She stood for a long time staring at the message Mark had sent her. There weren’t many words. There was no ambiguity. She wished there was. Wished there was something between the lines, some secret code.
The same client causing me problems. Not going to get home tonight. Sorry. See you tomorrow.
There had been times, years before, when he’d had to stay away, but he’d ring and speak to her, reassure her, explain, tell her he loved her and would miss her. Had there been text messages back then? She shook her head; maybe not, she couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. Back then, he’d have rung, and he’d have whispered words of love at the end. Not this cold, almost impersonal message.
In all their years together, he’d never given her reason to doubt his fidelity. She wasn’t sure why, recently, it had been called into doubt in her head. A crazy link with Drew’s departure perhaps. A deep-rooted fear that she might lose both the men she loved. Her imagination looking to fill her boring life with excitement. But the phone call she’d heard him take where he’d laughed that laugh, and the receipt for the Prosecco?
She brushed both aside.
That private investigator had proved her suspicions weren’t valid. There wasn’t another woman. Just the same cigar-smoking, demanding client. Poor Mark. He was too conscientious for his own good. He’d be irritated but trying hard not to show it, even to her. He liked to be seen to be in control. It was why he hadn’t rung; he’d have known she’d have guessed his annoyance. It was a relief to get that clear in her head.
A long evening stretched ahead. She was tempted to ring Drew, but if she was searching for a friendly voice, he mightn’t be the best person to ring. Instead, she sent a brief, friendly message, telling him how busy she’d been, how unusually warm it had been recently, and ended by telling him about all the cheese she’d bought, forgetting he wouldn’t be there to eat it. That should make him smile. It took huge effort not to ask how he was, if he was eating properly, looking after himself.
She was in a WhatsApp group with her sisters, but when she rang and neither answered, she gave up and put the phone down. There were a couple of friends she might have phoned, and her finger hovered over one after the other. But she gave up without ringing either when she realised she’d nothing to say.
To fill the time, she spent the next hour making a lasagne, finding the preparation relaxing. When it was done, all bubbly and crispy, she smiled at the memory of Drew devouring a huge helping before asking for seconds. She cut a small portion for herself, then divided the rest and put it into containers. They’d go into the freezer when cool.
Mark would insist on a glass of red when they had lasagne. Susan was as happy with a glass of water. She took a tray with her into the living room and put it on the coffee table while she switched on the TV and flicked through the channels to find something to watch. An old episode of Morse was a perfect choice.
Kicking off her shoes, she stretched out on the sofa with her tray on her lap. The lasagne was the best she’d ever made, Morse as good as she remembered. She should have been able to relax, enjoy a pleasant, quiet evening with nobody making demands on her.
As soon as she’d scraped the last morsel of pasta from the plate, she put the tray on the floor and got to her feet. John Thaw was speaking, his deep, unmistakable voice following her as she left the room and headed up the stairs.
There was something bothering her. Niggling. Perhaps she shouldn’t have watched Morse, after all. He had a habit of seeing behind the obvious. The obvious… she crossed her bedroom to the chest of drawers and pulled out the top one. Sliding a hand under her underwear, there was a gut-churning moment of panic when she thought the photographs had gone, vanished, a figment of her imagination, just like Mark’s mistress. It was a relief when her fingers felt the edge of the envelope.
She sat on the edge of the bed and tapped the photographs out, spreading them out with her hand. A montage of Mark. Coming out of the office on Queen Square. Sitting in a café. Standing in the doorway of a building she didn’t recognise. Walking down a street, his briefcase hanging from one hand.
Behind the obvious… she picked up each image and stared at it, much as she had earlier. But then, she’d been looking for something that wasn’t there, this time it was what was there that she was interested in examining.
Mark’s face. She knew it better than her own, the curve of his cheek, the deep grooves between his eyebrows, the tiny scar under his ear from where a schoolfriend had thrown a stone when he was seven, the slightly crooked nose, neat ears. Every feature was familiar.
So what was bothering her?
She picked up the photo of him exiting some unknown building. His tie was slightly askew, his hair a little tousled. It made her smile. When he was stressed, he did have a habit of playing with the knot of his tie and running his fingers through his hair. She held the photo up to the light. She could see now what was niggling. His head was turned slightly to one side, his lips parted as if he was speaking to someone. But there was nobody there.
Placing the photo down, she picked up the one where he was sitting in a café. Only one cup on the table, indicating he was there on his own. But the niggle made her look more closely and question two things – why was he out drinking coffee on his own during the day? They’d a perfectly good coffee maker in his office; he’d frequently mentioned it was so good, he drank too much of it. And the second question, the one that made her grip the image so tightly that it crumpled in her hand: if he was there on his own, who the fuck was he smiling at?
And smiling in that particular way. As if he was looking at someone he found attractive. She remembered he used to smile at her in just that way. Once upon a time, a long, long time ago.
One after the other, she went through the photographs. Disbelief shimmied into irritation before exploding into anger that sent the photographs flying into the air, swirling and falling to the bed and floor. She left them there and paced the room.
She’d paid that investigator, and he’d lied to her. She’d seen apps advertised on Facebook and elsewhere that allowed you to delete unwanted people from photographs. It wasn’t, the adverts said, difficult to do. With all the money she’d given Ethan, he could have afforded to buy the best software. The question was – why?
There was only one reason.
Mark had found out, somehow, and had paid the two-timing bastard to lie to her. And there was only one reason her husband would do such a thing. He was having an affair. And it was serious.