It’s later than six by the time I get to Jam’s. I went home first for a shower, a thick sweater, and then to the corner shop for flowers and three bottles of wine. If it’s bad news then I want to be warm, numb. I lift the knocker, rapping it twice, stepping back to admire the red Virginia creeper around the door.
When I first met Jam, I assumed she’d live in one of the glassy sea-facing buildings that she sold for a living. But she and Nate live in an old cottage. Last year, she started growing prize roses in their courtyard garden. She never stops surprising me.
Nate answers the door because, judging by the smell of cinnamon wafting from the kitchen, Jam’s busy baking. “You’re late,” he says, kissing me, his stubble scratching my cheek.
“Sorry, but I come bearing gifts.” I hold up the shopping bag, bottles clinking.
“That’s my girl.” He takes the bag and flowers from me, sets them down, waiting for me to unbutton my coat while he stands there, butler-like, arm extended, ready to hang it up.
He may be inert, but it strikes me then that his reluctance to leave the house means he’s not trying to get away from his wife. There’s a compliment in there, one that’s starting to sound pretty good to me.
In the kitchen, Jam already has a bottle of wine on the go, a smudge of flour on her chin. I brush it off, kissing her hello, her sweet perfume reminding me of Alice. Before pulling away, she touches my wrist. “You okay? Any more messages?”
“No.” Instinctively, I feel for my phone in my pocket. Every time it rings I jump out of my skin. “Something smells good,” I deflect. “What are you making?”
“An appley thing. And Nate’s ordered pizza. That all right?”
“Sounds great.”
She looks at me cautiously, pouring me a wine, sliding it across the counter. “Do you still think she’s following you?”
“Not sure.” I don’t want to talk about Ellis. I want to know what it is that Jam needs to tell me.
Sensing this, she drums her nails, checks the oven, setting the timer. “We’ve just got time to talk before we eat.”
Nate arrives with the flowers, snipping the stems, arranging the bouquet. Not like a florist, but still…
“From Gabby,” he says, setting the vase on the kitchen table. No look-what-I-did expression on his face. No fishing for praise or thanks. Not like Fred. The slightest thing he did for me and I practically had to fall to the ground and kiss his feet.
“They’re gorgeous, Gabs. You shouldn’t have.”
I watch as Nate pours himself a glass of wine, then slips from the room. And he’s almost free and clear, when Jam says, “Wait, Nate?” He halts in the doorway, freezing. “Are you joining us?” It doesn’t sound like a question, even though it is.
“O…kay…”
I sense from this that it’s something bad indeed and that he’d rather be anywhere but here.
“Let’s go through to the lounge,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her.
The room is dimly lit, the cushions freshly plumped and set apart, as though prepared for an awkward conversation. “Sit by me, Gabs,” Jam says, patting the sofa.
I obey robotically. Nate perches on the edge of an armchair, pushing the footrest away. No relaxation tonight.
“What’s this about?” I clear my throat, hoping that whatever they’re going to tell me I can handle it.
Jam looks at her husband appealingly. “Nate?”
“Come on.” I set my wine down in case I spill. “You’re scaring me.” I press my damp palms together.
Nate puts his wine down also, mirroring my pressing of palms. I read once that it’s calming. Maybe he read that too. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, Gabby…”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Jam says. “Just say it.”
“Okay.” He looks at the carpet. “I went to golf yesterday.”
“Which is shocking in itself,” Jam interrupts, nudging me. “He left the house! But it’s not that, Gabby.” She turns back to Nate. “Carry on, babes.”
He smiles uneasily. “So, I was at the club, enjoying a pint, and I overheard something Tobias Small was saying. The guy’s not exactly discreet.”
He waits for me to react. I don’t know who that is.
“He’s a massive gossip.”
I nod. “Okay. So…”
He picks up his wine, takes a gulp, keeping it in his hands as though he might need it again. “He was talking loudly and I didn’t want to pry, but when he mentioned Fred, I listened up.”
Jam shifts along the sofa, closer to me, her shoulder brushing mine.
“And, Gabby, the thing is…” he says. “Apparently Fred’s been cheating on you for some time and—”
“Oh,” I say, my face flushing.
I already knew this, didn’t I? Monique said as much. But the shock is still real, sitting here in my friends’ living room.
“Gabby…” Jam says softly.
“Rumor has it,” he says, “that he’s been running all over town with some young woman, lavishing gifts on her.”
I stare at him, my jaw aching where I’ve been clamping it so tightly. “What?”
He can’t look at me. Instead, he looks to his wife. She must know what to say. I look at her too.
Young woman… How young? Is it Paige?
I press my hands to my cheeks, feeling the heat of my humiliation.
“I’m so sorry, hun,” Jam says, rubbing my back.
“Who else knows?” I ask my shoeless feet. They seem such a long way away, not even connected to me.
Nate puffs out his cheeks. “Not sure. But apparently, they’ve been spotted out and about—flaunting it.”
I look at him in shock again. “Why would they do that? Aren’t affairs supposed to be secret?”
“I don’t think that’s how those gold diggers see it.” He shrugs his shoulders. “They want everyone to see them. It’s about status, showing off. The guys at the club are always joking about it—how much money and jewelry it takes to get them into bed.”
“Bunch of pigs,” Jam says.
“That’s why I don’t have anything to do with them,” he replies.
A silence falls. I listen to a clock ticking from somewhere out in the hallway, reminding me that this is happening, in real time, not a nightmare that will end when I wake.
Nate sits forward in his seat. “We’re not all like that, you know, Gabby.” His voice catches a little, like a wisp of clothing, a trace of cotton catching on a bramble.
“I know.” Squeezing the bridge of my nose, I flap my hand to stave off tears.
“You don’t have to be brave with us,” Jam says. “Bawl away if you want to.”
“I don’t want to. I just want to understand what you’re saying.” I look at Nate. “What sort of gifts?”
“Not sure.”
“So, it’s what…prostitution or something?”
“Or rinsing, more like,” Jam says. “That’s what they call it when girls send sexy selfies in exchange for gifts and cash.”
I sit up straight, holding up my hand to stop the conversation. “Actually, you know what? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I pick up my drink. “What time’s the pizza coming?”
They exchange glances. “Well, you’re taking it better than I thought,” Nate says. “I thought we’d have to hide the best china.”
I smile, but it’s an effort. “So, have you seen her, Nate?”
His smile disappears. “Who, Fred’s mistress?”
Fred’s mistress. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I take in the Nigella cookbooks, the framed photos, the painting above the fireplace. The things that make up a home. “Yes.”
“No. Why?” he asks.
“Just wondered what she looks like—who she is.”
There’s a knock at the door, which Nate jumps up to see to, in relief. Beside me, Jam has grown very quiet, so still I can almost hear her thoughts.
As the front door closes, she turns to look at me, her voice a whisper. “That woman…the messages… It can’t be a coincidence.”
“It’s not what you think,” I whisper back. “It’s not her. She wasn’t after Fred.”
“How can you say for sure?”
I can’t. I just remember how dismissive she was of him—the curl of her lip when she said bullshit name.
Nate’s head appears around the door. “Food’s ready, ladies. Bring your wine.”
As we stand, Jam tugs my arm, gripping it. “What the hell’s going on, Gabby?”
* * *
I walk home alone, even though Nate offered to go with me. It’s only ten minutes and I know these streets so well. I tell him I’ll run, but I don’t. I’m too shaky, numb. I wanted to be numb, but not this much. I don’t even bother to look around me. Let her come and show her face. Let her tell me what she wants from me so I can put this thing to rest—end it now.
Brave words, but I don’t truly want her to appear, least of all now. I’m still processing what Nate said, trying to work out why Fred would do this to me. Flaunting it? That’s not who I thought he was.
The rain has stopped; the pavements are shimmering under the streetlights. Occasionally, a car appears, but otherwise it’s quiet. As I pass the houses lining the streets, I gaze in at yellow windows, silhouettes of people, the blue light of screens. Normal life. People going about their business, not worrying whether their husband’s exchanging gifts for sex.
I stop outside a dark shop, its metal shutters shut, graffitied. I deleted Ellis’s number, but it’s still in my call history.
I call it, shifting my feet anxiously.
The person you are calling is unavailable.
Then I try the number from the last message again. Once more, it disconnects.
Continuing on my way, I lower my chin into my coat, feeling chilled. From the start, the neatness of everything has troubled me, the synchronicity: her appearance exactly as Alice left; those messages beginning as things deteriorated with Fred. Why is that?
As I draw closer to home, making for the side gate, I hear wheels on gravel and catch a glimpse of Fred’s car pulling out of the driveway. Seeing him so soon after Nate’s revelation makes my heart heavy. I can’t believe this is happening to me. What happened to the man I married? Where’s he going this late at night?
Entering our lonely house, it occurs to me that the only good thing about any of this is that I have the place to myself and can explore it unchallenged.
Upstairs in the spare room, Fred’s new base, I start opening drawers, searching the wardrobe. And then I sit down on the bed, looking around me, thinking.
His bedside table. It’s locked. Lifting it upside down, I kick the drawer until I hear it give. Then I kneel down, pulling open the unhinged drawer. It comes out askew, dangling, a tooth hanging by a thread.
Inside, there’s only one item. An initialized toiletries wallet I bought him years ago. I unzip it, feeling inside, removing the object. It’s a packet of condoms.
My periods stopped two years ago; last year I officially entered menopause. Even so, we never used condoms.
I think about whether to fix the drawer and set the room straight. Yes, but not yet. There’s something else I must do first. Downstairs, I double-bolt the front door, ensuring that Fred can’t return even with a key, and then I go through to the kitchen to get my laptop.