She's Never Coming Back Read Online Free PDF Page B

with pleading eyes.
    He had his hand down his trousers. What was he doing?
    Ylva looked at the woman, who was smiling at her.
    ‘Yes, talk, certainly. You can talk and we can listen. Sit here and listen to what you’ve got to say, try to understand. That’s certainly one way of doing it.’
    The man played with his penis, got an erection.
    ‘Give me your hands,’ the woman said to Ylva.
    The man undid his trousers and stepped out of them, pulled down his pants. His hard-on was visible under his shirt.
    ‘Your hands,’ the woman repeated.
    Ylva threw herself off the bed, in the direction of the locked door. The man quickly caught up with her. He grabbed hold of her arm, spun her round and hit her across the cheek again with his open hand. He twisted her arm upbehind her back and pushed her in front of him over to the bed.
    Ylva kicked and screamed, which only seemed to make the couple more determined. The woman pulled Ylva’s jeans down to her knees. The man shoved her across the bed. The woman went round to the other side and yanked Ylva’s head up by the hair.
    ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Ylva cried.
    ‘No,’ the woman said. ‘You didn’t.’
    Just then, Ylva felt the man force himself into her.
    Her eyes smarted with the pain and her vision blurred. But still she could see the woman smiling at her.
    ‘When’s Mummy coming home?’
    ‘I don’t know, sweetheart. She said she might go out with some people from work.’
    ‘Again?’
    ‘She didn’t know for sure.’
    ‘She’s always out.’
    ‘No, sweetheart, she’s not.’
    ‘Always, all the time,’ Sanna said, and flounced off to the sitting room and the TV.
    She stopped in the doorway and turned round.
    ‘What’s for supper?’
    ‘Spaghetti and mince.’
    ‘Red?’
    ‘Red.’
    For some unknown reason, their daughter preferred the cheat’s version with ready-made tomato sauce to Ylva’s far tastier variant.
    When it was served later, Sanna would be obliged to pick out with surgical precision any life-threatening traces of onion and red pepper before she could eat. Other than that, she showed remarkable interest in whatever was put on the table. If there was any cause for complaint, it was the time it took for her to eat. A Tibetan monk couldn’t have been less concerned about time.
    Mike gazed out at the street and wondered if he should give Ylva a quick call, after all. Find out if she was going to come home for supper. He decided not to. For tactical reasons. It wasn’t because he was proud.
    A year ago, Ylva had had an affair with one of her clients. A restaurant owner with no notable qualities other than a cheesy grin that Ylva couldn’t seem to get enough of.
    Mike had kicked up a storm. It was a soap opera from start to finish, or at least reminiscent of an episode from one.Mike was totally dependent on his wife and would rather that she was unfaithful to him for the rest of his life than be forced to live without her.
    And yet, in weaker moments, hate was his companion, it latched on to him and walked beside him, too close, constantly tapping on his shoulder, demanding attention and energy.
    Do something, the voice insisted. Do something.
    In those moments, the world shrunk. The skies pushed down and hovered right above Mike’s head, like a basement ceiling.
    He’d read somewhere that the person who was unfaithful often felt even worse. That it was all about confirmation and projected self-loathing, all that psychology bullshit that only they believed in and used to justify their behaviour.
    Mike enjoyed playing the victim, to a certain extent. Not in the sense that he wanted everyone to know he was a cuckold, but in the privacy of his own home there’d be plenty of self-pity and accusing looks.
    In the end, he went too far and Ylva gave him an ultimatum.
    ‘Things are the way they are. Either we put it behind us and move on …’
    She was standing at the sink peeling potatoes when she said it. She paused, turned around with the