Lover

by Anna Raverat

  * * *

  I call our City law firm, Wells-Ash & Wade. Branton Kemp-Jones comes, a knight in navy blue. Before I go to Belgium, I have to sign various papers to make me a legal signatory for PHC. I hand him my passport.

  “Not bad!” says Branton, looking at my photograph. “I look like a junkie convict in mine—I’m surprised they let me in anywhere. Yours is actually quite nice.”

  It would be impossible for Branton Kemp-Jones to look like a drug addict—a rugby addict or a cricket addict, perhaps. “But you’re so preppy and healthy-looking,” I say. “Obnoxiously so, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  A slight droop of his head suggests that maybe he does mind. “One of the bulbs in the photo booth was out, so, you know, there were lots of shadows,” he says.

  “Don’t get me wrong—you look great! I mean, it’s great to look healthy, is what I mean.”

  “Thanks, Kate,” he says, bouncing back to his imperturbable self. Branton rolls up the papers and ties them with a pink ribbon.

  “It’s quite old-fashioned, isn’t it—signing actual parchment with an ink pen. You’d think nowadays we could just scan and email,” I say.

  “The old ways are sometimes the best,” he says, sounding much older than he actually is. “Righto, that’s done! You are now a legal signatory for Palazzio Hotel Corporation, one of only five in this country and twelve worldwide.”

  * * *

  The therapist emails me with her phone number and says she’s available for the next half hour. I need somewhere private to make the call. I could leave the building, but that gets noted. Empty stairwells or emergency fire exits are sometimes OK, but not for this. Apart from the eleventh floor, all the rooms are glass, and although other people can’t hear you if the door’s closed, they can see you. Sometimes people sit in dark corners to make personal calls, but this is high risk as at any moment other people could barge in, slam the lights on, and find you crouching on the floor.

  I take the scroll from my desk and head up to the eleventh floor, where the offices have real walls. I drop the scroll with Valerie and ask if there’s an office I can use for ten minutes. She says the boardroom is empty and there’s no reason I couldn’t use that.

  * * *

  I close the door and sit down in one of the big leather chairs. It’s a relief to be away from the bright lights and buzz of open-plan.

  Elisabeth Quintrelle sounds deliciously posh and kind. I make an appointment to see her, and just before she rings off I say, “Wait! What do I say to the children? What should I tell them?”

  “The main thing is to make sure they know it’s not their fault. You could tell them that Mummy and Daddy are having a hard time right now and that’s why Daddy is not at home, but that you both love them just the same as you did before and that it’s not their fault this happened.”

  “OK,” I say, writing it down word for word.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, I walk past Peter’s shop. The shelves and tables outside are bare; almost everything has gone.

  “You’ve had a good day,” I say.

  “No, not really,” says Peter, taking a long draft from his can.

  “It was eventful,” says Ronnie. “The police raided him. Took the lot, and he won’t get compensation.”

  “The royal servant is in prison and they say they like to arrest me too. Handling stolen goods, but I didn’t know. She told me they were gifts from the Queen. I believe her, but she lied to me. Terrible,” says Peter, shaking his head.

  “She lied to you, Peter,” says Ronnie. “You’re innocent, you done nothing wrong, mate.”

  “I didn’t know,” says Peter. “I didn’t know.”

  “Oh, dear,” I say. “What about Balmoral? Should I take it to a police station?”

  “No, darling—keep it. You didn’t know—you’re innocent. I’m innocent, you’re innocent, we’re all innocent!”

  * * *

  When the girls are in their pajamas, I sit on the rug in their bedroom and ask them to join me.

  “The last few days have been really difficult and weird for our family,” I say. They are sitting on their heels, alert. I’ve never seen them pay so much attention to anything and it gives me stage fright. “Mummy and Daddy had a big fight,” I say.

  “We know,” says Hester.

  “Because you took his phone,” says Milla.

  “Not exactly,” I say. “One day when you’re old enough to understand I’ll tell you more, but for now, the most important thing for you both to know is that it isn’t your fault.”

  “We know it’s not our fault!” says Milla, as if this is the stupidest thing she’s ever heard.

  “It’s your fault, Mummy, for taking Daddy’s phone,” says Hester.

  “But we still love you,” says Milla.

  “Yes, and we love Daddy too,” says Hester.

  “We love you both the same,” says Milla, and Hester nods.

  “Oh,” I say, completely thrown.

  * * *

  I talk with Yvette in the sitting room with the doors closed.

  “There’s so much I don’t know,” I say. “It’s keeping me awake at night, wondering about everything.”

  “It’s all so new and strange,” she says sensibly.

  I check the time. “I am going to call Lorna,” I say. “Now.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Yvette clearly doesn’t think it is. “What are you going to say to her?”

  “I have a list of questions.” I show the two pages I wrote last night.

  “She’ll never answer all those!” says Yvette, dismayed.

  “She bloody will,” I say. I know Lorna will talk to me because I’ve already arranged it with her via text, although I realize she may not be expecting forty-six interview-style questions. I have a sudden attack of nerves as I realize my models are celebrity chat shows and police dramas, but I’m hoping I can make it sound natural.

  * * *

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello,” she replies.

  “So, I just wanted to talk to you because, well—you know why,” I say, wishing I’d scripted the beginning as well.

  “Yes,” she says, sounding a little nervous.

  In order to put her at ease, I skip questions one through eleven, which are about sex. I want to know what kind of sex they had and if it was the same—or basically the same—as the sex I had with him, or whether there were things I didn’t know about, a fetish or something, or a lot of anal sex, but I can’t start with that so I ask her how they met. She confirms that they met through the website three and a half years ago, and that he never told her about me and the kids.

  “But you knew about Charlie,” I say.

  “The dog, yes. Is that important?”

  “Not really,” I say lightly, though it is.

  I move on to the section that deals with how often they saw each other, how they arranged it, how many times he spent the night.

  “About seven times this year, I think. Maybe eight. Nine or ten times the previous years. I wanted him to stay more often but he was always busy—with work, he said.”

  She confirms that the last time he stayed the night was three months ago when I had been in Brighton. She’d been asking him for ages to take her out on his Ducati.

  “The helmet he brought for you to wear, that was mine,” I say, wistful, then rouse myself—still a fair few questions to get through.

  “So that was the last time you saw each other?”

  “No. We went out for a drink two nights ago. He had a lot of explaining to do. Three and a half years and now suddenly a wife and two kids!”

  I am shocked that he saw her again so recently and instantly feel foolish for being surprised. “So, did you—?”

  “No. No way. I just wanted to get some answers and tell him what I thought of him. Left him sitting in the pub with his stupid pint, never want to see him again.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Can I ask a few questi
ons about you?”

  “What do you want to know?” she says.

  Everything, I think but don’t say. Instead I ask, “What do you look like?”

  “I’m about five eight, quite curvy I suppose, wavy brown hair. People say I look a bit like Judy Garland. Adam used to say that, sometimes.”

  “Oh, well,” I say, smarting. Judy Garland, for goodness’ sake! I wasn’t prepared for a film star.

  “And what do you look like?” she asks.

  “The Wicked Witch of the West,” I say. She doesn’t laugh.

  The call ends soon after this, rather awkwardly:

  “Thanks for talking to me,” I say.

  “I’m not sure what good it’s done. Why are you asking me anyway? Why don’t you ask him all these questions?” she says.

  “I have.”

  “I probably shouldn’t have answered any of it. Except that you have children, and I didn’t know that. He took advantage of me as well, you know. It wasn’t just you he lied to.”

  “Didn’t you suspect something? I mean, he hardly ever stayed with you, didn’t see you regularly, no birthdays or weekends or holidays. I mean, hello—alarm bells?”

  “Frankly, if you have to ask me all these questions, that should tell you something. That should tell you all you need to know.” She ends the call.

  * * *

  “Judy Garland!” says Yvette.

  “I know—who says that? Who actually says, ‘I look like Judy Garland’?”

  “Maybe someone who actually does,” suggests Yvette gently.

  “I should’ve said I look like Scarlett Johansson,” I say.

  “But you don—” says Yvette.

  “Not the point,” I interrupt.

  “Anyway. Do you feel better, having spoken to her?”

  “Not really.”

  * * *

  A couple of hours later I receive a text from Judy Garland: You took advantage asking me all those intrusive questions. I didn’t know he was married. Leave me alone and don’t call me again. I’m innocent.

  “Intrusive? I didn’t even get to the sex questions,” I complain to Yvette.

  19

  In the middle of the night I rifle through my jewelry boxes quickly and quietly like a thief, stealing from myself. This pair of gold hoop earrings; this string of Russian River pearls; this silver bracelet with pendant heart, all presents from a fine jeweler in Soho. He took me to the shop once and, when I looked through the stock, the things I liked best were things he’d already given me. Whenever I bought new clothes or shoes I asked his opinion before cutting off the labels. His taste was impeccable, which is why his comment about the swimsuit stung. But he did choose lovely things.

  My heart aches as I pick them out. I tip the jewelry into a stray sock and push it to the back of the drawer. My wedding ring is already back in its box and I’d never had an engagement ring—Adam couldn’t afford one.

  I’m still wearing the necklace he gave me last birthday, a sweet little diamond on a gold chain. At the time, I’d worried about such an expensive present. “But now it makes sense,” I snarl down the phone. It’s 6:00 a.m. I’ve woken him. I inform him that I spoke to Lorna, that I know he saw her two nights ago, and ask him why he didn’t think to mention that. He had to finish it properly, he says, she was angry. Lots of angry women in your life, I point out, adding his mother and his sister to the list since they now know. She was demanding an explanation, he says, and since he had lied to her too he felt he owed her one. He will never speak to her or see her again, wishes he never had. It’s all very well to wish, I say, and ask again, why? Why did he start, why did he carry on, and why did he start something with Louise on top of what he had going with Lorna? I set the trap, although I’m already in it myself, and we both watch as he stumbles toward it. I zone out. There’s pain in my throat, as if it’s being constricted. So this is how it feels to strangle a sob—it’s strange when a cliché comes to life. And surprising how much it physically hurts to choke an utterance. This feels bigger than both of us—the pain I feel, the pain he feels: an age-old story. There he is in the position of the betrayer. Old as the hills. Here I am in the position of the betrayed. I try to concentrate as he lists all the usual reasons that people give for their treachery.

  20

  Everything has unraveled; my whole life has come apart. Trying to stitch something back together, I go through his phone bills, cross-referencing with my diary: dates that I was away coincide with peaks of activity. I work my way back through the year; last April, during the school holidays, we went to his parents’, but Adam said he had work to finish and besides he wanted to ride his Ducati, so I went ahead with the girls and he stayed in London for a couple of nights. Adam’s parents and I took the girls to Chester Zoo and Hester spilled a carton of Ribena all over the backseat of Grandpa’s Mercedes. She cried and cried and I had a surge of irritation with Adam for not being there. It was cloudy at the zoo, all the animals inside or asleep, apart from the giraffes who walked slowly around their enclosure.

  * * *

  “Adam—”

  “Yes?” he says, wary.

  “Are there other things you haven’t told me?”

  “Such as what, exactly?” he snaps. “What do you want to know—sexual positions and degrees of pleasurability?”

  I hang up, flustered. We are both exhausted by my ceaseless interrogation. I hound him until he goes to ground and throws out mean or one-word answers. If I could ease off, maybe he would be more forthcoming. He rings back and apologizes.

  “There might be details you don’t know,” he says, “but why do you need them? Can’t you leave it alone?”

  I need the details to make it real. I need to know how wide and how deep: when and where. The precise coordinates of the betrayal are necessary in order to locate its exact position in my life because it feels surreal; a theory that I need to prove, over and over, until I can finally accept it. I know I’m obsessing, but the phone bills are the only solid thing, the only sure answer to all my questions. I do want to know sexual positions and degrees of pleasurability. I want to know everything. Or perhaps what I really want is for him to answer fully and honestly instead of going from one foot to the other, dodging blows.

  * * *

  I call every number I don’t know. A few recorded answerphone messages, a few live. It’s like discovering Bluebeard’s chamber: the disembodied voices of women left hanging.

  “Who?” asks one.

  I describe the scene. “You may have met him online,” I say.

  “Ohhhh,” she says, “I did dabble in that a few years ago. I may have spoken to him but I never met him in person.”

  “We exchanged photographs—we never actually met,” says another woman.

  One number is answered by a man. My belly drops, but it turns out he’s only had the phone for a couple of months, bought it in a pub, didn’t realize he’d bought a backstory.

  One of the numbers belongs to Bob. “Hello, Kate! How are you all?” he says. “How’s Adam? It’s been ages.”

  “But you saw Adam,” I say. “You went out for that drink before Christmas, with Tim. And Louise.”

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” says Bob, sounding confused. “When did you say this was? I haven’t seen Adam for nearly a year. We must catch up next time I’m in London.”

  I find Tim’s number.

  “I haven’t seen Adam in months. Do give him my best,” says Tim.

  * * *

  It hurts to be in our home. It hurts even to be seated. I grab my coat, rush outside and onto the common. I come to the pond. On the water a pair of geese slowly cruise. I watch them for a while. A noticeboard informs me of something I already know about geese: loyal, faithful, they stay with their mate for life. That’s how it’s supposed to be with humans too, but I’ve lost my mate and the shame is brutal.

  I call Adam to scream at him.

  “Are these what you call details?” I shout. “Five more women and some guy who
bought a phone in a pub?”

  “But that was years ago—when I first signed up to the website! I forgot about them. A few phone calls, that’s it. I didn’t meet any of them!”

  “And I spoke to Bob and Tim—they weren’t there that night with Louise, so why do you keep on saying they were?”

  “What difference does that really make now?”

  “It makes a world of difference!” I yell.

  “Kate—” he starts, but I end the call. It’s raining lightly. Traffic is dense and slow; drivers look out with envy at pedestrians who are moving faster. My hands, shaking a bit, go to the birthday necklace. I swivel the chain round and after a small struggle with the catch, take it off. Sitting in my palm, the gold chain furls over like a rope, diamond glinting underneath. It doesn’t weigh very much. Avoiding eye contact with stalled motorists, I walk to the edge of the pavement and drop the diamond necklace down a drain.

  21

  When Yvette leaves we both cry a little. I’m not sure why she’s crying, but it’s been pretty intense so maybe they are tears of relief, or exhaustion.

  The girls won’t get out of bed, refuse even the offer of chocolate cereal for breakfast, and both of them are floppy and hot to the touch. I call the school. The fact that they are ill is actually easier because my parents arrive from Boston today. They’ll look after the girls while I’m in Belgium and then stay on for a while when I get back.

  I give them watered-down orange juice in their old baby bottles, which they still love to drink from, and Hester asks me to put on the CD of nursery rhymes they used to fall asleep to, which I do, and then she asks, “Does Daddy know we’re ill?”