It’s a warm evening so I take my wine and pasta outside, sitting close to the open patio doors, phone on my lap, one eye on the side gate where I last saw her. I feel as though I’m living in a compound, beyond which the world is too unsafe to set foot in. I’m not sure that I’m even safe here, but I could run inside in a heartbeat, secure myself, phone for help.
The pool is covered, the palm trees very still. From several doors away, a toddler is crying, an adult voice raised in response. I fork pasta mechanically, thinking of the times my father brought me here—how this side of the house, the back, was off-limits and how intriguing that made it. Most of my time was spent hanging out on the steps of the portable cabin, playing cards. I used to wonder what the garden might look like someday, filled with family.
It didn’t feel like I thought it would. The day we moved in, I felt detached, as though I’d never set eyes on the place before. And then we started to grow into it, filling the space, and the house became about Will’s football kits, Alice’s science experiments, Fred’s cheating.
It suited me to disconnect from my early memories of Dad, to pretend there was a separate part of my life that started the day I walked away from him. I gathered the memories up, tossed them into a dark place, didn’t think about them anymore.
When he died, I didn’t even know the cause, had no one to ask. I wasn’t going to ask his wife, Sara—that’s if she was still his wife. I did work out his age though (seventy-two) and guessed cancer or heart attack.
I sip my wine. The child has stopped crying. From somewhere in the darkness, an owl hoots.
Returning indoors, I slip through to the front room, inhaling the stale air. The house feels shut up, empty already, as though it doesn’t count that it’s just me living here now. Over by the window, I count seven squares from the top, five along from the right, the seventh of May.
Me and you. A little piece of us here that no one can ever take away.
I kneel at the window, my hand on the parquet floor, imagining his large handprint next to my small one. And then I cry, for Batman and Robin, for my Mom.
When I’m done, I go back to the kitchen for more wine, knowing as I pour it that the answer doesn’t lie in the bottle, yet I’ll try to find it there anyway.
I’m closing the fridge, looking once more at that spindly drawing of Alice’s that should have gone by now, when I realize something shocking, yet obvious.
I need to let go of the house.
Sitting down on the stool, I watch the moths and daddy longlegs circling the lights, bouncing off the walls because I kept the patio doors open earlier.
The handprint in cement hurt me; it was an awful day. This beautiful house was given to me in compensation for all the pain of my childhood. Yet, getting it only brought more. And clinging to it will bring even more still.
This revelation sets my teeth on edge. I drink more wine. We have to sell the house. It’s the only thing that makes sense—the only way I can see us having any kind of relationship for the sake of the kids.
I don’t know if I’ll still feel like this in the morning. It could be the wine. I don’t know whether I can change course, unclench what I’ve been hanging on to for so long, whether I can cope with giving Fred what he wants—whether I can cope with giving her what she wants.
It feels so counterintuitive, to the point of self-destructiveness. And I’m wondering which instinct to listen to, when there’s a crunch of tires outside and Fred’s BMW appears, headlights blazing. He doesn’t stop to lock the car—is running toward me, shouting. I watch anxiously, not liking the look on his face.
“What the hell did you say to her?” he says, bursting through the doors, slamming them behind him with a thump that makes them bounce open again.
I stare at him in confusion. “I don’t know what—”
“Don’t bullshit me!” he shouts, drawing so close I can smell his day-old aftershave. “I know this is your doing!” He prods my shoulder.
That does it. I set my glass down, glaring at him. “Who do you think you are, coming in here, yelling at me? I’m not your punching bag, you know!”
“What did you do?” he repeats, eyes boggling in rage.
I’m trying to think what might have caused this and then I’ve got it.
“Has she disappeared on you?”
He leans on the breakfast bar, arms outstretched, head hanging. This is a moment of triumph for me, but it’s short-lived.
Because if she’s not out there where he—we—can see her, then that feels more dangerous.
“How do you know for sure?” I ask gently, hoping he’ll realize that I’m not going to lord it over him. To his face.
His voice sounds far away, muffled by his jacket. “She’s not answering her calls or messages—hasn’t for days. I’ve no other way of reaching her.” Then he looks at me and his face is haggard, drawn, his eyes red-rimmed. Has he been crying? “Do you think it was a scam, Gabby?”
I take my time replying, filling the kettle. She’s stolen twenty thousand pounds, yet has rejected a potential three million more. She could have accepted his proposal, hung in there for a year or so to get half the house if money was her sole objective, surely?
“Maybe she’s just busy.”
He laughs quietly. “Yeah, right.”
“Fred…” I waver with the milk in my hands, holding it midair, wondering whether to proceed. If I’m not going to fight him for the house, there’s no reason not to tell him. Yet, I haven’t decided about that—can’t decide something that big with a belly full of wine.
I sit down at the breakfast bar. “It’s about Ellis… There’s something you should know.”
He looks at me intently. If I clicked my fingers, he’d jump. He’s so obviously in love with her, my heart quiets, stills, as I absorb this. He loves someone else, no longer me. I don’t know when it was me and when it wasn’t, but it happened at some point and there’s no undoing it now. The sad thing is: it doesn’t hurt as much as it should.
“I met her before, only once, briefly, at Rumors.”
“Rumors?” he says. “What—?”
“She approached me, started a conversation.” I pour the milk into the mugs, my hand shaking. I don’t think he notices. “I thought she was a complete stranger, didn’t know me or you or anything about us. But I’ve since learned…well…that she already knew you.”
I can’t look at him. He’s staring at me. “When was this?”
I get up to put the milk away, needing an excuse to move. “A couple weeks ago, last month… September.”
He’s thinking about this. I shut the fridge door, standing with my back to it, watching him.
“But why would she do that?” he says. “It makes no sense. What did she talk to you about?”
I busy myself wiping the sink. “About you, mainly. Our marriage—whether I was happy.”
His mouth hardens. “And what did you say?”
“Well, what do you think?”
He tuts. “So you told her our personal business?”
I have to laugh at that, turning on my heel to face him. “Yes, while you were sleeping with her. Let’s not forget that, Fred, before you start preaching.”
“I wasn’t sleeping with her.” He stands up, pacing the floor. “I was helping her, which I’ve already tried to tell you before now, but you won’t listen.”
“Yes and I’m not listening now either. There’s no way you can expect me to believe you were just holding hands with that girl in the Neptune Hotel!” I break off, still clutching the dishcloth, emotional heat rising through me.
We’re arguing again. We’ll never be able to discuss this, or her, or his affairs, without arguing. And I know for sure then that I don’t want to give him what he wants—to split the house or do anything he says.
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” he asks.
Because we’re at war, and information is valuable.
I throw the cloth into the sink, suddenly exhausted. “I can’t keep doing this—can’t do my job or function properly, not with all this going on. It’s too much.”
And then I do something unpredictable: I drop my only weapon, because I’m tired of carrying it.
“I know about the investments, Fred… How could you?”
He turns to look at me, his mouth tense. “I’ll make it up to you, Gabby. I’ll get that money back into the account—every penny.”
“No, you won’t, because you don’t have it to give.”
“I will if we sell this place.” He glances around the room dispassionately.
I sit down at the table, cradling my mug. “Did you tell her what it’s worth?”
“I’m not sure. I might have mentioned it, yes.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “Then I’m sure she’ll be back!”
Ludicrously, this brightens him, his eyebrows lifting. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe she’s just gone off the grid for a few days.”
“Could be,” I say, not believing it. “But don’t you know anything about her? Where she lives? Where she works?”
“No. She didn’t want to discuss personal details because it was complicated… But we were getting round to all that.”
I know he doesn’t know anything, and how stupid that makes him. He hears it too.
First thing tomorrow, I’m chasing Michael Quinn again.
“I made the application,” he says, “for divorce,” he adds, as though that needed clarifying. “You’ll get a copy of the petition any day now.”
“Fine. And I’m using Maria Kane.”
I hope that name doesn’t mean anything to him. He can stick with his parents’ old-school legal recommendation and I’ll go with Kane. She had me at power.
“You should probably also know…” I begin slowly, watching him closely, gauging his reaction “…that Ellis was here the other night, prowling about.”
He works his jaw ponderously, surprised—as far as I can tell. “What do you mean, prowling? What was she doing?”
“How would I know? I was hoping you might be able to tell me.” I motion in the direction of the garden. “She just stood there, staring at the house.”
A look passes over his face then, a recognition of some kind.
“Does she want to move in?” I ask. “Is that what she was doing—picking her room?”
“Hardly!” He laughs. But there’s that look again.
I decide to risk another piece of information for my own protection. “I’m scared of her.”
“Ellis?” He smiles, going to the sink to rinse his mug. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If there’s anything I should know, Fred, then now’s the time…” I say, tracking his movements, noting how stilted, affected, they seem.
“Like what?” he says, blowing a fake whistle as he wipes the mug.
“I don’t know. Just anything. Like… Well, you haven’t discussed doing anything to me, have you? You haven’t been planning to…”
He’s staring at me as though I’ve grown wings. “If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then I can’t believe you’re even thinking that, Gabby!” he says, his tone righteous, indignant. “You’re the mother of my children! Things might be bad between us, but they’re not that bad, are they?”
I don’t answer.
His phone buzzes. He used to have a kooky ringtone—one that Alice picked—but now it’s a covert vibration. I didn’t even know he had changed it. Of all the things that have happened of late, this strikes me as one of the saddest.
He reads the message. “It’s Mom, wondering whether I want supper.”
“Must be nice, a home-cooked meal.”
I meant it genuinely, sort of, but his mouth curdles. “Don’t start, Gabby.” He tucks in his shirt, sets his hand on his hips, changing the subject. “Do you remember that trouser press?”
“Yes. It’s in the attic.”
“I might grab it, if you don’t mind.” He picks up his phone, taps it.
“Be my guest.”
As he leaves the room, I eye his phone, the fact that he’s left it on the table. I have about two seconds to snatch it before it blacks out, locks.
Listening for him, the floorboards creaking above me, I check the text. Sure enough, it was Monique.
I go to the other latest messages, a thread from E. My pulse skipping, I scroll down, skim-reading. Standard details, meeting times. And then there’s a photo.
I don’t hesitate before clicking on it, don’t take a moment to prepare myself. There’s not enough time. Staring at it, I raise my hand to my mouth, my heart pounding.
Black lingerie, one hand down her knickers, eyelids drowsily heavy.
Prepare to bring the heat.
I drop the phone, panicking, and then grab it again before it locks. Trembling, I scroll through, looking for more. They’re all the same. Ellis in creamy lace; in baby pink. Nothing explicit, all suggestive.
Her eyes meet mine as though she’s laughing at me.
My blood is swishing in my ears. I can’t hear Fred anymore. I pause for an instant, gazing at the ceiling. There’s the bang of the attic door; he’s on his way down. Quickly, I go to his stored photos. They’re in files, named with letters of the alphabet. Six or seven of them. I click on A.
I don’t hear his footsteps, the door opening, until he’s standing there, just as I click on an image of a young woman with startling red hair, wearing an electric blue camisole, her body turned to reveal her rear.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he says, holding the trouser press.
I ignore him, clicking on J. Blond hair is all I get in time. He rounds the table, grabbing the phone. “Stay away from my stuff, Gabby!”
J is still glowing, and then she’s gone. He saw it though, his face blanching. He’s trying to think of something to say and can’t.
I can’t either. The words are forming, falling over themselves. He’s picking up the trouser press and is leaving.
Somehow, I find my voice, half of what it used to be. “How long has this been going on?”
At the French windows, he stops. “This isn’t going to help anyone. Least of all you.”
“Just tell me. I need to know.”
He exhales, standing with his back to me. “A few years.”
My eyes fill with tears, even though I thought I’d never cry over him again. “Why?”
He hesitates so much I know it’s the truth. “I was lonely.”
This is the last thing I expected him to say. How can that be? He was married to me. Why did he need a whole alphabet of women?
“How did you… How did you afford it?”
“My own money, from my salary.” He shrugs defensively.
“And these girls are…what, escorts or prostitutes or…?” I trail off, something that Jam said coming to mind. “Is this rinsing?” I’m not sure what I’m talking about—if that’s the right word. He doesn’t reply anyway.
“Is this what you’ve been doing with Ellis?” I ask.
“No. It’s not the same. With those other girls, I don’t know who they are, haven’t met them. But Ellis…” It’s his turn to trail off.
“You’ve been sending strangers money to see them in their underwear? Is that it? Girls the same age as Alice?”
He firms his grip on the trouser press, as though that’s the only thing standing between him and a complete loss of pride—the idea that tomorrow he will press his trousers and go to work. “It didn’t mean anything. And I’m sure they’re not as young as they look. They use filters.”
Filters.
That’s his explanation, his reasoning.
A silence descends, one that seems to end things between us. There’s a sense of disconnection, a cord being cut, the same sensation I felt that day with Monique at the beach.
I gaze at him a while longer, and then I let go.
I pick up my glass, taking it to the sink. “Any compassion I may have had for you is gone. As of now, Fred, you’re dead to me.”
He looks at me in bewilderment, as though he could never imagine me thinking anything like that about him, despite everything he’s said and done to push me to this point.
And then, with a surrendering sigh, he takes his leave, carrying the press in his arms the way he once held our children, night air creeping in around my ankles like the cold tide.
As he starts the car, vanishes, my words linger, buzzing in my ears, their horror coiling around my heart because I know they’re true.
You’re dead to me.