I leave the house for my run at seven o’clock, the same time as I always do. Nothing has changed. At least, that’s what I want him to think. I jolt down the footpath that leads from the top of the cliff to the beach. If I turned and ran uphill, I’d meet Len and Monique’s road. It’s like a vein, connecting us to each other and ultimately to the sea. I’m so familiar with the overhanging buddleias, ankle-snapping nettles, and sandy borders that I could run it in my dreams, often do.
This morning, there’s a breeze billowing up through the lane like a wind tunnel. I always run with my hair in a ponytail so it doesn’t bother me, and I listen to music so I don’t have to hear my footsteps. I’ve run for all my adult life, since eighteen. Back then it was for a different reason. I ran in the primal sense, because I was scared. But now it’s a part of me, like cleaning my teeth.
As I reach the beach, I slow down as I hit the deep fluffy sand, making my way to the firm shoreline. I’m running toward the early sunshine, which helps because on the way back when its rays are stronger, it will be at my back.
Through my music, the sea crashes, hisses, a friend by my side and an enemy. I will always have this complex relationship with it, the same as I have with Fred. I’ll always love him as the father of my children, hate him as my husband.
Sometimes, I see interesting or sad things—shells, dead fish—but I try not to stop for anything or anyone. Not even the runner who’s coming toward me now. We normally meet at this spot, near Rumors, but because we’re both wearing headphones it’s never awkward, even though I find him very attractive.
He’s older than me, with dark features. He could be from anywhere, but I always think Italian. I know only two other things about him: he’s a routine person, like me, and doesn’t get red-faced from running anymore, like me.
In my fantasies (because I have them too, Fred, only they feature age-appropriate people) we stop and chat, and he asks where I live and I point up to the house just poking out behind the trees and he says maybe he could come back for coffee. I used to cut the dream there, out of loyalty.
“Morning,” he calls to me, as he runs past.
“Morning,” I reply, continuing along my way.
As I draw parallel with Rumors, I turn my head, imagining Ellis standing there in her golden dress, strap dangling down. And then I blink and she’s gone and there’s just a pigeon perching on the stacked deckchairs.
She’s no use to me now. The honey trap was only helpful if I wanted to protect my family’s good opinion of me, but everything changed the moment I blurted out about wanting a divorce.
It doesn’t matter who cheats, legally speaking; I’ve checked. There’s no wrong party, aside from in extreme circumstances, such as financial negligence, stabbings; things that are unlikely to happen to me in Shelby town. As it currently stands, if I file for divorce, he’ll get half the house. Which is why I’m going to wait, mull it over some more.
Continuing along the beach, I pass Lloyd’s restaurant, thinking of Jam; and then past the eco center, keeping my eyes fixed on the white rocks at the end of the headline, the sun bouncing off spectacularly onto the sea.
Our house came along at just the right moment, even though we weren’t looking to move and were happy living the simple life.
It didn’t feel like a blessing at first. It felt painful, complicated. I don’t think there’s a worse gift than one that comes because of death.
As I pass the lifeguard station, I feel momentarily uplifted. This part of the run always goes quickly. There are less people along this stretch of sand, save a few beachgoers in the dunes. My running becomes fluid, startling sandpipers and kittiwakes. Out to sea, cormorants dive-bomb the waves, and seals bob up and down. I settle into my thoughts, the rhythm of my steps.
I knew the property very well, as it happened. No. 23, Ocean View Road, cherry blossom trees lining the pavements. Burnt orange bricks and tiles, Narnia lampposts.
Fred wanted to install a swimming pool—make the place our own. Will was twelve, Alice ten. Before I knew it, the kids had taken over: a rope swing in the trees, flippers by the pool. It felt like no one else but us had ever set foot in the place.
At the end of the beach, I touch the slippery rock before turning, heading back, the sunshine warming my shoulders.
The house changed us, or Fred. I did all I could not to let that happen—took legal advice and had the house put in both our names. I didn’t want him to feel displaced, emasculated; I was already earning more than him as it was.
But he cheated within six months of our moving in. It’s possible that it would have happened with or without the house. For all I know, he might have been cheating while we were at the old place. That’s possible, but I liked to think I’d have known.
I knew he was having an affair—knew one day at dinner, while we were all chatting about our days and he kept his eyes fixed on his plate, didn’t join in. Yet, I didn’t acknowledge it, not even to myself.
It took several months for the situation to come to a head, and that was only because she called me.
I was about to serve dinner, when the landline rang and I answered it, thinking it would be Monique, and instead a young voice said, Hello, is that Gabby? She told me she was sleeping with Fred and thought I should know.
Still, even after that, he wouldn’t confess. It took many arguments for that to happen.
Running up the pathway to home, I enter the side gate into our garden, dropping the metal catch into place. I pull off my headphones, gazing at the garden, a butterfly resting on the birdbath. And then there’s a whirring sound behind me as the electric gates open and I realize that Fred’s in the garage. He’s going into work earlier than usual, breaking with routine again.
I can’t help but turn to look as he reverses the car, offering him a sad smile. Yet, to my astonishment, he doesn’t even glance my way.
Inside the house, on the hallway table, there’s an ominous-looking note, a paperweight trapping it.
We’ve both been unhappy for a long time.
This is my lawyer, as suggested by Mom and Dad: DJ
Crawley & Associates.
Please let me know if you’re happy to apply jointly.
I don’t know what to be most shocked about—that he’s being proactive, has already got a lawyer, or has told his parents what’s happening.
So that explains Monique’s invitation. She’s trying to mend our marriage. Or keep our divorce friendly.
My phone’s ringing… Alice.
I’m out of breath, not just from my run, but from the enormity of this moment: the dissolution of my marriage. I answer the call, still clutching the piece of paper.
“Mom?”
My heart melts, just hearing her voice. “Alice, how are you?”
“What’s wrong?” she says. “You sound—”
“Nothing.” I flap the paper to my face. “Just been for a run.”
“Oh. Sorry… I wanted to catch you before my nine o’clock.”
Her nine o’clock. So grown up.
“That’s okay. You can call me anytime. So, how is it? Everything all right?”
The line crackles as she exhales. “It’s amazing, Mom. I love it.”
I well up, flapping the paper harder. “That’s brilliant. I’m so pleased for you. Is there anything you need? I can—”
“I’m fine, Mom. I just wanted to ask if you’d like to speak on Sunday?”
“Yes.” I nod. “Sounds great.”
“Okay. I’ll text you a time.” And then she’s gone.
* * *
I’m back there, on the cliff edge, struggling to wake up because I don’t want to witness this again. My legs are weighted, entangled in gorse. It’s too dark to see how close to the edge I am, but the man is there once more. I’m screaming at him to stand back, but he can’t hear me and it’s going to happen anyway. He’s going to fall and there’s nothing I can do about it.
The whole cliff is starting to slide, the earth turning to liquid under my feet and everything is tilting, propelling forward. I can’t stop myself from being dragged toward him. And then, just as he’s about to fall, he turns and grabs my arm and I see that it’s Fred.
* * *
Sitting up with a gasp, my head rushes, stars appearing in my eyes. I try to get my bearings, before realizing it was that nightmare again and I’m safe in bed.
I reach for the bedside lamp, flicking it on, taking in the soothing details of my room. The light’s only been on for a few seconds when my phone pings the arrival of a message.
It’s two o’clock in the morning. Who would be contacting me at this time of night?
It’s from a withheld number. I read it, unable to see much without my glasses. Grabbing them from the nightstand, I read it again.
Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.
I stare at the screen, my heart racing. What secret? What does she mean?
This has to be from Ellis. Who else could it be? Without thinking, I press the button to connect the call, but it immediately disconnects. Has she blocked me?
Why would she do that?
Turning out the light, I try to sleep but it’s impossible, fear pinning me in place. In the dark, her words dance, taunting me.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to say or do, if I can’t contact her. There’s a part of this that is deeply disturbing. And I realize then what it is: the message arrived as soon as my bedroom light came on.
She’s watching me.