The First Mistake

by Sandie Jones

  Shame flooded through me as I recalled the already hazy journey. I was unable to believe that the thoughts I’d allowed to infiltrate my mind were truly mine. Seeing him come out the front door, with his overnight holdall slung casually over his shoulder, I went to call out. But I stopped, to give myself just another few seconds to pull myself together. To wipe the guilt, that I was sure would be obvious, from my face.

  His face broke into a wide grin as he reached his car and I wondered if he’d already seen me, but was pretending not to, so as not to spoil the surprise. I tried to walk faster, thwarted by my case’s wheels having to negotiate the uneven pavement.

  I stopped dead still in my tracks as Thomas leant into the passenger window of the car. I wanted to see him talking to a male colleague or perhaps even my mum, who he’d thoughtfully taken out to lunch to celebrate the deal. I wanted to see anyone apart from the attractive blonde woman he was kissing.

  Feeling as if I’d been punched in the stomach, I instinctively crouched down behind a hedge on someone’s path. I don’t know if it was because my legs collapsed beneath me or that I was scared of being seen. How would anything, ever be all right again, if I acknowledged what I’d witnessed? If Thomas knew I’d caught him out.

  I needed to think before I acted, but I didn’t have much time. I heard the car start up and gathered my thoughts. Think. Think. Think.

  I stood up, just in time to see the car go past, the smiling woman looking out the passenger window at me as she went by. There was no recognition from her. No appreciation that the man she had just kissed was my boyfriend. All she would have seen in me was a young woman who was returning from a trip, perhaps glad to be home and looking forward to seeing her lover. All I saw in her was the bitch who had just taken him away.

  Already breathless from shock and grief, I scurried across the road as quickly as my lead legs would carry me. I had a momentary thought, as I put my key in the door, that he might have changed the locks, but why would he do that? He was cheating. He wasn’t trying to take my life away from me, although I feared it was one and the same thing.

  I rushed through to the spare bedroom, expecting to see his treasured possessions filling the familiar space, but nothing had changed since I was last there. My wardrobe, where his clothes had hung happily with mine, was devoid of his shirts and trousers. Only the faintest scent of him remained, to prove he ever existed.

  My ravaged brain couldn’t compute what was going on. Had he gone away for a couple of days with his mistress? Was he going to come back on Friday, pretending that all was well and assuming that I’d be none the wiser? Or had I just witnessed him walking out of my life?

  I ferreted for my phone in my bag, but I was all fingers and thumbs as my heart beat against my chest. Tears clouded my eyes and my judgement.

  ‘I don’t care about her,’ I said out loud. ‘We can get through this, just please come back home.’

  I called him again, and the by-now-familiar woman’s voice read out the banal announcement.

  ‘You need to call me, right now,’ I hissed, barely able to breathe. ‘If I don’t hear from you in the next hour, I’m going to call the police.’

  I slid down the wall onto my bedroom floor, the room which just a few days ago had been where we’d made love, where he’d said he wanted us to live together, where he begged me not to leave him. Had it all been a lie?

  No, it couldn’t have been. He couldn’t have pretended to love me that well. He couldn’t have faked what we had. It was impossible.

  But then I remembered his parting shot. Had it always been about the money?

  I pictured my mum’s smiling face, excited about restoring her beloved house to its former glory. I could see her in the warm glow of her kitchen, the room where Dad used to whirl her around, and could hear her saying that she’d never leave. That all the time she had him, me and the beat in her heart, she would never let anything happen to the house we all loved.

  My throat contracted and I raced to the bathroom, where my stomach was quick to dispel the sandwich I’d managed on the train. With my head still hanging over the toilet, I noticed that where there’d been two toothbrushes neck to neck in the cup on the basin, only one now remained.

  As soon as I felt able to, I called Mum, not knowing what I was going to say.

  ‘Has the money definitely left your account?’ I blurted out before she’d even finished reciting her phone number.

  ‘Oh, hello darling,’ she said, sounding perplexed. ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘But have you actually checked?’ The panic in my voice made me sound more cutting than I meant to be.

  ‘Yes, why?’ she asked hesitantly, feeding off my own distress. ‘Has Thomas not received it? I thought you said he’d received it.’

  I was stumped to know what to say for the best. Should I tell her I lied? Was there any chance that it had somehow gone to someone else’s account by mistake? Could Thomas be exonerated of any wrongdoing, apart from kissing a woman who wasn’t his girlfriend? Should I tell her that I think we’ve been scammed? Did she need to know that every penny she had is probably on its way to Rio de Janeiro?

  If you’re about to break the heart of the person you love most in the world, how’s best to do that?

  I knew I couldn’t do it over the phone – she deserved more than that, so I jumped in my car and spent the time driving there going over and over what was happening. Trying to think of a single logical reason why Thomas would have done what he’d done. My own pain paled into insignificance when I measured it against my mum’s. Her lost pride. Her broken promise to my dad. The future that she thought she had, snatched away from her . . .

  And it was all my fault.

  28

  I don’t even remember driving towards Treetops, Thomas’s mum’s care home. But I found myself sitting at the junction, just half a mile away, being beeped and honked at.

  You’ve got one more chance, I said to myself, as I hit call on Thomas’s mobile number.

  The tone ran long and constant, as if flatlining. Even the robotic woman had given up on him.

  ‘Fuck!’ I said, slamming the steering wheel.

  I didn’t know what to do. I sat at the junction, debating which way to go. Turn right, and I go to my mother’s and tell her what I’ve done – what he’s done. Turn left, and I go towards the only link that I have to Thomas. The car behind blared its horn with impatience – I looked in my rear-view mirror and saw an agitated man waving his hands at me, forcing a decision.

  There was a different girl on reception as I approached the desk, feeling sick with trepidation. If she told me I couldn’t see Joyce, I feared I might burst out crying. I took a deep breath – I needed to stay calm and in control.

  ‘Oh hi,’ I said, trying to sound casual – as if I came here all the time. ‘Is Elise not around?’

  The girl looked covertly from side to side. ‘She’s been dismissed,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh,’ I replied, shocked. ‘Why?’

  She leant in. ‘Apparently she wasn’t checking credentials. She let just about anyone in – didn’t even take their name.’

  ‘That’s not good, is it?’ I said. ‘You have to be so careful.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘So we’re asking all visitors to sign in with their name and who they’re here to see.’

  I picked up the pen hesitantly, allowing my overactive imagination to wonder if they’d already been put on alert. Had Thomas warned them that I might come looking?

  Just in case, I wrote a false name and moved slowly away from the desk, as if waiting for someone to pounce. But I’ve not done anything wrong, I countered in my head. If they’re going to ambush anyone, it should be him.

  ‘Is Joyce in her usual place?’ I asked nonchalantly.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, and I froze, waiting for my heart to start beating again. ‘Her son’s already here. I think they’re in the lounge.’

  Of all the scenarios I’d allowed for, Thomas being here wasn
’t one of them. Shit.

  I briefly thought about running away. But I’d come here to find him, and shockingly, despite being together for almost six months, this care home and his mobile phone number were my only hope of tracking him down.

  I saw Joyce, in her chair over by the window, talking animatedly to a man with his back to me.

  I wanted to run over to him, throw my arms around his neck and beg him to tell me I’d got this all wrong. That something had happened to his phone. That he wasn’t having an affair. That he’d invested my mother’s money wisely. That he was still the man I’d fallen in love with.

  My pace quickened as I got closer. My ragged breath came in short, sharp pants as the enormity of the next few seconds dawned on me. They would dictate the rest of my life.

  ‘Thomas?’ My voice didn’t sound like my own.

  He turned around to face me.

  It wasn’t him.

  In that split second, I tried everything to turn this man into the person I wanted to see. Expected to see. If he just had blue eyes, instead of brown, a straighter nose, a stronger jawline, it could have been him. But it wasn’t.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the man asked.

  I looked to Joyce for help, but she was looking at me as if she’d never seen me before.

  ‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ I asked.

  He looked taken aback, his features clouding over. ‘I’m Ben Forrester. Who are you?’

  ‘There must be some mistake,’ I said, ignoring his question. ‘The lady at reception said you were Joyce’s son.’

  ‘I am,’ was all he offered, warily.

  ‘So, you have a brother?’ I asked, clutching at straws.

  ‘No, I do not, just a sister. Can I ask what this is all about?’

  I felt my insides crumble, as if a tiny pickaxe was chipping away at my core beliefs, my morality, my self-preservation, slowly destroying everything I held true.

  ‘Joyce,’ I said, breathlessly, leaning down beside her chair. ‘Do you remember me? I was here a few days ago with your son Thomas.’

  ‘Now, just wait a minute,’ said the man, starting to stand up as Joyce shook her head fearfully.

  I racked my brain trying to remember what she’d called me. My real name wouldn’t mean anything to her. ‘I’m . . . Helen,’ I said, remembering. ‘I was here with Thomas. We spoke about Frank and The Beatles. You told me how you’d sneak out of the house so that your dad didn’t see you in your miniskirt.’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough,’ said the man, grabbing my arm tightly and hauling me up.

  ‘Joyce, I was here with him,’ I screamed as he pulled me away. ‘You called for help. You said it was him. You kept saying, “He’s here.”’

  I felt the grip on my arm tighten. ‘Please Joyce. Try to remember.’

  ‘Who were you here with?’ asked Ben Forrester, his nostrils flared.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, sobbing as the truth of the words sunk in. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  29

  Mum took one look at me and ushered me into the hallway.

  ‘What on earth has happened?’ she asked, putting her arm around my back.

  ‘I can’t . . . I just can’t . . .’

  ‘Calm down,’ she soothed as she walked me into the kitchen. ‘Here, sit down.’ She moved a pile of interior magazines to the side of the table, each neatly marked-up with Post-it notes.

  I felt my heart break.

  ‘It’s Thomas . . .’ I sobbed.

  She pulled me to her and held my head against her stomach, rocking me gently. ‘Darling, what is it? What’s happened?’ I briefly wondered how she couldn’t guess, but if she’d had that kind of cynical mind, then she would never have agreed to this crazy plan in the first place. Or had I agreed to it on her behalf? It certainly felt like it.

  ‘He’s gone,’ I choked. ‘He’s gone with all the money.’

  The rocking stopped abruptly and she held me away from her, staring at me, her eyes unblinking. I could only imagine the vice-like grip that was squeezing her insides, making her feel as if she couldn’t breathe.

  ‘What . . . what do you mean?’ she faltered. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘He’s a conman, Mum. He duped me, then you, into believing that he was doing it for us . . . that he had our best interests at heart.’

  ‘Where is he?’ she asked matter-of-factly.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, where does he live? That might be a good place to start.’ There was an acerbic tone to her voice. An accusatory edge. ‘Had you thought of that? He can’t just disappear into thin air, can he?’

  My head fell into my hands. ‘I don’t know where he lives.’

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know where he lives?’ she asked coldly. ‘You’ve been seeing him for months.’

  ‘I’ve never been to his place,’ I admitted.

  She threw her arms up in the air before taking herself off and circling around the kitchen, deep in thought.

  I knew the question was coming, even before she asked it.

  ‘So, where does he work then?’ she said eventually.

  ‘He didn’t have an office. He could work from anywhere – as long as he had his mobile phone.’

  ‘And you thought that all this made him seem like a good bet?’ she asked, her voice rising. ‘I honestly can’t believe what I’m hearing.’

  Her disappointment in me was palpable, which hurt so much more than my broken heart, or the stolen money.

  I remembered the last time I’d disappointed her. I was fourteen and she’d found a cigarette in the pocket of my school blazer. I’d wanted her to ground me. I’d wanted her to scream at me. But all she said was, You’ve let me down. It was the worst possible punishment and I vowed I’d never disappoint her again. And I hadn’t, not until today.

  ‘I will fix this,’ I said, a sudden fury bursting out of me. How dare he come into my life like a wrecking ball, destroying everything I hold dear?

  Mum fell down dejectedly onto a chair. ‘And how do you intend to do that?’

  Despite everything, I foolishly believed that she would find the solution. Like she always had. In my mind, she was the adult and I was the child, so I naively hadn’t expected the question and the onus to fall to me.

  ‘I will not let him get away with this,’ I said. ‘I will track him down and make him pay for what he’s done.’

  Mum sat there, sadly shaking her head. ‘It could have been worse,’ she said, in barely more than a whisper. ‘There could have been children involved.’

  I pictured myself doubled up over the toilet, and suddenly wondered why I’d not realized that I was five days late. I instinctively touched my tummy, desperately trying to drown out the voice that said, Maybe there are.

  PART 3

  Present Day – Alice and Beth

  30

  Alice feels a churning in her stomach as she prepares to get out of the car. Her mum had done the school run for the past five days, as Alice had taken to her bed with a supposed virus. Nobody need know that she was in the midst of despair, devastated by the revelation that her beloved Tom had been having an affair. That he’d fathered a child with her best friend.

  She checks her reflection in the rear-view mirror, barely able to recognize her sallow skin and sunken cheekbones.

  ‘Okay Olivia, let’s go,’ she enthuses as much as she can.

  The pair of them walk quickly, Alice with her head down and Olivia skipping to keep up.

  ‘You’re giving me a stitch,’ she moans.

  Alice catches sight of Beth’s car parked up ahead and thinks about turning back. I can’t do this, she says to herself. But Livvy needs to go to school, she counters in her own mind as she forces herself to keep walking.

  ‘We need to talk,’ a voice says, as Alice draws level with Beth’s old Volkswagen.

  Alice tugs on Olivia’s hand and breaks into a half run.

  ‘Alice, please,’ calls Beth, a little louder. �
�We can’t pretend this isn’t happening.’

  ‘That’s exactly what we’re going to do,’ says Alice, under her breath.

  It’s the only way she can bear to get up in the morning, because if she acknowledges the facts – that her dead husband and best friend betrayed her in the worst possible way – she is terrified of the damage it will do.

  It didn’t matter that Beth might not have known Tom was married. It didn’t matter that she and Beth didn’t even know each other then. The sense of deceitfulness still punctured her lungs, making her feel as if she can’t breathe.

  ‘This isn’t going to go away,’ says Beth as she catches up with Alice and Olivia.

  The little girl looks up at her mum, puzzled as to why she’s not listening to Beth.

  ‘You’re being very rude,’ she says. ‘Millie’s mummy wants to talk to you.’

  It’s only then that Alice stops, dead in her tracks, and turns to face the woman who has taken away everything she knew to be true. She knows that Millie is standing beside Beth, but she cannot allow herself to look at her for fear that she will suddenly see Tom so clearly in her features that she will cry out. A very real pain is piercing her heart.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Beth calmly. The seconds stretch out like hours as the two women look at each other for the first time since Beth’s admission. As soon as Alice had come round from her blackout, she’d insisted on getting up and driving home, despite the first aider at the gym telling her to stay where she was. For a moment, she thought she’d had the weirdest dream, but Beth’s face peering into her bubble, like an ugly caricature, jolted her back into the real world. Alice had had to get as far away as possible, as quickly as possible, as panic descended on her. She couldn’t remember how she’d got home or what anyone had said to her over the ensuing days. She had just laid in bed, with her head under the duvet, unhearing and unseeing as she grappled with the scale of the deception that had befallen her.