I’m taking a walk along the seafront in my lunch hour, about to get a coffee from one of the kiosks, when my phone rings, my stomach churning.
I don’t recognize the number, don’t grasp who it is until he speaks. “Good afternoon, is that Gabby O’Neal? This is Michael Quinn from A Plus Investigations. Are you okay to talk?”
It’s a windy day, my hair running wild. “Yes, go ahead.” Holding my hair away from my face, I look out to sea, fixing my gaze at a point on the horizon, like dancers do to stop themselves spinning.
“Fantastic. I’d like to run through a few details, if I may?” He sounds Irish. I imagine dark hair, blue eyes.
Behind me, a child shrieks, demanding ice cream. I move away from the kiosk, descending the steps to the beach. It’s typically quiet for a school day in September; a few moms with toddlers, a couple of silver-haired swimmers. I stand by the wall, sheltering from the wind, the seaweed at my feet wafting a salty smell.
Michael Quinn checks my address, my understanding of their fees, their privacy policy, my preferred mode of contact. And then says, “So you want me to confirm whether your husband’s having an affair?”
The words catch my breath. I shift my feet, startling the clouds of flies on the seaweed. “No. I already know he is.”
“Good. Because I should tell you that divorce laws have changed and apportioning blame isn’t relevant in court anymore.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Okay…so…”
I know what he’s asking, even though he isn’t asking anything. He wants me to tell him what I’m hoping to achieve. And if I’m going to get anywhere, then I will have to try to put it in words.
I fix my eye out to sea again, leaning against the wall for support. “He’s cheating on me with a younger woman—maybe sleeping with her in return for gifts or cash. I don’t know for sure. But I need all the facts before starting divorce proceedings, in case it impacts the division of assets. There’s a lot at stake.” I hold myself tense as I wait for him to answer.
I don’t know what he thinks of me, but when he speaks, his voice is full of warmth. “I understand.”
Does he? Because I’m not sure that I do.
“She’s called Ellis.” As I say her name, I realize that her betrayal of me feels worse than Fred’s.
I’ve never heard anything so messed up in all my life.
“Well, first things first, I think we should meet. I find it best to talk in person, to make sure we’re on the same page. There’s a pub in the Westgate area that’s discreet.”
I nod, kicking a bit of seaweed, startling more flies. Westgate is on the outskirts of town, near our old house.
“Hello?” he prompts.
“Yes. That’s fine.”
“Can you make tonight, six o’clock? The King’s Arms?”
I smile sadly. Of all the places. Fred and I went there on our first date.
“I’ll be there,” I say.
* * *
I’m going back to work, abandoning the idea of a coffee in the sunshine, when I become aware that someone’s approaching along the promenade, waving enthusiastically at me, and that it’s Monique.
She’s wearing one of her home-knitted sweaters, a floral scarf around her hair, and the sight of her unsettles me so much I debate whether there’s time for me to dart into one of the restaurants.
“Yoo-hoo!” she calls so loudly that I’m given no choice but to hear her. “Gabby!”
We meet, the wind tearing at our clothes, Monique’s eyes watering. “How lovely to see you!” she says, reaching into her sweater for a tissue, dabbing her eyes. “How are you?”
I can’t say great. We both know that’s not true. Instead, I glance at my phone, gesturing ahead of me—trying to make it clear that I’m due back at the office. “I was just—”
“Come,” she says, pulling me toward a bench set underneath a shelter. “Just for five minutes.”
I hesitate, glance at my phone again. “Okay.”
“I’m just about to meet my friend at the scallop restaurant,” she says cheerfully. “But I’m a bit early.” She slips her hand through my arm. “So, how did it go?”
How did what go? “I’m not sure…”
She laughs shrilly, a strand of hair escaping from her scarf, flapping across her face. She lifts it away, frowning at me. “You know: the talk.”
“What talk?”
She recoils, disentangling herself from me, a space opening between us. “The one with Fred?” she says, smile disappearing.
“Monique, I don’t know—”
“You mean to say that you haven’t spoken to him yet? I thought he emailed you, put it in writing? That’s what we advised him to do.”
My spirits sink. He’s getting advice from them; of course he is. I’d do the same thing for Will and Alice. Only, if they’re advising him, then they can’t advise me. From here on, our interests will be conflicting.
“Well, I only just got the email last night. I haven’t had a chance to speak to him yet.”
“Really? I’d have thought—”
“He didn’t come home, Monique,” I say, speaking over her.
Her face stiffens, taking on an expression I’ve never seen before, except that I have. It reminds me of something, someone.
I shift position, feeling uncomfortable, gazing at the sand on the tips of my boots. “We shouldn’t be talking about this,” I say, trying not to sound emotional. “It’s more complicated than you think.”
“No, it isn’t,” she says, smiling, but her eyes are panicky.
And I know then what she’s frightened of: that her son is going to lose out somewhere along the line, cheated by his conniving money-grabbing wife.
That’s me—how she sees me now.
She dabs her eyes again. “Have you had a change of heart, Gabby? Is that it?”
“No. I’m just taking my time, trying to work out what’s best. Besides, I thought you cared about me too—like a daughter.”
“Of course,” she replies, adjusting her headscarf, tucking her stray hairs beneath it. “But I’m worried about Fred. He’s put himself in a vulnerable spot because of…well…how he feels.”
I turn to face her. “About whom?”
I know as soon as she stalls, breaks eye contact, that it’s not about his feelings for me, even though I’ve known this for some time.
But that little moment of breakage hits me hard, as though she were cutting an invisible cord between us. I feel weightless, restrained only by the shelter’s roof from drifting away—a helium balloon no one wanted.
“Gabby…” She softens her voice. “…This woman he’s involved with… I think he has real feelings for her.”
“Real feelings?” I echo, slightly incredulous. “And does she have a name?”
“Yes…”
I hear it before she says it. It’s the only name it could have been. The name that’s been on my mind from the moment I first heard it.
“…It’s Ellis.”
A shriveling feeling comes over me, a tightening of my scalp and skin. How can it be her? The night I met her she didn’t even know who Fred was, did she? This can’t be right.
“How long ago did they meet?” I ask, my voice clipped. I hope she doesn’t notice.
Yet, she does—is looking at me funnily, askance. “Why do you ask?”
There will be no innocent conversation from now on, no casual chat. It’s like we’re playing with loaded guns.
“Just that you said before she’d been around for some time. So, is this the same person, this Alicia? The same person that he met some time ago?”
I deliberately get the name wrong, as though I’m not logging every detail, and also to see whether she corrects me—how invested she is in Ellis, whether she’s met her, is protective of her, the way she once was with me. About ten days ago.
She doesn’t correct me.
Clever Fred.
“This isn’t about her, Gabby. It’s about Fred. I just want him to be happy. That’s all I want for him…and for you,” she adds quickly. “I can’t tell you what to do, but trying to keep things as amicable as possible for the sake of the children is probably for the best.”
I’m the last person in the world who needs to be told that. But out of respect, kindness, I nod as though this is a revelation.
She relaxes her stance, releasing her breath, all done.
I want to tell her how skewed her viewpoint is—to set her straight. I want to tell her that Fred’s running all over town with a girl young enough to be his daughter. Yet, I take in the purple tint to her nostrils, the lipstick bleeding around her lips, the paper thinness of her hands, and I can’t do it. I can’t do it to her. I’ve no idea how Fred could either.
I shift my feet, pick up my bag. “I need to get back to work.”
“Gabby, I—”
“I’m so sorry, Monique, but I really feel that I have to focus on my needs. And if you don’t think you can get on board with that, then, well…” I don’t finish the sentence. Just in case.
But I’ve lost her anyway.
She frowns in frustration and it finally dawns on me where I’ve seen it before. The same firmness, the same microaggression around the mouth that Fred had when we were arguing about the house.
“He’s not going to let you walk away with everything, you know. You won’t keep your precious home. I can guarantee that.”
I’m so shocked at her tone—that it’s come to this so soon—that I don’t know what to say, all my potential replies forming into an ugly fireball. But her thin hair and papery skin have driven any anger from me. So I don’t light any matches.
“I’m sorry it came to this,” I say, standing up. “I really am. I thought we’d last a little longer.”
“You know, the problem with you, Gabby, is…” She hesitates.
I get the feeling she’s not playing with matches so much as a flamethrower. I brace myself, gripping my bag.
“…You never learned to love anyone. They never stayed around long enough.” Her voice is strained, as though from years of trying to hold back this irrepressible truth. “And I’m sorry about that. But I won’t let you take my son to the cleaners, just because you’re all bitter inside.”
Standing up, she gazes at me, no trace of regret, her chin raised determinedly. She has chosen her side, like I knew she would. Our relationship was superficial, after all. I’d have walked on hot coals for her, and all along she was waiting for the day to make me eat them.
“There’s a very dark place inside you, Gabby,” she says, raising her voice so I don’t miss a breath. “And it scares me. It really does.” And then she turns away.
It scares me too. Yet, nothing inside me is as scary as Ellis. That’s what I should tell her. I should warn her to keep a close eye on her son. But I don’t, and won’t. He has enough people protecting him. And besides, it’s not him who I’m worried about getting hurt.
I take a deep breath, making my way back to work.
The night Ellis and I met at Rumors, she knew exactly who I was, what our house was worth, that our marriage was in shreds. She was checking out the opposition. I wouldn’t have posed much of a threat, slumped in a deckchair—couldn’t have been frailer the day Alice left. What a time to strike.
I step out of the way of a speeding cyclist, my pulse quickening as I process what this means.
It wasn’t a coincidence, bumping into me. She targeted me—was already sleeping with Fred.
Somehow, she knows everything about me, every detail of my life. The messages, the sense of being followed are part of a plan to scare me, or worse.
She’s after the house and if I’m dead…? She’ll get it.
I stop walking, pulling my phone from my pocket.
Jam, what’s the name of that lawyer?
I wait for her to reply, gazing at a ring pull or shiny stone on the promenade, glinting in the sunshine. And I remember something then from that night.
This morning, outside the hotel, she was wearing a sparkly pendant, an E above her cleavage. But the night I met her, it wasn’t an E. I’m sure of it. It was a B.
Who is she?
My phone vibrates as a message appears.
Maria Kane. 64 High Street. They call her the Rottweiler.