‘Stop fussing.’ His bowl and spoon clatter into the sink, chinking against last night’s wine glasses as they go. Perhaps it’s just a hangover. Something that a couple of Ibuprofen would fix. Maybe he and Della had more than the one glass.
I’m not entirely sure what’s changed overnight, but something most definitely has. Was it because he was in the mood for love and I managed to duck out of it? Again. I should try to repair the damage. ‘Shall I cook dinner for us? As I was so late home yesterday, I’m planning to leave on time this evening.’
‘I might be stuck in the office. Can’t say until later.’
‘You’ll let me know?’
‘Don’t I always?’ he says with an exaggerated sigh and, though he kisses my cheek, it’s cursory. ‘See you later.’
He grabs his laptop bag and as I shout ‘Have a good day’ after him, my husband slams out.
What was that all about?
Still unsettled, I pour out some muesli, splash it with milk and then push it away from me. I can’t eat. So, instead, I gather my stuff and slip on my coat ready to hit the Tube. Then I notice that Chris has left his phone on the table next to my still-wrapped bouquet from Della.
‘Damn,’ I mutter. That will put him in an even worse mood. He’ll feel like he’s left one of his limbs behind. I’ll call him when I get to the office and tell him where it is. He’ll be in a blind panic when he realises he doesn’t have it with him. I could take it to work with me and arrange to meet him at lunchtime to hand it over.
I don’t know what makes me do it, but I pick up the phone and punch in Chris’s passcode to open it. The phone doesn’t open. I wonder if he’s changed it? I try another number and that’s wrong too. My heart beats more rapidly with each successive failure. I have three attempts before I manage to unlock it. He must have changed it and not told me.
Eventually, I’m in and Chris’s messages pop up on the screen. There are the usual slew of work-related exchanges and the normal run-of-the-mill texts from me but, what stands out more, is that the majority of messages are to one person and one person alone. And I know that person so well. It seems as if Chris does too. I feel sick as I read the plethora of text messages between them – increasingly intimate, increasingly graphic.
It isn’t Meg that I need to worry about. The woman I’ve suspected for so long is innocent after all. The texts from her are, indeed, all about work and nothing more. Instead, it seems as if my husband and my best friend are having an affair and have been for some time.
While I was grieving the loss of our child, the two people who I cared most for in the world have been sneaking around behind my back. The knowledge feels like a sucker punch to my stomach. I feel for a chair and sit down, heavily. My mind spins. Della and Chris.
I scroll through the texts – most of them more explicit than I could have imagined –with an increasing sense of despair and anger. There are photos too that show infinitely more of my friend than I’d like to see. Some of them from last night. There’s a selfie of them together in our bed. My husband has sent an actual dick pic. I close them down.
I knew that there was someone, but I didn’t have any idea that it was Della. All the time that Chris has been pretending to be solicitous, to want to get our marriage back on track, to even try for another baby and yet he’s been sleeping with my best friend throughout it. I still can’t quite get my head round that. I’ve become used, to a certain extent, to the rollercoaster of emotions. We’ve both gone through that. What I can’t cope with is the lies. And not just one lie, but a sustained and separate life over months and months that has become one great big lie. I don’t know how long I sit there for, almost catatonic, but, eventually, my phone rings and jolts me back to the present.
I glance at my mobile and, on the screen, it’s Chris’s office number. Behind that is his smiling face on my wallpaper – a photo I took when we were on holiday in the Maldives some years ago when we were happy, in love and any thoughts of starting a family together were way ahead in the future. It’s my favourite photo of him, but now his grin just looks duplicitous. He’s obviously arrived at work and has realised his phone is missing. I can imagine how much he must be panicking and for more reasons that I’d previously thought. I don’t answer. I can’t. What would I say if I picked up?
It rings and rings, but I let the call go to voicemail.
Chapter Eighty-One
I’m not entirely sure how I get to work, but I do. I must have, as usual, gone on the Tube then walked the rest of the way. Yet I remember none of it. The breakfast meeting was a blur. Now I’m sitting here in my glass box of an office feeling as if my life has been turned upside down once more and I’m questioning everything that I knew before.
Because I’m late, Bill has already been into the office and has left again. I’m glad of that as he’d instantly tell that something was wrong. All my colleagues are busy and I catch snippets of chat and laughter, but I can’t bring myself to go out and join in with them. I hide away, pretending to be busy. Instead, I go through the motions of working – I move papers around, tap computer keys – but none of it registers. My mind simply isn’t on the job.
Now I know why Della was at my place last night and it wasn’t just to deliver flowers. How many times have they been together in my home and in my bed? I can’t bear to think of it.
While I’m sitting and brooding – a flurry of thoughts racing in my brain, all of them difficult to catch – a text pings in. It’s from Della. Hi, Chummie. Gym as usual? Dxx.
The audacity leaves me breathless. All this time, while I thought she was my sanity when I was losing my mind, and throughout it all she was sleeping with my husband. I don’t even know how to begin to confront her. Well, it looks as if I have an hour to think about it.
I text back: Def. See you soon. Thanks for the flowers, btw. J xx
My pleasure. Love you lots. D xx
Pushing down nausea again, I then watch the clock around until lunchtime. If someone gave me an excuse – any excuse – I’d not go at all. Yet another part of me wants to see if I can tell that she’s the other woman in my husband’s life, if there were any signs that I missed. With heaviness in my heart, I grab my things and head to the gym.
When I arrive, Della is already pedalling away on an exercise bike. She’s her usual cheery self.
‘Saved one for you, Chummie!’ she trills over the thumping music. ‘Been here working my lard arse for the last fifteen minutes.’
I climb on next to her and, with extreme reluctance, start pushing the pedals.
‘You look a bit glum,’ she says with a frown. ‘All OK?’
‘Fine.’ I pin on a smile.
‘Yesterday went well?’ she asks.
‘Yes. It was very thoughtful of you to drop in with those flowers for me. Very kind.’
‘My pleasure. Just a little something to cheer you on. I know that it was a big deal for you.’
‘You and Chris had a nice evening?’
‘I grabbed a quick glass of plonk with him,’ she says, beaming at me. ‘Seemed rude just to cut and run.’
I think of the steamy content of their text messages – long discussions about what they did and what they might do next time they meet, the photos of them in my bed – and seethe inwardly. But what to say? How do I confront my best friend with this? Do I do it now or wait until I’ve had it out with Chris first? Believe me, I’ve stewed over this all morning and am no clearer. I have no idea what the etiquette of these things might be.
Della chitter-chatters on about her day and stuff that’s going on at work, while I pedal furiously. Emotional pain, it seems, is quite a good motivator for working out.
‘What about Mr Complicated?’ I ask, keeping my voice as level as possible.
I think I see her flush, but it’s hard to tell as she’s quite red in the face already. ‘Still complicated,’ she says. ‘I’m hanging on in there, but still having fun while I do.’
‘More shagfests with stran
gers?’
She laughs. ‘Whenever I can!’
I wonder if Chris is aware of that? Does he think he’s the only one? I wonder just how many men she’s sending pictures of her naked and pouting? Not only has she put him at risk by sleeping around with other men, but me too. I feel sick. Sick and angry. Bile is burning my throat.
We move through our usual routine and head to the treadmills.
‘I can’t stay long today,’ I say. ‘Stuff to do.’ The longer I’m with her the more I want to slap her smug, lying face and I hate myself for feeling like that. I should come clean with her and tell her that I know, tell her that I’m aware she’s lying bare-faced to me. But I can’t bring myself to do it.
After ten minutes of pounding the machines, we head to the showers. As we strip off our gymwear, I look over at Della. There’s no denying she’s all woman. She has curves in all the right places and, only too well, I can imagine her and Chris together.
We enter our separate shower stalls and I have a quick wash. Della is obviously luxuriating in her own shower, as she often does. She’s singing softly, ‘Nothing Breaks Like a Heart.’ I guess we’d both know about that.
Getting out, I dry myself, anger still simmering inside me. I’m furious with her and with myself for not being able to address this directly. When I’m dressed and Della is still happily singing away to herself, I notice that she’s left her locker key on the wooden bench outside the shower with her towel. Without really knowing what I’m doing, I sneak up and take her key.
Inside her locker there’s her clothes, her handbag, her phone. I scoop them all out. First I put her phone down the loo. Nothing but a top-of-the-range iPhone for Della. For good measure, I flush it. I’m quite horrified at what I’ve done, but quite pleased with myself too.
Back in the changing room, I open the nearest window and tip the contents of her handbag into the street. Della’s purse, many lipsticks, tissues, Kindle, lunchtime sandwich, all hit the ground one after the other with a pleasing clatter or thump. Her favourite Prada handbag goes swiftly after them. Then I follow it by tossing out each and every item of her clothing – blouse, jacket, trousers, ridiculously expensive designer shoes. I watch as her bra and knickers – Agent Provocateur – are caught on the breeze and flutter down to the pavement. There are some rather startled people passing by – especially the ones who have to dodge her pants.
That should tell her that I’ve found out about her affair with my husband.
Della’s singing stops and I hear her turn off the shower. ‘Are you still there, Chummie? You’ve gone very quiet. Chummie?’
But I don’t answer her. Instead, I pick up my own things and walk out of the changing room, head held high.
Chapter Eighty-Two
I’m back at my desk, head in my hands, wondering what on earth my next move should be, when Bill bowls in. ‘Ta-Dah! I have news,’ he announces. ‘Good news! Excellent news!’
I look up. ‘We got the contract?’
‘We did, indeed,’ he says. ‘You aced it, sis. Eleanor just called. They loved the designs. She wants us to develop some ideas for the treehouses too. It’s full steam ahead.’
‘That’s fantastic.’
He stops and grimaces at me. ‘Your mouth is saying the right words, but there’s not a lot of enthusiasm behind them. I thought you’d be thrilled.’
‘I am. Really, I am.’
‘So, what’s the problem? Is there something I need to know about?’
I sag. ‘Trouble,’ I tell him. ‘Big trouble.’
He sits on my sofa, crossing his long legs. ‘Want to tell me about it?’
‘I might cry.’
‘I can deal with that,’ he says. ‘I’m a gay man. We like a good cry.’
Taking a deep breath, I launch in. ‘I found out that Chris has definitely been having an affair.’
Bill raises an eyebrow. ‘You thought as much.’
‘It’s been going on a lot longer than I thought. And it’s with Della.’
‘Whoa!’ Bill says, eyes widening. ‘Your best mate?’
‘I thought so. It seems not.’
‘Oh, Jodie.’
‘I know. What can I say?’
‘How did you find out?’
‘Chris left his phone at home this morning.’ I still have my husband’s phone – though I was tempted to throw that down the loo as well. Opening Chris’s photo cache at a relevant and quite graphic photo – a selfie of Della naked and on top of my husband – I slide it across the desk. ‘And – shame on me – I looked at it.’
Bill picks it up and his eyes go even wider as he looks at the screen. ‘Wow.’ He blinks a lot, clearly as stunned as I am. ‘Good job you did. What a pair of bastards.’
‘I could have forgiven him. I had forgiven him. But not now that I know it’s Della.’
‘What did she have to say for herself?’
‘I didn’t even confront her,’ I admit. ‘I just didn’t have the heart. But I did throw all her clothes out of the window at the gym followed by her Prada handbag.’
Bill guffaws. ‘You did what?’
‘I flushed her phone down the loo too.’
Now he really laughs and I join in a bit too. ‘It was wrong of me.’
‘I think it was the perfect response,’ Bill says.
‘I feel so stupid, so humiliated.’
‘None of this is your fault. You shouldn’t feel like that.’
‘I’m not exactly blameless.’ Bill knows of my own indiscretion and I’m not proud of that either.
‘It’s hardly on the same scale,’ he says. ‘You had a reckless one-night-stand. Your husband has had a devious, systematic, long-running affair with your best friend while you’ve been grieving. He couldn’t do anything more hurtful. Shitbag.’ Bill is more furious than I’ve ever seen him. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Leave him.’ It’s the first time I’ve articulated it – to myself even. ‘What else can I do? It’s over between us. It probably has been for a long time.’
‘Oh, sis.’ Bill comes to my desk and I stand up while he wraps his arms round me. ‘You can stay at my place, if that would help.’
‘I might. I need to consider my options.’ I’m still not thinking straight, I’m sure. ‘I’ll head home early. I’m no use to you here, anyway.’
‘What else can I do?’ Bill wants to know.
‘Nothing. I need to sort this out myself.’ Much as I’m dreading it.
‘Call me later,’ he instructs. ‘I’ll only worry about you.’
‘I will.’
He holds me tightly and we rock together. ‘I’ll be fine. I assure him. I’ve got through worse.’
And I have. I’ve faced the most terrible tragedy and survived. I should remember that.
Chapter Eighty-Three
As it happens, I get caught up with work and don’t leave the office until six o’clock. The last-minute flurry of emails and calls that I had to deal with temporarily took my mind off my troubles. Now it all comes rushing back to me and a darkness that I hoped had started to dissipate threatens to swamp me again. Trying to dodge people as I go, I walk through the streets crowded with commuters, all the workers pouring out of the surrounding offices at the same time. It’s grey, raining and I’ve forgotten my umbrella. Everyone has their heads down and I get shouldered more times than I’d like.
When I get to the Tube station, it’s closed due to an ‘incident’. That usually means either a stabbing or that someone has jumped in front of a train. It’s a horribly regular occurrence these days. Someone won’t be going home to their loved ones or perhaps it’s the fact they didn’t have any loved ones to go home to that affected their state of mind. I confess that in the past, I’ve been irritated by the inconvenience of a ‘jumper’, thinking only of the impact on my own plans. Now I’m overwhelmed with sadness for the person or people involved, their families, their friends.
Instead of marching to the next station or calling for an Ub
er, I step out of the disgruntled crush of people, find a bench nearby and sit on it. I don’t care that the rain seeps through my trousers or that it continues to pour down on my head. I’ve been through a terrible time, but I’ve survived and I’m still here. I have a lot in my life to be thankful for. I’m young – relatively speaking – I have a great job and a loving brother. I’m healthy and, by most people’s reckoning, wealthy. I have life experiences and, for all the sad times, I’ve been blessed by an equal amount of good times. It’s not all been plain sailing – far from it – but I’ve weathered the storm and have come out on the other side of it, battered, bruised, but not broken.
My phone pings and I sigh. I think it might be Chris, then remember I have his phone. I wonder if Della’s told him yet that I know about them?
I look at London around me and wonder what on earth I’m doing here. I could be anywhere in the world where they don’t stab strangers or desperate people don’t jump in front of trains. Then I think that there’s only one place that I’d like to be right now. The worst is behind me and, ahead, I can see blue skies and sunshine. If I think really hard then I can blot out the rain, the jostling crowds, the sounds of the approaching ambulance siren and imagine that I’m back at Cockleshell Bay. That’s where I’d like to be right now with the sun going down on the water and the gentle sway of Sunny Days beneath my feet.
When I look at my phone, the text is from Marilyn. At my moment of need, she’s still there for me. The message says, Wish you were here! and there’s a picture of the beach followed by a row of sunshine faces, palm trees, jet skis and a kangaroo.
I wish I was there too.
I don’t know how long I sit here but I’m soaked through to the skin when I finally do move. It’s a few miles, but as I walk home it gives me time to think.
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chris isn’t in the apartment when I let myself in and I’m glad of that. I peel off my soaking coat and drop it in the hall on the tiles. I’ll sort it out later along with the wet shoes I kick off. In the kitchen, I open a bottle of red, pour myself a big glass and take three hearty swigs. I have decisions to make and I definitely feel as if a hit of alcohol will help. I’m shivering now and head through to the shower.
Sunny Days and Sea Breezes Page 28