I spend Monday morning hopping between an admin job and my personal emails, shunting back and forth, gathering everything Maria Kane needs in order to prove that Fred’s been abusing my trust and our finances.
The office feels peaceful, Claire typing softly, Shaun nowhere to be seen. I don’t have the will to fight him today. But I did do something big first thing: I rinsed Alice’s cereal bowl, put it in the dishwasher, pressed Go.
I didn’t stand there listening to the water flowing, removing the last traces of my baby girl. I didn’t go to the window and think of her in her strawberry swimsuit, wearing armbands in the pool. Instead, I got ready for work and somehow found my way forward to my desk.
I send Maria everything that I’ve got, and then I email Michael, asking him to find out what precisely the money is being spent on. How hard can it be, if Shaun saw them in the jeweler’s?
Feeling satisfied, in a shaky way, I’m wondering what to start next when my phone vibrates with a message from Fred.
Are you free for lunch? Your choice where and when.
It takes me half an hour to respond. Everything about it feels contrived. I know he’s summoning me to tell me something he can’t say at home. Yet, if I can clear away Alice’s cereal bowl, then I can handle this.
Lloyd’s. 1pm.
He sends me a smiley face emoji; I don’t reply.
Lloyd’s is my territory, not his. I arrive ten minutes early so I can choose a seat near the open windows, facing the sea. It’s where I sat with Jam, when we first discussed what I was going to do about Fred. It feels imbued with personal choice, empowerment, both of which I could do with now. It’s October, a fresh start, a chill in the air that bites at my arms as I take a seat, dabbing my hands on the tablecloth.
It’s gloriously sunny, and as I wait for Fred, the waiter hovering, bringing water and menus, asking if I’m warm enough, I take in the sight of the autumnal sea: stormier with the strong gales due to Atlantic depressions moving over the country; more fishing boats as the summer species linger on and the winter species arrive, creating a bigger haul.
It’s easier for me to fill my head with work facts, rather than worrying about what fresh hell Fred’s bringing. Jam says I need to focus on him, not that creepy little GD—that by taking him out, she’ll fall too.
I hope she’s right.
“Gabby.” I look up as he arrives, hesitating about how to greet me, hands wavering before opting to do nothing except pull out his chair and sit down. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not. I was early.”
He looks around, rubbing his legs apprehensively. “So this is nice? Is this where you usually come with Jamillah?”
“Yes. The fish is very good, if you’re wondering.”
He picks up a menu. “I might just get a salad.”
“Me too.”
We both know this lunch isn’t about eating. “Wine?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Better not.” I’m not sure how this would pan out with alcohol in the mix.
We order water, Greek salads. And then it’s just us and the sea breeze lifting the tablecloths.
“It was good to see Alice,” he says. “Her boyfriend seems okay.”
“Yes. But you didn’t come here to talk about him.” I clasp my hands on the table. “What’s up?”
He picks up his water, drinking it. “I need to talk to you. It’s about…Ellis. About how I feel.”
I gaze at his lips, the trace of moisture there, my stomach squeezing guiltily at the thought of my emails being opened by Maria, containing information that will ruin his reputation and—
“I’m in love with her. And as soon as I can, as soon as I’m free, I intend to propose. I know it’s not conventional, but you don’t know her and if you did, if you got to know her like I do, I think you’d like her too. More than like her.”
I stare at him as though he’s just set fire to the tablecloth. “What?”
He shifts position, his eyes flitting away. “I’m sorry, Gabby. It’s just the way I feel.”
So he maneuvered me into instigating a divorce and now he’s rushing it through. And all because he wants to be free…to propose?
My hands clench up. Everything clenches. I can feel myself tightening, spiraling, a boxing glove on a spring. “You brought me here to tell me this?”
He swallows awkwardly. “It’s not that bad.”
“Not that bad?” My voice rises. “Are you serious?” I look about me blindly for something to throw at him, too angry to action the thought.
“Keep a lid on it, Gabby. We’re in public.”
“How dare you?” I grip my fork, holding it upright like a pitchfork, banging it down, rattling the cutlery. “You think you’re so clever, bringing me here, where you think I won’t scream and shout. Well, you can think again because I’m just as capable of screaming and shouting in here as I am at home!”
“Shush, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he says, hunching his shoulders, trying to seem inconspicuous.
“Oh, I’m embarrassing?” I say even louder. “Not as much as sleeping with a prostitute and parading her all over town!”
“She’s not a prostitute. And no one’s parading,” he says, sinking in his seat.
“Really? Because Shaun knows! Did you know that? Shaun knows and he’s using it to undermine me at work. Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?”
His face flushes, a frown flickering. “I’m sorry if this has caused you distress. It wasn’t our intention.”
Our intention. Does he hear it? Does he know he sounds like a politician defending a lewd act?
They’re not a couple. They’re not! She’s a gold digger! He’s a middle-aged father!
The waiter is bringing our salads, isn’t so sure, hovering, plates midair, body half-turned. I motion for him to approach. Nervously, he complies, setting the plates down as fast as he can.
Before Fred can react, I’m on my feet, snatching up his salad, tipping it over his head. “I’ll see you in court.”
“You stupid bitch!” he shouts, jumping up, tomato sliding from his hair. “I’ve got to go back to work!”
I grab my bag, pointing it at him. “You should have thought about that before you slept with her! She’s only doing it for the money. Why can’t you see that, you moron? Stop thinking with your dick and use your brain for once! She wants the house!”
He’s wiping his head and shoulders with a napkin, cucumber caught between his shirt and neck. “She loves me. Not that you’d know anything about that!”
“She doesn’t love you, Fred!” I shout, waving my arms.
“Yes she does!” he shouts back, a vein bulging in his forehead. I think for one second that he’s going to have a heart attack. My anger quells just like that and I take a step back, bumping into a table.
He’s not having a heart attack. He’s brushing feta from his sleeve.
The thought of death sobers me, calms me. I fold my coat over my arm, trying to retain some semblance of order. “You can forget about getting half the house if you marry her. I can tell you that for nothing. That’ll happen over my dead body, you hear me?”
I break off, becoming aware of the room around me. The waiter is frozen behind the bar. Over in the corner, an elderly couple are cowering behind their menus; a group of tourists in anoraks is staring at us.
I pick up my bag, smiling at them on my way out. “The cod here is very good.”
* * *
I don’t return to work right away, go to the beach instead, sitting on the wet sand with my bag and coat on my lap, staring at the horizon. I don’t have my sunglasses, the glare is fierce, but I stare anyway.
I can’t believe I acted like that—let him drive me to the point where I lost control. It won’t be him having the heart attack; it’ll be me. Taking a tissue from my bag, I wipe the back of my neck and hairline. And then I ring him. I was going to leave an abusive message, but he picks up.
“If you don’t give me the house,” I say, “I’m going to tell your parents who Ellis is and what she does for a living.”
He’s somewhere echoey, probably in the bathroom at Lloyd’s, picking cucumber from his hair. “That’s not the threat that you think it is.”
I watch a water-skier passing, bouncing up and down on the waves, boat engine humming. “Why not?”
There’s salad dressing on my trousers—oil, herbs, feta. I take a handful of sand, rub it against the material, brush it off. It works, sort of.
“Because, contrary to what you seem to think, she’s not some kind of sex worker.”
“But you’re—” I stop, going quiet.
“But I’m what?” he asks, voice swamped in suspicion.
You’re giving her money.
The skier tumbles, submerges, pops up above water again. My focus returns to what Fred just said. “I’m sorry, but what does she do for a living then?”
“I…”
His hesitation tightens my chest. If he doesn’t know the answer to this most basic of questions, then things are worse than I thought because he has no idea who she is either.
I have to stand, catch a breath, my coat tumbling onto seaweed, sand hoppers jumping all over it. “Well…?”
“It doesn’t matter what she does, Gabby. I love her. And when Mom and Dad meet her, they’ll love her too. So, get used to the idea because that’s going to happen. So the sooner you—”
I hang up on him, immediately pulling up his parents’ number. I want to tell them about the money here and now. Instead, I ring Michael Quinn, leaving him a message.
“I don’t know how far you’ve got, Michael, but I really need you to step it up, please. I’ll pay extra, but I need to know exactly who Ellis is. I’m certain that’s not her real name. Can you call me when you get the chance?”
I salvage my coat, going back to work with sand in my shoes and stuck to my oily trousers.
At my desk, I read my emails, telling myself that I have to try to stay one step ahead of Fred; and that’s when Shaun finally shows up. I check the absence calendar, but nothing’s been authorized. He was supposed to be here this morning. It’s one thing taking a two-hour lunch break, but showing up for work in the afternoon?
“Shaun, I think we need another talk,” I say, stopping in front of his desk. There’s a distinct whiff of alcohol. This time, I don’t smile. I don’t soften anything.
“Yes, ma’am!” he says, saluting me, turning to grin at the rest of the team who look awkward, averting their eyes. Going to the conference room, I hold the door open for him, waiting patiently as he clowns around, time-wasting.
We take our positions on opposite sides of the table, both standing. He’s not drunk, at least. He seems perfectly lucid. But still. I’m going to have to do this.
“You’ve left me no choice, Shaun, but to give you a written warning. Your behavior has been…erratic lately. And I think we need to pull things back into line.”
“Right you are, ma’am!” That wasn’t funny a minute ago and it isn’t funny now. Again, I don’t smile. I wonder at my feeling the need to do so, so many times with him. The cookies and groveling, as though I owed him something—a huge apology for usurping him.
I don’t have any apologies. Just a written letter for him, which will be ready by end of day.
He leaves the room, closing the door behind him, even though he knows I’m going to follow after him. He’ll continue to undermine me and I’ll continue to warn him, going through the procedural motions until eventually I’ll have to sack him. And then I’ll have one less problem to deal with, one less liability.
Back at my desk, I feel proud of myself, elated, then drained.
These things used to come naturally to me. I used to be feisty, assertive. I don’t know when it changed. But it did. And one day I woke up, scared of my daughter’s empty cereal bowl, scared of the empty space beside me where my husband used to be.