by Sandie Jones
‘Oh goodness,’ the woman on the other end of the line says. ‘I’m so sorry about that.’
‘It’s no problem, I just want to make sure they get to the right person.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Most people wouldn’t bother and would keep them for themselves.’
Really?
I give her my name and address and listen as she hums along to the song. I imagine her running a finger down a list.
‘Ah yes, here it is,’ she says. ‘24 Orchard Drive. That’s the address I’ve got.’
‘That’s my address,’ I say. ‘But there’s no Rachel here.’
She hums a little more. ‘Well, I don’t know what’s happened there then, but they’ve definitely gone to the correct address.’
‘Well, do you have the sender’s name? Perhaps you could give them a call to make sure they’ve given you the right address?’
‘The sender is a Mr Davies, but I don’t seem to have a phone number for him. Oh, that’s annoying.’
‘Wait,’ I say, as a buzzing sound rings in my ears. ‘Nathan Davies sent them?’
‘Yes, do you know him?’ Her voice is hopeful, eager to solve the mystery.
‘He’s my husband,’ I say, ignoring the band of pressure that is tightening around my head.
‘Well, there you go then,’ she says happily. ‘They have gone to the right place.’
She has no idea what she’s just done.
Tears fill my eyes as I end the call and stare at the phone in disbelief. Nathan must have ordered them to go to another address, but they’ve sent them to his billing address by mistake. I imagine how furious he must have been at their faux pas, and how well he kept his emotions in check whilst he was professing his undying love for me.
I take the stairs, two at a time, to our bedroom, feeling like a drug addict desperate for a fix. I want to numb the pain, but I know that once I find what I’m looking for, it will only multiply it tenfold. It doesn’t stop me though – I have to know.
Nathan’s wardrobe looks like a display in an exclusive men’s boutique. A row of identical white shirts hang above a shelf of neatly stacked handkerchiefs, a separate pile for each colour.
I realize I don’t actually know exactly what I’m looking for as I carefully lift the lid of his watch box. I pull out the miniature drawers and finger his cufflinks; I recognize them all. His underwear drawer reveals nothing new and I even find myself looking at the bottom of his shoes, though for what, I’m not quite sure. Do I really believe my sleuthing skills are so advanced that I would be able to determine the ground type from the tiny pitted indents on his soles? And from that, establish that he visited a particular hotel, with a certain type of woman? I laugh hollowly at how insane this all is.
I bend to pick up the laundry I’d left by the door, and just out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of Nathan’s overnight holdall. It will be empty by now; he’s been home for three days and it’s not in his nature to leave things in there. He wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of them getting creased. I drop the washing again and wander slowly towards the bag lying beside his shoe rack. I’m filled with a sense of foreboding, as if I already know that something incriminating is lurking in there. I almost wait for it to jump out as I approach, willing it to, so that I know my suspicions are warranted. Why would any wife wish that on herself?
I unzip the various compartments, saving the inner pocket, the section most likely to harbour a secret, until last. I pull out a small bundle of Japanese yen, folded around a piece of paper. If I knew my world was about to implode, I wonder if I would’ve just slipped it back in, zipped it up and walked away.
The headed paper is concise enough; The Conrad Hotel. I smile as I read Room Service Breakfast, imagining him sat at a table in front of a floor to ceiling window, eating his eggs Benedict, overlooking the vast metropolis of Tokyo below.
I think I’d already seen the x2, printed beside the à la carte breakfast, before I’d even pictured him. I guess it’s the brain’s automatic attempt to derail us; to un-see what’s already been seen.
I gaily carry on tracing down the bill with my finger, in staunch denial of what I know to be there. I smile as I see he’d had five of his favourite G&Ts during his stay, but choose to ignore the four cosmopolitan cocktails. I marvel that he’d had time to get a full body massage in the spa, yet pretend not to see the word ‘couples’ written in front of it.
I make sure to fold it neatly, just the way it was, and fight against the overwhelming heat that is rising up from my toes. I try to stand, but feel giddy and collapse back down. I’m sure it doesn’t say what I think it said. I must be mistaken. Perhaps I’ll take another look later on, just to make sure I didn’t see what I know I saw.
I’m not going to cry, but a ball of fear is pushing itself upwards through my stomach and into my chest. Once there, I know I won’t be able to stop the tears and crushing feeling it will bring.
I look numbly at the washing on the floor. Nathan’s socks are entwined with his handkerchiefs, and my autopilot kicks in. The laundry still needs to be done, regardless of whether its owner is being unfaithful or not. I pick it up and force myself to sing a song as I carry it down the stairs.
It’s only after I load up the machine, set it to an express cycle and press start, that I allow the desolation to engulf me. I slide down the wall of the utility room, put my head in my hands, and sob.
9
I take a hot shower in a futile attempt to wash my poisoned mind clean, but the tears keep coming. As I close my eyes, my mind instantly races ahead, questioning, accusing, though of what I don’t know. I will my brain to shut down, just for a minute, so I can have a moment of peace and quiet. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t control the rattling in my head. It feels as if a dark secret is thrashing around in a cage, banging at the bars, desperate to get out. So much for the mindfulness techniques I’ve learnt during yoga these past few months.
Beth and I had suppressed our laughter as Monica, our spiritual guru, passed around the class and placed her fingertips to our temples, chanting in a meditative state.
‘What good is that ever going to do?’ laughed Beth as we had coffee afterwards.
She was more into the blood, sweat and tears of the gym, preferring a fifty-minute boot camp session to anything remotely holistic. I had to agree that I saw little benefit in lying in a dark room, humming and having my eyelids rubbed. Yet as the weeks went on, I found myself looking forward to the end of the sessions, relishing the prospect of Monica breathing in and out with me, her soothing voice helping me transcend into another universe, just for a moment, or at least until Beth’s stifled cackle penetrated the quiet, mystical mood.
I don’t know whether to be thankful or not when I receive a text from Nathan telling me that he’s going to pop into the office for a couple of hours. It certainly gives me more time to get my head together, for although I may look just the same as when he left, so much has changed. Yet it also allows my mind to wander and meander, dwelling on where he’s really going, and acknowledging how this thought will now be my immediate go-to whenever he leaves the house. For the first time, my anxiety isn’t caused by the fear of something happening to him. This new feeling is more oppressive, more claustrophobic.
I desperately claw at the possibility that he’s going to her; to tell her that I’m getting suspicious; that what they have needs to stop before anyone gets hurt. But what if my aroused suspicions push him the other way? Make him see that it’s now or never. Give him the strength to tell me that he’s met someone else and he’s leaving. Will he feel relieved when it’s all out in the open? Free to lead the life he clearly wants to lead. Or will I beg him to stay? Believing that an unfaithful husband and father is better than not having one at all.
My mind flashes back to the ‘Girls Night In’ that Beth and I had enjoyed at the Berkeley hotel in town a couple of months ago. We’d laid on the bed in our face masks, helping ourselves to the mountain
of chocolate freely supplied, as we watched a chick flick: The Other Woman.
‘What would you do if Nathan was cheating on you?’ she’d asked, as room service knocked on the door with what looked like a lifetime’s supply of Ben & Jerry’s.
I’d rolled a Malteser around in my mouth. ‘Can we define cheating?’ I’d mumbled.
‘What’s your definition?’ she asked as she brazenly answered the door, mud pack and all.
The man didn’t bat an eyelid.
‘Well, everything,’ I said. ‘From a kiss to the full shebang.’
‘Okay, so if he kissed someone, what would you do?’
‘Once?’ I asked, for clarification.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, if it was a drunken slip-up, I’d be more likely to be able to see past it,’ I said, matter-of-factly. ‘But if it was more than once, or God forbid, more than once with the same person, then we’d have a bit of an issue on our hands.’
‘So, if he had sex with a prostitute once, and kissed the same girl three times, what would you be less likely to forgive?’ she asked, playing devil’s advocate.
‘Definitely the kisses,’ I said, feeling slightly nauseous at the sight of her spooning Cookie Dough ice cream into her mouth. ‘Are you honestly going to eat all of that?’
She’d looked around our luxuriously decorated room. ‘Well, in the absence of a freezer, I might have to,’ she laughed.
‘I think there would be a lot to talk about if he had a one-night-stand with anyone, but if it happened more than once, then that would imply that there’s a whole other level to it. I wouldn’t be able to get past him having a relationship. If he had an emotional connection with someone, then he’d be out on his ear.’
‘No questions?’ she asked.
‘Absolutely not. It would haunt me – wondering if he was thinking about her every time we were together. Every row we had, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from bringing it up, and every time he walked out the door, I’d think he was going to her. It would destroy us.’
‘Are you about to destroy us?’ I ask, out loud, as I look at Nathan’s text message again.
Have you got time to pop in? I text Beth, all too aware that she may not give me a get-out clause from the adamant resolution I made when I thought it was just a hypothetical conversation.
I can’t, sorry, she texts back.
Me: I could really do with speaking to you, just for a minute. It’s about Nathan
I wait for what seems an eternity for her to reply. Is he home? she texts.
Me: No
Beth: Okay, I can’t stop for long
Half an hour later she’s at the door with a worried, furtive look on her face.
‘Hey,’ she says. ‘You okay?’
It’s a simple turn of phrase and one that she’s probably expecting nothing more than a yes to. But the tears come as soon as I see her.
‘No,’ I blurt out. ‘No, I’m not.’
She ushers the girls in and sets them up in front of the TV.
‘Oh Alice, what on earth’s wrong?’ she says as she comes towards me, taking me in her arms. I’m oddly comforted by the warm, familiar smell of my dear friend. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I just . . .’ I start. ‘I . . . it’s just that Nathan . . .’
There’s a sharp intake of breath, but I’m not sure if it’s from me or her. ‘Oh my God, is he okay?’ she asks, as she no doubt wonders if history has repeated itself.
‘Yes . . . yes, it’s just . . .’
‘Where is he?’ she asks.
‘He’s gone into the office, but I . . . I think he’s having an affair.’
She holds me at arm’s length. ‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’
I shake my head as she pulls me into her again.
I tell her about the earring, bouquet and hotel bill, hoping that saying it out loud will somehow make my suspicions implausible, though it only serves to confirm them.
‘Jesus,’ says Beth, as she falls back into the dining chair she’s sitting on.
‘It’s not looking good, is it?’
She grimaces. ‘Look, I know I’ve not met Nathan, but I’m trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. There may be a perfectly good explanation for all this. Only you know him well enough to say, hand on your heart, that something might be going on. They say a woman instinctively knows when her other half is up to no good, but hey, look at me – I didn’t have a bloody clue.’ She smiles to try and lighten the mood. ‘What’s your gut feeling? Has he got it in him?’
‘Hasn’t every man?’ The words are no sooner on my lips than they’re being furiously brushed aside by the thought of Tom. Not every man. Not Tom. ‘I didn’t think so,’ I add. ‘This time last week, I’d be happy to bet my life on it, but now . . .’
‘Has nothing like this ever presented itself before?’ she asks.
I shake my head vehemently.
‘Was he with someone else when you first met?’
I think back to that day; our coming together, like most things in life, being entirely dependent on a ‘sliding doors’ moment. If the sun hadn’t been shining. If I hadn’t been sat on a bench in the hospital grounds. If I hadn’t been frustrated about being held against my will in a place that looked after people unlike me. Then perhaps I wouldn’t have been open to the idea of talking to a stranger.
But that day, for whatever reason, I turned at the sound of crunching gravel on the drive and watched as a man, dressed in a well-tailored suit, got out of a sleek Mercedes. He laid his jacket on the back seat and reached in for his briefcase. In that simple action, I was reminded that there was still a world going on out there. Without me in it.
I imagined him having just come from meeting important clients. Perhaps he’d won their business and was still flush from the thrill of it. My stomach lurched at the memory of how that felt; the adrenaline that rushed through my veins whenever AT Designs won a pitch. I closed my eyes and pictured the scene, wishing, more than anything, that I was in his day, rather than him being in mine.
It was a turning point for me. For the first time since losing Tom three months earlier, I wanted to be out there, living the life I still had to live. The sudden realization shocked me.
I didn’t think the man would ever know the part he played in breathing air into my deflated lungs. Not until he came through the day room and out onto the terrace, shielding his eyes as the low sun sliced across his vision.
‘If you take a seat here, I’ll just go and see if Mr Miller is up to seeing you,’ said Eileen, the only staff member who bent the visiting hour rules.
By the time she came back out to say Mr Miller was sleeping, the man in the suit and I were exchanging pleasantries.
‘Thanks, I’ll wait,’ he said to Eileen. ‘I’m Nathan, by the way,’ he said to me, extending his hand.
And that was it. We’d talked until the sun had gone down that day; about his life outside the hospital and mine on the inside. I can’t remember whether that was when he told me that he was going through a messy split, or whether that came later. It had felt like we talked about anything and everything. Poor Mr Miller didn’t ever get to see his visitor.
‘I think it was over by the time we met,’ I say, in answer to Beth’s question.
‘You think?’ she asks. ‘Wouldn’t you know whether your new boyfriend was still with someone?’
‘Well, our early days weren’t very clear cut. I wasn’t my normal self and wanted to take things slowly. He was working away a lot, which suited me at the time, but now, come to think of it, perhaps he was still tying up loose ends with her.’
‘So, he cheated on her with you?’
I’m taken aback at her accusatory tone. ‘No, it wasn’t like that. They’d split up – I’m sure they had.’
She raises her eyebrows. ‘It doesn’t make you seem like a great advocate for the sisterhood, does it?’
Didn’t it? I’d never thought of it in that way. Had I blatantly ig
nored the silent code of conduct in my desperation to feel wanted and needed?
‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, denying the implication. ‘He’s not that kind of man, at least . . . I didn’t think he was.’
‘Once a cheater, always a cheater, is all I’m saying. A leopard never changes its spots, it just creates a smokescreen for them.’
‘So, you think everything is pointing to him having an affair?’ I ask, though I already know the answer.
She grimaces. ‘There may be a perfectly understandable explanation, but . . .’
‘So, what should I do?’ I ask.
‘Just keep looking for clues,’ she says. ‘Check his phone, his emails, anything that might incriminate him.’
‘Isn’t that crossing a line?’
She looks at me aghast. ‘So, let me get this right. He gets to sleep with anyone he wants, yet you’re not even allowed to look at his phone? There’s something of a double standard going on here.’
I feel too foolish to even respond.
‘Just carry on with what you’re doing,’ she continues. ‘Check social media for any accounts that he might have set up. Keep an eye on the credit card bill. Find out whatever you can and when you’re sure of the facts, front him up with it.’
I nod.
‘What are you going to do if your worst fears are confirmed?’ she says.
My face crumples, but I refuse to cry. ‘My head says leave, but my heart . . .’
She puts her hand on mine. ‘You’ve got to think of the girls,’ she says.
‘That’s exactly the problem. They would be the only reason I’d stay.’
She looks at me, her brow furrowed.
‘I can’t let them down again,’ I say in answer. ‘Sophia has already lost one father, the fallout of which she’ll always blame me for in some way. I can’t be the reason for it happening again.’
‘You’re not the reason,’ she says, ‘he is.’ Her voice is loud and clipped and I put a finger to my lips to remind her of Olivia and Millie’s close proximity.
‘I will not be responsible for taking them away from their father,’ I say, my tone suddenly authoritative. ‘I will do everything in my power to make my marriage work before I allow him to walk away.’