28

My face feels like a stretched canvas as I read the email. Outside, there’s the sound of muted beeping as the garage doors open, Fred’s silver BMW glinting like a slippery fish. I can barely take in the words, am struggling to process them.

Nothing has been going to our investment funds for almost a year. And the children’s accounts are empty.

He met Ellis in December.

At the window, I watch him reversing out of the driveway. The trees are shaking in the wind, a storm brewing. In the sky, two birds are trying to make progress, being pushed backward.

Suddenly wanting to confront him, I hurry from the room, down the hallway and out the front door. I’m shouting, but the wind carries my voice away, his car disappearing around the corner. Stopping, I scrape my hand against the pebble dash wall of the porch, crying out in pain.

Why is he doing this? We had our problems, but nothing could have prepared me for this level of deceit. I don’t even know who he is anymore.

Back in the kitchen, I lick my bleeding knuckle, tasting iron. Then I log into our bank account again, looking at the payments to AP North, noticing something I didn’t notice before.

They’re not automated standing orders, like they should be. They’re ordinary ad hoc payments. Fred’s been taking money out of the account on the same day each month, making them look like the auto payments to our investment funds. He’s even called them AP North to fool me.

Two thousand pounds a month from December to September… That’s twenty thousand pounds.

I feel faint, my mouth drying. Going to the fridge, I pour a glass of orange juice, drinking it slowly, wondering what to do. The only thing I can think of is to tell Michael Quinn and Maria Kane.

Neither of them answer. I leave messages, asking them to call me back. Hanging up, I feel out of my depth, outmaneuvered. Even Shaun knew what to do. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t even have checked my bank details.

I know exactly who to take my inadequacies out on. Monique should know what Fred’s been doing with her grandchildren’s investment funds.

I’m trembling so much as I ring her landline, I know this is a very bad thing to be doing. On the second ring, I come to my senses, disconnecting the call. No matter the high ground, I can’t divulge this. I’d lose the one bargaining tool I have, the one chance I have of getting the house.

I have to be smarter than that. But I’ve never been a strategist—was rubbish at chess.

Sliding my phone along the breakfast bar, out of harm’s reach, I think of what Monique said about me being bitter—how Fred said I was going to end up here alone, dried up. The house couldn’t be quieter; even the fridge has stopped humming.

The panic builds in me so rapidly I grip the counter to stay upright, a hot flash flooding me, a wave of dread dilating outward.

I wait for it to pass, because it always does.

And then it’s just me again.

The sun shifts, resting on something vaguely white, catching my attention. My running shoes, left by the patio windows to dry in the sun. I gaze at them, a flicker of hope igniting.

I get changed quickly, pulling on Lycra, and then I’m off down the driveway. Without music, I listen to my breathing, my footsteps on the tarmac, the birds calling, leaves rustling underfoot. The storm will hit late afternoon. The buildup has already begun, the wind whipping at my clothes, urging me to get on with whatever I need to do before it’s too late.

I turn onto the footpath that leads up to Len and Monique’s in the other direction. It used to feel like a vein linking our families, but now I see that it was an umbilical cord just for him.

I haven’t taken this route for a while, because of that runner; yet I shouldn’t have given it up so easily. Some days, I’ve dreaded work because of Shaun; I should have done something about that sooner. And now I’m about to lose my home because of Fred’s infidelity.

I’ve been letting everyone else dictate, following a satnav for my own life.

My breathing regulates as I meet the beach, making for the shoreline. I focus on the crop of rocks at the end of the headland, and don’t look out for the runner at the usual spot where I might have seen him. Nor do I think of her as I pass Rumors. It’s my retreat—my refuge with Jam. She’s not going to take that too.

I’m turning around, heading back along the beach when my phone rings. It’s Maria Kane. I stop, putting her on speaker, catching my breath.

“Gabby?” It sounds as though she’s driving; it’s very in and out. “You rang?”

It’s loud at this end too, waves crashing on rocks. “Hang on a sec.” I run a few yards up the beach. “Yes, it’s about Fred. You know you said about him having something to hide?”

“Yes…” The line crackles, breaks, and I think I’ve lost her. But then she says, “Go on.”

I look at the foamy sea, the bits of debris, yellow foam bobbing in a rock pool. “How does stealing from the kids’ investments to pay for sex sound?”

She snorts scornfully. “Like a reason for the court to take your bid for the house extremely seriously.”

“Even though they’re over eighteen?”

“Yes, if they’re still reliant on you for financial support, then that will be taken into consideration. Just get everything to me and I’ll take it from there. And Gabby? Well done.”

It doesn’t feel like something I’ve done well.

I set off along the beach again, feeling so much heavier than five minutes ago. This time, as I pass Rumors, I think of her. I’ve no idea who she is, what she wants, but I’m sure it’s not love that she’s after.

Once again, it feels as though she’s watching me. Glancing over my shoulder, I almost stumble over a rock, yet there’s no one there.

Continuing along my way, an elderly man in a sporty jacket approaches along the shoreline, holding the hand of a young blonde in a bronze coat that’s catching the sunlight so glaringly I have to look away. That’s not the only reason though. I can’t bear the sight of this anymore—the gray versus the peroxide, the crinkly skin versus the golden tan.

I’m turning off the beach early, running up the alley, when my phone beeps. I’m so certain it’s Maria again that I stop to deal with it properly.

Ticktock. Not long now.

Swiveling around, I look back down the alley to the crashing waves, my stomach shifting with them. I have to do something, say something.

Leave me alone or I’m calling the police. I mean it.

Then I block the number. Setting off again, I’m faster now, fueled by fear. I don’t stop until I’m home, panting for breath, slamming the door behind me.