Relaxing, Molly spent the first several minutes telling her friend about the weekend. ‘I should never have gone without Jack.’ She was tempted to tell her about the stranger she’d met but she didn’t. Not because she was afraid her friend would be surprised or shocked, she’d long come to realise that Petra was virtually unshockable, but because the episode had taken on an unreal dreamlike quality. If she didn’t talk about it, the whole thing, along with the guilt and humiliation, would fade away. It was better that way.
‘I was surprised you did,’ Petra said. ‘Actually, I thought you were crazy. Amelia is a lovely dash of psychedelic colour in our conservative grey world, but I’ve found a little of her goes a long way.’
‘She’s probably saying the same about me,’ Molly laughed. ‘I’ve been a bit preoccupied recently and possibly wasn’t the best of company.’
‘You’re missing the kids. A touch of empty nest, I’d guess.’
Molly swallowed a groan. Why was everyone so quick to practice their armchair psychology on her. At least, Petra hadn’t asked if she were menopausal too. Before she was tempted to do so, Molly brought the conversation around to the real reason she had phoned.
‘How’s Simon?’ she asked as a first step and listened to Petra telling her how wonderful her darling husband was for several minutes. When there was a miniscule lull, she dived in. ‘Good to hear,’ she said. ‘Jack has been a bit stressed recently and he’s looking very pale. It seems to be a bit manic at work. I’d love to be able to empathise with him.’ She thought that sounded suitably psychobabbly. ‘But it’s hard when I don’t know what’s going on, and he’s like your Simon, way too macho to admit if there are problems.’
‘Gosh, yes, they’re two of a kind.’
Molly gave what she hoped would pass for an amused laugh. ‘Peas in a pod. Men, we have to protect them from themselves, don’t we?’ She waited for her friend’s laughter to die down. ‘That pal of yours, Nicole, who works in Jack’s firm, you wouldn’t fish a little, see if you could find out something, would you?’
The indrawn breath told her that, for once, she’d surprised her friend. Molly shut her eyes and swore softly under her breath.
‘You want me to ask her to spy on him?’
Molly had forgotten Petra’s liking for drama and intrigue, and immediately regretted having asked. But it wasn’t the kind of thing you could step back from. ‘Spy is a little OTT,’ she said calmly. ‘I see it more as looking out for my husband’s welfare, the same as I’d look out for yours if the situation were reversed.’
‘Gosh, yes,’ Petra rushed to comment. ‘I know you would, Mol. We women have to stick together after all.’
Putting her hand over the mouthpiece, Molly let out a whoosh of relief, not really listening as her friend rambled on about women’s solidarity. ‘Thanks,’ she said, when there was a pause, ‘yes, it’s the only way, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely. You leave it with me.’ Petra’s voice held the fervour of one on a mission. ‘I’ll give Nicole a shout tomorrow and ask to meet her for coffee, it will be easier to pump her for info face to face.’
Petra might be a bit of a drama queen, but she was also an astute woman. If there was anything to know, she’d find out.
A few minutes later, Molly said goodbye, dropped the phone on the sofa beside her and sat back, resting her head on the cushion behind. She wanted it to be trouble at work, however difficult that might be, because the alternative didn’t bear thinking about.
She reached a hand up, her fingers lingering on the fine lines she knew had appeared around her eyes. An affair with Amelia, bad as that would be, wouldn’t be a risk to her marriage. Amelia wasn’t looking for something permanent after all, but if he’d found someone younger, prettier. Someone in Vegas perhaps?
With difficulty, Molly put the idea to the back of her mind and picked up her phone. Despite being asked to contact her every day, there were no messages from either Freya or Remi. They’d plead their case with excuses of being too busy, too exhausted, too something rather than the truth that they’d not thought about her. If they were in trouble, she’d hear about it fast enough. She’d no real worries, they were good kids, but she wished they’d at least send a message. The apron strings still tugged, she didn’t let them hurt, but they did irritate at times.
As the evening crept on, she wondered about getting something to eat. Instead, she made a cup of tea and switched on the TV. Nothing held her attention, a documentary was too boring, a drama turned out to be less than gripping. The ten o’clock news came and went, and Jack still hadn’t arrived home. The pub did food, he’d probably had something to eat and would fall in the door later, stinking of garlic and onions. She put her mug in the dishwasher and headed to bed. If he was very late, he’d sleep in the spare bedroom so as not to disturb her. He often did.
More often recently? She tried to think if this was the case and gave up.
Crawling between the sheets, she lay and listened to the gentle sounds of the house settling for the night, the soft gurgle of the ancient plumbing, pipes creaking as the heating switched off, soft ticking sounds that lulled her to sleep.
At home, she usually slept well, falling quickly, waking suddenly. Reaching for her phone, she checked the time just as the alarm sounded. Seven. Time to get up. She opened the bedroom door and looked across the landing to the spare room. The door was ajar and through the gap she could see Jack sprawled face first, arms bent, hands shoved under the pillow.
Moving closer, she saw the pile of discarded clothes lying on the floor. With a glance at Jack’s gently snoring body, she picked up his trousers and slipped her hands inside the pockets. She found nothing; embarrassed with herself but unable to stop, she moved quietly to the jacket hung over the back of a chair. Here she found nothing more than a receipt for coffee and a few coins.
Jack’s wallet sat on top of a puddle of coins on the bedside table. It was so tempting. She supposed she should feel guilty, but she wouldn’t have to go to such extreme sneaky lengths if the stupid man would talk to her. The coins clinked as she lifted the wallet; she froze and kept her eyes on Jack. When he didn’t stir, she flipped the wallet open. A row of cards on one side she ignored, her fingers sliding into the compartments on the other. There were a couple of business cards but nothing else. Closing the wallet, she put it gently back on top of the coins.
Unlike her, Jack found it hard to wake and she had to shake him several times, each time with more force, before he finally opened one eye.
‘It can’t be time to get up,’ he pleaded groggily, his words slurred.
‘Afraid so. It’s after seven.’ She saw his eyes close again and knew he’d be asleep before she left the room. ‘Come on, Jack, stay awake.’
‘All right, all right,’ he said, pushing up and shaking his head. ‘You should have stayed last night. I wouldn’t have drunk so much if you had.’
‘Yes, it’s all my fault,’ she said with a grin. ‘Have a shower, you’ll feel better.’
Thirty minutes later, she was drinking the first of the many cups of coffee she needed to get through a normal day when he came into the kitchen. He might not feel better, but he certainly looked it. She poured coffee, added milk and three sugars and pushed the mug towards him.
‘Thanks,’ he said, picking it up and taking a mouthful before checking his watch. ‘Damn and blast,’ he said, draining the coffee and putting the mug down with a clatter. ‘I’ve got to fly. There’s an early meeting this morning, if I don’t rush, I’m going to be late.’ A quick kiss on her cheek and he was gone.
A wave of relief washed over her. It was work. She’d seen the worried look. Work. It could be sorted.
With a quick look at the time, she put their mugs into the dishwasher, grabbed her bag and coat and headed out the door. Eight minutes steady walk got her to South Kensington Underground and fifteen minutes later, she was in work. Her job as account manager for Dawson Marketing used to be fun, but recently she’d start
ed to find the work stultifyingly boring and the day dragged. Finally, when her clock ticked to four thirty, she picked up her bag and left.
The journey home was one she could do almost in her sleep; sometimes, running on autopilot, she’d arrive home and not remember anything about getting there.
Today, she turned into her street, her mind on Jack. She wondered whether Petra had contacted her friend yet. It would be better to wait until she rang, she didn’t want to appear too eager to hear, too worried about what she might have discovered. She stood on the kerb, waiting for a gap in the traffic to cross the street, her eyes drifting automatically towards her house, blinking in disbelief when she saw the man standing on her doorstep.
Her gasp was loud, automatic, pushing her backward; she stumbled even as she searched frantically for somewhere to hide. Desperation forced her to try a gate. It opened, she slipped through, closed it quickly behind her and leaned against it, trembling. She hoped whoever lived in the house wouldn’t come rushing out to chase her away because she was incapable of moving.
There were a few detached houses on this side of the street interspersed between the towering apartment blocks. Many, like this beautiful Victorian home whose garden she was hiding in, had shoulder-high brick walls and wooden gates. There was a small garden between the gate and the house where dead summer flowers lay at drunken angles around a small patch of grass. There was no light showing in any of the windows; she was probably safe for a while.
She took a steadying breath before turning to peer anxiously over the top of the gate, ducking down quickly when she saw him. With a loud gulp, she leaned against the gate and slid down, her coat snagging on the rough wood. She felt sick and took deep breaths to try to control the panic. What was she going to do?
Heart thumping and breath rasping, she waited a minute before turning and inching her way up to look again, dropping down when she saw he had moved from the front door. He was standing on the pavement, staring down the street.
If there’d been any doubt before, there wasn’t any now. It was him, the man with the turquoise eyes. The stranger she’d tried to kiss on the canal. He was supposed to stay a stranger. How on earth had he found her?
And, more importantly, what did he want?
11
Every few minutes, Molly peered carefully over the gate, frustration growing as she saw him move back to the doorstep and lean against the door. Maybe she should go over and confront him, explain that what had happened had been simply a moment’s madness.
He was obviously intent on waiting for her. Squeezing her eyes shut, hot tears pushed through to trickle down her cheek. Jack was usually home by six fifteen. If the man didn’t leave, he’d meet him. Would he tell? What would he tell? Your wife tried to kiss me, she seemed up for it.
At six, she peered over the gate again. She couldn’t put it off any longer, she’d have to speak to him. Damn it, she’d say anything, do anything, to prevent Jack finding out how incredibly stupid she had been. She could have told him yesterday; could have made a joking reference to a handsome guy she’d met, brushing it off somehow. Now, no matter which way it came out, it sounded worse than it was. Their relationship had been a little shaky recently, she didn’t want to be the one who tipped it over into the realms of seriously rocky. Not over something so stupid… so meaningless as this. She gripped the edge of the gate, preparing to open it and step out. Then, to her relief, she watched the man push something through her letter box before taking a final look up and down the street and heading away.
She waited five minutes to make sure he’d gone, then opened the gate and hurried across the street, a taxi blaring its horn as it braked to avoid her. Her breath was coming in ragged gusts by the time she opened the front door. She slammed it shut, pulled all the post from the letter box cage, found a single folded sheet of paper and jammed it into the top of her open handbag.
She heard Jack’s key in the lock and hastily pinned a smile in place. Seconds. That’s all she’d had to spare. ‘Hi,’ she said, dropping her eyes to the post, hoping the slight tremble in her voice wasn’t obvious to him.
‘Hi yourself,’ he said, dropping his briefcase on the floor and his coat on the banisters. ‘You’re late home.’
‘Oh, someone was leaving and there was a bit of a do in the office after work. I felt obliged to pop in for a few minutes.’ Yet another lie falling glibly from her tongue.
He took her explanation without comment. ‘Mine?’ he asked, nodding at the letters.
‘Yes,’ she said, handing them over. ‘I was expecting an invoice from Freya’s university,’ she added. It might have been true; all the invoices for both Freya and Remi’s universities were addressed to her for convenience.
He frowned. ‘Didn’t you pay recently?’
‘It was for extras.’ She shrugged without elaborating.
Throwing his post, unopened, onto the hall table, he shook his head. ‘They’re going to cost us a fortune.’
It was impossible to miss the underlying worry in his words. Molly opened her mouth to ask him if everything was okay, giving him an opportunity to tell her what the problem was, but before she could get the words out he’d walked away and into the kitchen. Following him, she watched as he took a beer from the fridge, swigging from the bottle as if he couldn’t wait to get the alcohol into his system.
Her handbag was in her hand, looking down she could see the top of the sheet of paper. She was desperate to read it, and yet afraid to. What could the man possibly want with her?
‘Bad day?’ she asked, standing by the door.
‘Usual,’ Jack said shortly. ‘What’s for dinner?’
The wonderful Rebecca had always left something ready for them. All they had to do was pop it into the microwave or oven, following whatever instructions she left. We’ll eat out more often, Jack had said when she’d pointed this out to him, but during the week they were rarely in the mood to leave the house once they’d come in from work.
She’d planned to stock up with quick frozen ready meals but so far she’d not got around to buying them. ‘There’s pizza,’ she said, opening the freezer door.
‘Again?’ he muttered.
Clutching the door, she pressed her lips together. There was no point in getting into a row about who was responsible for dinner. ‘Or we could go out?’
He finished the beer and dropped the bottle on the counter. ‘Yes, good idea, let’s go back to O’Dea’s, the food was good last night.’
She shut the freezer, her hand resting on it for a moment before turning with a bright smile. ‘Fine, I’ll change into something more comfortable.’ He’d go as he was; he was as comfortable in his suit as in casual clothes. On the rare time they went out during the week, she preferred to change, to have that distinction between work and her social life. Tonight, it was more of an excuse for a few minutes’ privacy.
She shut the kitchen door quietly after her and forced herself to take the stairs slowly, when what she wanted to do was take the steps two at a time, desperate to see what was written on the sheet of paper. Closing their bedroom door, she pulled it from her bag and took it into the en suite. With the catch on the door, she sat on the toilet seat and unfolded it. It was badly written… childish almost… a spelling error in the six words that were sprawled across the page in a single line, no punctuation, no capitalisation.
we need to meat ring me
And underneath a mobile number.
She crumpled the page in one hand and held the other over her mouth. ‘Oh God,’ she whispered before smoothing out the creases to read again. The six words didn’t appear in any way threatening. But why on earth did he want to meet her?
He had looked so disgusted when she’d tried to kiss him… surely, he wasn’t thinking of blackmail. Apart from humiliating herself, she’d done nothing wrong. But was it a story she’d want told to Jack? Of course, it wasn’t.
She stood and flushed the toilet, in case Jack had come upstairs. But when she open
ed the door, the room was empty. Reaching for her handbag, she felt inside until her fingers closed over her phone. She took it out and returned to the bathroom.
A minute later, after a few attempts, she had composed a text she was happy with.
I’m sorry I misread the signals. I don’t want to meet you. Please don’t come to my house again. I’ve told my husband how stupid I was. Now I want to forget it happened.
She looked at it for a moment. It would do, wouldn’t it? It said she wasn’t interested in meeting him and hinted that there was no point in trying to blackmail her as her husband already knew. A convenient lie that looked convincing. Holding the page out, she keyed in the phone number and taking a breath, pressed send.
12
Jack’s voice came from the other side of the door, making Molly jump and drop the phone with a clatter. ‘What’s keeping you?’
She stood and flushed the toilet again, raising her voice to be heard over it. ‘I’ll be down in five,’ she called. Back in their bedroom, she put her phone into her bag and held the page for a moment before crumpling it into a ball and shoving it into her underwear drawer. Tomorrow, she’d take it to work and put it into the office shredder.
It took only minutes to change from her work clothes into jeans and a jumper. She ran a brush through her hair and went downstairs, her expression carefully neutral. She needn’t have worried. Jack gave her a cursory glance before grabbing his keys and heading for the front door, leaving her to trail behind.
O’Dea’s was popular and busy, and that night was no exception, the overwhelming cacophony hitting Molly when they stepped inside. There’d be no chance to talk. Was that Jack’s plan? Maybe it was just as well. Her mind was too wrapped up in her own problems to deal with whatever was going on in his life. Anyway, before she heard his side of the conversation it would be better to be in possession of whatever information Nicole had. It would help to be forewarned.
The Perfect Life Page 7