The Girl I Used to Be

by Mary Torjussen

“Did it go on your papers?” asked Lucy.

  “No, I got them in time.” I sounded curt but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to take the photo out of the drawer and look at it again, but I couldn’t do that while they were here. We only had this one office with a little kitchen behind a partition at the back. There was no privacy at all; this hadn’t been a problem until now, but at that point I would have done anything to have my own room so that I could try to work out what on earth was going on.

  * * *

  * * *

  THAT AFTERNOON I sat at my desk and answered the phone and spoke to new clients and arranged appointments, all the while aware of the photo that was sitting in the drawer next to me. Who had taken it? Why would they send it to me?

  For the last few weeks I hadn’t let myself think about what had happened at the door to my hotel room. It had been both expected and unexpected. If I’d been single, I suppose I would have known he was going to kiss me. It was just the way the conversation was going. We were both drunk, laughing a lot, and very, very relaxed. But he knew I was married. I’d told him about Joe.

  I was dying to talk this through with someone. I couldn’t talk to Caitlin. Obviously I couldn’t talk to Joe. My mum would be horrified I’d kissed someone else.

  I looked over at Lucy. She was great fun and a good friend. Very understanding, kind and loyal. But I was her boss. Surely there was a limit to what I could tell her? Sometimes we went running together and we joined a yoga class for a while, and although we had the odd moan about our husbands, it was never anything serious. And I worried that my judgment could be off; I imagined walking into the office and realizing that all the others knew about this and had been talking about it while I was out. My stomach knotted at the thought of that.

  “Are you okay?” asked Rachel. “Are you feeling all right?”

  I forced a smile. “Yes, I’m great, thanks. Just a bit tired.”

  “It’s nearly time to go home,” she said. “Not long now.” She’d been to the cloakroom and came back looking as immaculate as she did when she arrived at work. Her hair was always glossy and pinned back, her makeup always fresh.

  “You’re looking very nice,” I said. “Are you going out?”

  She blushed. “No, just going home. Another night in.”

  “Me too.” I thought of going home and holding Rory in my arms. Just the thought of it was enough to lower my blood pressure. That was all I wanted to do, to hold him close, to make him laugh. To kiss him until he screamed for mercy. I relaxed at the thought. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to closing time. “Come on, everyone,” I said, “let’s get out of here on time tonight.”

  There was a sudden mad dash as everyone cleared their desks and washed up mugs. While they were in the kitchen I grabbed a folder and threw in the photo and the envelope that had arrived in the post.

  “Taking work home?” asked Rachel when she saw the folder on my desk. “You’re tired; you should be relaxing tonight.”

  “There’s always something to be done.”

  She held my bag and folder while I locked the door and pulled down the shutters. The others had walked off in the other direction, and she and I set off to the car park behind our office. In the quiet of the car park I stood next to her as she opened her car door and for one crazy moment I thought, Should I ask her what to do?

  Rachel always seemed so capable and sensible. She was quiet; although she’d join in if she was encouraged, she was more likely to sit on the edge of the group. Maybe that meant she’d be less likely to gossip? I desperately needed someone to talk to.

  “Rachel?” I said as she got into her car and put her bag on the passenger seat. “Can I have a word?”

  She looked up at me, startled. “What, now?”

  Then common sense prevailed. I couldn’t talk to her about David. She was too young and I was her boss.

  I shook my head. “It’s okay. Nothing that won’t last until tomorrow.”

  She looked relieved and I realized I wasn’t the only one who wanted to get home early. I waved good-bye and got into my own car.

  THIRTEEN

  ALTHOUGH I’D INTENDED to go straight home, I found myself driving in the opposite direction, down toward the River Dee. The car parks there were emptying now and I found a quiet spot to park in the castle car park. I needed to see the photo on my own.

  I pulled it from the folder and looked at it again.

  At the bottom of the photograph was the time and date it was taken: June 23 at 22:45. That was the Friday night I was in London. I remembered it had been so hot and humid when I arrived at the hotel that I’d showered and washed my hair before going down to the bar. My hair was gleaming, my makeup still in place. My eyeliner swept my eyes in a smooth line, untouched by the night, but my face was pink and had a sheen that I hoped wasn’t normally there. It was easy to tell I’d been drinking.

  My eyes were nearly closed and my face was upturned. I was being kissed by a man with dark hair who was touching my face as though we were lovers. His face was in shadow; unrecognizable.

  I knew who it was, though. It was David.

  And I thought: What would Joe do if he saw that photo? Would he leave me?

  At the thought of that conversation, of living alone for half the week, of not being able to see Rory every day or to speak to Joe whenever I wanted to, I felt panic course through my body. I could lose everything over this.

  * * *

  * * *

  I LEANED MY head against the car seat and closed my eyes. What was going on? Why would anyone take a photo of me that night and why would they send it to me?

  A band tightened around my forehead at the thought of Joe seeing that photo. And he’d never believe me if I told him I couldn’t remember doing it. He thought I was in bed, asleep, at that time. I’d told him I was! And I’d told him by text, too, so I couldn’t even deny it. My heart thumped as I thought: What happened that night? What happened after we kissed? I was so frustrated. I couldn’t remember anything. Had we slept together? Surely not! How would I not remember that? I was furious with myself for drinking so much; I should have learned my lesson by now, but every time I thought of Joe seeing the photo, of hearing what happened that night, I felt sick.

  And then I knew I needed to get hold of David and ask him what the hell was going on.

  Within minutes I was back at the office. I opened the shutters, unlocked the door, and turned on my computer.

  It was nearly six P.M. and I’d told Joe I’d be home early that night. Quickly I logged into the database we kept of all our clients and searched for David Sanderson. I clicked on his name. I pulled my mobile out of my bag and saw I had three missed calls from Joe. I felt a stab of guilt and dialed David’s number.

  I held my breath as it rang out. I counted eight rings and then it cut dead. It didn’t go to voice mail. I tried it again and then again. Why wasn’t he answering? Was he monitoring his calls?

  Quickly I called from the office phone and withheld the number, so that he wouldn’t know it was me. Again it rang out. No reply.

  On the database was the e-mail address, and I opened my work e-mail and sent him a quick note.

  Hi David, this is Gemma from Chester Homes. Please can you get in touch asap? I need a quick word. Thanks.

  I looked at his e-mail address again. It was a Gmail account. What if he didn’t see it? I sent him a text with the same message, just in case. I needed to speak to him.

  * * *

  * * *

  JOE WAS WAITING at the front door when I arrived home.

  “You said you’d be back early!” He pushed past me and grabbed his kit bag from the cloakroom. “I’m late for football.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ve been at work. You’ll be in time if you run now.”

  “I called you there and there was no answer!”

  “I was
halfway home and realized I’d forgotten something,” I said. “I had to go back. I’m sorry. I forgot about football.”

  He snatched my car keys from my hand. “You’ve blocked me in. I’ll take your car.”

  With a bang of the front door he’d gone. It was only when I was bathing Rory that I realized I’d left the folder with the photo of David kissing me on the front seat of my car.

  * * *

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT JOE came back late, long after I was in bed. I guessed he’d gone to the pub with his friends after playing football. I couldn’t sleep when he was out; I always struggled to relax if I knew I’d be woken up.

  That night, though, there was no chance of sleep. I lay for hours, rigid with worry. I hadn’t expected him to take my car and couldn’t remember whether I’d put everything back into the folder, or whether the photo and envelope were just underneath it. Would he see it? Would he come storming in, demanding to know what was going on?

  I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the front door open. There was a clink as he put my car keys in the bowl on the hall table, then the soft creak of the stairs as he came up to bed. He looked in on Rory first, and by the time he came into our room I realized of course he hadn’t found anything. He never looked at my files at home unless I asked him to. He wasn’t very tidy and wouldn’t even move them out of the way if I’d left them on the coffee table or pick them up if they were on the floor. There was no way he’d bother to look at them when he was in a hurry to get to football.

  “Hey,” he said, and smiled, his earlier temper forgotten. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t realize the time.”

  “Good night?”

  “Yeah, it was great. We won, two-nil, then we went to The Crown for a couple of pints.” The Crown is a pub at the end of our road. “I brought the car back after football and walked down with Mike.”

  I could have kicked myself then. I hadn’t heard him park the car earlier; if I had I could have run out to see whether the photo had been moved.

  When he eventually got into bed, we chatted about Mike and his family and then Joe said, “He was telling me about someone he knows who’s moving over to Ireland.”

  He gave a deep sigh and my heart sank. Joe’s from a huge, close Irish family and a couple of his brothers and sisters still live over there. Whenever he has a couple of drinks he talks about moving back home.

  “What will he do there?”

  “He’s transferring his business,” he said. “He’s a plumber and says he can do that there as well as anywhere. He said there are lots of opportunities in Ireland now.”

  One of the things I loved and hated about Joe was his absolute and complete optimism. The trouble was that he was also able to talk all night.

  I yawned. “Can you tell me about it tomorrow? I’m half asleep.”

  “Sorry, sweetheart. It’s just that I was thinking—we could do that.”

  I was losing track. “Do what?”

  “We could go back to Ireland.”

  “Back? I’ve hardly been there!”

  “You know what I mean. Everyone goes back home in the end, don’t they?”

  “But it’s not my home.” I wriggled away from him. “And what about my business? And the rentals?”

  “Oh, you could do that anywhere,” he said confidently. “Everyone needs to buy houses. And you could get someone to manage the rentals. You could even get someone to manage the office and start another one there.” He turned to me, all excited. “We could make it work, Gem!”

  All of me, every cell in my body, told me not to ask the question, but I couldn’t resist. “And what would you do in Ireland?”

  “Me?” He sounded puzzled. “I’d look after Rory, of course. And hopefully we’ll have another baby soon. Or more than one.” He stroked my belly. “Who knows, we could have a football team!”

  He snuggled close to me, dreaming his happy dreams. My happy dreams involved being able to take the whole day off for once in my life. Slowly I slid away from him and made a vow not to get pregnant until we were sharing the same dream.

  And then as I lay there, feeling the familiar weight of Joe’s arm around my waist, his warm breath on my neck, I thought of that photo again and the lies I’d told him. If Joe saw it, he might go to Ireland anyway, without me. He might take Rory with him.

  FOURTEEN

  Sunday, July 30

  ON SUNDAY SOPHIE was back at work. Her boundless energy made me doubt her illness earlier in the week, which, according to her, had made her think she was dying. I found I couldn’t drum up the energy to care. While she managed to type up her work and kept up a stream-of-consciousness monologue, I sat at my desk and tried to work out what was happening. In the end I couldn’t think straight and sent her out to the corner shop for milk, a job that I knew would buy me twenty minutes’ peace.

  As soon as she’d gone, I called David’s number. There was no reply and it didn’t go to voice mail. I tried again and again. Frustrated, I sent a few texts, each one more hysterical than the previous one, but then had to stop myself. I was making an idiot of myself.

  Sophie returned and made coffee. Surreptitiously I moved my computer monitor slightly so that she wouldn’t be able to see what I was doing on my screen, then opened my e-mail. I’d disabled it on my phone the night before, in case a message came in when Joe was with me. I’d felt grubby then, as though I were having an affair. There was no reply from the e-mail I’d sent to David. I looked around; the office was quiet. I picked up my phone and car keys and went out to my car. I looked up the hotel where I’d stayed in London and called them.

  “Hi,” I said. “My name’s Gemma Brogan. I stayed at your hotel on Friday, the twenty-third of June.”

  “Hi,” said the receptionist. “How can I help you?”

  “I met a potential client that night. I believe he was staying with you for a few days around that time. He gave me his business card but unfortunately I’ve lost it. Would you be able to give me his contact details?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re not allowed to pass on personal details.”

  My heart sank. I’d guessed she’d say that. “I don’t suppose you could pass on a message, could you?”

  “Yes, of course, I could do that for you as long as he’s given us his details,” she said. “Just let me check. What was his name?”

  “David Sanderson.”

  “And when did you say you were here? The twenty-third of June?”

  “Yes. That was a Friday night; he’d been there all week.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said after checking her computer. “I’d love to help but he must have been staying somewhere else. There’s no record of him staying here.”

  I thanked her and ended the call, then sat back, confused. I remembered him saying he’d been staying there all week. He’d told me he’d tried most things on the menu in the restaurant.

  I frowned. I knew he’d said right at the beginning that he was there on his own, that he’d been bored every evening. Did he simply mean he’d been in London? I’d certainly understood him to mean he’d stayed at the hotel all week.

  And then I remembered him saying, I’m on the tenth floor.

  There was a knock on my car window and I jumped with fright. Rachel stood there.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said when I got out of my car. “Paula James is on the phone. She says she’s thinking of backing out of the purchase. Can you speak to her?”

  I went quickly back into the office to reassure Paula, who called nearly every day, that everything was going well and that you couldn’t just buy a house without the process taking a bit of time. All the time I was working, right at the back of my mind, niggling away, were questions upon questions.

  Why did he tell me he was staying at the hotel when he wasn’t? Who had taken that photo? Why had they sent
it to me? Had the same person sent me the receipt?

  I was desperate to talk to someone about it, but who? While Sophie was occupied with the clients, I opened the desk drawer and took the folder out. I reached up and took a box file from the shelf behind me and used it to block the folder, then slid the photo out and stared down at it.

  I thought back to the times I’d gone out with Caitlin when we were students. She didn’t drink much, but I’d keep going as long as we were out. The next day I’d feel “the shame,” as she put it, where I’d lie on the sofa in our student halls and remember stupid things I’d said or done when I was drunk. I seemed to lose all inhibitions at the time, but afterward I’d curl into a ball, cringing at the memories as they flashed back into my mind, and she’d say how glad she was that she’d stayed relatively sober. She tried to keep me safe, though, keeping tabs on me when we went out, making sure I didn’t go off and do something crazy on my own. She didn’t always succeed.

  And now here I was again, years after I’d calmed down, married to one man and kissing another while I was drunk. I couldn’t even remember doing it. David was nice enough, but I hadn’t wanted to kiss him when I was sober. Joe was the only man I’d wanted to kiss since the day I met him and I was happy with that. He was everything to me. He was my family. I loved him.

  But there was no denying it: Here was the evidence that I’d betrayed him. When I looked at the photo I felt a greater shame than I’d experienced before wash over me. I couldn’t bear to think of Joe seeing it. It was something we’d agreed on right from the moment we fell in love, that we’d always be faithful. That there would only be him and me. And now it looked as though I’d destroyed our relationship and—worse—done it so casually, too. As though it was worthless.

  I looked at the details that had been put onto the system when David had first come into the office. He’d given an address twenty miles south of Chester. I frowned when I saw the location; why would he live so far from his job when there were so many rentals in the city center? I was just about to enter the street into Google Street View when Rachel came back from showing potential buyers around a house nearby, and I took the chance of everything being quiet to go and find out. It was Sunday afternoon; it was likely he’d be home.