For the first time in Rumors, instead of saying, “I’ll have what she’s having,” I look at the cocktail menu, choosing a piña colada in the hope that it’s milder than the rest. I want to stay in control, alert. Glancing about me, I position myself so I can see the door in the mirror behind the bar—can watch who’s coming and going.
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Jam says, stealing my line, smiling at the barman, then turning to me. “I’m glad you decided to keep that on.” She tugs at the fabric of my black dress, letting it snap back into place on my hip. “You look fantastic.”
“Well, it is my anniversary,” I say, pulling a stool out at the bar, glad to rest my aching feet. “But I don’t feel fantastic. I’m feeling pretty ropy.” I glance at her, hoping she’ll press me for details because I’m longing to tell her about Ellis and the messages and the sense of being followed. Yet, at the same time, I’m scared to say anything.
Jam doesn’t pick up on it—is preoccupied with the yachties who are sitting at our special table. After a long hard stare, she decides to let them be, turning her back to them. It’s busy and hot in here tonight behind the plastic window sheets, one of those evenings when the rain smells musty on the pavements.
“So how did it go with the in-laws?” She rests her arm on the bar, charm bracelet gleaming.
“Awful.” I watch the barman moving the cocktail shaker like maracas in time to the music. “I give them one week before they hate me.”
She touches my arm. “And then the kids will come for you.”
“Yep.” It was a joke, but I swallow awkwardly, looking away.
“It’s going to be rough. You know that.” She leans in, her hair brushing mine. “But you’ve got me, and…well…”
I pull back from her to examine her face. “And what?”
She shrugs a shoulder. “I think you should tell the kids about the cheating sooner rather than later.”
“No, I can’t do that. It’ll derail Alice. She’s only just got there.”
“I understand what you’re saying, Gabs, but you can’t protect them forever. They need to know who he really is and what he’s put you through.” She runs her finger along the bar as though checking for dust. “Promise me you won’t wait too long.”
“Promise,” I say, as the drinks are set before us in frosty glasses, a wedge of pineapple on the rim.
Jam draws her glass toward her. “Whatever happens, don’t take all the blame. I hate how women are blamed for everything.”
“Tell me about it.” I rotate my cocktail slowly on the bar, watching the beads of moisture running down the outside of the glass.
“You should hear them at work. Whenever I’m doing a showing and doing all the spiel about family and what each room might be nice for, blah-blah, I always wait for it. And then…bam! There it is!” She slams her hand onto the bar. “The diatribe about the psycho bitch who’s controlling everyone, ruining their lives. The monster-in-law, sister-in-law, evil ex-wife.” She slurps her cocktail through the straw. “’Course, some of them are more subtle about it—little digs, snide comments, but it’s always there, in every family, every time. You’d think all the men were perfect. And shit, it drives me crazy.”
She breaks off, straightening her batwing top, plucking up the cocktail menu to fan herself, and then laughs. “Wow, was that me? Did I say all that?”
I laugh too, feeling a rush of gratitude, and I reach for her hand. “Thanks for being here for me, Jam. I’d be in a coma or something if it weren’t for you.”
She smiles. “Right back at ya, sister. You’d do the same for me.”
“Absolutely.” And we clink glasses, some of mine slopping onto my dress, right where the lily pollen was. “Look… I finally got rid of that stain!”
We’re both laughing when my phone lights up and I remember that I mustn’t let my guard down. My stomach is in knots as I read the message, but it’s only Will asking me about diary dates.
Relief fills me and I position myself again so I can watch the entrance, giving a start as the door swings open, only to relax again on seeing it’s not her.
This time, Jam notices that something’s wrong. “You okay?”
I pick up my drink. “Yep.”
“It’s just that you’re all jumpy, like you’re expecting someone. You got something going on that I don’t know about?” She nudges me.
“No, there’s nothing going on.”
“Then stop twitching. You’re freaking me out.”
“Sorry.”
I don’t look again, not until Jam’s in the bathroom and then I turn to face the room properly, pretending to play with my phone, looking up systematically to take in every face. No one’s outside; the rain is dripping down the plastic sheets, forming puddles on the decking.
She definitely isn’t here.
I’m about to order another round of drinks when there’s a voice close to me and I look up to see the man from the beach, the runner. The one I find attractive.
“Hey,” he says, flicking his finger between us, from his chest to my body, stopping short of touching me, “do we know each other?” His eyes crinkle as he smiles.
I smile back at him, even though he’s out of my league. He’s too handsome to be interested in me. We’re about the same age by my reckoning. Has he not seen those young GDs over there?
I hate myself for these thoughts, and in my best dress too.
“I think we know each other from the beach, from running,” I say, fixing my eye on the barman to get his attention. I’m not interested in this guy, not close up, not in real life. He’s a fantasy, an ex-Italian professional footballer, or chef. I don’t need to make him real. “Two piña coladas, please.”
Glancing at the bathroom, I wish Jam would hurry up. It’s so stuffy in here. I lift my hair away from the back of my neck, flapping it to cool myself down.
“What’s your name?” he says, resting his arm on the bar, leaning in to me in a way that I don’t love. There’s a whiff of something on his breath. Garlic. I wish I’d never spoken to him.
“Hey, hun,” Jam says, clamping her hands on my shoulders. “Everything all right?”
I flash her a look. In response, she uses her body artfully to slip between him and me. “Are the drinks on their way?”
“Yes.” I glance past her at him. He’s none too pleased, taps her on the shoulder.
“Excuse me. That was very rude. We were having a conversation.”
“I’m so-rry,” she replies, holding her hands to her chest as though astonished. “I didn’t even see you there. I’m myopic.”
“That means you can’t see long distance. I’m an ophthalmologist. Or an eye surgeon, to you.”
She stares at me for a moment, her eyes widening. And then spins on her stool to face him. “Oh, to me? You think I can’t handle big words?” She slides off her seat, standing at her full height. “What I can’t handle—” she waggles her finger at him “—is small little men.”
I never noticed his height. He’d seemed much taller when jogging.
“You ought to see someone about that anger problem,” he says, turning away.
“Or we could just take it outside now,” she yells after him.
I watch as he disappears into the crowd and all I can think is: Great, now I’m going to have to change my running route.
“What a slimeball,” she says, wiping her hands on her jeans.
“Definitely,” I reply, stirring my drink.
“What?” She narrows her eyes at me. “Too much?”
“No. I’m glad. Thanks.”
“Then, what?”
I blink slowly, clasping my hands together. “It just felt like I didn’t know what to say to him, how to handle it myself… It’s as though I’m shrinking.”
“Hey? What do you mean?”
“It’s since this whole thing started with Fred. I feel as though I’m disappearing.”
She curls her lip. “Then don’t! Stop it! You can handle it! You’re not going to shrivel up and die because of this. You’re going to come out stronger. Wait and see.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? That’s all you’ve got?” She picks up her glass. “Here’s to coming out stronger.”
We clink glasses again. “To coming out stronger.”
It feels hollow though, despite her best efforts, despite mine too. Because the truth is that I needed her to fight my battles for me tonight, just like I wanted Ellis to do. If that weren’t so, I wouldn’t have got involved with her in the first place. Yet, I wanted to enlist someone young and empowered to help extricate me from my mess, probably because Fred’s using youth as a weapon too, through his string of mistresses.
Ellis offered me a way out and I took it, or thought I had. Only somehow it was lost in translation. And now I have the nasty feeling that it’s my happiness that’s on the line, my life in jeopardy.
* * *
Four piña coladas later, I’m cursing myself for drinking more than I meant to, fiddling with my key in the lock, when there’s a snap of a twig behind me. I twist around dizzyingly fast, holding my hand against the wall for balance, peering in the direction of the noise. A bat is skimming across the lawn, rising above the trees. Otherwise, everything is still.
I know what I heard though. Going inside, I lock the door, crouching to draw the bolt at the bottom and then dragging a chair to bolt the top one too.
I’m kicking off my heels, rubbing my sore toes, when my phone pings. I can read the message without my glasses because it’s in capitals and only two words.
WELCOME HOME
The words merge, the longer I stare at them. She must be out there, watching my every move. Panic squeezes my chest. What do I do?
Go back out and try to find her—confront her? Yet, that feels like a bad idea. She could be unstable, dangerous. In fact, I’m sure she is. I remember that intense look in her eyes, the assassin-like grip.
I’m scared of her, of what she’s capable of.
The house is so quiet. Fred didn’t leave a light on upstairs for me. Maybe he’s not even here. That doesn’t help—the idea that I’m all alone and have no clue where my husband is, who he’s with.
Whatever I’m going to do, I’m not going to solve it tonight with a head full of cocktails. As I climb the stairs, I text Jam, hoping I’m not going to regret this in the morning.
I need to talk to you xox