The Weekend Away

by Sarah Alderson

  She thought she and Rob were in with a shot? The idea would have seemed preposterous to me a few hours ago. Kate always dates alpha men, rich arseholes in the main if I’m honest. And Rob isn’t an arsehole or rich. Actually, scratch that, he’s a huge arsehole. How could I have been so blind for so long? If I missed the fact my best friend was in love with my husband for over a decade, what else have I missed? I feel as if our entire friendship, as well as my marriage, has been a sham.

  ‘I know she tried to be happy for you,’ Toby says. ‘She wasn’t a horrible person.’

  I scoff at that. Not a horrible person? Wrong. She wins the damn prize for shittiest person who ever lived. Even though she’s dead I don’t care that I’m thinking it. It’s true.

  ‘She told me once that you and Rob were probably better suited anyway, but I don’t know, maybe she was just telling me that to make me feel better.’

  I make a grunting sound because words are failing me.

  ‘I think the affair started a couple of years ago,’ Toby tells me. ‘Around Christmas time. I remember her acting odd. We were meant to be going away to the Bahamas, and she was acting out, being a bitch, waxing hot and cold. I confronted her at the time, suspected something was up, not with Rob, but that she was having an affair with some guy at work, and she fobbed me off, told me I was being stupid.’

  Two years ago, at Christmas. I think back. We were in the depths of IVF and I was depressed at all the failures, blaming myself. Rob and I were arguing a lot. We’d even briefly talked about splitting up. Rob had pulled away, been distant, but I blamed myself for that too. Did he turn to Kate for comfort? Did I push him into it? Or was he distant because he’d already embarked on an affair?

  ‘I had her followed. That’s how I found out. Private detective guy. He took photos. That’s how I discovered it was Rob. They were meeting during lunch breaks, occasionally in the evenings, at a hotel in Covent Garden.’

  I take a long, deep breath, trying to wrangle the fury racing through me.

  ‘When I confronted her about it, she tried to deny it of course, until I showed her the photos. She begged me not to tell you. I told her I wouldn’t. Not for her, but because I didn’t want to do that to you. You’d just found out you were pregnant. I knew what that meant to you. And Kate told me it was over between them. Promised me it was.’

  ‘Did you confront Rob?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  That shocks me. ‘What did he say?’ I ask.

  ‘He cried.’ Toby snorts again. ‘Told me it was a big mistake, the biggest of his life. He told me some sob story about how you were pushing him away, tried to make out that it was Kate who’d made the moves on him and he was powerless to resist. And you know what? I can believe it. That’s Kate isn’t it? I mean, that was Kate. If she wanted something she went after it. I think we can probably congratulate her for keeping her hands off him for so long. She did try. In the end though, she couldn’t help herself.’

  He’s right. That is Kate. I can picture it. She probably thought she deserved Rob as a reward for keeping her hands off him for as long as she did.

  ‘Rob begged me not to tell you. I said I wouldn’t so long as he never fucking saw my wife again. But to be honest, I knew Kate and I were over by that point.’

  ‘He only stayed with me because of Marlow. Because I was pregnant.’ It’s a sudden realisation, like a crack of lightning illuminating the truth. When I found out I was pregnant, when those two blue lines appeared on the test, I was shaking with joy and amazement and incredulity, and I staggered out of the bathroom to show Rob, holding the test like it was a winning lottery ticket. I remember he was stunned into silence by it. He couldn’t talk for five straight minutes. He just kept staring at the plastic stick. I thought at the time he was as overwhelmed as I was that our dream was finally coming true, but it wasn’t that. I see it now. He was coming to terms with the fact that now he couldn’t leave me. Those two blue lines were prison bars.

  After the second attempt at IVF was unsuccessful, Rob worked so hard to convince me not to try for a third time. He pushed and pushed me to give up the dream of a child. We argued, even slept in separate beds for a time. He was in the middle of the affair then. Was he making plans with Kate to leave me? When I pressed ahead with the IVF he was angry, but I thought it was because we were having to spend out of our own pocket for it and because he was tired of the strain it was putting us under.

  I was so stupid not to see the truth. He must have been hoping and praying it wouldn’t work so he’d be able to leave me, perhaps he could even blame the infertility and my depression, and then it did work and I got pregnant and all his plans fell apart. He couldn’t leave me after that, not when I was pregnant with his child.

  I try to imagine what went through his mind. He would likely have been tormented. I know Rob enough to understand that deep down he isn’t a terrible man. This thing he’s done, this betrayal is terrible, and I will never forgive him for it, but I also know he isn’t a monster. He has some heart. He broke up with her.

  They obviously stayed apart for a while, according to the text messages, but then, for some reason, they got back together again. Maybe they ran into each other. Maybe it was at Marlow’s christening. Maybe the sexual chemistry was too much or he was repulsed enough by me and my post-pregnancy body that he flew into her slender open arms like a magnet, repelled by one and drawn to another.

  And now I come to think about it, didn’t I wonder where Rob was after the church service? He disappeared for ten minutes, told me he was taking a phone call. And Kate was there in her role of glamorous godmother, looking fabulous in five-inch high heels and a skin-tight dress more suited to a strip club than a christening. Didn’t she say she had to go and reapply her lipstick for the photos? And when she came back didn’t I notice that it seemed like she’d forgotten to reapply it?

  ‘If it makes you feel any better,’ Toby says, ‘I don’t think Kate ever meant to hurt you.’

  ‘Bit damn late for that,’ I answer.

  ‘Well, she’s dead,’ he says, as though that erases what she did, as though she’s paid for her crimes by drowning. A sudden thought hits me like a punch to the chest. What if … Toby killed her? Or arranged for her to be killed? He did just admit to hiring a private detective. What if he hired someone to kill her? I wouldn’t put it past him. She was after his money after all.

  No, I’m being crazy – what an absurd thought! But then again, I’m also being accused, and the fact is there are two jilted spouses in this situation, not just me, and if they are going to use the affair as a motive then Toby is as much a suspect as me, maybe even more so given how much money Kate was trying to take him for.

  But how will I find out if he’s involved? I need a lawyer, or a detective of my own, but I don’t work in those circles. I don’t have those connections or contacts. Where would I even find one, especially over here? I don’t speak the language.

  ‘You should know that the police think someone killed her,’ I tell Toby.

  Toby goes silent on the end of the phone. ‘What?’ he finally splutters.

  I listen hard to his reaction. Does he sound nervous? Innocent? Or is that a hint of fear in his voice? Is it the voice of a guilty man? ‘They say she had injuries consistent with a fight. They’re considering it a murder.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ Toby whispers. ‘That’s … but who?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I need to go,’ I tell him.

  ‘Will you let me know what happens with the police?’ he interjects.

  ‘Yes. And, Toby,’ I add, ‘Rob’s already arranged for the cremation. I think they’re doing it later today. But can you handle the rest? I’m not sure I’ll be able to.’

  The thought of having to arrange a funeral ceremony or celebration of life for Kate is too much to contemplate. I’d hardly be the best person to lead the eulogies. Perhaps we should ask Rob.

  ‘Of course,’ Toby says quietly. ‘Listen, Orla, I’m sorry you h
ad to find out. Especially now.’

  ‘Yes,’ I answer. ‘Me too.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘Rob,’ I say, in as even a tone as I can muster over voicemail. ‘Call me back.’

  I check the time. It’s four-twenty. He’s already on the plane. He must be wondering if it was me who called him from Kate’s phone. If so he’s probably panicking at what I might have found out. I open the bedroom door and startle Sebastian who is standing there with a cup of tea in his hand. How long has he been lurking there? Was he listening to my conversation with Toby? He hands me the cup of tea, his eyes darting around the room, refusing to settle on my face. I see him notice the pile of Kate’s clothes strewn around and the ripped-up bra and knickers.

  ‘Thank you,’ I tell him, moving to block his way into the room, and his view. I don’t need him snooping any more than he already has.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ he asks. ‘Can I do anything? Did they tell you what happened to your friend?’

  I shake my head, wondering if his kindness has an ulterior motive, namely a desire to gather gossip. ‘No.’

  He frowns at that. ‘The police were asking questions. It seemed like they thought your friend’s death was suspicious.’

  ‘They’re investigating, that’s all. They don’t know what happened.’ Nosy bugger.

  He leaves the room and I pace, wringing my hands, trying to get my thoughts in order. I try to name all I’m feeling – a technique my therapist taught me when I’m feeling overwhelmed with anxiety. I count humiliation, grief, pain, confusion, fear and panic. It’s too much to feel, too much to deal with, all piled on top of each other. How can I hold all this inside without going mad?

  I look at the teacup on the side. I don’t need tea. I need a proper drink. Something strong, to settle my nerves and help clear my head, or maybe the opposite, erase everything, at least temporarily. My first thought is to call Konstandin. I need someone I can talk to about all this. Before I can think it through I pick up my phone and dial his number. He answers instantly.

  ‘Hi, is everything OK?’ he asks. ‘Do you need a ride somewhere?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  Half an hour later he picks me up. I leave the apartment without a word to Sebastian who is locked inside his recording room. Konstandin is outside the apartment, waiting by his car. He opens the door to let me in then hops in the driver’s side. ‘Where are we going?’ he asks as he starts the engine.

  ‘I need a drink,’ I say, staring straight ahead.

  Konstandin pauses to look at me but says nothing and starts driving. He drives for ten minutes before he pulls down a narrow, cobbled street with colourful buildings on either side, and he parks. We get out the car and I follow him to a tall wooden door. There’s no sign or anything that it’s a bar, and in fact it looks more like these are houses. There are washing lines spread overhead, white sheets flapping. When Konstandin pulls out a key and unlocks the door I look at him askance. ‘Where are we?’ I ask.

  ‘My place,’ he answers.

  He leads me into a cool, tiled foyer. There’s a communal stairwell and two doors leading off it. He gestures at one of the doors and walks towards it, unlocking it. For a brief moment I have to swallow down nerves. Am I walking into a stupid situation? What if Konstandin should be on my list of suspects?

  I look at him as he steps aside to let me into the apartment. I’ve seen him punch a man. I’ve seen him threaten others. I know what he’s capable of. It’s not a stretch too far to wonder if he could have killed Kate. But my gut keeps telling me it’s not him.

  I walk into the apartment.

  Konstandin shuts the door behind us. I hear him lock it. I’m inside his apartment and no one knows where I am. I shouldn’t be here.

  I turn around. Konstandin is standing blocking the door, watching me watching him. His expression, with its dark hooded eyes, gives nothing away.

  ‘What would you like?’ Konstandin asks. ‘I have whisky, brandy, beer.’

  ‘Whisky,’ I answer.

  ‘Ice?’

  I nod. ‘Yes please.’

  I follow him into a small kitchen. The apartment seems to be just the living room we entered, this kitchen and then two other doors off the living room, which I’m guessing are a bedroom and a bathroom. It looks like he lives alone. Orla, a voice in my head says, what are you doing?

  I watch him take the ice tray from the freezer. He cracks several cubes into a glass and pours the whisky over the top, then hands it to me before making himself the same. He holds up his glass up to mine.

  ‘Gëzuar,’ he says.

  ‘Sláinte,’ I reply.

  We watch each other over the rims of our glasses as we drink.

  Konstandin gestures back out to the living room and moves a pile of laundry from the sofa so I can sit. He pulls up a hard-backed chair and sits opposite me. I drop my gaze to the whisky in my hand and then knock it back in one big swallow, closing my eyes as it burns a trail down my throat. It does nothing to extinguish whatever storm is brewing inside me. The rage and sadness are still doing battle to see which will emerge triumphant.

  ‘Kate was murdered,’ I say, choking out the words. ‘The police say there was evidence of a struggle.’ I look up at Konstandin. He’s leaning with his elbows resting on his knees, glass held loosely his hands. ‘She was having an affair with my husband,’ I tell him. ‘The police don’t know. I just found out about it.’

  Konstandin’s expression doesn’t alter. He doesn’t move or say anything for about five seconds but then he stands up and goes into the kitchen. He returns with the whisky bottle – a fine Scotch I note – and fills my glass again, almost to the brim. I take another large swallow. This time the liquid fire does seem to rub the sharp edges off the pain.

  ‘How did you find out?’ he asks.

  ‘There were messages on her phone. I’ve had to hand it over to the police, but I wiped it clean first. Deleted everything.’ I chew my lip, wondering if it was the right thing to do. Too late now, though.

  Konstandin doesn’t say anything and I find myself wishing he would, watching him for his reaction. I want to know whether he thinks I did something stupid. I want his opinion. In truth I want his help – that’s really why I called him.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I say and now the tears come, sliding down my face in an endless stream. ‘The police think I did it. If they find out about the affair they’ll think it was a motive.’ I wipe at the tears rolling down my face and dripping off my chin.

  ‘It is.’

  I look up in alarm at Konstandin. What’s he saying? ‘You can’t think I did it!’ I shout, lurching to my feet. ‘I didn’t! You saw me the day after she disappeared. You know I didn’t do it … I couldn’t …’

  Konstandin is on his feet too. ‘That’s not what I meant,’ he reassures me. ‘I meant that perhaps there were other people who were hurt by the affair, who might also have been angry, who also had it as a motive.’

  Relief washes over me. He’s confirmed my own suspicions. ‘Yes! Toby, Kate’s ex-husband! He admitted to me that he knew about the affair. And he was furious about the divorce and Kate trying to take his money.’ I start to pace up and down the small living room. Could it really be Toby? Is he capable of this? Did he follow us to Lisbon or have someone follow us? He’s the kind of person who’d hire someone to do his dirty work.

  ‘I was actually thinking of your husband,’ Konstandin says, interrupting my chain of thought.

  ‘What?’ I turn and stare at Konstandin in shock.

  ‘What was he doing in Lisbon?’ He shrugs.

  ‘I asked him to come here,’ I exclaim. ‘It wasn’t Rob. He was home on Friday night. He was taking care of Marlow.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I shake my head at him, bewildered. ‘Yes … yes! She’s a baby. She can’t exactly take care of herself.’ I called him on the Saturday once I woke up and found Kate was missing. He was home then. He was about to take Ma
rlow to the park.

  ‘How did your husband feel about his mistress going on holiday with his wife?’ Konstandin asks.

  I reach for my whisky glass and take another swig. It helps burn off the last of my tears. ‘He was worried. I listened to the messages he left on Kate’s phone. He thought she was going to tell me about the affair. He begged her not to.’

  Konstandin says nothing. He doesn’t have to. He’s right. That’s a motive right there. ‘Shit,’ I say, clamping my hands around my head. ‘I deleted the messages. I erased everything on her phone. I didn’t want the police to find out.’ I pull my own phone out of my back pocket. ‘But I took screenshots of the texts they sent and emailed them to myself. There were hundreds of them.’

  I open up my email and click on the first of them. The earlier ones are all full of aubergine emojis and times and meeting places. As I keep scrolling I notice the increase in heart emojis and more mundane things about work and life. Kate tells him often that she misses him. Every message that I read twists the knife another savage turn. I shove the phone at Konstandin. ‘I can’t do this.’

  He takes the phone and starts reading as I pace behind him, eyes scrunched shut.

  ‘Tell me the gist,’ I say.

  ‘It looks like he broke up with her.’

  ‘Why? Was it because I was pregnant?’

  ‘Yes,’ Konstandin says. ‘He says he’s sorry but he can’t walk away now, not with a baby on the way.’

  I finish the rest of my whisky and reach for the bottle.

  ‘She’s not happy,’ Konstandin continues. ‘She tries to convince him to stay with her, tells him they can make it work. That she loves him.’

  ‘Does he ever say it back?’ I ask, through gritted teeth, watching Konstandin’s face as he reads through the texts.

  He glances up at me and nods. ‘But he says he loves you too.’

  ‘Well, that’s OK then, isn’t it?’ I remark, pouring myself another hefty measure of whisky. ‘Shame we aren’t Mormons. We could have been sister wives.’

  ‘You might want to slow down,’ Konstandin remarks as I bring the glass to my lips.