FOURTEEN
As I travel to work, the maelstrom in my mind gradually, gradually calms down. Walking along the London pavements, I feel as though with every step I’m pushing my problems down. Away. I mean, I have to get on with life, don’t I? I can’t sit crying and shaking at work.
To my surprise, as I enter Willoughby House, Mrs Kendrick is in the hall, along with Robert and an unfamiliar guy in a blue suit with a shaven head. The guy is looking around the spacious, tiled hall with a practised eye, and I instantly know he’s in property.
‘Hello, Mrs Kendrick!’ I say. ‘How lovely to see you here. It’s been a while!’
‘Sylvie, I’m so sorry.’ She puts a hand on my arm. ‘I know I’ve left you in the lurch recently. I’ve been rather busy.’
‘Robert said you’ve been learning to use a computer?’
‘Indeed I have! I have an Apple Mac.’ She says the words carefully, as though enunciating a foreign language. A-pple Mac.
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘Amazing.’
‘Oh, you can do all sorts of things on it. I bought this “online”, you know.’ She plucks at the white frilly shirt she’s wearing. ‘Do you see? They delivered it straight to my house from the shop. I just had to type in my credit card number. So convenient.’ She nods, as though satisfied with herself. ‘And then I reviewed it on Review Your Stuff. Four stars out of five. Nice fabric but the buttons are a little cheap. You can read my review, if you like.’
I feel a bit speechless. Mrs Kendrick has gone from not knowing what a computer is, barely, to reviewing products online?
‘Right,’ I say at last. ‘Well, I don’t know that particular website—’
‘Oh, but you must, you must.’ She fixes me with a glittering eye. ‘Reviewing is the most marvellous hobby. You can review anything. I reviewed the policeman standing outside my block of flats yesterday.’
Robert turns and stares at her incredulously.
‘Aunt Margaret, you can’t review policemen.’
‘Of course you can,’ says Mrs Kendrick crisply. ‘In the “General” category you can review anything you like. Teabags … holidays … policemen. I’m afraid I only gave him three stars. He was slightly dull about the eyes and wore his uniform badly.’
As she speaks, she eyes the shaven-headed guy meaningfully, and I bite my lip. Mrs Kendrick is back on form. Thank God for that. And I’m definitely going to look up some of her reviews. I just love the idea of Mrs Kendrick’s views on life being disseminated across the internet.
The shaven-headed guy moves towards the rear of the hall and I say quietly, ‘Who’s that?’
‘That is Robert’s guest. I believe his name is “Mike”.’ She enunciates ‘Mike’ with slight disdain.
‘You know his name is Mike,’ says Robert patiently.
‘Really, Robert, this has nothing to do with me,’ says Mrs Kendrick frostily. ‘You may proceed however you wish. When I’m dead, it will all be yours, anyway.’
‘Are you selling up?’ I stare at Robert. ‘Weren’t you going to give us a chance first?’
‘I’m finding out our options,’ he says a little testily. ‘Gathering information.’
‘Some people give up.’ Mrs Kendrick gives Robert a scathing look. ‘Others think outside the space.’
‘“Outside the space”?’ As Robert confronts Mrs Kendrick, he seems beleaguered and I wonder if this disagreement has been going on all morning. ‘Outside the space isn’t even a saying! As I’ve told you, all I’m doing is getting a valuation …’
‘And as I have told you, Robert,’ Mrs Kendrick retorts crisply, ‘I have come up with an ingenious plan in which you do not seem interested. You may think I’m a dinosaur, but I can move with the times.’
Robert sighs. ‘Look, I am interested, but I need to deal with this first …’
‘It is a forward-looking idea.’ Mrs Kendrick turns to me. ‘It involves a smartphone.’
I clamp my lips together, trying not to smile. Mrs Kendrick enunciates ‘smartphone’ with the same care as ‘Apple Mac’, accentuating ‘phone’ instead of ‘smart’. ‘Smartphone’.
‘Mavis, where is your smartphone?’ She raises her voice. ‘We need the smartphone.’
Mavis is one of our most stalwart volunteers, a plump lady with dark bobbed hair, shapeless dresses and sturdy shoes that she wears all year round. She’s clutching an iPhone and brandishes it at Mrs Kendrick. ‘Here you are, Margaret. Are you ready?’
‘Well, not quite.’ Mrs Kendrick looks around the hall, as though seeing the occasional tables and porcelain urns and eighteenth-century paintings for the first time.
What on earth is she planning to do? Take a selfie? Post a picture of Willoughby House online? Write a review?
‘Where shall I stand?’ Mavis looks around. ‘A few steps back, I think?’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Kendrick nods. ‘Perfect.’
I’m watching, intrigued, as they manoeuvre themselves round the hall. Mavis keeps holding her iPhone up as though to frame Mrs Kendrick, and the pair of them seem to have something quite specific in mind.
‘Robert, to the left,’ says Mrs Kendrick suddenly. ‘Just a little. And “Mike”?’ Even as she addresses him, she manages to make his name sound ridiculous. ‘Could you possibly stand on the stairs? Now, quiet, everyone, I’m going to film.’
Before anyone can protest, she draws breath, beams at the iPhone and begins speaking, whilst simultaneously walking backwards over the black and white tiled floor, like a TV presenter.
‘Welcome to Willoughby House,’ she says in clear, distinct tones. ‘A hidden gem in London. A treasure trove of art and antiquities. And a snapshot of what life was really like … Argh!’
‘Shit!
‘Oh my God!’
Everyone cries out in horror as Mrs Kendrick stumbles on the tiled floor, trips, and crashes heavily into a little circular table, knocking a blue and white urn flying. It seems almost to stop, poised in mid-air, before Robert, in a flying rugby tackle, hurls himself at it. He grasps the urn, rolls on the hard floor and there’s an audible crack as his head hits the stair banister.
‘Robert!’ Mrs Kendrick shrieks. ‘That’s twenty thousand pounds you’ve just saved!’
‘Twenty grand?’ Robert stares at the urn with such an expression of horror I want to laugh. ‘What’s wrong with the bloody world? Who would pay twenty grand for this?’
‘Are you all right, mate?’ Mike descends the stairs.
‘Fine. Fine.’ Slowly, grasping the urn tightly, Robert gets to his feet.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Kendrick?’ I ask, because after all, she got a bit of a bump, too.
‘Of course I’m all right,’ says Mrs Kendrick impatiently. ‘Play it back, Mavis. Let’s see it.’
We all crane over Mavis’s shoulder and watch Mrs Kendrick backing over the tiles, talking in distinct, serene tones, stumbling … and then the total chaos that followed. Oh God, you can’t help but laugh.
‘Next time, try walking forward,’ says Robert pointedly to his aunt as it finishes.
‘Well, at least the urn didn’t break,’ I remind him.
‘Twenty grand.’ Robert is still staring incredulously at the urn. ‘For a pot. Is that insured separately? I mean, shouldn’t it be in a locked case?’
But Mrs Kendrick isn’t listening to any of us. She’s saying, ‘Put it on Twitter, Mavis! And YouTube. Load it up! Now.’ She looks at me and Robert. ‘Everyone must start twittering,’ she says firmly. ‘Sharing. Whatever you call it.’
‘What?’ I say stupidly.
‘Twittering! If we want to go viral, we have to twitter. Now, what shall we call it?’
Viral?
A sudden suspicion is forming in my mind – and as I glance at Robert I see he’s thinking the same way.
‘Aunt Margaret,’ he says in even tones, ‘was that faked?’
‘Of course it was faked,’ says Mrs Kendrick with asperity. ‘Robert, as I said, I’m not a dinosaur. The more people who see this video, the more people will know the name of Willoughby House.’
‘I’ve just asked my grandson’s advice,’ announces Mavis breathlessly, looking up from her phone. ‘He suggests, “That awkward moment when your priceless urn nearly breaks.”’
‘Marvellous.’ Mrs Kendrick nods at Mavis. ‘Type it in, dear.’
‘But you let me dive to the floor! I bumped my head!’ Robert sounds really quite aggrieved.
Mrs Kendrick gives him a frosty smile. ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to act.’
‘And what if the urn had broken?’ he demands. ‘That would have been twenty grand. You risked twenty grand for a viral video!’
‘Oh, Robert.’ Mrs Kendrick gives him a supremely pitying look. ‘Have a little sense. It’s not really worth twenty thousand pounds. I bought it from John Lewis.’
Robert looks so apoplectic, I want to laugh, although I’m not sure if it’s because his aunt has got one over on him, or because his head is still sore, or because Mike gives a sudden snort of laughter.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ I say diplomatically, and head upstairs to the office – and the whole thing has almost, kind of, sort of, cheered me up.
Sure enough, the video is soon up on YouTube, and every time I check, it’s been viewed by another fifty or so people. It’s not exactly a sneezing panda but I do think Mrs Kendrick has the right idea.
But even a viral video can’t keep my spirits up. I get through the day on a kind of autopilot, and by 4 p.m. I’m really in the pits. Clarissa has gone out to see a prospect, and it’s started to rain, and I’m sitting at the computer desk, head slumped in my arms, when I hear Robert’s tread on the stairs. Hastily I sit up and resume the email I started about three hours ago.
‘Oh, hello,’ I say as he appears, in an absent sort of voice, as though I’m in the middle of concentrating. ‘Has “Mike” gone, then?’ I can’t help calling him ‘Mike’ with a sardonic tone, just like Mrs Kendrick did.
‘Yes, “Mike” has gone.’ Robert sounds amused.
‘And have you sold the place for twenty million?’ I add without looking up.
‘Oh, at least.’
‘Good. Because I wouldn’t want you to starve.’ I briskly sign off my email.
‘It’s OK,’ he says, deadpan. ‘The orphans that I trample over on my way to cash my ill-gotten money can knock me up some roast suckling pig while they’re sweeping my capitalist chimneys.’
I can’t help a tiny smile curving my lips. He’s funnier than he lets on, Robert. I finally raise my head and wince at the sight of the bruise which has sprouted on his forehead.
‘You hurt yourself!’ I say.
‘Yes! Thank you,’ he says in mock-aggrieved tones. ‘That’s what I was trying to say.’
‘Has Mrs Kendrick gone, too?’
‘Yes, she’s in a meeting with Elon Musk,’ he says, and I nearly exclaim, ‘Really?’ before I realize he’s joking.
‘Ha,’ I say.
‘On the plus side,’ Robert says, ‘while I was showing Mike around, we found this.’ He lifts up a bottle of wine in his right hand.
‘Oh yes,’ I say, without much interest, ‘that’s the Christmas wine. We give it to the volunteers every year.’
‘Château Lafite,’ repeats Robert, and I realize he’s making a point. ‘Château La-fucking-fite.’
‘Well, you know.’ I shrug. ‘Mrs Kendrick likes the best.’
Robert looks at me, then stares at the wine bottle, then shakes his head incredulously. ‘Every time I think this place can’t get any madder, it does. Well, let’s see if it is the best, shall we? Got any glasses?’
I fetch a couple of cut-crystal glasses from the Trolley, which is where we keep our sherry, nuts and crisps.
‘You’re well kitted out,’ says Robert, watching me. ‘Don’t tell me, Mrs Kendrick …’
‘She likes to have a glass of sherry if we stay late,’ I explain.
‘Of course she does.’ Robert pours out two glasses of the Château Lafite and, even though I’m not a wine buff, I can tell from the smell alone that it’s special.
‘Cheers.’ Robert holds up his glass and I clink it with mine, and I suddenly need a drink so badly, I gulp down about half.
‘Have some snacks,’ I say, decanting some little cheesy biscuits into a cut-glass bowl. Robert sits down on an office chair and we drink silently, hoovering up the cheesy biscuits. After a while, I open another packet and Robert replenishes our glasses. He still looks incongruous up here, with his big shoes and deep voice and way of pushing things aside without even noticing.
‘Careful!’ I say as he leans back, his elbow casually on the computer desk, and knocks over Clarissa’s pile of leather-bound exercise books. ‘Those are the Books.’
‘The Books?’
‘We write summaries of all our meetings,’ I explain. ‘Time, person, subject. They’re actually incredibly useful. They go back years and years.’
Robert picks up the exercise books. He flicks through one of them, reading Clarissa’s careful entries in fountain pen, then puts it back with a sigh.
‘You’re all getting under my skin, you know that? The Dish, the Ladder, the Books, the Wine … It’s like bloody Alice in Wonderland up here.’ He looks around the office with what seems like genuine ruefulness. ‘I don’t want to force this place into the real world. But I have to. We can’t stave off reality forever.’
‘I’m looking into websites,’ I say quickly. ‘I’ve done another appeal to supporters. Or we could sell off some pieces, raise some cash that way …’ I break off as Robert shakes his head.
‘That would take us so far,’ he says. ‘But what then? Sell three paintings every year till they’re all gone? This place needs to be sustainable.’
‘It needs an injection of cash,’ I counter. ‘Just one lump sum would really help us …’
‘It’s had injections of cash!’ Robert sounds frustrated. ‘Year after year! There’s a limit! Do you realize how much my aunt—’ He stops himself, and I feel an uneasy twinge. I have no idea how much Mrs Kendrick has spent propping us up.
‘So you’re really going to sell?’ I can’t help a catch in my voice. ‘You said you’d give us a chance.’
‘I haven’t said I won’t,’ Robert says after a pause. ‘Nothing’s definite. It’s just …’ He exhales. ‘It’s a big job. Bigger than I first imagined. It’s not just turning round an ocean liner. It’s turning round an ocean liner while also saving the ocean liner from sinking. YouTube videos won’t save us. A new website … well, maybe. But maybe not.’
The rain is drumming on the windows as he refreshes my glass. I can feel sadness settling about me like a cloud. So that’s it. The end of an era. At home, maybe it’s the end of another era. And suddenly I can’t stop tears rolling down my cheeks. I was so happy. My life made sense. Now I feel like the whole lot is unravelling. Job, income, husband …
‘Oh God. Sylvie, I’m sorry—’ Robert looks perturbed. ‘Look, as I say, it’s not for definite … it won’t be for a while … we’ll help you find new positions …’
‘It’s not that.’ I take out my hanky and wipe my face. ‘Sorry. It’s … personal stuff.’
‘Ah,’ he says – and there’s an immediate shift in the air. I can actually feel the molecules changing. It’s as if my professional life was a beaker of clear water and now I’ve introduced a drop of home life colour and it’s slowly seeping through everything.
I glance up, as though to reassure myself that Robert isn’t remotely interested in my ridiculous private affairs – but he’s leaning forward, a crease in his forehead as though he is interested. Very interested.
His hair is about twice the thickness of Dan’s, I find myself noticing randomly. Thick and dark and shiny. And I can smell his aftershave from here. It’s expensive. Nice.
‘I won’t pry,’ says Robert, after a long pause.
‘It’s not …’ I shrug. ‘I just …’ I wipe my nose, trying to get control of myself. ‘Are you married?’ I find myself asking, I don’t even know why.
‘No.’ He pauses. ‘I was with someone.’
‘Right.’
‘But even that wasn’t easy. Marriage …’ He shrugs.
‘Yup.’
‘But I will say one thing.’ Robert gulps his wine. ‘I probably shouldn’t, but I will. If your husband has, in any way … If he for one moment … If he doesn’t realize what he has—’ He breaks off and looks at me full on, his eyes dark and unreadable. ‘Then he’s mad. He’s mad.’
I can feel my skin shimmer under Robert’s gaze. I’m transfixed by his eyes. His shiny hair. His forthright manner. He’s so different from Dan. He’s a different variety of man. A different flavour altogether.
If life is like a box of chocolates, then getting married is like choosing a chocolate and saying, ‘That’s it, done,’ and slamming the lid closed. When you make your vows, what you’re basically saying is: ‘That’s all I want, ever. That one flavour. Even if it goes off. Yum. I can’t even see any other flavours any more, la-la-la.’
And it might be your favourite flavour. And you might truly love it. But can you help it if you sometimes look over at the honeycomb crunch and think … mmm?
‘He’s mad,’ Robert repeats, his eyes still locked on mine. ‘Do you want to get something to eat?’ he adds, more tentatively.
In a flash, a door in my mind seems to open. Through it, I can see a glittering, beckoning chain of events, starting right now. Dinner. More drinks. Laughter and a blurred head and a screw you, Dan kind of exhilaration. A hand on my arm, murmurings in my ear … dancing? A taxi? The dimly lit corridor of a hotel … unfamiliar lips on mine … hands peeling off my clothes … a new body against mine …
It would be good.
And it would be terrible.
It would screw me up. I’m just not in that place. I don’t know what place I am in … but it’s not that one.
‘No thanks,’ I say at last, my breath a little jagged. ‘I’d better go and … But thanks. Thanks. Really. Thanks.’
I get home before Dan, say goodbye to Karen with a cheery smile, put the children to bed and then just wait in the kitchen, feeling like a Bond villain.
I’ve been expecting you, Mr Winter. That’s my line. Except it’s not true. Until last night I didn’t expect any of this. Extramarital affairs? Secret drawers? Little messages? Are you kidding? I’ve looked at the photos on my phone about a thousand times today. I’ve read Dan’s texts, over and over. They’re so familiar-sounding. So Dan-like. Just like the kind of texts he’d send to me … but not to me.
The one that really makes my stomach clench is Remember PS factor. The ‘Princess Sylvie’ factor. I’m not his beloved wife, I’m a factor. Not to mention the fact that Princess Sylvie is a very private little nickname that makes me flinch for all sorts of reasons, and now he’s using it with her.
I just don’t get it. The Dan I know is caring and solicitous. Protective of us: of what we’ve made together. Our home. Our family. Our world. Can you really not know someone you’ve been so close to? Can you really be so blind?
I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say. What I do know is, I’m not going to greet him by waving the evidence in his face. Because what do I gain by doing that? Nothing, except a momentary flash of vindictive glee. (Which, actually, is fairly appealing right now.)
But then what happens? I’ve caught him out. I win. Except it doesn’t feel like winning.
Winning would be: he decides to confess everything, totally spontaneously, and is really sorry and has some explanation which makes everything right. (What explanation? Don’t know. Not my job.)
Or even better, we go back in time, and none of this ever happened.
The sound of his key in the lock makes me jump. Fuck. I’m not ready. I hastily smooth down my hair and take a few deep breaths. My heart is pounding so hard, I feel like it must be audible – but as Dan comes in, he doesn’t seem to hear it. Or notice anything. He looks knackered and his brow is screwed up as though he can’t escape his thoughts. As he drops his briefcase he exhales with a weary sigh. Any other night, I’d say, ‘Are you OK?’ and get him a cup of tea or a drink.
But not tonight. If he’s knackered, maybe he shouldn’t make so many complicated arrangements in his private life. I spit the words out in the privacy of my own brain, and almost wish he could hear them.
‘All right?’ I say shortly.
‘I’ve had better days.’ Dan rubs his brow and I feel a flare of fury which I quell.
‘I think we need to talk,’ I say.
‘Sylvie …’ Dan looks up as though this is the last straw. ‘I’m shattered, it’s been a fuck of a day, I have calls I need to make …’
‘Oh, calls,’ I retort sarcastically before I can stop myself.
He stares at me. ‘Yes, calls.’
‘What kind of calls?’
‘Just calls.’
I’m breathing hard. My thoughts are skittering around. I need to gather myself.
‘I just think … we should be … honest with each other,’ I say, feeling my way. ‘Really, really honest. Let’s have a new project where we confess everything. Project Clean Slate.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Dan mutters. ‘I need a drink.’ He looks as if Project Clean Slate is the last thing he wants in his life, but I press on determinedly as he gets a beer from the fridge.
‘We need to connect. And to connect you need to be totally straightforward and not hide anything. Like …’ I scrabble hastily around. ‘Like, I found a Post-it that I’d written for myself the other day. Your mum had called and I totally forgot to tell you. Sorry.’
There’s silence, and I look at Dan expectantly.
‘What?’ he says.
‘Your turn! Project Clean Slate! There must be something you … something you haven’t told me … it could be anything …’
I trail off, my heart beating even faster. Already I know this isn’t going to work. It was a stupid idea. I confess a missed phone message and he confesses an entire affair?
‘Sylvie, I really don’t have time for this,’ Dan says, and something about his terse, dismissive tone makes me see red.
‘You don’t have time for your marriage?’ I explode. ‘You don’t have time to talk about the hiccups in our relationship?’
‘What hiccups?’ Dan sounds irritable. ‘Why are you always inventing problems?’
Inventing? I want to scream. Did I invent your texts?
There’s silence in the kitchen, apart from the ticking of our wall clock. We bought it together in Ikea, before we were married. We didn’t even need to discuss it. We were both instantly drawn to the same one, with a big black rim and no numerals. I remember thinking, God, we’re so in sync.
What a joke.
Dan pulls up a chair and sits down and he looks exactly like the husband I’ve known and loved all these years, except, he’s not, is he? He’s stuffed full of secrets.
I’m bubbling over again. I need to confront him. If I can’t bring myself to brandish his texts to Mary, I can brandish something else.
‘I know you’re cooking up something at work,’ I fling out at him. ‘I heard you at the hospital, talking to my mother. “A million pounds, maybe two,” huh, Dan? Is that what you’re borrowing? Without telling me? Is this for that Copenhagen business?’
Dan’s eyes widen. ‘For fuck’s sake.’
‘I heard you!’ I know my voice is shrill but I can’t help it. ‘“One million, maybe two!” Jesus, Dan! This is our future you’re gambling on! And I know exactly what it’s about really—’
‘Oh yes?’ Dan says in ominous tones. ‘What’s it about really?’
Seriously? He’s asking this?
‘My father!’ I almost yell. ‘What do you think? It’s always about my father! You can’t stand that Daddy was rich and successful, you can’t stand that he was admired, you look miserable any time anyone says anything nice about him—’
‘I do not,’ snaps Dan.
‘Oh my God, Dan, are you for real?’ I almost want to laugh, except it’s not funny. ‘Have you seen yourself? It’s completely obvious. And that’s why you want to expand your company, not because it’s good for us, as a family, but because you’ve got to compete with my father, who by the way, is dead. Dead. You’re so bloody chippy, and I’m sick of it.’
I break off, panting, tears rising, half-terrified. I can’t believe I called Dan ‘chippy’. It’s a word I vowed never, ever to use. But now I have. I’ve crossed a line.
A vein is twitching in Dan’s forehead. He stares at me for a few silent moments and I can see a million thoughts passing through his eyes, but I can’t read any of them.
‘I can’t do this,’ he says abruptly, pushing back his chair.
‘Can’t do what?’ I throw after him, but he doesn’t answer, just strides into the hall and up the stairs.
‘Dan!’ I hurry after him furiously. ‘Come back! We need to talk!’
‘Jesus, Sylvie!’ Dan pauses halfway up the stairs and wheels round. ‘Are you for real? We do not need to talk. I’m fucking talked out. I need to have some space. Some space. To think. To … I need space. Space.’ He clutches his head. ‘Space.’
‘Oh, space,’ I say, as scathingly as I can, because inside my heart is beating a tattoo of panic.
This has all gone far worse than I expected, far more quickly. I want to pull it back. I want to say, ‘Please. Please, Dan. Tell me you don’t love her.’ But I’m petrified of what he might say. So much for knowing him inside out; for being psychic; for finishing off his sentences. I have no idea what he’s about to say any more.
I feel almost faint with fear, standing here in my familiar hall, staring up at my unfamiliar husband. He’s gazing at me with a wry expression that makes my hair stand on end, because it’s not one of our looks. It’s the kind of look he might give to a stranger.
‘I meant to tell you,’ he says at last, in a voice that doesn’t ring true. ‘I’ve got a trip tomorrow. I need to fly up to … Glasgow. I might as well go and stay at an airport hotel tonight.’
‘Glasgow?’ I stare at him. ‘Why Glasgow?’
‘Possible new supplier,’ he says, looking away, and my heart plunges. He’s lying. I can tell.
He’s going to her.
‘Fine.’ I manage the single syllable, even though my lungs feel like they’re packing up.
‘Tell the girls I’ll be back soon. Give them a kiss.’
‘Fine.’
He turns and trudges up the stairs and I stand, motionless, replaying our conversation in my head on a loop, feeling as if any move I make might be wrong. After a few minutes he’s back, holding the leather weekend bag I gave him our first Christmas together.
‘Dan, listen.’ I swallow, trying not to sound desperate. ‘Why don’t you stay here tonight? Couldn’t you drive to the airport in the morning?’
‘I have stuff I need to do,’ he says, staring resolutely past me. ‘It’ll be simpler if … I’ll text Karen. I’m sure she’ll do some extra hours, take care of the school run …’
The school run? Is that what he thinks I’m worried about? The school run?
‘OK.’ I can barely get the word out.
‘I’ll be a day or two. I’ll keep you posted.’ He kisses me on the forehead, then heads to the front door with his swift, determined stride. Within ten seconds he’s gone, and I’m still standing motionless, almost light-headed with shock. What just happened?
A sudden thought comes to me and I dart upstairs to his study. I wrench open his top drawer – and his passport is inside, where it’s always kept. Dan’s not the type to forget his passport. He’s not flying anywhere.
I pick up the passport, open it and stare at Dan’s impassive photo face, feeling sick. The man I thought couldn’t keep secrets from me turns out to be a pretty good liar.
And now humiliation is descending upon me like a suffocating blanket. It’s so sordid. So predictable. My husband has walked out on me for his mistress, leaving me to look after the kids. This is my reality. I thought we were different. Special. But we’re just like every other tedious messed-up marriage in south-west London. With a sudden half-sob, half-scream, I grab my phone and start texting him with stabby fingers:
Go off and enjoy yourself, then. Talk about surprising each other. You’re such a predictable, boring, fucking cliché.
I send the text, then collapse down on to the floor. I’m beyond crying. I’m beyond thought.
We were that couple. We were always that couple.
Now we’re that couple.