by Jane Fallon
Chris interrupts him. ‘– And it was only meant to be a fling – not that that excuses either of them – but it got a bit more serious …’
‘… But they’re still intending to end it all before … you know …’
‘… And, in their minds, what you don’t know can’t hurt you …’
‘… Or he’s been desperate to tell you, eaten up with the guilt, but he knew he had to do it face to face …’
‘… Yes! He’ll probably confess everything tonight. Not that that … well, you know, it’s still awful …’
I listen to them talking over each other for a moment. What they’re saying does make sense.
‘What are you going to do?’ Chris asks finally.
‘I have no idea. That’s why I’m calling you. I mean, if I’m here when he gets home from work, he’s going to know I’ve found out, obviously.’
‘So you’ll get your answers.’
‘But then I’ll never know if he would have told me if I hadn’t outed him. And what if he just refuses to tell me who she is? And then we’ve got to get through Mel’s party as if nothing’s wrong.’
There’s silence for a moment.
‘How long are you here for?’
‘A week. I don’t know how I’m going to get through it, though.’
‘Here’s what I think,’ Chris says. I can hear a seagull shrieking and I wonder if they’re out in their little sunny Devon garden. I can picture them sitting at the wooden table by their back door, Chris’s dark-brown head and Lew’s tanned bald one leaning over the phone. Chris has the same habit as me of worrying at his earlobes when he’s concentrating, and I imagine him doing it now. ‘Text him and tell him you’re coming home tonight. Then get out of the flat and watch to see what happens. Chances are, whoever she is, she’ll turn up to retrieve her stuff. At least then you’ll get a look at her. If he makes a big confession tonight, then you’ll just have to go to the party on your own and tell Mel he’s ill. You’re a good actress, you can do it. And if he doesn’t, then pretend everything’s fine. Let Mel have her big night. Then hit him with it on Sunday. Or … does he know how long you’re staying?’
‘He doesn’t even know I’m here yet, remember.’
‘Perfect,’ Chris says. ‘Tell him you’re leaving on Sunday morning. Then you can go to Mel’s, cry on her shoulder for a few days and forget about Jack altogether.’
‘What? Not even try and work it out?’
‘What’s to work out?’ Lew chips in. ‘Whether he ’fesses up or not, he’s been seeing someone on the side.’
‘Shit.’
‘Or you could come and spend the week down here?’ Chris says.
It’s tempting. Chris has almost Jedi-like powers in terms of making people feel calm and rested. I always thought he should train as a therapist. He preferred to have a job he could leave behind on a Friday night, he said. He knew that he’d end up carrying people’s problems with him all weekend. Phoning them up and offering them free sessions so he could help them feel better. But it still became his unofficial role in life. Whenever any of his friends is having a crisis, the first thing they do is call him.
It doesn’t make sense for me to hide down there now, though. I need Mel’s ‘fuck ’em all’ take on things if I’m going to get through this.
‘No. Thanks, though. I’ll be fine. It’s a plan. Oh, and there’s another thing, I’m getting killed off.’
‘No! Damn, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. I don’t think it’s any reflection on me, it just makes for a good storyline. Don’t tell Mum and Dad yet, though, I can’t face it. Or anyone else. It’s top secret till it airs.’
‘Of course not. So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, until just now, I was going to move home, start planning my wedding and get on with my life. Now, I have no idea.’
‘Okay, maybe I will kill him,’ Lew says.
Chris chips in. ‘Come down when you get back. You can hide down here and lick your wounds for as long as you want.’
I promise to ring them again as soon as I have any more intel. Then I lean back against the pillows, feeling as if the bottom has gone out of my world. I always wondered what people meant when they said that, but now I know. I feel as if a huge chasm has opened up underneath me and I need to grasp on to something tightly to stop myself from falling into oblivion. Oscar slinks in and jumps up next to me, curling into my side. I sink my fingers into the soft fur on his tummy. Try not to think about some random woman attempting to ingratiate herself with him by sneaking him bits of his favourite cheese.
I have an overwhelming urge to crawl under the covers and sleep. I think it’s a version of ‘If I close my eyes, the monster isn’t there’. But then I look at (my) crisp white pillows and (my) cheerful butter-yellow duvet cover and imagine Jack and God knows who doing God knows what all over them and the urge passes. Besides, I would probably still be there, comatose, when one or the other of them got home and I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Not yet.
If I’m going to let Jack know that I’m coming home this evening, I need to get out of the way. But I can’t wander the streets with my giant case. In the end – after carefully rearranging my rival’s stuff so she won’t realize anyone’s been examining it – I drag my case to the hotel diagonally opposite our house and book myself into a single room. That’s how posh a hotel it is. It has single rooms with single beds. With hairdryers that are wired into the wall to stop you from stealing them. I think it’s aimed at lone travellers from struggling businesses. Or prostitutes and their clients renting by the hour. But it’s clean. If you don’t examine things too closely. Then I crawl into the small but comfy bed, drag the duvet over my face and, despite everything, I manage to cry myself to sleep.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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First published 2019
Copyright © Jane Fallon, 2019
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Images © Arcangel, © Getty, © Stocksy and © Shutterstock
ISBN: 978-1-405-93313-1