“Sure, why not?” She flags the waitress while I stare at my hands and will my heart to slow down. I can’t believe I almost blurted it: When Alex came to me with the proof.
June pats my arm. “And you did it, you did solve it.”
I smile. We sit there in silence for a while, staring into our glasses. “So what happened to Hope?” she asks.
I shrug. “The party was just before the end of term and I only saw her once after that, in class, and then her family moved away, so that was that. We drifted apart. I don’t where she is now. I don’t really like to think about those years, to tell you the truth. It’s in the past now.” I run my finger along my glass, leaving a trace in the condensation. “My mother used to say, back when she still talked to me, that I was an over-attached child. I would cling to her, she said; then I met Hope and I clung to Hope until they moved away. And maybe she was right, because now I cling to Luis, and my children of course, but especially Luis. Luis is the only friend I ever had after Hope, the only friend that is truly mine. I haven’t even seen my mother in years, as she refuses to visit us. I told you she didn’t come to our wedding, didn’t I?”
June nods, biting into a small mushroom.
“This is how horrible she is.” Are my words sounding a little slurred? “Before we got married, she called me. She said not to marry him. Something was ‘wrong’ with him. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. But I knew what she meant. She saw I was happy. She was going to do it again, try to ruin it for me.” I scoff. “I mean, really? I’m about to get married to the love of my life, and she tells me there’s something wrong with him?” I make air quotes around something. “I laughed at her. I said, ‘Yeah, he loves me, Mother. That’s what’s wrong with him.’ Seriously, that woman will stop at nothing to ruin any chance of happiness for me. It’s like it’s embedded in her DNA. I told her, ‘Honestly, Mother, enough. I’m a grown woman, I can do what I like. Save it.’ She didn’t come to my wedding after that. And then she moved away.”
“Where to?”
“Some small town in California called Clearlake. I’ve emailed her that we’ll come and visit, take the kids on vacation—most grandparents would love that, wouldn’t they? You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But no, not this one.”
“But did you find out what she meant? About Luis?” June asks.
I give her a look. “Please. These were just the games she liked to play. There was nothing wrong with Luis. He loves me and she couldn’t stand that because she’s a sick woman. He is the only person left in my life who truly loves me. Sometimes, in my darkest hour, I believe that I will meet so few people in my life who will truly love me that when I find one, I have to hold on to them with everything I have.”
Eighteen
We’re talking about relationships and I want to know more about Trevor, but June’s not saying much, and I get a sense that she’s still too sad to talk about it.
I lift a greasy finger. “Okay, so final question. How would you describe him, in one word?”
She thinks about it, and smiles. “Funny,” she says. “He was really funny. He used to make me laugh a lot.” I try to ask more but she waves my questions away with a flap of the hand.
“What about Luis, in one word?”
I peel a prawn and sink my teeth into its flesh. “Unfaithful,” I say, sucking on the tail. She gasps and I look up abruptly. It’s like the word escaped from me without my realizing it was even there. I start to laugh, but she’s looking at me, her head tilted, her eyebrows drawn together. I want to say something but I’m stuck, and my eyes start to swim.
“Luis is having an affair?” Her eyes grow wide with understanding, but disbelief also, which makes sense considering I’ve just waxed lyrical about what a great husband and father he is for the last twenty minutes.
Hearing it like that, without adornments, is like having the carpet pulled from under my carefully constructed house of cards. I immediately regret saying anything, but it’s too late.
“It’s fine, June, he’s not having an affair anymore. It’s over.”
“Oh, Anna! How did you find out?”
I tell her about my suspicions, then seeing him with Isabelle, and finally the coup de grâce, finding the texts. Especially the texts.
“How do you know it’s over?”
“I just know.”
“Have you checked his texts again?”
I shake my head. “His cell isn’t always on his bedside table and, to be honest, I feel like I got away with it once, I’m not game to try it again.”
“So, how do you know?”
I tell her what it’s been like, how sweet he’s been. I show her my silver earrings which I happen to be wearing. “He remembered I liked them,” I say. “And they’re heart-shaped. You know what that means? That we’re in love again, that’s what. Not that we ever stopped, but you know, it’s gone back to the way it used to be. In a way.” I smile at her, but the words sound hollow and I wonder if I ever really believed them. “And his show is over so he has no reason to go to the gallery anymore.”
“Right,” she says, staring intently at her plate.
“What does that mean?”
She shrugs. “Nothing, what do I know? I’m an idiot.”
“Hey, that’s my line! Come on, tell me.”
“Just that…” She sighs, puts her fork down. “Listen to yourself, Anna. Why would Luis stop seeing Isabelle, just because you’re trying so hard to be perfect? He can have his cake and eat it too, as far as I can see.”
She registers the shock on my face and raises her hand. “Look, I’m only saying this because I’ve been there, and I did all the things you did. I was the perfect girlfriend and he still left me for her. Of course, it’s very possible the affair is over, but you don’t know that. You should be in control of this situation, Anna. Not try and second-guess it. If he’s going to stop seeing… what’s her name again?”
“Isabelle.”
“If he’s going to stop seeing Isabelle, it should be because you made it happen.”
I laugh. “I thought I was. Believe me, I’ve turned up the seduction dial to stratospheric. What else are you suggesting?”
“Confront him! Give him an ultimatum! Make him take responsibility for his actions!”
I’m such a loser. Of course she’s right. And yet… “What if he picks her?” I say in a small voice.
“He won’t.” Then she thinks about it and shrugs. “And if he does, well, he would have left sooner or later. But he won’t,” she says again. “Have you checked his toiletries bag for condoms?”
“What? No! Why his toiletries bag? I’m not even sure he has one.”
“That’s where Trevor kept them. Alternatively, you could always confront her. Have you considered that?”
“How do I do that? March up to her at her work and make a public spectacle of myself?”
“Of course not.” She pauses. “You know what would be helpful here, I think, is if you could see them together? You could probably gauge a lot from how they interact. Like, are they trying too hard not to interact? You know what I’m saying?”
“I don’t know how to do that, either,” I say sullenly.
“Look, Anna, it’s up to you. Don’t listen to me. I’m the one who couldn’t keep my own boyfriend, so what do I know? I’m sure you’re right, it’s over.”
The first thing I think of when I wake up the next day, my head heavy and blurry, my tongue thick, my heart beating too hard, is that I wish I hadn’t told June about Luis and Isabelle.
But as the fog clears, I decide that she’s right. Winning the Pentti-Stone prize has made me complacent, if not a little smug. I’ve been walking around my own life as if I was more than enough. When have I ever been enough?
I have to wait another two days before I am alone in the house. It’s Saturday morning and Luis has taken the children to the ice rink while I plead a headache. The moment they’re gone I go through his things. It’s almost a ritual by now: I go thr
ough his pockets, his shoes, his drawers, under his drawers, his emails, cellphone bills, especially cellphone bills. Nothing.
I check his toiletries bag for condoms—there are none—and I stand there, knowing that finding nothing doesn’t prove he’s not still seeing Isabelle. It just means I found nothing.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for, and I really do get a headache. I press my fingers on my temples as I gaze out to the back garden and the shed. I should go to his studio and search there. That’s what I should do. If there’s anything to find, that’s where it will be.
Then I focus my eyes. The shed.
The shed is completely Luis’s domain. I hardly ever go in there, and why would I? It’s where he tinkers with his bikes. There’s nothing for me there. Which makes it the perfect hiding place.
I unlock the door and catch a whiff of chain oil. His red bicycle is resting upside down in the center, tools carefully laid out on the bench, ready to perform some intricate operation. Sometimes I think there’s nothing wrong with his bicycle, but men are like children and they need toys to tinker with, and so Luis goes to his man-shed, takes his bicycle apart, rebuilds it, takes it apart again.
It doesn’t take long to figure out I’m wasting my time here. I’ve looked under every tin of paint, shaken out every oily rag, searched drawers forensically. The only remotely incriminating thing I’ve found is a half-empty packet of Marlboros behind the antique wooden toolbox I gave him years ago.
It’s only when I’m about to give up that I spot his canvas bag in the corner. The kind that you strap diagonally across your torso, like bicycle couriers use.
I open the flap and there’s nothing there, except for a packet of Listerine strips, which is certainly interesting in itself and I wonder what they’re for. Kissing, perhaps? There’s a pocket at the front with its own flap and inside, carefully folded in half, is a receipt from Mol Creations. I smile. It’s the receipt for the earrings Luis bought me to celebrate the Pentti-Stone win.
Except it’s not.
It’s the right jewelry store, Mol Creations, but the date is wrong. The receipt is from three months ago. Luis gave me the earrings only ten days ago. Could he have bought this for me? Something for my birthday, maybe? But that’s in another four months, and our wedding anniversary is another month after that. It doesn’t seem like Luis to plan a gift so far in advance.
I’m biting down on my teeth so hard I’m going to crack them if I don’t unlock my jaw soon. I hold the receipt in my fist and crush it slowly. Because the worst part is, the receipt is not for the pair of heart-shaped earrings, it’s for a necklace—14 karat gold. And it cost $510, which is three times as much as my earrings.
Necklace—14 karat gold does not tell me much and I absolutely have to know what it looks like. Is it pretty? Is it sexy? Does it spell her name between two interlocking hearts? Luis has taken the car, so I take an Uber to the jewelry store. In the back seat I stare out the window, fingernails digging into my palms. The driver is chatting idly, about the weather, what else, and checking me out occasionally in the rearview mirror. I ignore him. I don’t trust myself to speak without yelling furiously. Yes! It’s cold, isn’t it?!
Instead I close my eyes and make myself breathe through my nose because I can’t go in there with this out-of-control anger barreling through me. I’ll end up smashing something—not a good look in a jewelry store, I don’t think.
By the time I walk in I’ve regained some control. I hand my receipt over to a pretty blonde woman with a very elaborate hairdo, lots of make-up and a bright smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. If they ever did a remake of Stepford Wives, she’d be perfect.
“My husband bought this for me,” I say.
“Lucky you,” she replies, and I nod. Lucky me.
“I was wondering if I could have it resized.” Desperate, obviously. Lame even. I don’t know what size it is to begin with. What if it’s one of those long loopy necklaces that drops down to the navel?
“Oh? Well, let’s take a look. Did you bring it with you?”
“No, I just wanted to know if it was possible first. Do you have another one here? I laugh for no reason whatsoever, waving the crumpled receipt in front of her. She raises her eyebrows and looks towards the door, as if to gauge her escape route. This is going completely wrong. She’s going to have me arrested if I don’t come down soon.
“May I?”
I nod, and she takes the receipt from me carefully, using the very tip of her fingers, and smoothes out the receipt on the glass counter. “I don’t need to look it up. The design is listed right here, see?”
I squint, then I see it. LILII it says, right above her long red fingernail. “That’s the model of the necklace.”
“Oh, I thought it was…” I don’t know what I thought. Some kind of inventory naming convention I guess.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have another one here…” she says.
I bite a fingernail. “Do you have a picture of it I could look at? I’d really like to discuss with you how resizing it would work.”
“Certainly.” She pulls out a catalogue from under the counter, flicks it open, and turns it around so I can see it.
“Here we are. It sits above the collarbone. Is that not the case for you?” She tilts her head and looks at my neck, which is of normal size and certainly not so big that this necklace won’t wrap around it.
But I’m not listening to her anymore. I pull the catalogue closer and stare at it. The necklace is shown in a full page, color photograph, and the only word for it is exquisite. Of course, the artist and the curator—what else could it possibly be? It’s a fine gold chain, as fine as a gossamer thread, with two narrow baguette diamonds on one side, just above the collarbone. I’m going to be sick. My silver heart-shaped earrings suddenly feel trite, the kind of gift you give your wife to show you appreciate her but without the investment. A gift for the giver’s benefit, just one step up from a KitchenAid.
I snatch up the receipt from the glass counter and walk out.
Nineteen
It’s been two days and I’ve been ruminating incessantly about the necklace. I did another forensic search that afternoon, in case there is a pretty gift box with my name on it hidden somewhere. It goes without saying that I didn’t find one. I was almost tempted to confront him about it, but then I thought, the gift isn’t recent, what if it was given in the heat of lust? What if it is over between them? Luis has been attentive to me lately. We are happier, aren’t we? And what if the gift really is for me? How will it look if I’ve been snooping around, checking his receipts? You’re so jealous sometimes, Anna. Why can’t you trust me?
No. I made the decision: I absolutely have to pretend everything is fine until I figure out what’s really going on here.
And now, it’s Sunday morning, and Luis and I are strolling around the flea market, holding each other’s gloved hand. I have a thing for winter outdoor markets. I love them. I love the icy air on my cheeks, the vendors with their fingerless gloves, the white sky, the promise of snow. I’m warm in my duffel coat, a blue and white woolen scarf that Carla knitted for me a few weeks ago around my neck. It’s a new hobby for her and we’re all wearing beanies that are too small and scarves that are strangely misshapen, and I love them all to bits.
Luis stops to look at a Bakelite clock and I turn around, scanning for the source of that roasted chestnut smell.
I nudge Luis. “Do you want some?” He looks up.
“Sure.”
The vendor is roasting them on a hot plate and selling them in paper cones. I’m digging up the right change, fingers like blocks of ice, when a voice behind us calls out. “Luis?”
We both turn around.
Isabelle.
“Hello,” she says, smiling at my husband. She’s stunning with her bright smile and her blonde hair cascading out of an elegant black fur hat. She looks like she’s just stepped out of a Disney movie.
I am not an angry person. I am a happy
person. I am calm and dependable. Everyone says that about me. But right now I am livid as I watch my husband kiss her quickly on the cheek with a fake, desultory Hey-how-are-you? All very chaste, that goes without saying—I am here, after all. But my lips are trembling as I say hello through gritted teeth because is this meeting really accidental? They’re standing too close to each other and it’s making me boil. I imagine myself pushing her away with both hands, palms slapped hard against her long black leather coat. I picture her stumbling backwards and hitting her pretty head on the asphalt. I imagine her mouth making a perfect ‘O’ of surprise and her blue eyes wide in shock, and fear too, until her eyelids close like the eyes of a vintage doll. Then I imagine the blood. A tiny rivulet at first, seeping from the back of her head so slowly we don’t notice it until it grows into a pool and we have to step away so as not to get it on our shoes. I imagine everyone agreeing it was an accident. The heels of her tall leather boots were too high, too thin, too unstable. Silly girl, she couldn’t keep her balance.
I sigh. As tempting as it is, I don’t push her. Because I am a happy person. And a rallier, which is why I make myself smile. It takes some effort, but after a few tries, I get there. Then I realize they’re waiting for me to say something.
“Hello,” I say, with as much fake cheer as I can muster. She asks after the family, we tell her we’ve been well, the family is well, thank you for asking.
“Anna just won a prize for her research,” Luis says.
“Congratulations,” she says to me.
“Thank you,” I reply, then immediately ruin it by smirking and lifting one eyebrow in involuntary gleeful triumph.
Luis has put his arm around my shoulders and is giving me a kind of one-arm hug.
“I’m very happy for you,” she says, and I don’t know if she means about the prize or about Luis. I keep thinking about what June said, about how I should see them together and gauge their reaction. Now is the moment. I am looking for any evidence that they are still in touch, still screwing behind my back, and I can’t find one exactly. I search Luis’s face for any tell-tale sign: a tightening around the mouth, a quivering of the nostrils… and I find it.
Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 12