by T. M. Logan
Jennifer had grown up in California and whenever she got excited or stressed her accent pushed out stronger, stretching the vowels and reminding us that, although she’d lived in the UK more than half her life, the Valley Girl was still in there somewhere. Her family had come to the UK when she was fourteen, relocating from Los Angeles to follow her father’s job as CEO of a multinational, and she had never left, retaining a transatlantic twang to her accent that Americans confused for British and vice versa.
I studied her a moment. She seemed a bit flustered.
“Are the boys settling in all right?” I said.
“They’re exploring, I think.” She checked down the corridor and leaned nearer, lowering her voice. “They’ve still not quite forgiven me.”
“Forgiven you for what?”
“We had a bit of a falling-out last night when they were packing. They wanted to bring the Xbox—Ethan had already packed it in his suitcase. I made him take it out, told them they weren’t to waste this week sitting in a darkened room playing stupid Call of Duty or Fortnite or whatever—not when we have the Mediterranean on our doorstep.”
“I take it that didn’t go down very well?”
She waved a hand. “Not especially. But hopefully they’ll be fine once they’ve seen how much there is to do here.”
She was trying to hide it, but I could tell she was bothered that they had argued. She made it a point never to raise her voice to her boys, never to shout, never to be sarcastic and never, ever, to raise a hand to them. Not even when Jake, aged seven, had been playing with matches and come perilously close to burning their house down.
The boys were her project, her mission in life. Born only eleven months apart, Jake and Ethan had become all-consuming in the way that small children could be, and Jennifer had quit her job and never gone back. She’d thrown herself into the role of full-time mum with a gusto verging on mania, and was both hugely proud and fiercely protective of her boys. Even when Ethan had joined his older brother at primary school, she had resisted a return to her physiotherapy career and had got a part-time admin job in the school office instead.
Sean walked into the bedroom, a towel around his waist, hair wet from the pool. I felt my face flush instantly with a burning sense of anger and heartache. And a million questions. The discovery of the messages on his phone was so raw, and there had been so little time to process what I was feeling—I needed to arrange my expression, my emotions, in a way that didn’t instantly give away the toxic secret I now carried inside me.
I couldn’t bear to look at my husband, but I couldn’t look away, either.
He greeted Jennifer with a peck on the cheek—curiously chaste in the circumstances? Perhaps not?—and returned to his suitcase to continue unpacking.
“There’s a games room downstairs,” I said, hearing the weirdly forced tone of my own words. “A pool table, table football, and all sorts. I’m sure the children will find something to do.”
Jennifer nodded, not seeming to notice the tension in my voice.
“I’m really hoping they’ll spend lots of time outside,” she said. “The air is so much cleaner here than in London. And they spend so much time playing on that damn Xbox.”
Jennifer’s husband, Alistair, appeared at her side in full summer vacation mode: belly-hugging vest top and Speedos, hairy shoulders and bare thighs. I’d always thought they were a bit of a mismatch—physically at least—and they’d turned into one of those couples that didn’t seem to have aged at the same rate. She still had the tall, long-limbed Californian grace that had beguiled a succession of university boyfriends all those years ago, while Alistair seemed chunkier and more disheveled than ever with his full, bushy beard and tortoiseshell glasses.
“Aha!” Alistair said. “I knew you would still be talking about Xbox-gate.”
Jennifer sighed. “Don’t keep calling it that. It was a storm in a teacup.”
“I said she should have just let them bring it,” Alistair told me. “One has to start making one’s own decisions sooner or later, making one’s own mistakes. Why not now? The boys are at that stage in their lives when they’re pushing boundaries, testing themselves and others, and we should encourage it as a move away from childhood into early adulthood. They’re not little boys anymore.”
“They’re still my little boys,” Jennifer said, crossing her arms. “And it would be nice if you backed me up once in a while, instead of always making me be the bad cop.”
“But you’re equally as good at being the good cop, ma chérie.” He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “You’ve got that covered as well.”
“All the same, it would be nice if you could treat Jake and Ethan as our children, rather than just a couple more patients to be studied and advised.”
Daniel burst in, out of breath, hair wet, his Crocs slapping on the floor.
“Can I borrow your camcorder, Dad? I’m going to do a house tour like a proper YouTuber!”
Sean went to a drawer and handed over the little camera.
“Be careful with it.”
“Careful is my middle name!” He ran out of the room.
Alistair gestured toward the expensively decorated surroundings.
“The villa is absolutely sensational, isn’t it? Anyone coming for a dip?”
“Maybe later,” I said. “If the water’s still warm enough.”
“Eighty-four degrees, apparently—just like a warm bath. You coming, Jennifer?”
“Have you seen Jake?”
“Not since they went to their rooms.”
“Could you check down by the pool for him?”
“I’m sure the boys are fine, darling.”
“Please?”
“Righty-ho.” He padded off, flip-flops clicking on the tile floor.
“See you down at the pool?” Jennifer said to me.
“Sure.”
Sean, who had said nothing so far during this exchange, was taking the last few things from his suitcase.
“Might go for another dip,” he said, “when I’ve got this finished. Amazing pool.”
Jennifer either didn’t hear him, or acted as if she hadn’t.
Something was not quite right here, like a bad smell in the room that no one wanted to acknowledge. She’s acting like Sean’s not there. Why would she do that?
“Catch you later, then,” Jennifer said. “I’d better go and see about my boys.” She walked off toward the stairs.
I glanced at Sean as he hung shirts in the wardrobe.
Are you just going down to the pool because she’s going? So you can have a few minutes together? Why was she ignoring you? Why can’t she even meet your eye?
Perhaps the answer was obvious.
She can’t meet your eye because she doesn’t want to give herself away. It’s that simple. Is it?
Is it Jennifer, then?
I was reminded, more forcefully than ever before, that Jennifer and Sean had been a couple for close to two months when we were students.
And after their split he had got together with me.
There had been no crossover. At least, that was the story we’d always maintained. It was best to keep the story simple, best for all concerned.
It came back to me then: the worst thing that Sean had ever said to me, the most hurtful words he had ever uttered—buried in my memory for so long I thought I had forgotten. The game of Truth or Dare we had played after a few months together, Sean almost too drunk to stand. Best sex I ever had? That would have to be Jennifer, ha ha, first love and all that …
A furious row had followed, as I tearfully explained to him that you weren’t necessarily supposed to tell the truth in Truth or Dare, especially if it was as hurtful and horrible as what he had said. Especially if it was about his tall, athletic, American ex-girlfriend who was also one of my best friends. Him blinking drunkenly at me, saying sorry sorry sorry, over and over again, pleading, swaying on his feet, telling me it was just a joke, just a stupid joke and he didn’t mean it
.
We had split up for a fortnight before I relented to his begging and took him back. It had never been mentioned since and it was so long ago that I hoped it would never surface again. I had never told Jennifer, or the other two.
How about it, Jennifer? Is it you and Sean? Is it a second go-around for the two of you? Best sex he ever had, after all.
Rekindling a first love, something like that?
Is it long-overdue revenge for stealing your boyfriend all those years ago?
No. That was mad.
Or was it?
7
Crickets filled the evening air with their soft burr as we meandered slowly down the hill to the restaurant in the village. In front of us, Lucy was talking to Rowan, Jennifer, and Alistair, while Russ carried Odette on his back. The three boys were somewhere farther ahead, Daniel scampering after the two lanky teenagers like a puppy desperate for attention.
I had reapplied my makeup and knocked back a glass of champagne to calm my nerves. Sean and I were bringing up the rear of our little group, him walking beside me in a not entirely straight line.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he said. “Or do I have to guess?”
He put his hands in his pockets and extended the crook of his arm. Reluctantly, I linked arms with him.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said.
“I thought you’d be happy to be here.”
“I am,” I said without looking at him. “Busy day.”
“Are you feeling all right? Was it that questionable sandwich you had on the plane?”
“I’m fine.”
He considered this for a moment. “Seriously, what’s up, Kate?”
Apart from you putting a bomb under our marriage?
“Nothing’s up,” I said.
“I’ve hardly seen you all afternoon.”
“Just a bit tired, that’s all.”
“That’s probably the heat getting to you.” His voice was light, but he was choosing his words carefully. “It was like a blast furnace today.”
“Probably.”
For a moment, I thought about asking him right then and there—just coming out with it. Get it over with, like ripping a Band-Aid off in one quick pull.
Who is it? Which one? Rowan, Jennifer, or Izzy?
But I knew it wasn’t the time. I had no concrete evidence—not yet. The messages on his phone would be long gone by now.
Not until you have proof. He will simply deny it otherwise.
Sean tried another tack to get me talking.
“Wonderful spot for a vacation,” he said.
“Perfect.”
“Do you ever wonder,” he said wistfully, “what it would be like to come somewhere like this every year? Every summer? How amazing would that be?”
“Sean, we couldn’t even afford to come here once, let alone every year.”
“That’s what I mean. Doesn’t it make you feel like…” He trailed off, gesticulating with his free hand. “Oh, I dunno.”
“Feel like what?”
“Like we should be able to afford it by now. That we should be able to do nice things for the kids, be able to splash out on a summer vacation like this.”
“Maybe a bit.”
“Y’know, I was in the pool earlier and I looked at the villa, and the balcony, and the vineyard, and I just thought, Christ, I’m about to turn forty, and there’s literally no way I could ever stay somewhere like this without Rowan making it possible.” His Irish accent always got stronger when he’d had a few drinks, and it was in full flow now. “I mean, is this going to be out of my reach forever? There are a million places in the world that I want to see, but I feel as though I’ve barely even started—and my time’s already half over. What the hell have I been doing with my life?”
“How many beers have you had?”
“Not enough,” he said with a sigh.
We walked on in silence for a moment.
I said quietly, “I think it’s just nice that we’re even able to come here once.” Could he really be that unhappy with the life we’d built? Was that why his eye had wandered in the first place, another middle-aged man looking for validation of his place in the world?
“Of course,” he said. “I get that; it’s just knowing how far out of reach it is to us in our normal lives. Makes me feel like a bit of a failure.”
“You’re not a failure.”
“I’m not exactly a success. A network security manager for a medium-sized IT business.” His voice took on a sarcastic edge. “It’s every young lad’s dream, isn’t it? Not.”
I felt the familiar instinct to reassure him, comfort him, to support my closest teammate—despite my worst fears of betrayal.
“You protect people and the things that are important to them.”
“I protect data. Not really the same thing.”
“Yes, but what’s that saying? Life’s a journey, isn’t it? Not a destination.”
“Christ.” He laughed. “You must be pissed, too, if you’re quoting Aerosmith lyrics at me.”
“I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson, actually. But you know what I mean.”
“Feel like I’ve spent the whole of my thirties doing, I don’t know…” He held his hands up in the air. “I don’t know what I’ve been doing. And now they’re gone forever and before we know it, in another couple of years Lucy will be out of the door to university. Even though—”
“Do you think she’s all right?”
“Who?”
“Lucy.”
He hesitated, and I felt his arm stiffen slightly against mine.
“Sure,” he said. “What makes you say that?”
I paused and slowed our pace, to let the others get a little farther ahead. Glad to talk about something that would always put me and my husband on the same page: our daughter.
“She just seems … not really herself recently. Quieter than usual, but more snappy.”
“I don’t think she can be quieter and more snappy at the same time, love.”
“You know what I mean. She seems more distracted than normal, on her phone all the time.”
“She’s always on her phone. It’s compulsory for Generation Z, or whatever they’re called.”
“She’s worried about her GCSE exams, I suppose.”
He paused, seeming to consider this for a moment. “Makes sense.”
“Even though she’s predicted stellar grades in everything?”
“She’s always been a bit highly strung—and you know what teenagers can be like.” He shook his head suddenly and picked up the thread of our earlier conversation. “Christ, it only feels like five minutes ago that I was bringing her home from the hospital in her car seat and changing my first diaper. Now I’m knocking on forty and I’m losing my bloody hair and it feels like, What the hell just happened?”
“I don’t care about your hair, Sean.”
“Every day I look in the mirror and it’s creeping further and further up my bloody head. You know, the other week I was in town and I caught sight of this old feller’s reflection in a shop window and I thought, Who’s that old bastard? He’s definitely trying too hard. Then I realized it was me. Jesus.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I … I don’t know. Too many beers, that’s all.”
Maybe it was the champagne, but just walking with him, talking to him the way we’d always done, feeling his skin on mine, reminded me again of everything we’d had together. All the good things, now and in the past.
Everything we stood to lose.
I knew our situation was bad, but he was still my husband. And maybe he was still worth fighting for.
8
The village square in Autignac was strung with fairy lights that crisscrossed the space above our heads, a warm glow against the long shadows of approaching dusk. The village church, its restored Romanesque steeple rising into the darkening night sky, formed one side of the square while the little trio of boulangerie, bouch
erie, and charcuterie were shuttered and dark on the other side. A skinny tabby cat sat on a first-floor window ledge, blinking down at us with luminous yellow eyes.
The restaurant was bright and busy. We sat at one of a dozen wooden tables arranged in the square, catering to tourists staying in the villas and apartments in and around the village. It was almost eight o’clock, but the air was still warm, thick with the smells of rib eye steak and roast duck, rich sauces and local red wine. Candles and glasses and half-empty bottles lined our table. I sipped my wine and tried to relax. But I couldn’t help it. I’d spent the evening examining everything—every conversation, every look, every silence, minutely—holding each moment in my hand and studying it from every angle, trying to pry the truth from it like a pearl from a clam.
Like now, for example.
Sean was chatting amiably to Rowan about her business, genuinely interested, smiling and engaged, giving her lots of eye contact. He was a people pleaser, always had been, always seemed to know the right thing to say to get on someone’s good side, always wanted to find the good in them. Was that what his affair was, how it had started? One of my friends coming to him for help, and things progressed to the point where he just couldn’t bring himself to say no? Couldn’t bring himself to upset her?
Sean was already a glass of red wine ahead of me, on top of the beers he’d had back at the house before coming out. Russ had been constantly refilling everyone’s glasses every time he filled his own—which was often—the crimson flush of alcohol already blotting his cheeks. I couldn’t decide whether Rowan’s husband didn’t like our company, or just liked his booze. A bit of both, probably. His chair was empty for the moment as he stood beneath the carved stone portico of the church, taking long slow drags on a cigarette.
Odette, in a bright yellow dress, ran around and around the long wooden table, chasing the cats that occasionally appeared from the shadows to pick up tidbits dropped by diners. She narrowly avoided colliding with a waiter and skipped away again into the gap between two tables, a defiant grin on her face.
“Odette,” Rowan said for the third or fourth time, “please come and sit down, your dinner is about to arrive.”