Chapter 1

Beverley woke with a start, the screech of the alarm clock bursting through her ear drums. The morning sun leaked through the thin curtains, blinding her as her eyes slowly adjusted. She reached for her mobile phone and switched off the alarm, sighing to herself as she felt her whole body ache with tiredness.

At the age of 40, she had not yet gotten used to the fact that she had far less energy than she once did. The tiny single bed that felt lumpy and weak beneath her seemed seemed to be entirely at odds with its prime function of facilitating rest.

She looked around the room. Posters of pop stars hung to the wall, the small desk by the window was strewn with exercise books, text books and the small laptop that she had bought for her daughter, Molly, the previous year.

Beverley had always thought the room to be more than adequate for Molly, but in the months since she had begun sleeping there instead it seemed small, more fit for storage than a bedroom.

Her feet hit the ground as she rolled half heartedly out of bed. She tried to remember what time it was she had eventually gotten to sleep and recalled it must have been at least 3 o’clock. She had resorted to watching a BBC documentary about Henry VIII on her iPad, principally to drown out the noise coming from down the hallway.

Not a day had gone by since the St Augustine’s school talent contest where she hadn’t regretted encouraging her husband to claim the first prize of the raffle. It wasn’t that she minded the smirking nods of passers by on the street. Nor was it the almost daily letters from those who had witnessed the night’s events offering large sums of money to spend just a few hours with her daughter. It was that ever since she had allowed John to take Molly’s virginity, he had absolutely no interest in her whatsoever. She knew their marriage was effectively over, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit it publicly.

Molly was three months pregnant, and neither her nor John had given a moment’s thought into the impact it would have on their lives. Who would take care of it? What would happen to Molly’s education and life chances? Every time she had raised it at the family dining table she was met with stone silence.

Beverley made her way to the family bathroom, grimacing to herself as she saw her naked body in the mirror. She was still beautiful, but her once taut body was now beginning to loosen, near naturally voluminous hair seemed to be getting thinner and the sparkle in her deep blue eyes now seemed dull. It really was no surprise that John had become so obsessed with Molly, who at 14 years of age had shimmering strawberry blonde hair, a small, delicate and feminine body with breasts that were perfectly round and symmetrical. She knew he would never look at her again in the same lustful way he now did Molly.

She showered, wrapped a towel tightly around herself and walked quietly into the hallway. Even though some months had passed since she had been relegated to her child’s room, most of her clothes remained in the master bedroom that was now occupied by John and Molly.

The clock had already struck 8am. John and Molly’s bedroom door was still shut, but the faint sound of the morning radio indicated that they were at least awake. The idea of going into their room to retrieve her clothes filled her with dread. The initial excitement of watching her husband and daughter have sex had long since been replaced with dread and fear. She couldn’t bear it when the two kissed in front of her, or made any sign that their relationship had changed so dramatically. But nevertheless, if she waited for them to emerge there was little doubt she would be late for work.

She made her way towards the door, took a deep breath and knocked. There was no response other than the chattering of the two radio hosts busy exchanging cliched stories about the weather and the state of the traffic. She knocked again, this time more firmly. But the response was the same.

Beverley sighed. There was little else to do other than tentatively open the door, fearful of what she might see. As she pushed the door open she saw the bed was empty, but the distinct sound of water rushing out of the ensuite shower drowned out the low volume of the radio.

She stepped in. The room was bright, the pale yellow paint on the walls reflecting the morning sun. The sight of the bed now pained her - this was her room as well, but the knowledge that it was her daughter who now slept in it felt a punch in the stomach. The paintings on the wall, the wardrobes and chest of drawers, were all the same, yet it felt like a different room now.

The door hit something as she pushed it further open. A tall metal tripod - a gift to John from her parents that Christmas - stood upright, tightly holding Molly’s mobile phone which was still switched on, the video setting of the camera still glowing brightly from the screen. It faced the bed directly.

The bedside table, usually the home to Beverley’s book and reading glasses, now sat empty with the exception of an expensive looking card bag with the Agent Provocateur logo emblazoned along the side. A written note hung from the side, attached by a small piece of string.

‘Molly, wear this as a little treat for your Dad. Hope you two love birds are enjoying yourselves! Lots of love. Miss Driscoll.’

Beverley rolled her eyes in scorn. The bag was empty, but an expensive looking faded pink lace chemise laid gently on the pillow case, the unmistakable mark of dried semen spotted across the top.

The more she looked the more she despised what had happened to her. A pair of handcuffs lied, chained to the metal frame of the bed. A large bottle of lubricant, now almost empty, strewn on the floor. A large, black vibrator stood upright on John’s bedside table. It infuriated and embarrassed her in equal measure. She had bought the vibrator two years earlier to compensate for her absent sex life, and had kept it so well hidden John had never once discovered it.

Her blood was boiling - she closed her eyes and tried to count to ten, breathing deeply in a vain attempt to calm herself down.

She was interrupted by a new noise, emanating from the ensuite bathroom. The door was partially open and she tried to see through the steam, but all she could see was the condensation form like a cloud against the mirror.

“Oh my god Dad...”

Beverley’s heart sank. Above the dull pop music of the radio and the gentle hiss of the shower, the familiar sound of John’s masculine grunts was unavoidable.

“Oh my god. Dad you are so big, oh my god.”

She collapsed onto the bed, her legs shaking in rage at the sound of Molly’s pleasure.

“Am I tight? Is my arse as tight as Miss Driscoll’s?”

John’s voice boomed out.

“Oh darling. You’re every bit as tight and every bit as beautiful as Miss Driscoll.”