always throws that in my face.

  “No, I’m actually being reasonable and saying that we should just try to be man and wife, because as soon as they start prodding you about, you’ll end up feeling like an experiment or something… and if we can avoid that, I’ll avoid that at all costs. I actually think I’m trying to protect my wife and her body by not putting her through all that, but sorry you see it all so much differently. Not to mention the stress it will put us through.”