Out for Revenge Read online

  OUT

  FOR

  REVENGE

  BY CHRIS WOOD

  CHAPTER 1

  “What are your plans Miss Walsh; you are now a very wealthy woman? We have here at lottery headquarters, a fantastic team of financial advisors, who are here to help you.” I looked at the man in front of me and smiled, and told them I would take as much advice as they could offer me. I must have looked dazed and confused, because I was. I was ecstatic and messed up; god I had a whole load of emotions running through my mind. Four days ago, I was depressed and in a grotty bedsit, but the one sure thing now was… I was rich and all thanks to being, fed up in my grotty bedsit four nights ago…

  I had been feeling quite sorry for myself, for a change. I hated my job, a trained monkey could do it, I’d just come in from there, went to the fridge, nothing in for dinner, so I’d sat deciding what to do with my night? I looked round the bedsit and decided I’d go and post the completed, last part of my accountancy course. I would be a qualified accountant; correspondence courses and I were a big hit; I loved them.

  Good job really or I wouldn’t have managed to get my qualifications in hotel management, despite two try’s at doing it in a normal collage. Along with the hotel management course, I also completed marketing, media, legal and secretarial courses. I had done several over the years. I was by my own admission, a correspondence learning addict. I hovered up the qualifications and advanced on the ones I already had.

  I’d finished the last of the course work and had popped it into the post box. On my way, back I stopped for a pack of chewing gum and a euro lottery ticket, and oh a packet of crisps for dinner and a can of diet coke, what an exciting night, lay ahead of me, I’d watch my Indian Jones box set, again.

  I also answered my emails from my friend Francesco, giving me the gossip from Blackpool. My cousin Linda, she had asked if I’d finalised the revenge plan yet, she informed me too had met someone in the pub who remembered me, but she was too drunk and couldn’t remember the name, but he and she had had a long chat, too drunk to remember who though, typical. My sisters Janice’s e-mail, was cancelling the planned trip out to Australia, lack of funds. A part of the revenge plan, my lack of funds. I was watching the euro numbers come up as I typed away. I was also busy applying for new positions on the hotel management websites. I was too qualified to do the job I was currently doing, but it was the only one, I could find. I was keeping my nose to the grindstone and starting again after my disastrous yearlong marriage to Glyn Barren, god was he the worst mistake of my stupid life. Another part of the revenge thing I had going on.

  How had I been blindsided by the man, I will never know? I wonder what I ever saw in him, apart from well… He was good looking, and made the woman in me feel alive, god he was good in bed even though if you ask me now, I will swear he was useless, and I faked it. He god he made me happy in that department, and he now makes me sick to my stomach. Making me miss sex again; after so bloody long managing to do without it before him too.

  I had come of far worse in the divorce than I deserved, but that was my own stupid fault for believing he loved me, why would he love me, he was younger than I was, by over ten years and a smooth talking son-of-a-bitch. He like my other ex-husband liked to sleep around and wasn’t happy with what was on offer at home, why was I hit with the very same stupid stick twice?

  After the divorce, I found he had slept with anything that came his way, Quelle surprise. I got nothing, out of my wasted year with him, but a promise of half the money for my furniture, all of which I had actually purchased in the first bloody place, that was the lowest blow. He had moved into my home, from his bedsit when we married, he had shared my life in every way. I had even allowed him into my finances; that was my biggest mistake.

  Oh, I drank a lot that shity weekend, after I moved back home, to live in Devon with my mother, I was an old woman, forty one, and now back living at home with my sick mother, bring in the house full of cats. The first night back, my cousin Linda and I got drunker than a pair of skunks, and we had spent the night planning revenge on the bastards, who had helped to ruin my life; we laughed and joked about it that night, the ideas were saved on my laptop, the very one I watched the euro draw on. I now though wanted just that, I wanted my revenge.

  I also had an older more painful score to settle, the one that started all this… What was it with my choices in men and boys? God, I knew how to pick them…NOT. All cut from the same cloth, what was it with the arse holes in my life? He would have to wait. I had to find him first.

  I looked up and I had four numbers, well the drinks are on the euro at the weekend then. I sent the emails, and looked back at the little screen. Oh, I had the next. I suddenly got a knot in my stomach as they released the bonus balls. Yes, as if I’m due that amount of good luck. Hell, I got the number five ball, come on baby, number eight, lucky number eight, come on… The ball shot up the tube… Was I seeing things?

  Come on my lucky number is eight… I think I may have passed out because I woke up and had the ticket in my sticky little hand; I had won the sodding euro lottery’s six-time roll over; and I was in for a share of sixty eight million sodding pounds. I danced around my grotty bedsit, whom did I phone? Whom do I tell? I slumped down on the crappy couch; Linda was back in America, to her fantastic life as a Vegas showgirl.

  She assures me it’s not as glam as it seems and her feet and legs kill her all the time. I had no one to tell, I looked at the ticket and decided to sleep on it, wrapping the signed ticket carefully, putting it in a plastic bag, and hid it in the coffee canister, in case I was robbed in the night, which burglar steels, cheap and nasty coffee? Carrie Constance Wright was rich.

  Was that really only four nights ago? I had requested no publicity; they understood and didn’t push it… After I said no for oh, I don’t know twenty thousand times. I didn’t want everyone to know I had money; shit no, too many people would be knocking on my door and asking for money.

  People who didn’t give a fig when Mum died and I had next to nothing to bury her with and I had to give her the crappiest funeral, but it was all I could afford. Glen, the bastard refusing to help me out, we were after all now divorced, and his money was just that his, bugger it, that he owed me five grand the agreed price of half the furniture. He would be the first to pay.

  Informed my money had been transferred to the bank; I did the happy dance in my head, I do hope the bank manager doesn’t mind the overdraft being paid off. I laugh as I was struggling to get rid of it. Given though a thousand pound overdraft towards the remaining funeral costs, but refused a loan. I was now wealthy and out for revenge. I had two ex-husbands and two children, both with long stories attached.

  Yes, I have two children, who both chose to live their own lives and like their father, my first husband; Dylan hadn’t given me a second thought in years… I am what were their words, when I saw them last? Oh that’s right a disgrace and they were ashamed to call me mother. Jennifer was the woman they looked up to, and gave their family the right look; she fitted the image, I after that meeting with my children slipped further into my depression.

  I had tried to see them over the past five years but they wouldn’t see me, despite me camping out like a bag lady at their posh school, and outside their home, moved on by the police twice, at their grandparents’ insistence. I was alone, they hated me and were embarrassed by me, I returned home and contemplated what I was to do with the rest of my life, they didn’t want me, but I had to carry on. Get better and earn their trust and respect. I had a lot of work to do and it wasn’t going to come quickly, either. I had to wait, however long it took them to realise, that I wasn’t the bad person in all this. It was going to be a long, long wait, their father um, well let’s just say he will let
them down again, and I won’t be there to make him look good anymore. He has past form for it.

  Dylan was an absentee father, and I for the most part had brought them up as a single parent; his and my two children Harriet and Dylan junior, now twenty-one year old twins; who took their fathers side in the divorce, even though he had been sleeping with his assistant, come secretary, for years. It was my fault for being such a frumpy stay at home mother, who liked the soaps and chocolate and not making an effort. I had turned into a sloth, they were right, but he had brow beaten and bullied me all our married life, he criticized and belittled me every chance he got.

  Yes, and I took it; because each day, he ate away at a little more of my confidence, he would constantly make me feel small and useless, he attacked my confidence slowly. He made me believe I was ugly, had nothing, I had no friends of my own, and I had long since stopped entertaining his clients in our home, he preferred to take them out instead.

  Jennifer had stepped in to fill the void of his wife. Who, he told them, what was it again, what did he say was the reason; I no longer came to functions? I heard him tell a crowd of guests at a party I did bother getting dressed up for…. That’s it… ‘She is quite ill, and a sorry state, and has taken to her bed, nerves poor woman, quite the wreck of the once pretty woman I married.’ The perky breasted Miss George saved the day, hoorah for fucking her. I’d proved him right, I was an abomination, and I looked at her and then back at my image in the mirror, that night.

  I long since stopped caring what I looked like, and what I wore. I was always neat and tidy; but in a mummy way, and not a yummy mummy way. More, horse and jockey type mum, really… If nobody else cared, that I wasn’t a fashion clotheshorse, why did I need to bother trying. The other mum’s looked like me at the school; well those who actually like me, picked their children up, most sent their au pairs to pick up their kids. I went home and cried for a week.

  He had long since stopped taking me to functions, not because I was bad with my nerves, the liar, it was because, I was, far too wrapped up with the twins, they were my whole world. Being the dowdy homemaker, I was with; I was fine with being just me, neat clean and well turned out. As long as they were happy children, and they were, they were grounded and loving children, they did well in all their schools, clubs and activities, very popular kids at school, they did everything they wanted to do, as long as it broadened their horizons.

  I loved being their mother; they were my life. I fought hard for them to stay at home with me, and not be sent away to separate boarding schools. Their grandparents lost that battle. However, in winning that victory, I lost the battle for public schools. They had the best private education money could buy, foreign holidays with their father and grandparents.

  Me, well, I went on a few with them, but I felt awkward and didn’t fit in. So in the end they went with their father, and then when the twins left for collage, I had nothing to focus on, they had been my life for so long everything I did was for them. Depression was a big problem for me, that and being alone, in the house, he hardly came back to, and the children came back less and less.

  I did change though, but only when I found out the extent of Dylan’s infidelity and with whom. He’d screwed around all our married life, the low point was finding out he had taken the neighbour, the woman I had classed as my best friend Clarisse, to Venice for the weekend of our tenth anniversary, he was at an important hoteliers conference, was his excuse that year. Even when I was giving birth to the twin’s and his rush back from a business conference only just in time to make the delivery, he had in fact been with yet another friend from the pony club.

  Another time he screwed the private tutor, I employed, to get their grades improved for their upcoming maths A-levels; she got my fifteenth wedding anniversary trip, to Paris. Not that he ever took me anywhere; he never came home for anniversaries. The statements read, as though he took me, Mr and Mrs Smyth, had travelled to some wonderful places each year. Pity I wasn’t the Mrs Smyth there with my husband, on our anniversaries.

  What snapped me out of the doldrums? Well I did eventually, at last; I had woken, smelt the coffee, why? I was taking his clothes to the dry cleaners, as I rummaged through his pockets; I found a receipt for a very expensive tennis bracelet. I was so excited he had bought me a birthday gift, he had remembered this year. I sat at home that night and anxiously waited, I made a special effort, hairdressers, new clothes, I cooked him a wonderful meal, candles and even got a few of the old toys out, and waited for him to come home and give it to me; nothing came home that birthday, not even him. Why was I surprised, you stupid, stupid woman?

  What did come home the day after? ‘Just to grab my weekend bag darling, you know for the Brussels trip’. With him was Jennifer George, his young, glamorous, leggy, and beautiful assistant, wearing a rather splendid, very expensive tennis bracelet, it cost him more than my yearly clothes allowance, shit more than his fucking wine bill for the year at Berry and Bros, she had waltzed into our home and perched herself on my chair arm and scanned my home. Oh, hell, he will pay, the stupid arrogant bastard…

  He had done this to me brought his mistresses, to our home, of course I knew he had women, I wasn’t that naive, he had a high sex drive, and he had long since stopped everything with me. He had until her though never rubbed my nose in it, she was serious; this one was to be my Achilles heel. I decided to get the evidence I needed to set about divorcing him, he had pushed that button, the unwritten rule, if I didn’t see it, it wasn’t happening rule, but it was and boy would he pay for breaking the rule.

  So, when he went away on that damn business meeting to Brussels, with the firm. I finished err, two, perhaps more bottles of a chateau puffed vet niff thing; well, something expensive, some posh crate of a wine, one he was saving, for that special occasion, it tasted crap, whatever wine it was. It got me in the party mood though; I had all weekend alone to play.

  I went into the loft; dragged down all our old bank statements and credit card receipts, he never threw anything away. All boxed at the end of the financial year. The box then shoved in the loft, year after sorry year. I had nothing to do with the finances at all. They were, well over my brain intelligence, I‘d, show him the two timing son-of-a-bitch.

  Consequently, I went through all the bank statements and for the last ten years of our married life. The bastard had spent a small fortune of rooms, gifts, and flowers. None ever coming home to me, I was a bloody good mother to his children, whom he forced into my body, bitter thing to say but true, I wanted to wait, until I qualified, and we were a tad older, mad at the pills failure, but glad when I got them. Nevertheless, the deceitful, way in which they got there was unforgivable…

  Until they went away to college, it was me being there for them, day in day out, helping them with their homework taking them to their extra classes, me not him. He had a beautiful home, I cooked, I cleaned, his children despite him were wonderful, and I taught him all he was in the bedroom department, though I suppose he may have improved with the practice he has gotten in over the years. I even did his fucking work for him. I made excuses to his children, invented reasons why daddy was away again, I covered his arse, so they never thought less of him…

  He was always away, he let them down time after time, promising them he would see their school teachers on parents night, watching their football matches, dance recital’s, watch sports days, no he was always too busy. He always brought a nice gift to say sorry and always they forgave. I was always bad cop, to his fucking perfect good cop. I never stood a chance, not with him controlling the money and my life.

  How had I been so bloody stupid, so naïve, so under the bloody thumb, I decided to change. Too late to save my sham of a marriage, but not too late to change my life, but was it too little too late? I had slipped far down the career pole, but I had kept my hand in the business and finished my degree and other courses over the years of our marriage, doing it through the Open University, I could fit them in with the chil
dren and not leave them.

  Dylan made sure I did his paperwork for work; he was useless, and I would spend all my nights doing his work from home, he would send it in emails, and files would appear over the weekend for me to work on. Marketing, sales staff rotas and room improvements, all done by me, I was the one earning his salary, he was just the face of the hotel. He would pay…

  I got great pleasure in cutting all his clothes into pieces. All the work he had left for me that weekend, the cheeky bastard, was shredded. After I made note of all the board members, and sent each one a very damming report on his personal expenses, he’d claimed from the company, some reports showing their wives, girlfriends, mistresses or even their daughters accompanying him, naughty little Dom, servicing the boards chattels and whores.

  It was a very important meeting too, daddy had sent a handwritten letter, it was very important the board members had this first thing Monday for the early expansion plans the board were meeting to discuss. I had the e-mails all set to auto post first thing Monday; he was going straight to head office, his parting shot… “I won’t be back until Tuesday, possibly Wednesday darling.” Kiss to the cheek and off.

  So, what next, his very expensive wine cellar emptied… It went in four car loads to the church; given to their repair their roof fund, with a note that the wine was worth a lot of money, as I had stopped drinking for the sake of my health, ‘hic, umm needed to stop drinking, soon it was clouding my good judgment Hahahaha’. So, vicar, best to get a wine expert in, it will repair the roof and pay the heating bill for the year, tad chilly round the ankles my pew, vicar.

  Next door, got copies of his wife’s infidelities, poor man, worked so hard to keep her, Clarisse in those expensive knickers from Harvey Nicks, for him, Dylan, to rip off her skinny arse. Receipts showing phone calls home, from their shared hotel room, flowers he sent her and a list of jewellery he had bought her, time’s dates and trips taken together. I am not bitter; I am getting even, enough evidence to divorce her, if he wanted too. They both would pay, he was chair of the golf club Dylan wanted in at, ha not happening. I bent all his very expensive clubs and filled his leather bag with cement, arranging them like dried flowers it looked lovey in his much-praised koi-carp pond!