‘It’s looking great,’ I agreed, without enthusiasm.
Myles glanced at his watch. ‘God, I’m starving. I had a conference call with New York that only wrapped up an hour ago, and I came straight here. Shall we see what’s still open on Deliveroo?’
‘I’ve already eaten.’ Let him wonder who with – there was no need for him to know about the solitary chicken salad I’d eaten while flicking through Philosophies magazine.
‘Pity,’ he said. ‘I picked this up on my way home – fancy a glass?’
He took a bottle of cold Pol Roger champagne out of an Oddbins carrier bag. I felt fresh annoyance at his presumption – turning up here on a Friday night, assuming I’d be home, assuming I’d want to sit down with him for a glass of expensive champagne and a chat.
Only problem was, he was right. I did want to.
‘Why don’t I go and grab a blanket and a couple of glasses from upstairs? It’s not exactly habitable down here but it’s better than it’s been for months.’
I should have said no. I should have told him to take his champagne and get lost. But I didn’t.
‘Sure,’ I said.
And so, a couple of minutes later, we were sitting on an old faux-fur throw in the front room, glasses in our hands.
Myles looked at me and said, ‘Well, cheers.’
‘Cheers, I guess.’
We clinked and sipped. Myles stretched his long legs out in front of him and let his head tip back against the wall. Part of me hoped the paint was dry; another part hoped it wasn’t, and he’d spend the next two days walking around with a smear of Manor House Gray on the back of his head, and not know why people were staring at him. I was sitting cross-legged, next to him, still in my yoga gear. The throw wasn’t large, but there were still a couple of inches between my knee and his thigh.
‘The ceiling in here’s a decent height,’ he remarked. ‘You really notice it now the partition wall’s come down. And we’re lucky that those original fireplaces didn’t get ripped out by some vandal doing the place up in the seventies.’
‘It’s a lovely house,’ I agreed, with a pang of sadness.
‘A piece of decent art on the chimney breast, or maybe a mirror to make it all feel bigger, open up the space,’ he went on, ‘a statement light fitting, and it’ll be spectacular. Maybe a chaise longue in a bold colour between here and the dining room, to define the spaces.’
I felt uncomfortably aware that we were discussing the decisions we’d hired Bianca to help us make, and wondered if Myles was also thinking about why she’d taken herself off the case. It was quite the elephant in the room – just as well we had those high ceilings. But I wasn’t going to mention Bianca and, evidently, neither was my husband.
‘Listen to you,’ I said. ‘You sound like a right design wanker. Remember that thing we watched on telly. “It’s all about the yin and yang,” they kept saying.’
‘“It’s all about the expression of the client’s personality,”’ he countered.
‘“It’s all about textures and the tension between them.”’ Saying those words reminded me uncomfortably of the tension between Myles and me, so I quickly changed the subject. ‘It’s lucky that birch tree in the garden’s still there. Lots of people would’ve chopped it down to make it sunnier out.’
‘And probably slapped down decking over the whole thing.’
‘There were a load of those green parakeets in the tree this morning. They woke me up, screeching away, at about six o’clock.’
I’d already been awake when I heard the birds, but I wasn’t going to mention that to him, either.
‘There could be a water feature out there, just something small, to help drown out the traffic noise,’ Myles mused. ‘And maybe a built-in barbecue or a pizza oven or something. Make the garden a real outside room.’
‘And herbs in pots. Right outside the French doors, so when you were cooking you could literally just step out and grab stuff.’
‘Herbs, yes, definitely. Vegetables, no. I mean, tomatoes picked five minutes before you eat them might taste great, but they look bloody terrible. It’s a garden, not a fucking allotment.’
It was a conversation we’d had before – almost, but not quite, an argument – when I’d suggested planting the living salad we’d bought from the farmers’ market outside to see what happened, and he’d looked at me like I’d suggested parking a tractor in the street outside. We’d bickered for some time about what constituted a crop, and what a plant, half-annoyed, but mostly just being dumb, exaggerating our positions on the subject to absurd levels. When I suggested the world’s tiniest wheat field in a corner, we’d collapsed in giggles and gone to bed.
Remembering that now, I smiled and said teasingly, ‘What about some potatoes? Just a few plants. They grow well in pots, I’m told.’
Myles filled up our glasses. ‘I reckon it would make more sense to rip everything up and put down artificial lawn. It might be plastic, but you’d never know. It gets hot underfoot and you have to hose it down if you spill ketchup on it when you’re having a barbecue, but apart from that, what’s not to like?’
‘I’m not convinced. Wouldn’t it get in the way of the compost heap I was thinking might fit in that back corner by the laurel tree? Apparently if you do it right they hardly smell, and the flies are minimal.’
‘Or of course there’s the Japanese approach. Gravel over it all, with just one small maple tree in the centre.’
‘Now that’s a great idea! Especially for cats. Imagine, a whole garden that was basically one giant litter tray? Way to encourage the local wildlife, right there.’
I turned my head to look at him and discovered that he was already looking at me. Whatever tension there had been was gone, and we both started to laugh.
‘God, Sloane, I’ve missed you.’
I didn’t mean to say it, but I did. ‘I’ve missed you too.’
He reached across the short distance to my knee and touched it. And that touch was everything. All the anguish I’d felt, all the fear and loneliness, the pizza and the bourbon and the yoga and the mindfulness – it was like none of it had ever happened, or like the memory of it was washed away by my need for him.
I didn’t move, but he must have sensed my total, instant capitulation; the way the reserves of strength and resolve I’d been carefully building, grain by grain like the world’s slowest sandcastle, was demolished in a wave of longing for the past to be the present again.
He said, ‘It’s actually kind of uncomfortable down here. Shall we finish the bottle upstairs?’
I couldn’t say a word; I just nodded and stood, and he took the fizz and our glasses and we went up to the bedroom, but we didn’t even have another sip. We fell on each other like teenagers who’d been waiting months for an empty house so they could fuck.
I fell asleep straight after, and I didn’t wake until long into the morning. When I did, I felt blissfully happy, totally at peace for the first time in months. I stretched luxuriantly, loving the warmth of the sun spilling through the window, savouring the moment before I opened my eyes and saw my husband there next to me. But there was no one else in the bed; my foot encountered a brief resistance, a weight on the duvet that I hadn’t expected to be there, and then I heard something thud to the floor.
I sat up, startled, and looked over to the other side of the bed. There, upended on the carpet, was an empty KFC box, and a few leftover nuggets had tumbled onto the carpet, smearing it with ketchup. Myles’s suit was in a crumpled heap in the corner; his wheeled suitcase was lying open in the doorway, unwashed clothes spreading out across the landing. Clearly, in the time he’d been away, Myles had reconnected with his inner student – and now he’d brought that same inner student back home with him. But he himself was nowhere to be seen.
I straightened up, pulling the pillows up against my back, and listened. I could hear traffic from outside the open window, and a breeze rustling the leaves of the tree outside. The air blowing into the bed
room carried the chill of early autumn onto my naked skin, and I reached over my shoulder to tug the window closed. That shut out most of the sounds from outside, so I could listen to the silence in the house more intently.
No one was moving. I couldn’t hear pipes humming in the bathroom, footsteps on the floor downstairs, or even the creaky wheels of the old Ikea chair that stood in front of my makeshift desk in the room next door.
I called out, ‘Myles?’ but, as I expected, there was no response at all. My phone told me it was half past ten – at least I could be thankful that I’d had a fantastic night’s sleep, exhausted by work, yoga, sex and – I supposed – sheer relief.
But now I felt none of the joy I’d experienced the night before, the thrill of seeing our house taking shape, the overwhelming ecstasy of being in my husband’s arms again.
I was alert and calm, and – in a sudden rush of awareness – I knew what was going on.
West Ham United, the team Myles supported, were playing Tottenham Hotspur at home. The fixture had been on our shared calendar for months. Myles, I knew, would have been making plans with his mates arranging which pub to meet in, exchanging banter about the various players and generally gearing up for a massive day out, as usual.
And, as usual, he’d expect to come home to an orderly house, his washing done and sorted, a home-cooked meal waiting for him, or at least a wife who’d patiently indulge his slightly lairy ranting if West Ham lost, or celebration if they won, order in a takeaway, and not mind when he capsized into bed, smelling of beer, sweat and fried onions, and snored the night away.
Myles, I realised, expected that because we’d slept together again, everything was now going to go back to normal.
My calm had evaporated, and I was furious. Partly with him, for choosing a football match over the chance to talk about what was going on between us, maybe even find a way to make things right – or at least talk about what might happen next. But mostly with myself.
Why the hell had I let myself weaken like that? Why had I melted at his familiar touch, let my defences be stripped away by his unerring ability to make me laugh?
‘That muggy fucker!’ I fumed aloud, swinging my feet out of bed and storming through to the bathroom. ‘And you’re no better, Sloane.’
Brushing my teeth, the electric thrum of the bristles was grazing my gums in a way that was pleasantly almost-painful, I thought. It was like I was hoping the vibrations would somehow make their way to my brain and kick the stupid, feeble thing into gear.
I didn’t know, not for definite, whether Myles and Bianca had been having an affair. But I knew, with total, one-hundred-per-cent certainty, that he’d treated me badly. Not just recently, I realised, energetically spitting white, minty foam into the basin, but for a while. Why was it that I waited in for the builders? Why was I in charge of everything from the laundry to our social calendar (football excepted) to his family’s birthday cards? How had I let this happen?
I thought again of that condom wrapper, lying there in his suitcase with the tokens that showed I was willing to make the ultimate commitment, far more lasting and profound even than marriage, of bringing his child into the world. If I asked him about it, I knew he’d come up with any number of excuses.
It must’ve slipped under the lining somehow, sweetheart.
But the suitcase had been new eighteen months before, and Myles and I hadn’t used condoms for at least three years before that.
The housekeeping in that hotel was atrocious – I found it in the bed sheets.
Then why didn’t you throw it in the bin?
I was missing you. I had a posh wank, into a condom instead of my hand.
Bullshit.
I don’t fucking know how it got there, Sloane. Why are you so paranoid?
Because I know you’ve been cheating.
That was it. I knew.
I didn’t need the kind of evidence that would convince a jury, beyond reasonable doubt. I didn’t need Myles or Bianca to confess to having done anything. All I needed was the deep, iron-hard certainty in my own head and heart, which I realised I’d been ignoring in favour of chasing after what-ifs and maybes.
I didn’t need any evidence beyond what I’d seen that morning. With our marriage in crisis, Myles had chosen to go and watch a football game. Sure, it was important to him. But how important, exactly? Clearly, more important than waiting for me to wake up, holding me, reassuring me, explaining what was wrong with us, what it meant and what we might do to fix or finally fracture our marriage.
I emerged from a hot shower and went through to my makeshift desk, swung open my laptop and sat down, still wrapped in my damp towel. I had time now – Myles wouldn’t be back for hours – and I was going to make a plan. However much it cost in money, inconvenience and heartache, I needed to take charge.
First of all, I needed to call Dad and tell him what was happening. He’d be devastated, I knew, sad and worried for me. But he needed to know – and I needed to hear his voice, hear him say, ‘It’ll be okay, honey,’ even though it felt like nothing would ever be okay again.
Over the next few days, weeks and months, I knew I’d have hard, awful decisions to make. Now, though, I’d only needed to make one.
When my husband came home, I wasn’t going to be there.
Nineteen
‘Ross and Angela Granger are here to see you, Sloane,’ Rosie said.
‘Oh, right. I thought they weren’t going to show up – it’s almost twelve and they were due to be here at half eleven.’
‘Yeah, well… they’re here.’ She looked at me with a half-raised eyebrow that told me that I was in for an interesting meeting. ‘I’ve shown them into the boardroom, but I have to dash out now to that meeting with Glen Renton.’
Again, we exchanged glances. However challenging the Grangers might prove to be, they were nothing compared to Glen Renton, Ripple Effect’s biggest influencer client, who had an ego as large as his YouTube following.
‘Sam, do you mind sorting some coffee out, please? And then you may as well sit in on this.’
I grabbed my iPad and a notebook and hurried through to the meeting room, preparing my best professional smile, hoping that I didn’t look like someone who’d lain awake the previous two nights, unable to sleep in the unfamiliar surroundings of the Airbnb apartment I’d found to rent for a few weeks while its owner was working away in Johannesburg. I’d packed my belongings in a massive rush and my mind kept returning to my precious stash of sleeping pills, forgotten in my nightstand at home.
I was so tired that, when I first saw Ross and Angela, I thought I might be hallucinating. They were a forty-something couple, seated at adjoining chairs, holding hands. Both of them were dressed from head to toe in black leather. Ross’s head was shaved and Angela’s hair was dyed bright pink. Between them, I counted at least a dozen piercings, and I was willing to bet there were loads more in places I couldn’t see and hopefully never would. Both of them were wearing heavy black eyeliner. Angela’s wet-look stiletto-heeled boots came about six inches up her thighs, and there was a good four-inch, fishnet-stocking-clad gap between their tops and the bottom of her zipper-embellished skirt.
For a Monday morning, even in Soho, it was a pretty strong look.
‘Sorry we’re late,’ Angela said, extending a hand heavy with chunky silver jewellery for me to shake. ‘We had a meeting with our daughter’s head teacher.’
For a chat at your kid’s school, theirs was a seriously strong look. I imagined some poor, harried woman trying desperately to focus on little Chloe’s literacy or the contents of little Lily’s packed lunch while thinking, ‘Okay, but does he have a Prince Albert piercing? Does he?’
I introduced myself and took a seat.
‘So, you’re looking for marketing opportunities for your clothing line?’
‘That’s right,’ Ross said. ‘Own the Night. We design clubwear, with a slightly edgy aesthetic.’
‘Strongly influenced by the bondage
scene,’ Angela explained unnecessarily. ‘We like to think we’re our own best brand ambassadors, but we’re looking to reach out to a younger market.’
‘Especially now there’s this whole post-punk trend going on,’ said Ross.
They talked a bit more about their brand and their marketing strategy, and I began to realise that, outlandish appearance or no, the two of them knew their stuff. In turn, to show that I knew mine, I rattled off some statistics about the benefits of influencer marketing and the reach of the people we represented.
‘We were thinking someone like Gemma Grey…’ Angela began.
Imagining Gemma’s face if I told her she was henceforth going to be expected to fall out of nightclubs dressed like Mistress Whiplash, I hastily intervened and explained that Gemma’s focus was primarily on beauty products and her own make-up range.
‘But there are numerous other, fantastically talented people who’d be a great fit for your brand and would love to work with you,’ I said. ‘Take Ruby-Grace Miller, for example.’
I passed over my iPad with Ruby-Grace’s résumé on it.
‘A bit vanilla,’ Angela sniffed.
‘Oh, no,’ argued Ross, looking so closely at the screen he was practically misting it up. ‘I can totally see her look working for us. A bit “dark angel”, you know. A bit girl-next-door-gone-bad.’
Next to me, I heard Sam’s sharp intake of breath. Whether he was excited or appalled at the idea of Ruby-Grace got up in studs and leather, I didn’t know – and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
‘I suppose you might be right, munchkin,’ Angela admitted, and Ross leaned over and did a sort of snuggly thing with his head into her shoulder – okay, almost her highly cantilevered cleavage – that made me feel both tender and a bit weird.
I said, ‘Great! Sam’s the main point of contact with our client, so he’ll reach out to her and discuss this opportunity, and one of us will feed back on whether Ruby-Grace is keen to get on board with you guys.’
The meeting ended with warm handshakes all round, and Sam and I escorted the Grangers to the lift. But instead of heading back to his desk, Sam hovered by my side.
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