Once she’d decided to find out the truth, Susan didn’t delay. It took less than a minute on her laptop to find a private investigator service that seemed, according to the several reviews posted, to be both reputable and professional. Deciding to ring rather than email, she dialled the number.
‘Global PI services, can I help you?’
A deep breath in, and the words came with the exhale. ‘I think my husband is having an affair. I want to know if I’m right and, if so, who the other woman is.’ Susan felt a lessening of the tension once she had the words out. This was the first step; she’d get this sorted, get her life back on track. Back into the same worn groove it’d been in for a while. That thought, striking her out of the blue, made her grip the phone more tightly. The voice on the other end of the phone was speaking and she hadn’t heard a word. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
The voice was kind, sympathetic. Susan supposed they were used to dealing with all sorts of distraught, overwhelmed, sad women.
‘My name is Cailey. I’ll need a few details in order to direct your case to the right agent. Is that okay?’
Susan thought she’d given her the details already. Mark was cheating on her. She wanted to know who the bitch was so she could… do something. ‘Yes, that’s okay. Fire ahead.’
The questions she was asked were initially mundane, the usual name, address, credit card details. ‘We’ll take nothing from your account until we send you a quotation and you send back a signed copy,’ Cailey explained. ‘Our fees are from thirty-five pounds an hour, plus expenses if tracking devices, etc. are required. This will all be explained by your allocated agent. Okay?’
‘Yes, okay.’
‘Is this the first time you’ve suspected that your husband might be having an affair?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve no idea who she might be?’
‘No.’ If she did, she wouldn’t need a bloody private investigator. All she’d need was a sharp knife. She pushed a hand through her hair. It was tangled. She hadn’t brushed it this morning. Hadn’t had it cut for a while either and it was longer than she normally wore it. Was Mark looking elsewhere because she’d let herself go, or had she let herself go because he was cheating on her? A chicken-and-egg scenario she’d consider some day when her head stopped spinning.
She answered a few more questions before the ever-patient Cailey told her she was going to analyse the information and decide which agent would be the best bet for her. ‘I’ll ring you back within the hour,’ she said. ‘All right?’
‘I suppose.’ I sounded like a rude, petulant brat. ‘I’m sorry.’ Sorry for being rude, for needing to hire a private investigator, for being suspicious, for having reason to be. Sorry for every fucking thing. ‘Yes, that’s fine; I’ll wait for your call.’
Hanging up, she tossed the phone onto the table and rested her face in her cupped hands. Weariness stooped her shoulders, pushed her down. She folded her arms on the table and rested her head on them. A few minutes’ sleep might do her good. Put everything into perspective. She’d ask Mark about the receipt that evening. There was probably a very good explanation. Perhaps the cigar-smoking, difficult client did indeed like a glass of Prosecco. Perhaps the moon was made from blue cheese.
Exhaustion led her into a deep, uneasy sleep where raincoated men hid behind pillars and rolled out in regular intervals like figures in cuckoo clocks. She heard the sound when the clock hit the hour, a tinny cuckoo cuckoo. On and on it went, till she wanted to grab the clock, smash it to pieces, tear the little figures to bits. She even reached for it in her sleep, the solid feel of the phone in her hand waking her with a start. Not a clock chiming: her phone ringing.
‘Hello, hello!’
‘Mrs Shepherd?’
‘Yes, sorry.’ There she was apologising again. ‘I’d fallen asleep.’ Apologising and explaining.
‘A stressful time for you, obviously.’
‘Yes, it is a bit.’
‘Understandable. Let’s see if we in Global PI can help you. My name is Ethan and I find it better, easier, and more efficient to meet a client face to face. Are you free to meet now? I can come to your home or we could meet on neutral territory if you’d prefer.’
Neutral territory? Suddenly, this all sounded crazy. She was a housewife, a stay-at-home mother: normal, dull, boring. Women like her didn’t hire private investigators. ‘I think this is a mistake.’
‘Why don’t you talk to me, no commitment. Sometimes talking to a stranger helps.’
She had nothing to lose. ‘Our only child moved out recently. He’s gone to Glasgow. To university. I’ve been finding the adjustment difficult, I suppose. I noticed that Mark was being a bit distant but assumed that he too was missing our son. Then, last night, he didn’t come home after work. He finally sent me a message to say he’d got stuck with a difficult client. He didn’t get home till nearly three and when he did, he had a shower. This morning, he said the client had insisted on going back to his hotel room and smoked fat cigars one after the other. That’s why he’d had a shower.’
‘But you don’t believe him.’
‘I wanted to.’ How she’d wanted to. She pressed her lips together to prevent the tears. ‘He has been different recently. Distant. Staring off into space. It’s hard to explain, but I know him so well and something has changed. I don’t usually search his pockets, but I did this morning and found a receipt for beer and Prosecco.’
‘And you’re guessing the cigar-smoking client wasn’t a Prosecco drinker?’
‘I think it’s unlikely, don’t you?’
‘Hmmm.’
The noncommittal, non-answer annoyed her. ‘I think I’m wasting your time.’
‘I think you’re going to be suspicious until you prove it one way or another.’
He was right. Already she could feel the tendrils of doubt wrapping around her gut. ‘Yes, okay. Let’s do this.’ She didn’t like the thought of meeting in some neutral territory like someone in a bad spy novel. ‘You could come here if that suits.’
‘It’d be perfect. I’ll see you in an hour.’ He hung up without a further word, leaving Susan staring at the phone in dismay. Too late now to change her mind; James Bond was on his way.
The thought made her giggle stupidly, the sound falling with a clunk into the silence of the room. She looked around the big, airy space and for the first time admitted something she’d never done before. She hated this house. No matter what she did to it, it was cold and clinical. She hadn’t wanted to buy a new build; she’d wanted a character property: lots of old stone, cosy rooms, beams. It had been Mark’s idea to go for new, persuading her it would be best for schools, for the clatter of kids they were going to have.
Breakfast dishes were stacked up, waiting to be dealt with, and crumbs speckled the countertop. She got to her feet and tidied up, wanting to put on a good show for this man she didn’t know. Ethan – no surname, she noted. She wanted him to look at her, at their home, and wonder how Mark could have cheated on her, not the opposite: not understand why he did, not take his side. Susan desperately wanted someone to take her side.
Once the kitchen was restored to order, she hurried upstairs, had a shower, and changed into black jeans and a white, cotton shirt. Normally, she’d have stayed barefooted but she slipped her feet into a pair of shoes to give an air of authority. She was back downstairs and pacing the floor for the final twenty minutes, checking her watch every minute, grunting with frustration when time seemed to have stood still.
Finally, the doorbell chimed. And with it, the doubts escalated. Perhaps she should just ignore it. He’d eventually give up and go away. It probably happened all the time. Calling them had been a stupid thing to do. It seemed a long time before the bell chimed again, startling Susan into a step forward. Then another. Until she was at the front door, pulling it open. Ethan had been right. If she didn’t find out, she’d always be suspicious. It would eat away at her. Unravel her completely.
Or had that already happened?