31 December 1990

The tension had been mounting all week and she was fast reaching the point where she couldn't stand it anymore. Her reaction to Stewart wetting himself on Christmas Day had clearly not been what his family had expected. Far from finding it as humorous as his brother did, she had been unable to contain her annoyance, calling her husband pathetic and dragging him upstairs where she had proceeded to change him like a toddler before he fell, comatose, into bed. In the following days, she found she could barely look at him, let alone speak to him, and though he curbed his intake for a short time, as the end of the year approached, he began to imbibe more and more, ably aided by David and his father.

He had called her a prude, a killjoy and a ball and chain and accused her of trying to ruin his holiday. Though she had been sorely tempted to get into a full-blown argument with him, she had bit her tongue and said nothing, mindful that she was a guest in someone else's house and that they would always, always choose him over her.

For the first time since arriving in Leicester, she had found herself with some free time that morning and had taken a wander around the local shopping precinct. There hadn't been anything she had wanted to buy, and it had been crowded with revellers, but it gave her a chance to breathe and to think about things. More than once she had glanced at the bank of public telephones and thought about calling Frank. He had made her promise that she would if she needed him, but she found herself questioning whether or not she did or whether she was just feeling low because of Stewart's behaviour. In the end, she chose not to, comforting herself with the fact that she only had to get through another two days and then they would be on their way back to London.

The plan for New Year's Eve was to have a family dinner in a local restaurant and then head to a nice wine bar for a few drinks before heading back to the house. Elizabeth had said that there was a high chance of the neighbours all pouring in later on and she found her stomach sinking at the prospect.

"Is that what you're wearing?" Stewart asked, coming into the bedroom as she finished getting dressed and eying her critically.

"Yes," she replied, "why?"

"It's a bit…" he wrinkled his nose.

"A bit what?"

"You've got a nice figure; you need to show it off a bit. Haven't you got something a bit more booby?"

"Booby?" she stared at him, her stomach turning over just at the very word. He had never encouraged her to flaunt her body before. Indeed, the day he had collected his commendation, that hot day in July 1988, he had insisted she wear a longer dress than the one she had originally chosen. He had never made any public overtures that her body was something which he wanted other people to feel jealous that he held some kind of possession over.

"Yeah, you've got good tits," he came over towards her and pulled her roughly into him, the smell of alcohol already almost overpowering. "I'm going to see to you good and proper when we get home."

"Ok," she replied, gently trying to extricate herself from his grip. One of the saving graces over the last few days had been the fact that he had shown little interest in attempting to have sex with her, the alcohol usually the main factor. If he continued the way he had been, then she knew she was in little danger of him trying anything on with her. For that, she was thankful, but her body yearned to be touched and she found her mind wandering regularly to Frank. She wondered what his plans were for this evening. Would he be in the pub? Would he be with another woman? She shook her head, metaphorically trying to clear the image from her mind. He had told her he loved her, his words and actions only serving to compound that and though she knew he was unhappy about her being with Stewart, she was also confident that he wouldn't seek comfort elsewhere.

"Come on, we'd better get going," Stewart said suddenly, pulling back, his concern over her outfit seemingly forgotten.

She followed him downstairs to where the others were waiting and then they all began the short walk around to the high street where the restaurant was located. It had stopped snowing, but the wind was bitterly cold, and she pulled her coat tightly around herself, trying not to stumble in her heels. Ava walked alongside her, chatting inanely about subjects in which she had no interest, and it was almost a relief to reach the restaurant and be seated at the table.

Wine was instantly ordered and poured and the atmosphere around the table was jubilant. She tried to join in, tried to pretend that she was part of a happy family out celebrating together, but the cold insidious reality remained with her, invading every part of her. She felt somewhat numb and as though she was looking in from the outside. In a few days, weeks perhaps, she was going to betray all of them, and it didn't sit well with her.

"So, are you going to go for promotion again next year, Christina?"

The question, posed by David, jolted her back into reality and she looked at him across the table. "Promotion?"

"Yeah, are you going to take your sergeant's exam again?"

"Oh, well I hadn't really thought about it."

"She failed last time," Stewart said somewhat unnecessarily.

"Yes, I know that," David said, "but that doesn't mean she can't try again, does it?"

"Well…"

"I thought you were thinking about having children," Elizabeth cut in. "Isn't that what you told me, Stewart?"

"Yes, we're thinking about it," he looked at her, "aren't we?"

She found herself nodding, "Yes, it's something to think about."

"About time we had some grandchildren to spoil," Stewart's father Dennis said, "and not German ones either. No offence Ava, but you're a bit far away."

"None taken," Ava replied good-naturedly.

"Well, we'd have to see if we couldn't make it stick this time, eh Chris?" Stewart said. "No more silly miscarriages."

It was a word she had never used in conjunction with losing a previous pregnancy – silly. It almost felt as though he was blaming her, though he had never said as much, and she found herself looking at him. "Hardly silly."

"You know what I mean."

"I don't actually, but never mind." She looked down at the plate placed before her as the conversation continued and concentrated on eating her starter. Her throat felt dry, and she drained half her wine glass in one go. Looking up again, she caught her husband watching her, a strange look on his face, and felt almost relieved that they weren't sat next to one another. At one point, he rose from his chair to go to the toilet and came around the table towards her, bending as he went past.

"I reckon we could get you knocked up tonight."

A shiver ran through her as he walked away, and Frank's words came back to her about what she would do if he did want sex. He was still her husband. If she had to…if there was no other alternative…could Frank really hold that against her? She tried not to think about it for the rest of the meal, tried to engage herself in the conversation and give no outward sign that she was unhappy. As they left the table to head to the wine bar, Stewart wrapped his arm around her waist and put his mouth to her ear.

"Fancy finding an alley for a quickie?"

"No," she said, forcing a grin onto his face so that he would think she took his comment in good humour, "don't be daft."

"What's daft about it? Let's do it."

"Come on, don't be silly. We can't just disappear and, besides, I don't really fancy the idea of getting my bits out in this temperature."

"Hmmm…suppose so," he agreed, but he didn't let go of her until they were in the bar.

It was hot and crowded inside, bodies pressed up against each other everywhere you turned. Five minutes inside and she found herself wishing to be anywhere but there. Her days of wanting to spend New Year's Eve in places like this seemed to have passed, or was it just because of who she was with? Would she mind so much if she was pressed up against Frank? Would she have said no to a quickie down an alley with him?

The time dragged. She found herself checking her watch every few minutes, desperately wishing that the hands would move quicker. She wanted to be back in the house; she wanted to only have one more day to get through; she wanted to be anywhere but there. But time wasn't on her side and as midnight slowly approached, she found it more and more difficult to hold back the emotion she knew was bubbling inside her. Then there was a shout, and the countdown began. On the stroke of twelve, Stewart grabbed her roughly and pulled her in for a kiss that was longer and deeper than she wanted. She found her body recoiling at his touch, her heart sinking as his mouth found her ear and began whispering all the things he was going to do to her. She wanted to push him away, wanted to run from the bar, but she was trapped and forced to wait until everyone wanted to go home and, even then, she wasn't sure what was going to happen.

By the time they all left the bar, spirits high and alcohol tolerances reached, it was very clear what was going to happen. Stewart clung to her like a limpet, his grip around her waist almost iron-clad and she wasn't sure if he was being proprietary or if he was using her as a aid to walk. When they got back into the house, he pushed her back against the wall in the hallway and kissed her, eliciting a wolf whistle from David and protests of faux horror from his parents.

"Come on then," he breathed on her. "Let's get upstairs."

She had no time to protest, as he gripped her wrist roughly and pulled her up after him, the two of them tripping on the stairs which only led to everyone else believing they were desperate to get to bed. Nothing could have been further from the truth in her mind and once they had reached the bedroom, she pulled away from him.

"I think we should leave it."

"Leave it?" he looked at her as though she was crazy, "Don't be ridiculous, Chris, it's the first day of 1991 and you and I are going to fuck like rabbits." He pushed her back against the door and kissed her again, his tongue probing so deeply into her mouth that she almost gagged. His hands roamed over her body, and he began roughly pulling her dress upwards.

"No, come on…" she protested, twisting her mouth away from his. "It's been a long night…"

"We're just getting started," he replied, grappling under her dress and quickly becoming frustrated with the sheer tights she had on. Within seconds, his fingers had ripped through the gusset, the very noise making her stomach contract, and he was pulling them down her thighs.

"Stewart…"

"I know it's been a long time, darling, and I'm sorry. You must be feeling so neglected…" his hands slipped under her knickers, splaying out over her buttocks. "I'll make it up to you. Christ, feel how hard I am…" removing one hand, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand down between his thighs.

"No…"

"Yes…" he quickly unzipped his fly and pulled down his trousers and pants, forcing her hand onto his naked cock. "Yes…just like that…."

"I'm not doing this…"

"God, you could make me come just by doing that, darling, but I want to be inside you…I need to be inside you…"

"Stop it!" He thudded her back against the door again, trying to lift her thighs to wrap around his waist, clearly hellbent on taking her right then and there. In that moment, she knew that she couldn't; couldn't let him fuck her or make love to her or whatever he might want to call it; couldn't betray Frank… "Stop it!" she pushed him roughly away from her and rushed to the other side of the room, leaving him staring at her and looking somewhat comical with his penis in his hand. "I'm not doing this!"

"What the fuck?"

"I'm not doing this, Stewart, I can't. I can't do any of this anymore!"

"Any of what?"

"This! This marriage! I don't know who you are anymore, and I don't want to know! Your parents clearly don't know that you've lost your job and you've spent the entire time that we've been here pretending that we're happy when we're not! And all that stuff about getting me knocked up…" she shook her head and then reached under the bed for her bag. "It's not working, and you know it's not."

"What are you talking about?" he asked.

"I'm talking about this, us…it's over and you know it is." She began pulling clothes out of the wardrobe and tossing them into the bag, glancing occasionally at him as he stared at her, clearly of the mind that he had absolutely no clue that it was, in fact, over. "This can't be a surprise to you. Everything that's happened over the last few months since you got shot…the drinking, the arrests, your job…"

"What are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying, it's over between us. Finished." The sound of the words brought a clarity to her brain and, for the first time in a long time, she actually felt a sense of calm. "You need help…"

"No, no, no…" he shook his head. "No, you're not leaving."

"Yes, I am. I've wanted to tell you for a while but…"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

"No…no, that's not happening," his tone took on a slight note of panic. "We've been together a long time, Chris, you don't just throw all that away because of a few problems."

"A few problems? Stewart, you're an alcoholic!"

"No, I'm not!"

"You are! Before you got shot you never drank the way you do now! You spend most of your time in bed or lying on the couch like some sort of dosser! You've lost your job and seemingly have no intention of getting another…"

"You don't know what it's like!" he stepped towards her. "You don't know what it's like to lose everything…!"

"You didn't lose everything! You still had me, only you've done everything in your power to push me away, literally, in one case!" He looked confused. "You pushed me in the pub, right in front of everyone! And then you threw that glass at my head…"

"I did not push you!" he retorted. "For fuck's sake…"

"Yes, you did, and I didn't deserve it!" Tears sprang into her eyes. "I care for you, I do, but I can't live like this anymore." She finished throwing in the rest of her belongings and then zipped up the bag.

"Ok," he said, "ok, you need some time, some space, I can understand that. I know things have been difficult but…we can sort it out, we can work on it…"

She shook her head, "I don't want to work on it, not anymore. I want a divorce, Stewart." The word hung in the air between them and the look of devastation on his face made her feel ten times worse than she had anticipated that she might.

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I want a divorce."

"No…you don't mean that, you can't mean that…" he came around the bed towards her. "I took you in…we took you in…"

"I know, and I'll be forever grateful…"

"You don't just walk away…we took vows before God…"

"I'm sorry…"

"You're sorry? You're sorry?!" Fury contorted his face. "You're walking out on me after fourteen years and all you can say is that you're fucking sorry?!" She tried to edge her way towards the bedroom door, but he blocked her path. "You're not leaving, Chris. You're not leaving me…"

"I am, I'm sorry."

"No," he took hold of the bag in her hand and tried to pull it away. "No, you're not going."

"Let it go, Stewart, please," she pulled back.

"No, you have to stay, please you have to stay!"

"I can't. Let go!"

"There's someone else, isn't there?" he said suddenly, rushing towards her so that she was pressed once more against the wall, the bag between them. "Who is it?"

"There's nobody," she lied, "this is about us." His face suddenly crumpled, and she felt a stab of pure pain in her gut. "I'm sorry, I really am."

"No…" he stepped away from her and she took the opportunity to get to the door, pulling it open and starting down the stairs. She could hear the others talking in the living room and hoped that Stewart would just stay upstairs, drown in his own misery, and let her leave without causing a scene. Her hopes remained unfounded however as he suddenly screamed her name, and she heard his footsteps thundering down the stairs behind her. Panic shot through her, and she ran for the front door, fumbling with the lock.

"You're not leaving me!" Stewart raged. "You're not leaving!"

She pulled the door open, only for him to slam it shut from behind her, and she suddenly remembered a very similar and yet so different scenario from only a few weeks earlier when she had been in Frank's flat.

"What's going on?" David emerged from the living room followed by Ava and his parents.

"She's not leaving!" Stewart shouted. "Don't let her leave!"

"Chris?" Elizabeth asked, "what's happening?"

"I'm sorry, everyone," she heard herself say, "but I have to go. Stewart, open the door."

"No!"

"Open the door!" she pulled at the handle, trying to force it open as he held it closed. "Let me out!"

"You're not leaving me, you bitch!" he took hold of her hair with one hand and yanked her roughly round to face him. "You're not leaving!"

"Stewart!" David yelled, "let her go."

"What?" he turned to look at his brother.

"Let her go, she's not worth it."

Though she couldn't be sure if he was being serious or simply trying to distract his brother, she felt a sudden rush of gratitude towards her brother-in-law. After what felt like an eternity, Stewart released his grip on her, pushing her roughly away from him, his expression a mix of fury, contempt and pain.

Without waiting to hear anymore, she pulled the door open and ran out down the steps and into the inky night.

XXXX

He was groggy when the phone rang, and it took him several minutes to coordinate his brain and hand to answer it.

"Hello?" There was a long pause, and, for a moment, he thought it was a hoax call. "Hello?"

"Frank?" The sound of her voice made him suddenly snap into consciousness and, glancing at the clock beside the bed, he saw it was nearly two am. "I'm sorry...I'm sorry to call you like this..."

"What's happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine...I've…" she paused, and, for moment, he wasn't sure if she was still there. "I've left him."

"You've what?"

"I've left him. I walked out and…and I left him."

A thousand emotions rushed through him, and he found himself offering up a silent grateful prayer of thanks. "Where are you?"

"I'm…in the city centre."

"You're still in Leicester?"

"Yes."

"Right," he looked at the clock again. "I'm coming."

"No…"

"Yes, I'm coming for you," he swung his legs over the bed. "Where exactly are you?"

"I…just the city centre."

"Ok, are there any hotels nearby?"

There was another long pause. "Yes, there's a Travel Lodge just round by the cinema."

"Right, I want you to go there and get a room. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"But…"

"Don't argue with me, Chris, just go there, ok? Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"Hang up and go there. I should be with you in a couple of hours, ok? Ok?"

"Ok."

"Ok." He paused. "I love you."

"I love you too," she replied, before the line went dead.

As though the hounds of hell were chasing him, he threw on his clothes, grabbed his wallet and keys and raced for the car. It should only take two- and a-bit hours to get there, maybe less at this time of night, though he had to factor in the weather too. As he pulled away from the kerb, he could only wonder what had happened to make her leave so abruptly in the middle of the night and yet he found that, ultimately, he didn't really care. What mattered was that she had done it.

The road was initially busy, but as he hit the motorway, the number of vehicles grew smaller, and he found himself exceeding the speed limit, hoping there were no traffic cops on duty in the area. At least he had his warrant card.

Not being familiar with Leicester itself, it took him a few wrong turns, not to mention some expletives, before he found the cinema and, as a result, the hotel next to it. He parked and made his way to the front desk, staffed only by a tired looking receptionist who was clearly irritated at having to work on New Year's Eve. "Christina Lewis?" he asked, hoping he could charm her if she got lippy.

"Room 21," she replied, flicking through a book in front of her. "You a relative?"

"Something like that." Moments later, he found himself standing outside room 21 knocking softly his heart, for some almost inexplicable reason, in his mouth. "Chris? It's me."

Seconds later, the door opened, and she was stood in front of him, her face pale but free of tears. She was wearing a black dress that he could only assume had been her attire for the evening's celebrations but before he could ask her anything, she stepped forward into his embrace, pulling him tightly to her, burying her face in his shoulder and relaxing into him. He didn't want to say anything, didn't want to even move, and an overwhelming sense of victory flooded him.

He had won. She was his now.