To my disbelief, she strides towards the kitchen door, the red gloves swinging from one hand. I want her to go, but at the same time, I feel like I can’t let her leave when I know so little about her.
“Please, just tell me your surname,” I call after her.
She stops at the door and swivels on the spot. “I told you. In wonderland.”
And then she is gone, leaving me staring after her, too stunned to speak or follow.
“Smug bitch,” I say to myself when I hear the front door open, then close behind her.
As soon as she is gone, I feel like I imagined the whole thing. That can’t have happened.
It just can’t.
CHAPTER EIGHT
TESS
“I think Jack is having an affair.”
I regard Kirsty from across the kitchen table, cradling my glass of chilly Chardonnay, the delicious aroma of the casserole we have made permeating the air. For a second, I think she is pulling my leg – Kirsty isn’t the type to blurt out anything so personal. Usually, she is entirely measured in all her interactions, including with friends and family. I suspect that she doesn’t quite know how to switch off her inner doctor.
“Well,” I say honestly. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
Conversation, up until this point has mostly consisted of Kirsty barking orders at me – I’m chief-chopper, and she’s head-chef. I don’t mind in the slightest, for she is by far the superior cook. We’ve been so busy, in fact, since Kirsty arrived two hours ago this Sunday afternoon, that this is the first time we’ve sat down.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I shouldn’t have said anything; I could be way off-mark. But something’s up with him. I just wish I knew what.”
I look at her with some concern, unsure of what to say. I am inordinately fond of my sister-in-law, and genuinely appreciate the way she’s taken me under her wing. As far as our relationship goes, I have never experienced any of the abruptness or coldness that she is known for. She has only ever been lovely to me, and I am flattered that it is me in whom she would choose to confide. I think I am like the little sister she never had. But she’s still never been this forthright before.
“What makes you say that?” I ask carefully.
She sighs deeply, running her hands through her hair. Those greys are still poking through at the temples, and I wonder if she’ll ever find the time to dye her hair again, as she is always run ragged. I think how tired she looks, how she appears to be every one of her forty-eight years, and then some.
“I don’t know. Everything and nothing, really,” she answers vaguely. “It’s just, he’s so distant lately. And he’s always working late. I mean, how much paperwork can one man do in the office of a small car lot? He could just as easily do it at home…” Her voice trails off, as if lost in thought. “Still. At least his receptionist is safe.” She smirks. “Probably because I chose her.”
I think of Ingrid Stanford; a brisk, officious woman in her early sixties, with steel grey hair worn in a spiky pixie cut, and a steely gaze to match, and I smile.
“Yeah. And maybe he does have loads of paperwork to keep on top of.”
I’m not sure why I’m standing up for him, giving him the benefit of the doubt like this – I don’t even like the man. He is way too good-looking for my tastes, and I trust him about as far as I could throw him. Maybe it’s wrong of me, but I am distrustful of handsome men in general – most of them are players. I’m not saying that Shane is ugly, but he’s hardly in Jack’s league. Jack is a tall, worked-out, bule-eyed blonde who bears more than a passing resemblance to Leonardo DiCaprio, and Shane is just… Well, Shane. I couldn’t compare him to anyone remotely interesting, because he is only him.
“Do you think Jack really is working?” she asks me. “All those late evenings at the car lot when he doesn’t take my calls?”
Of course I don’t. Not really. But at what point does honesty in a friendship cross over into unnecessarily hurtful territory?
“Maybe you should surprise him one evening,” I suggest. “You know, just show up there unannounced.”
Personally, I think that’s a really bad idea, because who knows what she’ll catch him doing. Or who, more to the point. I feel sorry for her – it is obvious that Jack is only using her for social standing and as a wife-shaped cash dispenser.
“The thought has occurred to me. But would you do if you suspected Shane of straying?”
I think about Alice, the worst feeling churning in my guts, catching me by surprise. When I say, think about her, what I mean is, she is now very much at the front of my mind, rather than at the back. She is always just there, chipping away at me. Mocking me in my dreams, as well as being in the deepest recesses of my mind when I am awake.
Kirsty isn’t the only one doubting her husband’s fidelity.
“I don’t know what I’d do,” I say slowly. Honestly. “I guess I’m not very good at confronting things.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I think you do yourself a disservice. I think you’re stronger than you realise,” she says. “The way you’re handling three rounds of failed IVF and a miscarriage two months into a pregnancy is entirely admirable.”
“Yeah.” I laugh shakily, wishing that were true.
“I’m sorry,” she says, “banging on about my stupid husband when you’re going through so much. I’m no doubt imagining things, anyway.”
“It’s okay,” I say with a smile. Because of course it is, and I’m glad she feels that she can talk to me.
“No, it’s not. For what it’s worth, I hope you count me as family. I think of you as the little sister I never had but always wanted.”
And there it is, out in the open – buttoned-up Kirsty’s true feelings. I squirm uncomfortably at the compliment, unsure how best to respond. I truly am touched at the way Kirsty has taken such a shine to me, although for the life of me, I don’t know why she has.
“Thanks,” I mumble, feeling the way my cheeks are heating up. I take a big gulp of the ice-cold wine – God, I missed wine the most out of all the things I gave up since trying to conceive. “All I ever wanted was a stable family, after the childhood I had. I may not have children, but I am grateful for the extended family I do have.”
“And I’m glad Shane married you.” She sighs heavily, staring into her wine glass, swirling the pale golden liquid around in circles. “I’m just sorry my parents weren’t as welcoming towards you. You’re such a lovely girl, it’s such a shame.”
“They’ve got enough on their plates,” I say, sounding far more generous than I secretly feel.
Because Kirsty is right – his parents never particularly took to me. They think I’m too young for Shane. Not educated enough, just not good enough. They were never outright rude to me, but neither were they warm and welcoming. But then, they were never especially warm people, according to Shane and Kirsty. His father was the brisk, educated type who had little to do with his offspring, and his mother was more interested in the next dinner party than her children.
And now one of them is too busy dying to pay any attention to me.
“My parents are difficult people. I don’t blame Shane for avoiding them – I guess they were a lot rougher on him than they were on me.”
I smile sympathetically, for I have heard the stories of their benign neglect and disinterest many times.
“Are you and Shane going to go a fourth time?” she asks me.
Not if my husband is sleeping around, I think bitterly. “I’m not sure. It isn’t something that we’ve properly discussed, yet.”
“You’re right. A break is always best. You should just enjoy this Christmas, not think about it. Eat and drink far too much. That is doctor’s orders.”
I grin at her. “Then I intend to follow them.”
Laughing, Kirsty scrapes her chair back across the slate tiles and gets to her feet. “Come on, this Greek salad starter isn’t going to make itself.”
I follow her lead, and together, we ge
t back to work.
*
“This casserole is divine, Tess,” Jack is saying to me, his bright, pale-blue eyes sparkling and crinkling at the corners in a way that I’m sure most women find devastatingly sexy.
Not me, however – I am immune to Jack Aitken’s considerable charms. If anything, he makes me feel entirely uncomfortable.
“It’s is all down to Kirsty,” I say. All I did was chop a few carrots.”
“Oh, stop putting yourself down, Tess. We all know you are a woman of many hidden talents.”
“I’m not,” I answer, aware of my cheeks flushing hot and hating myself for my social ineptness. There is no godly reason why I should get so embarrassed at such a nothing comment.
Next to me, I am aware of Jemima – the perpetually sulking pubescent – dramatically rolling her eyes. We have sat her at the end of the long, dark wood table, solely so we can better ignore her. I wonder what I’ve ever done to offend her, because she genuinely seems to hate me.
Still, at least the table is long, so I don’t have to suffer her withering glances. Tonight, we are eating in the ‘posh room’ as Shane and I playfully call it. We very rarely use this dining room as it is so formal, much preferring to eat in the light and bright, modern kitchen. The walls of this room are all dark oak panelling, with a large, bay window overlooking our back garden. There is a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and old oil paintings depicting hunting scenes adorning the dark oak panel walls, inherited from a long-dead Aunt. Kirsty was always quite bottom-lipped about that, as she only inherited the silverware.
Kirsty – who is sitting next to me, with our husbands opposite – playfully elbows me in my upper arm.
“Just ignore my husband. Besides, I couldn’t have made this meal without you.”
That’s a lie, but it’s a kind one. Honestly, sometimes I get really confused when it comes to Kirsty and Jemima – it leaves me feeling so dazed that Mother would love me so much and treat me like family, and Daughter would apparently hate my guts. And as for Jack, well, he’s just a disgusting, shameless flirt. I don’t think he has any strong feelings about me one way or the other – I’m just a woman, and therefore fair game.
“So, how did Mum seem to you?” Shane asks his sister. “I mean, really?”
This is the first time he has asked Kirsty such a question with anything that might be interpreted as genuine concern.
He is sitting directly opposite her, with Jack opposite me. I am busy trying to avoid direct eye contact with Jack – he is making me feel even more uncomfortable than usual, and that’s really saying something. He is wearing a pale blue shirt, which he wears over a pair of snug-fitting, well-worn, pale blue Levis, and he fills it all out so well. Every item of clothing seems to have been chosen for the express purpose of matching his blue eyes, which glitter knowingly at me from across the table. He makes my husband – who is dressed in a faded t-shirt with the nineties’ band Kasabian emblazoned across the front – look like he’s just crawled out of a skip. Shane has two looks – smart suit when he ventures into the city, and ageing, destitute student when he’s on his own turf.
Not that I’m looking at Jack, or anything, or comparing the two men. No. Not at all.
“You know Mum,” Kirsty is saying. “She just gets on with it. Dad seems to be struggling, though.”
I watch Shane as I take a sip of the white wine. It’s going straight to my head because I haven’t being drinking lately, on account of the IVF and briefly – blissfully – falling pregnant, and I make a conscious effort to slow down.
“How so?” Shane asks. “Do you mean he’s struggling with the housework and the cooking, and stuff like that?”
Their parents had a very traditional relationship, as in, Esther stayed home and kept house, effectively bringing up Kirsty and Shane alone, while David went out to work as a University professor of Sociology. I like David, but he’s not the most practical of men, and he is very bookish. I can’t imagine him doing something mundane like hoovering, yet alone putting up a shelf, or something.
“No, Shane, I don’t mean that,” Kirsty says with more than a touch of ice to her voice. “He just seems lost.”
“Right.” Shane takes a large gulp of the red wine he is drinking. Unlike me, he is a constant, heavy drinker. It isn’t unknown for him to down a bottle of wine a night, and show absolutely no sign of inebriation for it.
My husband has intensely complicated feelings towards with his father, which might explain his general apathy to the fact his mother is slowly dying of a brain tumour. David took the belt to him when he was little, but he never raised a hand to Kirsty. Kirsty never witnessed her brother’s beatings, for want of a better word, but she still believes him, as do I.
It’s weird, I can’t imagine David doing that in a million years, but I don’t doubt Shane for a second. His mum is entirely apathetic. She was a looker back in her day, but with nothing much going on behind the pretty face. She had always been content to live through her successful husband for the entirety of her adult life.
“I guess you’ll see how the land lies next weekend when you go and see them for yourself,” Kirsty says.
“I guess I will,” Shane instantly replies.
Inadvertently, I catch Jack’s eye; what the hell have we married in to? his gaze clearly transmits.
Quickly, I look down at the perfectly-cooked beef casserole on my plate. Jack may well have a point, but the last thing I want to do is share a private moment of understanding with this man. He is nothing to me, and Shane and Kirsty are everything. They are the family I always yearned for as a child, and I’m not about to start flirting with my brother-in-law. That is just sick.
Even so, I can feel his eyes boring into me as I pick at the beef casserole. I resist the urge to tug up the neckline of the flowery blue dress I am wearing. It could hardly be described as ‘tarty’, as it isn’t clinging, and falls below my knees, but I suppose that Jack has the knack of making any woman he claps eyes on feel like she is naked.
The conversation drifts over me – steered onto safer waters now – and I take a drink of wine more times than I place a forkful of food into my mouth.
CHAPTER NINE
TESS
Almost an hour later, I scrape back my chair over the gleaming, dark oak floor and lurch to my feet.
Instantly, I regret it – I got up way too fast and feel like I left my head hovering somewhere above the tabletop.
“Pudding,” I announce. “Just a little something I prepared earlier.”
I may not be as good a chef as Kirsty, but boy, do I bake. Making a cake comes so much easier to me than cooking a meal. Not that I’m bad at cooking, it’s just Kirsty and I excel in the kitchen in different ways. We often joke that we’re the dream team, cooking-wise, and we should open a restaurant together. Maybe I’m so good at baking because all I not-so-secretly want to do is raise a family and bake cookies.
I giggle, then realise how drunk I sound. Oh dear, I decide, that can’t be good. I lean over Kirsty, where the five dinner plates have magically stacked themselves – an incident I don’t remember happening – and scoop them up, where they somewhat precariously slip and slide in my grip, clattering noisily together.
“It’s fine,” I laugh, when Kirsty’s hands fly up next to me to steady them, but I pivot on the spot out of her reach. “I’ve got this.”
“Let me help you,” Jack pipes up, his considerable bulk looming over the other side of the table as he too, jumps to his feet, snatching up the large casserole dish in one hand, and the glass salad bowl in the other. “We’ll bring more wine.”
*
Out in the kitchen, I dump the stack of plates in the sink.
“How much have you and my wife had to drink tonight?” Jack says from very close behind me.
So close, in fact, I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. I am genuinely stunned by his nearness, and spin around on the spot in shock.
Jack closes the already small
gap, one hand resting on the rim of the sink, the other gripping my hip. A numbness creeps over me, a sense of incredulity so strong, I can’t gather my thoughts.
When his fingers massage my hips and he leans down to nuzzle the side of my neck, my entire world stops.
“Drunk or not,” he growls into my neck, his other hand snaking up to cup my breast through the flimsy cotton material of my dress. “You’re still bloody gorgeous.”
I am completely and utterly gripped by paralysis, held captive by numbness – I don’t believe that I will ever move again. One cast-iron thigh pushes between my legs in a territorial, smoothly self-assured way, like it is his God-given right to do so. Like he’s done this to me a thousand times before.
He gently nips the skin of my throat with his straight, white teeth between his heart-stopping words. His tongue darts out, teasing me, accompanied by the faintest, deep moan that echoes deep inside the core of me.
The hand moulding my right breast moves downwards, pausing at my ribcage then travelling ever lower, moving around once it reaches my hip to cup my arse-cheek. My brain is fogged, I can’t think. Only when his hand ceases to squeeze my backside and moves around to between my legs, does good sense finally take hold.
The dreamlike fugue lifts, and I am pushing him away by his hard pecs, shoving him backwards with the flats of both hands.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I manage to gasp.
Jack stares at me open-mouthed, the look in his eyes one of hurt and confusion, like I have done something to offend him.
A sense of incredulity so strong washes over me; I honestly have no idea what to say. I am saved from having to say anything when a new voice cuts through the tense atmosphere:
“You forgot the glasses.”
Jack, who thankfully is now standing a good metre back from me, turns around fast on the spot. My heart is racing, just, oh my God, what if Jemima had entered the kitchen a few seconds earlier? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
In Spite: A terrifying psychological thriller with a shocking twist you won't see coming Page 6