by Sam Anthony
To my surprise, I find myself moving beyond the floorboards, onto the narrow joists and carefully edging my way deeper into the loft. I’m holding on to the rafters for support and the rough wood is giving me splinters in my hands, but I persevere until I come to a spot from which I can see directly into the whole of the loft space. I shine my torch around and, as expected, there’s nothing but joists and fibreglass insulation.
I’m about to make my way back towards the safety of the hatch, when I notice that the insulation is a few inches higher in the furthest, darkest corner, as if the builders have left two or three layers of fibreglass in a pile.
It’s probably nothing.
I have to check.
After another ten minutes of uncomfortable manoeuvring and the acquisition of several more splinters, I reach the raised spot. Crouching precariously on two joists and holding a rafter with one hand to balance myself, I reach out with the other hand and press down on the pile of insulation. I’m expecting it to be soft and yielding, but there’s something hard beneath the top layer. I lift it up, and below the fibreglass there’s a concealed cardboard box. My heart sinks. ‘I’ll know it when I see it,’ has become, ‘I’ve found it.’ Eureka!
◆◆◆
I carefully manhandle the box to the hatch and carry it down the ladder. In our bedroom, I place it in the centre of the bed.
There’s a reason it was so carefully hidden. I have my suspicions about what it contains, but I have to be certain. I realise that if I open this box, I may discover secrets that will change my life as I know it, and not for the better. What I see within, I will never be able to un-see.
◆◆◆
I open the lid and look inside.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Box
I peer into the box.
It contains an assortment of items tidily arranged into groups. In one corner, there’s a neat stack of diaries, possibly about twenty, with the year printed along the spine. The most recent is from last year. Next to the diaries, I can see bundles of envelopes, held together with elastic bands. They appear to be a mixture of typical hand-written letters and official brown-envelope business correspondence, the sort which usually contain bills and bank statements. Then there’s a pile of photographs, neatly stacked, face down. Finally, there are eight cell phones and their accompanying chargers.
Where do I start?
I pick up the pile of photos and turn it over.
The first picture is of Tamsin and Jake. They're sharing an armchair in a cramped room that can only be student accommodation. Tamsin is perched on Jake’s lap with her arms around his neck. They’re smiling happily at the camera. I can tell from the hairstyles that the photo must have been taken during their first year at university, before I knew either of them, back when they were ‘hot and heavy’ as Nilofer had described it last night. It’s bizarre seeing them together as a couple. I’d never thought of them in that way until now. Seeing it in a photo somehow makes it real.
The next thirty or so photographs look as if they come from that same year. Some comprise just the two of them, some include them as part of a group of people, most of whom I recognise, and some are of Tamsin on her own. Of the latter category, several feature Tamsin in bed, hair tousled and face radiant; apparently naked and partially wrapped in just a sheet; shading her eyes as the sunlight streams in through the window. I can’t remember her ever looking so beautiful.
Thinking back to our university days, I recall that Jake often had a camera with him and he’d regularly take photos of our student larks. He must have had them developed, but I don’t remember seeing many of the actual prints; only a few which he’d pinned to his notice board, featuring all seven of us.
As I scan the photos, one by one, I can tell they’re in chronological order. After a while, there are fewer pictures featuring Tamsin and Jake together. When I reach their second year at university - my first year - I come across photos of Tamsin and me, holding hands or embracing. I’ve never seen any of these pictures before, and I’m entranced as I revisit the overwhelming sensations of falling in love with this wonderful woman.
My temporary joy is soon replaced by apprehension as I resume my obsessive search for the terrifying truth.
The next cluster of photos are, surreptitiously but undeniably, just Tamsin; candid shots taken at group gatherings. Sometimes they feature other people, but there’s no doubt that Tamsin is the main focus of each picture, while other individuals are merely insignificant bystanders. It would appear that Jake still had something of a crush on Tamsin even though she was with me by that time.
Before long, I come to photos of our wedding. Tamsin looked so beautiful that day, her hair in loose ringlets and a big cheesy grin permanently plastered across her face. Again, Jake - ostensibly my best man - has taken lots of candid shots of Tamsin, and presumably then handed his camera over to someone else to obtain a few pictures of just himself with the bride. Incongruously, there’s an unnecessarily large gap between their stiff bodies, and both Tamsin and Jake appear uncomfortable to be photographed together.
After our wedding, the time interval between photos increases, but the pictures become more damning. There are several shots of Tamsin and Jake - always with their arms around each other - at the seaside, in woods, on hilltops, in hotel rooms and in restaurants. Presumably, these were taken either with a timer or by some helpful passer-by. They make a handsome couple and seem very happy to be in each other’s company. Nobody would suspect that, at the time these photos were taken, they were both married to other people. Jake’s first wife had always suspected that he was having an affair. He’d vehemently denied it, but the marriage didn’t last long. Here were pictures that would have supported her claim, but they aren’t exactly proof of infidelity.
It’s the next few photos that break my heart. They were taken in our old house in the living room. The camera must have been balanced on the mantlepiece. They’re enchanting pictures of Tamsin and Jake looking directly at the camera, but for once they aren’t embracing. This time, in his arms, Jake is cradling Charlie. Their daughter.
Shit!
I sit down heavily on the bed, in despair. I now know, without a shadow of a doubt, that my hunch was correct, but I’ve never wanted to be wrong so much in my life.
I can’t stop myself from looking at the subsequent photos, even though it feels as if I’m torturing myself. After a few more pictures of just Tamsin and Jake, and the occasional one of the three of them, I finally come across the first picture of all four. There it is: Jake’s complete unacknowledged family. The photo was taken at our current house in the garden. The camera must have been placed on the bird-table. They’re sitting on the parched grass on a hot, summer’s day. Charlie, who was about three at the time, is frozen in the act of throwing a football into the air. Tamsin is leaning against Jake and smiling at the camera while Jake is looking down at the baby on his lap. On his face, he bears the unmistakable self-satisfied beam of a father gazing at his baby son.
I put my head in my hands and weep. For my wife. For my children. For twenty years of deceit. My shoulders convulse for many minutes as I release all the pent up stress and emotion built up over the recent weeks. Finally, I compose myself and resume my self-flagellation.
The rest of the photos continue in the same vein - various combinations and permutations of the four of them - until they decrease in frequency and eventually stop about eight years ago. I guess that was around the time that most people abandoned the traditional camera in favour of the digital one on their cell phone.
The very last photo in the pile is a group-shot of Tamsin, Jake, Charlie, John, me and my mum; taken after Christmas lunch seven or eight years ago. We’re all wearing paper hats from the Christmas crackers, except Jake, who always arrived sometime after lunch was completed. I should have realised before now that Jake visits all of his children on Christmas day, including the ones I had thought were mine.
◆◆◆
Next, I turn to the letters, beginning with the more interesting looking handwritten envelopes. I recognise the spidery writing on the front as Jake’s, and I notice the first few letters are addressed to Tamsin Cadwallader, her maiden name, either at her university accommodation or her parents’ home.
I open the first one.
A quick glance at the contents tells me it’s a love letter from Jake to Tamsin. It’s handwritten and dated February of the first year they were at university together. It’s four insufferable pages of immature, gushing, romantic drivel, and it’s painful to read. Clearly, Jake was head-over-heels in love with Tamsin when he wrote it, and he didn’t hold back. The intimate details about their lovemaking make my stomach churn.
The subsequent letters contain additional verbose, quixotic declarations of love, as well as responses to implied questions, so it’s apparent that an exchange of written communication has begun between Tamsin and Jake. I can’t bear to read more than two or three of these and I quickly skip ahead to letters nearer the bottom of the pile.
Now the tone has changed somewhat. Jake is still effusive about his undying love for Tamsin, but the contrite inflection makes it clear that he’s done something to upset her and is now in her bad books.
The penultimate one describes how sorry Jake is that he cheated on Tamsin, and he begs her to forgive him.
The final letter in this selection contains a reiteration of Jake’s eternal devotion to Tamsin, a promise he’ll always be there for her, and a hope they’ll someday get back together.
What a pussy! The schoolboy language would be painfully embarrassing to Jake if he was ever to re-read what he’d written as a smitten nineteen-year-old.
◆◆◆
The next bundle of letters looks very dull. They’re all buff-coloured business envelopes; the ones with the little see-through window that reveals the recipient’s name and address. On each is typed ‘Ms Tamsin Cadwallader’ followed by our address. If I’d found one of these letters on our doormat, I would have put it straight on Tamsin’s desk and then thought no more about it.
I remove the contents of the first envelope. Behind the initial piece of paper, which contains nothing except the type-written address, there are two more sheets of writing paper. These are hand-written pages and again are romantic in nature. I open another one. And another. They’re all the same. They’re all love letters from Jake to Tamsin. The most alarming thing is the first ones are dated from a period when Tamsin and I were living together, but weren’t yet married. I had believed that this was the time when we were happiest and most in love, but it appears I was wrong. Throughout this period, Tamsin and Jake had found a way to send passionate love letters to each other in secret. I wonder, briefly, why they didn’t simply text each other, but of course, this was about seventeen years ago, when emailing and texting were still in their infancy. I have to admire their ingenuity. There was no danger of me opening one of these missives and they could communicate with each other at will.
The detail within these letters enables me to confirm that Tamsin and Jake had resumed their sexual relationship at some point after we left university and were involved in a passionate affair even while Tamsin and I were engaged to be married.
While I’m impressed with their adultery skills, I’m beginning to despise them both with a passion.
◆◆◆
There are still many more letters to read, but I’m impatient to discover what’s written in the diaries, and I’m intrigued by the cell phones, some of which I don’t recognise at all. I try to turn on one of the phones, but the battery is flat. However, it appears I have all the matching chargers too, so I spend the next ten minutes finding eight available plug sockets around the house with which to charge the phones, so I’ll be able to switch them on and study their contents.
Once they’re plugged in, I open the first diary.
From the year printed on the spine, I can tell it was written twenty-six years ago; the year Tamsin turned fourteen. There’s an entry for each day of the year. Most of them are rather banal descriptions of her day: what lessons she’d had at school, what she’d had for tea, homework deadlines and so on. She’d obviously had a crush on a boy called Steve, who’d merited quite a few mentions. “Steve smiled at me in Geography … Steve told Julie he likes me!” and other comments of that ilk, with love hearts around his name.
I skip ahead a couple of diaries, looking for something a bit more interesting, and I find it on the date of Tamsin’s sixteenth birthday. “Had sex with Steve in the downstairs loo!!! Standing up! Over very quickly and quite painful. No condom!” This surprises me because Tamsin has always maintained that she lost her virginity in her first year at university although she never told me with whom. She just said, “You don’t know him.”
I flip through the next few diaries, but there’s nothing that catches my eye until Tamsin’s freshman year at university. The first mention of Jake comes in late November and by the following January, they were sleeping together. She kept a record of every time they had sex and went into more detail when they tried anything new. Some entries simply said “Sex!” while others said “Sex! Doggie style. Nice!!!” or “Sex! Me on top!!! Very self-conscious!” or “Sex! 69. Pleasant, but hard to concentrate!” Tamsin had a lot of sex in those first few months of their relationship; probably the equivalent of ten years’ worth with me.
The mood changed in May. Jake had slept with another girl after a party, and Tamsin had found out about it. She was devastated, and she’d dumped him. He begged her to forgive him and get back together, but she wouldn’t, even though she was broken-hearted. Despite the relationship being over, there were still many mentions of Jake in the following months.
Keen to see my first appearance, I seek the relevant week in the same diary as the break-up, and there I am, in early October:
“Met Jake’s new friend Lee. Kind of cute!”
That’s promising.
A few weeks later I feature again:
“Slept with Lee to make Jake jealous. He was furious. Ha! Sex was average.”
As I remember it, the sex was mind-blowing. I was a total stud! But Tamsin was rather drunk. Perhaps she didn’t remember it as clearly as I did.
Two weeks later:
“Jake is shagging Beth. Slag! Nice chat with Lee. He’s growing on me!”
The next day:
“Sex with Lee. Better!”
The following week:
“Seems like Lee and I are a couple. Not sure how that happened. Jake still wants to get back together with me. I keep saying no. Think he’s finally getting the message.”
After that, there are few mentions of Jake for many months. There’s plenty of stuff about Tamsin’s studies and her social engagements, but she’s stopped recording her sex life. We finished university at the same time, after I completed my degree and Tamsin stayed on for an extra year and took a PGCE to train as a teacher, ostensibly so we could continue together at the same establishment for another year. It turned out that she rather enjoyed teaching, and we both found jobs in the same town and made the decision to set up home together. It’s all recorded in Tamsin’s diaries, but she doesn’t go into much detail. I’m pleasantly surprised to discover how many happy memories come back to me after reading her brief diary entries, but I’m devastated that these memories have been tarnished forever by what I now know about the true state of affairs.
◆◆◆
I had no idea Tamsin was keeping a diary all those years. Not once did I see her writing in one, or notice that she even possessed such a thing. She must have written it in private and kept it well hidden. Presumably, if you keep a personal diary, full of your most intimate thoughts, and you want to protect it from your nosy parents and siblings, it becomes a good habit to write it in secret and find a secure hiding place.
The year after we moved in together I proposed to Tamsin, and her immediate response was underwhelming to say the least. We’d been out for a romantic meal, and a
fterwards we went for a walk by the sea. As we’d sat on a bench, watching the waves crash against the shore, I’d got down on one knee and asked her to marry me. I’d expected her to be ecstatic and say yes immediately, but instead, she’d said, and I can still clearly remember her exact words, “Oh, Lee. You’re so sweet! Do you mind if I have a couple of days to think about it?”
Two days later she’d said yes, but those two days were probably the longest of my life.
I look up the date of the proposal. In her diary, Tamsin had written:
“Lee asked me to marry him! It was windy and cold. I said I’d think about it.”
The following diary entry reads:
“Phoned Jake. We had a lovely chat. He’s madly in love with someone called Megan. She sounds like a right cow.”
A day later:
“Said yes to Lee! He was over the moon. I’m going to be Mrs Bolton! Choosing a ring tomorrow.”
There’s nothing of interest in the next few months until Jake re-appeared on the scene:
“Jake has split up with Megan!”
A few days later:
“Jake phoned. We talked for ages. He said he misses me!”
The next day:
“Jake wants to meet me for coffee.”
The following Saturday:
“Met Jake in town. He gets more handsome as he gets older! Lovely to catch up.”
Two weeks after that:
“Lee away this weekend for a stag do. Jake coming round tomorrow to see our flat! Very nervous!”
The next day:
“OMG! Had sex with Jake!! Three times!!! Nobody makes me come so hard and so fast as Jake!!! He told me he still loves me! He's still here, in my bed!!!”