His Other Lover

by Lucy Dawson

  The man sighed and said he couldn’t possibly say, all he knew was that they had a signature and it was charged to our room.

  Hating myself for asking, and with my eyes squeezed shut, I asked him tremulously if I could give him a name, and could he tell me if that person was staying in the hotel at the same time as us? There was a pause while he digested the implications of my suggestion. Softening, he gently said no, madam, he could not divulge that information. There was an uncomfortable silence and then I said, “Please…I need to know.”

  “I’m so sorry, madam. I wish I could help you. Is there perhaps anything else I can do for you?”

  I thanked him flatly, but said no, no there wasn’t. With palpable relief he wished me a good day and then he was gone, out of my life forever.

  But I couldn’t leave it there. With my heart starting to hammer and a leaping, visible pulse fluttering at my wrist, I took a few deep breaths and called back. This time a woman answered. I said as calmly as I could that my name was Liz Andersen, I had stayed in the hotel the weekend of the 7th and 8th and I thought I had left a necklace behind—I just couldn’t remember what room I had stayed in. The lie came remarkably easily to me. Not at all, madam, she assured me, she would just be one moment. She disappeared off the line and I held my breath for what felt like eternity, willing and silently pleading with God that I was wrong. The phone clattered as she picked it up again and cheerily informed me I had been in room 315. What was the necklace like?

  I didn’t say anything, I just clicked the phone off and it slipped from my hands.

  I shut my eyes and tried to breathe. She had been there on our weekend away. She had been at the hotel.

  My head started to spin and everything became light and nauseous at the same time. She’d been there.

  Had he slipped out of the room that night when I was asleep to go and find her? Was she waiting with their bottle of champagne in room 315, or did they drink that while I was packed off for my massage? No wonder he didn’t mind about not having sex with me…he was upstairs fucking someone else.

  It made me retch. I didn’t want to get it on my pillow, so I leaned over the edge of the bed and tried to aim on some magazines…but nothing came out, just bile. I hadn’t eaten anything so there was nothing to come up.

  I hung there and gasped, eyes running, a string of spit dangling from my lip.

  Then I remembered him sitting in the dark room at the gallery, staring up at the screen, transfixed, gazing at her as the music played. Her eyes boring into him, her smile not faltering. I thought that day out was for us…had it been just so he could see her on screen? Even though he was getting her in the flesh?

  I retched again, my body still confused and going through the motions. Again there was nothing there.

  Spitting on to the magazines, I wiped my nose with the back of my hand, pushed my hair out of my face and waited, wanting to make sure I was all done. The airbrushed face of a cover model pouted back up at me. Perfect skin, eyes all false, just like Liz.

  I could see her again, all makeup and costume, waving down at him from the stage, throwing him a rose. Had she known I was at the hotel too? She must have. Had she pitied me? Had she even thought of me at all? The fucking bitch. The fucking whore.

  The intense anger and jealousy seemed to rise from the pit of my gut, right from the core of me. I jumped up violently and crashed off down the hall to his office. Flinging open the door, it bashed back off the wall, chipping the plaster. I wanted to know more about this woman who I now suddenly hated more than anyone on the face of the earth. I paused on the threshold of the room. I had no idea of what it was I was looking for but whatever it was, I was going to find it.

  Descending on his desk, I started to rifle through the piles of papers, sending them crashing to the floor. I crunched over files, not caring as they sprung open, spewing out pages. I heard discs snap under my determined feet, kicked his DVDs out of the way. I pulled books off the desk; papers were fluttering in the air like confetti—I didn’t care about the mess, I just wanted to know everything.

  My search didn’t take long. For a man who was careful enough to delete his call lists and make sure he had no explicit texts on his phone that would prove anything, he was heartbreakingly bad at hiding other huge giveaways. All I had needed to know was that I had to look for them.

  First of all there was the program. I stared so long and hard at her face that the page went blurry and I had to restrain myself from ripping it out. After another exhaustive and reckless search I found bills for two credit cards I didn’t even know he had (the disadvantage of leaving before the post arrives and him always being at home to intercept it). And then I found a card. It had a small puppy on the front. Inside, in big, floral show-off writing it said:

  Thank you SO much! I LOVE her AND you! We can go for walks now with you and Gloria! Liz xxxx

  I sat down heavily. What had he done? Bought her a puppy? Moaning slightly, I rocked back and forth on the spot, hugging my knees into my chest trying to force the pain out. Had he taken my dog out with his bitch? It was sick!

  I lost the plot completely then and wrecked his office. Jumping to my feet, enraged, I grabbed his Stanley knife and punctured his desk with pock holes and mad slashes. I swept everything off the desk, I ripped up the card into tiny shreds. I violently tore up some of his papers, the sound of it ripping through me. I stuck the knife through a picture of him and me on his desk. I sliced the blade through the program, screaming and screaming, flinging books around and kicking his chair over.

  Then I heard Gloria barking downstairs and I stopped, breathing heavily, a light sweat on my brow. I could tell she was frightened; I could hear her scratching and whining, she knew something was wrong.

  I went downstairs and discovered she’d weed everywhere, so I cleaned her up before shutting her out in the garden. Once everything was tidy downstairs, I went back upstairs and looked at the mess there.

  His office was devastated. Not merely trashed—totally flattened.

  That’s when it occurred to me that when Pete got home and saw the mess, he would know that I’d found out. I’d forced his hand, backed him into a corner. We were going to have to talk about it. It was all going to come out.

  And the thought of that was suddenly terrifying.

  I realized with a jolt that I had never properly imagined being without Pete, not having him as part of my everyday life. Not having the right to go up and fling my arms round him and kiss him when he walked into a room. Not being able to pick up the phone and call him when something happened. Pete is the first person I call when something good or bad happens to me. Who would that person be if it wasn’t him?

  And what if this was just the excuse he’d been waiting for? Suppose he’d been trying to decide what to do—if he should stay, or leave me and go to her? The night before, I’d chosen not to wake him up and yell at him to get out. For all I knew, the choice about what would happen next might not actually be mine at all.

  If he got home, saw the mess and then I had to tell him that I knew, would he deny it? Would he want to stay with me, or would he say, “Actually, you’re right, there is something I want to talk to you about. I’m so sorry, I never wanted this to happen but it has, and I just want to be with her?”

  I tried to imagine life without Pete as I stood there in the mess of his office, but since I met him he has been pretty much the first thing I think of when I wake up, the last thing I think of at night and, quite often, the thing I think about in between, too. He’s the structure that my family and friends—my life—is woven into. He’s the someone I come home to who has somehow always been there and I don’t really remember what it was like before him. He is my best friend, the person who knows me better than I know myself.

  He just can’t be that with someone else. It doesn’t make any sense. Where would I live? What would I do? I don’t think I could even afford the house on my own. I’d have to start again. Really on my own.

 
The steadily rising alarm in my chest started to pound on the inside of my ribs. I looked wildly round the room and decided then and there that he simply couldn’t see what I had done. I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole: weddings, children, couples, houses, all whisking past my outstretched fingers. I knew I had to do something to cover up what I had done or I’d be trapped by my own hands in a future that I didn’t want, one that wouldn’t include him.

  And that’s when the idea leaped into my head. A burglary…that would cover it up. All I had to do was total the rest of the house too, so it looked convincing.

  My first deception.

  EIGHT

  At least you weren’t at home when he came calling,” said the younger of the two policemen, trying to be helpful. “You should see what can happen if people disturb raids in action…”

  His thickset, older colleague gave him a tired look. “But there’ll be no need to worry about that now. He’ll be long gone. I think he was an opportunist, madam. He didn’t take anything other than the two items of jewelry?”

  I curled my fingers tightly around the brooches in my pocket. “That’s right,” I said a little jerkily. “Two brooches that were my grandmother’s.”

  “You see, if he’d have really known what he was doing, he’d have taken a lot more than that. I know it feels horrible to think of a stranger going through your things, but I really think this was a one-off, probably a kid.” The policeman smiled at me kindly but obviously wanted to finish things up so he could go and have some lunch. “We’ll do all the paperwork and here’s your crime reference number, but other than that…” He tailed off.

  “Thank you for your help,” Pete held open our front door, “and we’ll certainly look into getting that alarm fitted.”

  I watched the policemen walk down the drive and get into their car, my hands still in my pockets—jewelry in one, the ripped-up pieces of her card to Pete in the other. I’d have to remember to get rid of those.

  Pete closed the door as they drove off, turned to me and said, “Come here, you!” as he pulled me to him. He said lovely things like, “You poor baby, you must have been so scared” and, “Thank God you’d taken Gloria out for a walk. You’re so brave finding that on your own, and being ill as well…”

  I stand up and move quietly to the window, picking up the edge of the curtain and looking out on to the quiet street and the same drive that the policemen sauntered down yesterday lunchtime. It is starting to get light. I don’t have much longer to wait. Pete will be getting up soon. I let the curtain drop and move back to the sofa, being careful not to kick over the full, now cold, mug of milk that is still sitting on the floor at my feet. Even if I had drunk it, I’m sure it wouldn’t have helped me sleep. I pick it up and inspect it. There is a disgusting skin over the surface that bulges slightly as I tip the contents gently to one side, not quite enough to let the milk underneath burst through.

  I think about my saying to Pete yesterday in a strangulated voice, “I was scared Pete, I was more scared than I’ve ever been in my life,” and I set the cup down unsteadily. Thankfully it doesn’t fall over.

  Pete had had to hold me tightly for at least a full five minutes after the police left, soothing me worriedly. He started by whispering things like, “It’s okay, sweetheart, I’m here, I’m here—I’m not going to let anyone hurt you,” but that made me cry harder, and I sobbed into the lapel of his jacket with his arms round me as if my heart would break.

  Eventually he pulled away and led me into the sitting room. Shoving a pile of crap off the sofa, he gently sat me down and bustled off into the kitchen to make me a hot, sweet tea.

  It was an overwhelming relief to have him next to me, gently rubbing my back as I sipped the tea in silence. I didn’t want to say anything in case I gave myself away, so it was left to him to suppose out loud that we ought to start clearing everything up.

  He stood up, took off his jacket, pulled his tie loose and hung them both over the banisters. Looking around him he whistled and shrugged rather helplessly. “God, I don’t know where to start!”

  How about with where you met her? Or what she’s got that I haven’t? How long has it been going on? Do you love her? Has she been here, in our house?

  “We could use some help really, couldn’t we? I’d ring Mum and Dad but they’ll be in Africa by now.” He glanced at his watch, as if that was going to tell him exactly what time Shirley had touched down on another continent. “What about your mum, shall I call her?”

  I shook my head dumbly. “She’s in Miami, isn’t she?”

  “Shit! I’d forgotten about that. What stunning timing on both their parts.”

  “Just one of those things,” I said, totally exhausted. I wondered dully if he was thinking about her right now…it felt so odd. Sitting silently with my hands wrapped round a scalding cup of tea, thinking that I could be throwing it at his head. I could be opening my mouth, having it all out, screaming and shouting…

  By the time he started going on about how much mess the burglars had made and not understanding how someone could be so heartless, I wasn’t really listening. All I was thinking about was how if it wasn’t for her everything would be okay. She danced through my mind in her little flapper slapper dress, smiling nastily at me and I loathed her for it.

  Shaking slightly, I tried to calm down, making myself grip the burning hot cup, trying to drag my thoughts away from her and on to the heat of my hands instead. Something to focus on would stop me going to pieces.

  As we got dustbin bags and began to clean up, Pete chattered away to me to fill the silence, shooting me worried glances every now and then. I just listened to him, not really hearing the words. The easiest thing to do was to play along and act like I was very shaken up—which wasn’t much of a stretch.

  When I tripped over the edge of a chair that I’d flung across the room only hours earlier, he shot out a hand to steady me. I grabbed back at his arm and he smiled and said, “It’s okay, you’ve got me!”

  I just managed not to laugh hysterically, but against my will tears started to slip out of my eyes again. He pulled me to his chest. “Oh, baby! You’ve got to stop it. Come on! Otherwise they’ve won.” A sharp little stab dug into me when he said that, and I saw her face grinning back out from the pages of the program, laughing at me. I could smell his tangy lemon aftershave mixed with the washing powder we always use as he held me to him. “Hey!” he went on. “It’ll be okay, we’ll sort this!”

  I clung to him for ages because I didn’t know what else to do and he waited patiently until eventually he had to prise himself away from me. “Come on, soldier!” he smiled. “I’m here, the perimeter is secure!”

  The rest of the day passed slowly and painfully. We carried on clearing up and he made us sandwiches that we had on our laps in front of the TV. An item came on the local news about an old couple celebrating their golden wedding anniversary. Looking at them so happy, so contented, I felt jealous—of an old couple. That was all I wanted: togetherness, trust, honesty, not both of us sitting here with dirty secrets.

  Then I heard the bleep of his phone from the dining room.

  A text message.

  My heart thudded. Was that her?

  He’d heard it too because he subtly removed his arms from around my shoulders. But he didn’t get up, he just carried on watching TV. Then after a little stretch and a yawn, he reached for his glass and pretended to be surprised to find it empty. “I need another drink,” he announced, getting up. “Want one?”

  I shook my head silently. Liar! He didn’t need one at all, he was off to the dining room to check his phone!

  Pete walked casually out of the room and I sat stiffly on the sofa, trying to look as if I was focusing on the TV. All I could think was, “it’s her, it’s her.” He came back in with a full glass of water and I forced a bright smile. “Who was that?” I asked. “I heard your phone go.”

  He didn’t look me in the eye but sat down on the sofa. “No one impo
rtant,” he said. “Just a message that someone had called for me at the office.” He yawned tiredly. “We should make a start on upstairs. Are you sure you feel well enough to help?”

  “Absolutely. Why don’t we tackle your study next?” I said quietly.

  “Oh I can do that later,” he replied calmly. “More important to get the bedroom sorted so you can have a nap later if you need one.”

  “Well, you go and get started then and I’ll be right up, just need a wee.” I managed to smile at him and he squeezed my hand, hauled himself up and trawled upstairs.

  Sitting frozen on the sofa listening intently, I heard the floorboards squeak. He wasn’t in our bedroom, he’d gone straight to the office to make sure nothing was lying around that shouldn’t have been, just as I knew he would. I walked quickly into the dining room, grabbed his phone from the table and slammed into the downstairs loo, locking the door sharply behind me. Moving fast, I located the inbox, clicked on it and there it was. Top of the list—Liz. The office my fucking arse. It read:

  Is all ok? Nothing too wrecked? Gloria all right? U ok? Xx

  I wanted to scream, punch the wall, kick the door and flush the phone down the loo all at the same time. What the fuck had it got to do with her? It was my house and my dog and MY boyfriend! How dare she? “U ok?” Fuck off! It’s not her that makes sure he’s okay, it’s me, ME! I hurled the phone on to a towel on the floor in disgust.

  My blood pumped madly, making my scalp prickle. I was wired with hatred for her, a balled-up energy that had nowhere to go. In the tiny downstairs loo, still half tiled, I couldn’t even pace. I was boxed in totally. Looking at the phone screen, staring furiously at the words, I could have killed her, I swear to God. Instead I just thumped the wall with the flat of my fists and leaned my head against the spiky peaks of the chipped grout.

  I heard Pete shout, “You okay?”

  He must have heard the thump. I jerked my head up and listened carefully. Was he coming downstairs? He couldn’t catch me with his phone. I flushed the loo, picked up the mobile and cautiously opened the door. I heard the creak of the boards again as he moved from the office to our room. He must have heard the loo and was making his way back. It was like being stuck in a bad spy movie, only not funny at all, just utterly horrible.