Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller

by Natalie Barelli

  There was a party one night and I knew Monica and Luis would be there. As it happened earlier that day I saw her get herself a treat from the cafeteria. She brought it back to her room, she did that sometimes—I know, because I did watch her a lot. The last time I saw her, I was in the bathroom washing my face, getting ready for the party, when Monica walked in. She barely acknowledged me, stepped into one of the shower cubicles with her pink plastic bathroom bag and her fluffy slippers.

  I went to the party but Monica didn’t. Luis was there, alone, looking forlorn. I stayed close to him all night. I plied him with Sangria in which I’d poured generous slugs of rum—isn’t that what we were supposed to do, us crazy college kids?—then I tried to kiss him but he gently pushed me away and slurred in my face, his eyebrows knotted together.

  “I’m sorry, Anna. I just really love Monica.”

  I giggled, slapped him on the chest playfully, said I hadn’t meant to kiss him anyway. He pretended to believe me, but the rejection left me feeling worse than I’d anticipated.

  By the time I returned to my dorm there were ambulances outside and chaos in the corridor. Monica had eaten the wrong cake. Her Epipen was nowhere to be found. She’d lost it somewhere—was the conclusion—and hadn’t noticed until it was too late.

  Luis was devastated, but I was right there. I comforted him, consoled him, talked to him softly late into the night, every night. I wrapped my arms around him and I never let go.

  I was in love with Luis but he was with Monica. Then Monica ate a peanut and he was mine.

  I watch them from the kitchen door, especially her. I can see her perfect profile from my vantage point. She’s laughing, tickling my children, and I think about Monica. She looked a bit like Isabelle: the blonde hair, the wide smile, the blue eyes. He has a type, my husband, and ironically, I’m not that type. I find myself imagining that I’m watching another family. That Luis is married to someone else, someone like Monica, or Isabelle. That this is a regular Friday night dinner. They look beautiful, the four of them. Like a perfect family tableau and suddenly it’s too much and I have to look away.

  “Anyway, I don’t know why we’re talking about all that,” I say when I return, even though no one’s talking about all that. They’re too busy laughing. I set down the cheesecake more abruptly than I’d meant to and everyone stops. Luis looks up at me, frowning.

  “I’m just so glad we finally got to meet properly,” I say to Isabelle, trying to reinsert myself back into my own family. Somehow Luis gets the message because he calms the kids down and cuts the cheesecake while Isabelle runs both hands through her gorgeous hair which got all messed up in all the fun they were having. She closes her eyes, slowly shakes her head and lets her hair fall perfectly back in place. It’s like watching one of those slow-motion shampoo commercials.

  Later, when the children have gone to their rooms and Luis is in the kitchen loading the dishwasher, Isabelle says, “You have a beautiful family, Anna. You’re very lucky.”

  “Thank you.” But I want to tell her it’s not just luck, it’s hard work. That a family is like a fortress you have to defend all the time. And you can’t relax because there’s always someone trying to get in, always someone looking for a breach. Someone pretty, someone pretending to be nice, someone just like her.

  Luis returns and offers coffee and I flick my eyes up at him. I’m a bit annoyed he interrupted our conversation just when she was saying we were a beautiful family. I say no to coffee and pour myself another glass of wine.

  “Hey, babe, maybe you should slow down.” I look at him with narrowed eyes. I want to ask him to please not embarrass me, but I don’t. I just smile tightly. “I’m okay.”

  “You said you wanted to prepare for your big talk. You asked me to—”

  “Yes, all right, thank you Luis.” I turn to Isabelle. “I’m delivering a lecture next week where I will present my proof of the Pentti-Stone, the conjecture I solved. It’s organized by the Leo Forrester Foundation. They’re the ones who award the prize that I won. It’s kind of a big deal. A very big deal. No one solved it before. Which makes sense, right? Anyway, I’m the first. The only.” I’m slurring my words, vaguely aware how childish I sound and that I should shut up now, but I can’t.

  “Yes, I know,” she says. “And it’s truly impressive. You must be very proud.”

  “Yes, I am. Thank you. And so is Luis. Aren’t you, Luis?” And Luis says, “What?” and I say, “Proud of me?” and he says, “What for?” And I laugh and slap him playfully on the arm and say, “Never mind!” and turn back to face Isabelle. She’s folding her napkin neatly, brushing it flat and folding it again and if I didn’t hate her so much, that would earn her a point in my book.

  “I really should go,” she says.

  We all get up, unsteadily in my case, and say goodbye. Luis helps Isabelle with her coat. It’s funny, but he seems almost relieved that she’s leaving, and she seems almost detached. Certainly not that friendly. They behave like colleagues, not like lovers, and I don’t know anything anymore. Is it possible that I was wrong? I kick myself now, because I should have asked her when he was out of the room whether there’s someone called Belle who works at the gallery. Maybe all this time I’ve been focused on the wrong person.

  But when she turns to slip her arm into the sleeve of her coat, I catch a glint at her throat and I know. There is no other Belle. They’re just playing it cool for my benefit. And I’m such an idiot that it’s almost working.

  “This is pretty,” I say, reaching literally inside her collar for the delicate gold chain, trying not to scratch at her throat. It sits below the neckline of her woolen dress. I bet that’s why she chose that dress, so she could wear it in secret. A secret between her and my husband. And the joke’s on me.

  She looks down. “This? Yes, isn’t it?”

  “Was it a gift?” I ask, my heart bouncing around my chest.

  She has the gall to glance at Luis as she replies, “Yes, it was a gift.” Then, after a beat, she adds: “From Patrick.” And I have to walk away to stop myself from doing something I won’t regret, like sticking a fork into her pretty neck.

  Luis pops his head in through the kitchen door to say he will walk Isabelle back to her car. I nod, unable to speak, give a small cough to hide it.

  “I’ll finish in here,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “Goodbye, Isabelle,” I sort of shout out.

  She too pops her head through the door. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Anna.”

  “You’re welcome!” I say, then under my breath I add, “Not,” because I am a child. Then I wait until they’re gone to sprint up the stairs so I can watch them.

  It was supposed to be a guest bedroom, this room, but we use it as a storage space now, mostly for the children. It still has a bed, which is covered with god knows what: sports things they don’t use anymore like hockey clubs and Carla’s little tutus that I packed in crêpe paper and inside silk lined suitcases. I squeeze past Luis’s old speakers and step over boxes of DVDs and guitar cases and hit my toe on a kettle bell. When I reach the window, I stand just off to the side of it, in the dark, and lift the edge of the drape with one finger.

  It must have rained—the yellow hue of the streetlight across the road is reflected in pools of water on the asphalt. Her shiny silver Lexus is parked across the road. It lights up and beeps awake. Luis opens the door on the driver’s side, they talk for a minute then he turns around and glances back at the house. When he turns back, she takes his face in her gloved hands—white, fur-lined at the edges to match the coat—and kisses him, eyes closed. It’s a long, languid kiss, her mouth pressed hard on his, before the kiss turns strong, passionate and familiar, like they’ve done it before so many times they know each other’s mouths by heart. I feel a sob crack in my chest. He takes hold of her wrists and brings her hands down. Then Isabelle lifts her face up to me and she looks right at me, like she knows I’m there, watching in the shadows.

  And she smil
es.

  I jerk back quickly and the drape flutters down. She can’t have seen me, it’s dark and I was only looking through a sliver of glass, but she knows I’m here. She must have known I would be watching, because that kiss, it was for me.

  I went to bed and pretended to fall asleep immediately so I wouldn’t have to look at his treacherous face. He joins me not long after and within minutes he’s snoring. I prop myself on my elbow and watch him. I picture myself throwing things, breaking things, throwing his stuff out into the rain and kicking him out along with it. How dare she—it’s her fault, I’m just going to say that right now and never revisit that claim—do this to our family?

  “Do you remember?” I whisper softly into his neck. He is lying with his back to me and I spoon him close, hold him tight. I breathe in the scent of him, sweaty and sweet. “Do you remember that time, we spent that entire week in your apartment? How we ended up living on brown rice because there was nothing else and we didn’t want to leave? Old packets with long-gone sell-by dates that we found at the back of the kitchen cupboard. You joked the previous tenant must have left them there, you remember? But we didn’t care. In the end we only came out into the light because we ran out of brown rice. You didn’t want to let me go. ‘I love you to the moon and back,’ you’d say. Do you remember, Luis? You remember how obsessed with each other we were? That was your word: obsessed. ‘You’re obsessed with me,’ you’d say, and I’d laugh. Am I? ‘Yes. You are,’ you’d say. ‘You’re obsessed with me. Tell me that you are.’

  “‘I am,’ I’d whisper. ‘I’m obsessed with you.’ And you’d say, ‘I would do anything to keep you forever.’ And I’d laugh, because it was a strange idea—to have and to keep. But I liked it. So will you keep me forever, Luis? We could run away, all four of us. We could move to Martha’s Vineyard and live in a gingerbread cottage. You could fall in love with me again. You could keep me again, forever. Just like you always wanted.”

  He doesn’t reply. I want to bite the back of his neck. I want to break the skin and taste him. I’m so drunk I think I might just do it.

  Twenty-Four

  I spend the weekend working on my presentation so I don’t have to talk to Luis other than a few grunts here and here. He thinks I’m stressed because of the lecture and he makes sure the children stay out of my way.

  The following Monday I arrive at work tired and moody. I’ve barely sat down when Geoff appears at my door.

  “Do you have a moment, Anna?”

  There’s something about his demeanor I don’t like. He appears overly relaxed and he’s grinning, in a way that’s just not good. “In my office? Now?”

  I follow him because I don’t think I have a choice, then immediately wonder if it’s a trick just so he can get me alone in his office for a repeat performance of the other day. I grab my cell on the way out and when he invites me to sit down opposite him, I show him my phone.

  “Mind if I record this?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Knock yourself out.”

  I expected him to sneer, to laugh at me. To say that I’m just a tease, that nothing good happens to women like me, but I suppose my recording the conversation is putting a stop to that. He taps the edge of a stack of pages on his desk and I begin to think we are going to be here all day, when he says, “I’ve just heard from Janette in HR. We’ve had a complaint. A formal complaint of sexual harassment.”

  I look up. He shoots me a pained look. Oh. My. God. So I am not the only one? Of course I’m not. How could I not think of that? He has assaulted other women—who? Mila? I don’t think so, somehow, unless she really is having an affair with him. I think back to what I said to Ryan at the party all these weeks ago. He’s having sex with one of the math lecturers, so he gave her a full professorship. I would laugh if the whole thing wasn’t so horribly wrong.

  I am so relieved I let out one long exhalation. I smile to myself because I know why I’m here now. He wants to know if I’ll keep our dirty little secret.

  “Who is it? Who put in the complaint?”

  “It’s confidential, I’m afraid.”

  “Is it bad?”

  He glances at the top sheet in front of him. “It’s pretty bad. Non-consensual sexual touching, forcing the complainant to comply under duress, that sort of thing.”

  This is going to be bad for the university, and at a time when we were just getting back on our feet.

  “So, what do you want from me?” I ask.

  He looks at me sideways. “I want you to listen and make your case, eventually.”

  “Make my case? Against you?”

  He turns bright red then, moves his mouth like he’s chewing on something before snatching my phone from the desk.

  “Hey!” I lunge for it but it’s too late. He has deleted the file.

  “Don’t ever say that again, are we clear?” He hisses. He throws my phone back at me. It lands on my lap. “The complaint is against you, Anna.”

  My mind goes blank. I wait, but he doesn’t say anything else. “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “What? Who?”

  He cocks his head. “You know I can’t answer that.”

  I laugh, one short barking sound. “Wait a second. One of my students has accused me of sexual assault? Is this a joke?”

  “I didn’t say it was one of your students. Now, you know the protocol. We will conduct an investigation—”

  I’m on my feet. “What the hell is going on? This is bullshit, Geoff. You can’t seriously believe—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I believe.”

  “But it’s a complete lie, I’ve never even touched a student! I am very aware of my responsibilities under our code of conduct. I would never—”

  “Anna, please. I saw you, remember?”

  I frown at him, my head shaking in confusion.

  “The retirement party? You scuttled off with that guy.” He leans forward across his desk. “I saw you.”

  I feel myself blush, remembering the moment when Geoff knocked on the door behind which I lay half-naked. I remember how he waited for me to answer but I never did. How minutes ticked by until he gave up. But he knew I was there, and that I wasn’t alone.

  I’m shaking uncontrollably and tap my foot against the leg of my chair as if that’s going to help. Thoughts tumble in my mind and I can’t make sense of anything. “He’s not a student, he’s an employee. He fixes computers or something. Or did. He’s not even here anymore. He’s also a stalker.”

  “I shouldn’t even be discussing this with you.” He takes his glasses off and puts them down on the desk. “He was a student then, Anna. He was in third year Law. And yes, he had a part-time job with the IT support desk, but that’s irrelevant to the claim.”

  I feel lightheaded. “He was a student here? At Locke?”

  “Yes. He didn’t tell you?”

  I shake my head quickly and he picks up his glasses again. “Maybe you can say that in your defense.”

  “So he’s a mature student then. He must be in his thirties. Doesn’t that mean something?”

  “He’s twenty-six.”

  I drop my head in my hands. “Oh my god.”

  “I’m supposed to read the rule book to you. So—”

  “Nothing happened, Geoff.”

  He snorts with laughter. “Not according to him.”

  “Is that how you’re going to approach this, Geoff? He’s sick. He’s doing all this to hurt me. And he’s left, he’s not here anymore.”

  “That’s right. And he cited you as the reason he left.”

  “Bullshit.”

  He sits back, picks up his sheaf of paper and begins to read. “Now. On behalf of Locke Weidman, I assure you we will conduct a fair investigation. It is not in our interest to favor either one or the other party. You will be afforded the same respect as the person who filed the complaint. There will be a disciplinary meeting where you will have the opportunity to present any evidence or witnesses. However, no act of retaliatio
n will be tolerated…”

  But the blood rushing in my ears is drowning out his voice. Black dots dance in front of my eyes and I bend over, my head touching my knees.

  “… no contact order in place. That means you can’t contact him, directly or indirectly. Normally I’d have to ask you to stay away from certain sections of the university but I don’t think that applies here.”

  I’m not listening anymore. I get to my feet.

  “I have to go,” I say.

  “Okay. I understand. We can talk later. You want a piece of advice?”

  “No.”

  “Get a lawyer, Anna. It doesn’t look good. The timing isn’t great either, what with the Forrester lecture coming up.”

  I return to my office and sit with my head in my hands. I just can’t believe Ryan would do this. I don’t understand why he hates me so much. What did I ever do to him? I don’t even know him. I have to find him. I have to talk to him. I can’t let this happen; will they even let me have the prize if I’m found guilty of… what did he say again? Sexual harassment? That’s ridiculous. Surely he will never prove that. My reputation is sterling. Is that the word? Thank god I got him to delete the photo. That’s one thing I can be grateful for. It’s his word against mine, except for Geoff that is, who will tell everyone. I saw you, remember?

  An email alert pops up on my screen and I look up. It’s from Jack Dawson at the Forrester Foundation and I click on it immediately.

  Anna, we’re so excited about tomorrow. Just one thing, if you could email me the scans of your proof notebooks. As you know, at the Foundation we appraise not just the proof but the creative process that led to it. I understand my colleague asked for this last week. Before tomorrow if possible, would be much appreciated.

  I look forward to it.