1 The Cuckoo's Calling

“Yeah, we have.”
“Stick!”
“It’s fine, Luce. I’m fine.”
But her good humor had been obliterated in a great gush of fury and
disappointment. Strike waited patiently, exhausted and sore, while she raged: she
had known all along, known that Charlotte would do it all over again; she had
lured him away from Tracey, and from his fantastic army career, rendered him as
insecure as possible, persuaded him to move in, only to dump him—
“I ended it, Luce,” he said, “and Tracey and I were over before…” but he
might as well have commanded lava to flow backwards: why hadn’t he realized
that Charlotte would never change, that she had only returned to him for the
drama of the situation, attracted by his injury and his medal? The bitch had
played the ministering angel and then got bored; she was dangerous and wicked;
measuring her own worth in the havoc she caused, glorying in the pain she
inflicted…
“I left her, it was my choice…”
“Where have you been living? When did this happen? That absolute bloody
bitch—no, I’m sorry, Stick, I’m not going to pretend anymore—all the years and
years of shit she’s put you through—oh God, Stick, why didn’t you marry
Tracey?”
“Luce, let’s not do this, please.”
He moved aside some of her John Lewis bags, full, he saw, of small pants and
socks for her sons, and sat down heavily on the sofa. He knew he looked grubby
and scruffy. Lucy seemed on the verge of tears; her day out in town was ruined.
“I suppose you haven’t told me because you knew I’d do this?” she said at last,
gulping.
“It might’ve been a consideration.”
“All right, I’m sorry,” she said furiously, her eyes shining with tears. “But that
bitch, Stick. Oh God, tell me you’re never going to go back to her. Please just tell
me that.”
“I’m not going back to her.”
“Where are you staying—Nick and Ilsa’s?”
“No. I’ve got a little place in Hammersmith” (the first place that occurred to
him, associated, now, with homelessness). “Bedsit.”
“Oh Stick…come and stay with us!”