Oh Christ, what have I done? Sleeping with Amber may be the final nail in my wife’s coffin. It could destroy her. Maybe Amber’s right. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her.
Ten minutes or so tick by painfully slowly and Emma still hasn’t moved. Maybe she knows? The pain in my stomach worsens, and I drag myself to the en suite. I lean over the loo for a few minutes, retching. I forget my dodgy stomach when I notice the empty wine bottle stuffed behind the shower curtain. I can’t tell if Emma was drinking in the shower, or if she was so pissed, she thought the shower was the bin and dumped the empty bottle there. Now I know for certain that I never should have left her alone this weekend. The guilt is so bad now that I finally manage to hurl, barely turning my head back around in time to aim for the toilet bowl.
I brush my teeth, pick up the empty wine bottle, and make my way out to the car where Emma is still sitting. She’s staring at her phone and doesn’t notice me. I open the driver’s door, and she screams. I jump back instinctively, yelping in response. Taking a second to straighten up and step forward again, I laugh, imagining how ridiculous I must look to the neighbours. Emma doesn’t laugh. But I wish she would.
‘Hey,’ she squeaks; teary green eyes peek out at me from under her heavy fringe.
‘Hi, Ems. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. You okay? You’ve been out here for ages.’
Emma shakes her head.
‘Are you sick?’ I think of the wine bottle I’m clutching behind my back. ‘You never come home from the school early.’
‘I’m not sick,’ she says, twisting her legs out of the car as she stands up.
I believe her. God, I wish I hadn’t brought the wine bottle into the garden. What was I thinking? That I was going to scold her for drinking? How dare I? I just worry that there’s always the chance she’ll do something to hurt herself when she’s drunk and alone.
‘You’re home early,’ she says, leaning into the car to fish out a bag of groceries.
‘Yeah. The meeting ended sooner than expected.’
‘So they let you go home? That was nice of your boss.’ Emma pulls her head out of the car and stands up straight again. She drops the bag at her feet. ‘Well, s’pose you’ve been working all weekend. It’s just time in lieu really, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. I guess you could say that.’
Emma’s right. The whole team should have gotten the afternoon off. Or tomorrow. I’m exhausted. Maybe I’ll phone in sick in the morning. At the very least, it would mean I wouldn’t have to face Amber for a while.
‘You’re home early too,’ I point out, tossing the wine bottle onto the grass verge when Emma sticks her head back into the car again. It doesn’t make a sound as it hits the ground.
‘Yeah. I got upset in school, and Richard told me to go home. He was actually really sweet about it. I’m probably going to take the next couple of days off.’
I place my palm on the small of her back and rub it around in little circles. ‘I think that’s a good idea. You could do with some space. Actually, I think I’ll take a couple of days leave too. We could spend some time together, yeah?’
Emma pulls her head out of the car again; this time, she turns around as she swings her handbag over her shoulder. We’re so close that even through her thick winter coat I can feel her tits press up against me. She hasn’t done it on purpose, but it’s nice. I don’t want her to move. I don’t want to move. I wrap my arms around her waist and kiss her forehead. I take a picture in my mind. After I confess, I may never get to hold her like this again.
I wish I could do as Amber suggested and just not tell Emma, but I can’t. She doesn’t deserve to be cheated on, and she doesn’t deserve to be lied to. Unfortunately, I can only remedy the latter. I have to.
‘There’s a bag of potatoes in there too. Will you lift them out please?’ Emma says, breaking away from me to fetch the bag of groceries on the ground beside us.
‘Potatoes? You hate potatoes, don’t you?’ Emma and I switch places, and I lean into the car to retrieve the large, heavy bag waiting on the floor in front of the passenger seat.
‘It’s a long story.’ She sighs.
‘Well, I’ve got all afternoon to listen.’ I grunt, my back objecting to dragging the bag across the seats and out the driver’s door.
Emma tilts her head towards the open front door. ‘Not out here.’
‘Sounds serious.’ I swallow.
‘Come on. I’ll make us some coffee.’ Emma wrestles with the green carrier bag and paces towards the house. She doesn’t look back to see if I’m following.
Chapter Fourteen
EMMA
David’s face is redder than usual. The bag of potatoes can’t be that heavy that it’s leaving him breathless. He’s forever lifting weights in the gym, for goodness sake.
‘Where’ll I put these?’ he asks when we reach the kitchen.
‘Um …’
David opens one of the cupboards we never use and stuffs the huge, awkward sized bag in. ‘There,’ he announces, proudly dusting off his hands. ‘So do you have a craving for carbs all of a sudden or what?’
‘David, sit down.’ I puff out.
David’s face loses all colour, and for a second, I think he’s going to fall over. I’ve never seen him so jumpy. It’s making me nervous.
‘What? What is it?’ He twitches.
‘Just sit, okay. I’ll get those coffees.’
David pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and plonks roughly down. He slides out the chair next to him for me and pats it with his hand.
‘Don’t drag this out, Emma. Please. Just tell me?’
I half fill the kettle and flick it on all the while keeping my eyes on my husband. His fair hair is tossed and spikey like he’s been running his fingers through it. His usual dapper appearance seems tarnished, almost grubby. The top button of his sky blue shirt is open, and the knot of his navy tie is slack and hanging looser than normal. I suspect the meetings with the client haven’t gone as well as David would like to pretend. Maybe the whole weekend was a bust, and he’s feeling the strain.
The kettle whistles, and I set about making two cups of instant coffee. I walk to the table, my hands shaking, and place both cups down. I take a seat next to David and wait for him to say something. But he’s pensive and silent, and it’s obvious he wants me to talk first.
‘How was your weekend?’ I blurt.
‘Okay. Fine, I guess.’ David runs a hand through his messy hair. ‘We already talked about this on the phone. How are you? Is something wrong? You’re not yourself.’
‘Yeah,’ I admit, bouncing on the spot as I scald my tongue with the piping hot coffee.
‘Emma,’ David barks, ignoring that I nearly fried my face.
‘What?’ I retaliate way more snarkily than I intended. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I’m just freaked out.’
‘Why? Will you spit it out?’ David’s face is ashen, and he’s sitting so far over on the edge of the chair I’m surprised he can keep his balance.
‘I think I have a stalker,’ I mumble, somewhat mortified to say those words out loud.
I know how diva like they sound. Stalkers are reserved for celebrities and figureheads. What the hell does someone want with me?
‘A stalker?’
David is grinning. His whole body appears lighter all of a sudden. His eyes are dancing brighter than an excited five-year-old on Christmas Eve. It’s almost as if I’ve just told him he won the lottery or something equally as awesome. I thought he might be at least surprised. I certainly didn’t think he’d be bizarrely elated.
‘David, I’m serious,’ I growl. ‘Someone has been sending me weird messages on the internet all weekend.’
David rolls his eyes, and his smile grows. He’s really starting to piss me off, and once again, I suspect that maybe this is some weird joke.
‘Did you know about this?’ I grunt, struggling to hold back tears.
Is h
e sniggering at me or at the idea of a stalker? I can’t tell, and I’m embarrassed to ask.
‘No. I didn’t. But c’mon, Ems. You can’t actually be taking this shit seriously.’
‘It’s not funny. And I am serious. I was so freaked out earlier that I couldn’t walk to the car alone. That’s how I ended up with potatoes.’
‘What?’ David can’t hold back the laughter now.
I can hear myself. I know my mixed-up ranting is making no sense. I try to calm down. I’m not worried about having a panic attack now; I’m home and safe, but I know my speech is racing, and I’m hard to understand when I’m like this.
Consciously speaking softer and more controlled, I try to explain. ‘I was at the shops earlier picking up a few bits for lunch. My phone was going crazy. Some weirdo was messaging me. Watching me. The shop was jammers with people. Any one of them could have been this guy. So I picked the heaviest thing I could find to buy, and I told the girl behind the till I needed help carrying it.’
‘Facebook, yeah? Was some werido trying to be your friend?’
‘Yeah … and …’
‘Oh Emma, baby. Stop. You’re working yourself into a state. It’s just your anxiety running away with you. I never should have left you alone this weekend. I’m so sorry.’
‘No. It’s not that. I was fine on my own. Honestly.’
‘Well, clearly you weren’t fine if you are going around buying random bags of spuds. Jesus, we’ll be eating shepherd’s pie for a month.’
I giggle. My chest is still painfully tight, but David is slowly making me feel better.
‘Anyway,’ he says, taking my hand and giving it a little squeeze. ‘You wouldn’t believe the amount of crazy people who try to reach out to me on LinkedIn. I’ve no idea who they are, and I’ve definitely never worked with them. They’re just attention seekers or something. I was saying the same thing to Amber earlier.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Really.’ David grins. ‘She had some creep on Facebook try to friend her too.’
I grunt. I know the internet is a playground for the odd and creepy. Almost everyone has been on the receiving end of a keyboard warrior at some point. Nerdy types who wouldn’t say diddly-shit to anyone in real life, but stick them behind a laptop, and they become trumped-up bullies. It’s how they get their kicks. But this is different. This is personal.
‘Yeah.’ I mellow. ‘And I know that happens all the time but—’
‘Yes, it does. Exactly.’ David nods. ‘Look. Maybe there’s some horny bastard out there going around checking out all the pretty girls on Facebook, hoping one of them will be stupid enough to sleep with him.’
I raise a sceptical eyebrow, and David’s bottom lip droops, realising that he’s inadvertently told me his boss is attractive.
‘Block and move on,’ he says, dragging his finger across the air as if he’s reading invisible words written in the wind. ‘Block and move on.’
‘Yeah, fine. I would. Except that doesn’t explain how someone out there has a photo of me?’
‘A photo? Of you.’
‘Yes. Me. That’s what I’m saying. This is more than just a friend request here and there. It’s actual stalking, and yeah, I know how dramatic and stupid that sounds, but someone is actually watching me. How else would they have my picture?’
David’s whole face scrunches as if my story is a horrible smell hitting him in the face. I hate when he does that. Looks at me like he thinks I’m overanalysing everything.
‘They probably googled you and downloaded the first hit they got. It could be a scam or something. Try to friend you and then tell you they’re from a war-stricken country and they need money to get their family out or whatever. You know, you hear about these con artists all the time.’
I zip open my coat and slide my arms free.
‘This blouse is new.’ I swallow. ‘Today is the first time I’ve worn it.’
‘It’s lovely,’ David interrupts.
‘I’m wearing this exact blouse in the picture they sent me.’
David’s stupid grin falls away.
‘Explain that?’ I toss my head to the side and wait.
‘Okay, this is weird. Show me?’ David’s tone is softer now, and several concerned lines are etched into his forehead.
‘I can’t.’ I grimace. ‘I deleted it.’
‘Okay. Show me the rest of the messages, then?’
‘I deleted those too.’
‘What?’ David snips. ‘You deleted everything?’
‘Yeah. It was creepy. I didn’t want to keep that shit on my phone. And anyway, Kim said I should just get rid of them.’
‘So Kim knows.’ David sighs.
‘Yeah. I got the first message on Saturday night when we were out for drinks. And things kinda continued from there.’
‘Okay.’ David slugs some of his coffee. ‘But Kim saw the messages too, right?’
‘Yes,’ I snap. ‘What? If Kim hadn’t seen them, you wouldn’t believe me? Jesus. Thanks, David.’
‘No, Ems. That’s not what I mean.’
‘Well, what do you mean?’
David stands up and paces the floor. ‘Fuck, Emma. I don’t know. You’ve just thrown all this at me. How do you expect me to have an answer to that?’
‘I don’t.’ I soften. ‘I just want you to know. That’s all.’
‘Okay. And now I know.’
‘Well?’
‘Well what, Emma? What the hell do you want me to say here?’
‘I dunno. I just want you to care.’
‘I do care. Of course, I care.’ David’s stiff shoulders relax, and he paces back to the table and sits down beside me again.
‘I can’t do this,’ he says, dropping his face into his hands. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’
I can’t see his face, so my eyes dart all over every part of him looking for a clue about what the hell he means.
‘Can’t do what?’ I exhale. ‘Listen?’
‘No. God no, Ems. I’ve done something terrible.’
My eyes widen, and I feel the burn of coffee making its way up the back of my throat.
‘Do you know who this person is?’ I quibble. ‘This internet freak. Do you know them?’
David tosses his head from side to side, his body swaying in sync. ‘No. I’m not talking about that.’
‘Well, what then? David, you’re not taking this seriously at all. I’m not just being paranoid, you know?’
‘Christ. Ems,’ David spits. ‘Will you shut up for two seconds?’
My jaw gapes. David never speaks to me like that. He tiptoes around like he’s on eggshells, so much so it’s actually annoying. This isn’t like him.
‘Baby, you’re freaking me out,’ I murmur. ‘I know you think I’m mad, but why are you so angry? I don’t understand.’
‘I’m not angry with you, Ems.’ David drags his hands up and down his face, pulling his skin so roughly it looks like it hurts. ‘I’m not angry with you at all. It’s me. It’s all me.’
‘It’s you?’ I yelp. ‘The stalker, you mean?’
‘Will you forget the fucking stalker? Fucking forget it,’ David shouts, throwing his hands above his head. ‘Some asshole online is the least of our problems right now.’
My head drops to one side, almost meeting my shoulder, and I eye my husband up as if he’s a stranger. He’s acting so odd he might as well be.
‘What happened this weekend?’ I whisper.
A sharp shiver runs the length of my spine, letting me know I’m afraid of the answer.
‘It’s Amber.’ David swallows.
I straighten. David’s eyes lock on mine. Usually just looking into his big, round, baby blues soothes me. But I see something now I’ve never seen in him before. His eyes are glassy and dull as if winter clouds have collected and pushed away his usual summer sparkle. I swallow hard, recognising those clouds. It’s guilt. I know it because when I’m having a bad day, I gaze into the mirror and those
same clouds stare back at me.
I try to remain sitting upright, but it’s as if an imaginary weight is tied to my shoulders, dragging me down. Tearless, panicked sighs shoot out of my mouth like a wounded animal. I try desperately to close my mouth and to catch my breath, but my body disobeys me and cries harder. I know what David is going to say. I know it, and I hate it.
‘Amber,’ I pant between jagged coughs.
David slides off his chair and drops to his knees on the kitchen tiles in front of me.
‘I’m so sorry, Ems. So sorry. I don’t know how it happened. Oh, Christ,’ David cries, placing his hands on my knees.
His fingertips feel like acid against my skin, and I want to push him away, but I’m frozen. Seconds tick by in painful slow motion.
‘Emma, please. Say something. Please, baby. Anything.’
I begin to jerk back and forth like a child on a rocking horse.
David scurries backwards, his knees still on the ground. He’s watching me, not daring to take his eyes off me. He’s afraid, I can tell. He’s afraid that he has broken me. Maybe he has.
My body sits on the kitchen chair, but it’s just a shell. I’m not inside right now. I’m down at the train station having tea with Danny. My mind can see it so vividly, it’s real. I could swear it’s real. I sit in the freezing Porto cabin with my friend. And it’s good. It’s good because my friend is alive and well, and my husband isn’t a cheating bastard. I shake my head as the memory fades, and my mind travels back to reality. David was right. Some asshole on the internet really is the least of my worries right now.
‘Say it, David,’ I growl; my eyes round and glassy like two china saucers.
‘Emma, please?’ David whispers, dropping his head.
‘Fucking say it. Say it. Say it. Say it!’
‘I slept with Amber,’ David shouts. ‘I slept with her.’
See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist. Page 8