TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2013
MORNING
I watched Tom getting ready for work this morning,putting on his shirt and tie. He seemed a littledistracted, probably running through his schedule forthe day—meetings, appointments, who, what, where. Ifelt jealous. For the first time ever, I actually enviedhim the luxury of getting dressed up and leaving thehouse and rushing around all day, with purpose, allin the service of a pay cheque.
It’s not the work I miss—I was an estate agent, nota neurosurgeon, it’s not exactly a job you dreamabout as a child—but I did like being able to wanderaround the really expensive houses when the ownersweren’t there, running my fingers over the marbleworktops, sneaking a peek into the walk-inwardrobes. I used to imagine what my life would belike if I lived like that, the kind of person I would be.
I’m well aware there is no job more important thanthat of raising a child, but the problem is that it isn’tvalued. Not in the sense that counts to me at themoment, which is financial. I want us to have moremoney so that we can leave this house, this road.
It’s as simple as that.
Perhaps not quite as simple as that. After Tom leftfor work, I sat down at the kitchen table to do battlewith Evie over breakfast. Two months ago, I swearshe would eat anything. Now, if it’s not strawberryyoghurt, she’s not having it. I know this is normal. Ikeep telling myself this while I’m trying to get eggyolk out of my hair, while I’m crawling around onthe floor picking up spoons and upturned bowls. Ikeep telling myself this is normal.
Still, when we were finally done and she wasplaying happily by herself, I let myself cry for aminute. I allow myself these tears sparingly, only everwhen Tom’s not here, just a few moments to let itall out. It was when I was washing my faceafterwards, when I saw how tired I looked, howblotchy and bedraggled and bloody awful, that I felt itagain—that need to put on a dress and high heels,to blow-dry my hair and put on some makeup andwalk down the street and have men turn and lookat me.
I miss work, but I also miss what work meant tome in my last year of gainful employment, when Imet Tom. I miss being a mistress.
I enjoyed it. I loved it, in fact. I never felt guilty. Ipretended I did. I had to, with my marriedgirlfriends, the ones who live in terror of the pert aupair or the pretty, funny girl in the office who cantalk about football and spends half her life in thegym. I had to tell them that of course I felt terribleabout it, of course I felt bad for his wife, I nevermeant for any of this to happen, we fell in love,what could we do?
The truth is, I never felt bad for Rachel, evenbefore I found out about her drinking and howdifficult she was, how she was making his life amisery. She just wasn’t real to me, and anyway, Iwas enjoying myself too much. Being the otherwoman is a huge turn-on, there’s no point denyingit: you’re the one he can’t help but betray his wifefor, even though he loves her. That’s just howirresistible you are.
I was selling a house. Number thirty-four CranhamRoad. It was proving difficult to shift, because thelatest interested buyer hadn’t been granted amortgage. Something about the lender’s survey. Sowe arranged to get an independent surveyor in, justto make sure everything was OK. The sellers hadalready moved on, the house was empty, so I had tobe there to let him in.
It was obvious from the moment I opened the doorto him that it was going to happen. I’d never doneanything like that before, never even dreamed of it,but there was something in the way he looked atme, the way he smiled at me. We couldn’t helpourselves—we did it there in the kitchen, up againstthe counter. It was insane, but that’s how we were.
That’s what he always used to say to me. Don’texpect me to be sane, Anna. Not with you.
I pick Evie up and we go out into the gardentogether. She’s pushing her little trolley up and down,giggling to herself as she does it, this morning’stantrum forgotten. Every time she grins at me I feellike my heart’s going to explode. No matter howmuch I miss working, I would miss this more. Andin any case, it’s never going to happen. There’s noway I’ll be leaving her with a childminder again, nomatter how qualified or vouched for they are. I’mnot leaving her with anyone else ever again, not afterMegan.
EVENING
Tom texted me to say he was going to be a bit latethis evening, he had to take a client out for a drink.
Evie and I were getting ready for our evening walk.
We were in the bedroom, Tom’s and mine, and Iwas getting her changed. The light was just gorgeous,a rich orange glow filling the house, turning suddenlyblue-grey when the sun went behind a cloud. I’d hadthe curtains pulled halfway across to stop the roomgetting too hot, so I went to open them, and that’swhen I saw Rachel, standing on the opposite side ofthe road, looking at our house. Then she just tookoff, walking back towards the station.
I’m sitting on the bed and I’m shaking with fury,digging my nails into my palms. Evie’s kicking herfeet in the air, and I’m so bloody angry, I don’t wantto pick her up for fear I would crush her.
He told me he’d sorted this out. He told me thathe phoned her, they talked, she admitted that shehad struck up some sort of friendship with ScottHipwell, but that she didn’t intend seeing him anylonger, that she wouldn’t be hanging aroundanymore. Tom said she promised him, and that hebelieved her. Tom said she was being reasonable, shedidn’t seem drunk, she wasn’t hysterical, she didn’tmake threats or beg him to go back to her. He toldme he thought she was getting better.
I take a few deep breaths and pull Evie up ontomy lap, I lie her back against my legs and hold herhands with mine.
“I think I’ve had enough of this, don’t you,sweetie?”
It’s just so wearing: every time I think that thingsare getting better, that we’re finally over the RachelIssue, there she is again. Sometimes I feel like she’snever, ever going to go away.
Deep inside me, a rotten seed has been planted.
When Tom tells me it’s OK, everything’s all right,she’s not going to bother us any longer, and thenshe does, I can’t help wondering whether he’s tryingas hard as he can to get rid of her, or whetherthere’s some part of him, deep down, that likes thefact that she can’t let go.
I go downstairs and scrabble around in the kitchendrawer for the card that Detective Riley left. I dialher number quickly, before I have time to changemy mind.
WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 14, 2013
MORNING
In bed, his hands on my hips, his breath hot againstmy neck, his skin slick with sweat against mine, hesays, “We don’t do this enough anymore.”
“I know.”
“We need to make more time for ourselves.”
“We do.”
“I miss you,” he says. “I miss this. I want more ofthis.”
I roll over and kiss him on the lips, my eyes tightshut, trying to suppress the guilt I feel for going tothe police behind his back.
“I think we should go somewhere,” he mumbles,“just the two of us. Get away for a bit.”
And leave Evie with whom? I want to ask. Yourparents, whom you don’t speak to? Or my mother,who is so frail, she can barely care for herself?
I don’t say that, I don’t say anything, I just kisshim again, more deeply. His hand slips down to theback of my thigh and he grips it, hard.
“What do you think? Where would you like to go?
Mauritius? Bali?”
I laugh.
“I’m serious,” he says, pulling back from me, lookingme in the eye. “We deserve it, Anna. You deserve it.
It’s been a hard year, hasn’t it?”
“But?.?.?.”
“But what?” He flashes his perfect smile at me.
“We’ll figure something out with Evie, don’t worry.”
“Tom, the money.”
“We’ll be OK.”
“But?.?.?.” I don’t want to say this, but I have to.
“We don’t have enough money to even considermoving house, but we do have enough money for aholiday in Mauritius or Bali?”
He puffs out his cheeks, then exhales slowly, rollingaway from me. I shouldn’t have said it. The babymonitor crackles into life: Evie’s waking up.
“I’ll get her,” he says, and gets up and leaves theroom.
At breakfast, Evie is doing her thing. It’s a game toher now, refusing food, shaking her head, chin up,lips firmly closed, her little fists pushing at the bowlin front of her. Tom’s patience wears thin quickly.
“I don’t have time for this,” he says to me. “You’llhave to do it.” He gets to his feet, holding out thespoon for me to take, the expression on his facepained.
I take a deep breath.
It’s OK, he’s tired, he has a lot of work on, he’spissed off because I didn’t enter into his holidayfantasy this morning.
But it isn’t OK, because I’m tired, too, and I’d liketo have a conversation about money and oursituation here that doesn’t end with him just walkingout of the room. Of course, I don’t say that. Instead,I break my promise to myself and I go ahead andmention Rachel.
“She’s been hanging around again,” I say, “sowhatever you said to her the other day didn’t do thetrick.”
He gives me a sharp look. “What do you mean,hanging around?”
“She was here last night, standing in the street rightopposite the house.”
“Was she with someone?”
“No. She was alone. Why d’you ask that?”
“Fuck’s sake,” he says, and his face darkens theway it does when he’s really angry. “I told her tostay away. Why didn’t you say anything last night?”
“I didn’t want to upset you,” I say softly, alreadyregretting bringing this up. “I didn’t want to worryyou.”
“Jesus!” he says, and he dumps his coffee cuploudly in the sink. The noise gives Evie a fright, andshe starts to cry. This doesn’t help. &............