She sank on the bed under the weight of a deluge of emotions. Relief that she had been right all along, anger at Mark for having an affair. Fury at the private investigator she’d hired and paid in good faith. Staggering disbelief that she’d been cheated by both. Tears came, hot tears of self-pity to find herself in such a mess, of breathtaking sorrow, and then of soul-corroding anger.
It was anger that remained when exhaustion doused the other emotions. She flopped back on the bed and let it simmer in her head. What had she thought days before? That if she discovered she was right, she’d fight for him, do whatever it took? She remembered the knife she’d felt in her hand, the feeling of warm blood, the smell.
She’d never have considered herself to be a violent woman, but she’d never have considered herself to be the other woman either.
The other woman.
No, that was wrong. She was the wife. It was this intruder who was the other, wasn’t it?
She flung her arm across her face, shutting out the light. So many lies. She guessed Mark hadn’t been in the office over the weekend, wasn’t dealing with a difficult client that night. She wondered where they were. A hotel, perhaps. She rolled onto her side and sat up, searching the photographs that were scattered around the room, searching for one. Mark coming out of a building. When she found it, she peered at it, searching for something familiar.
There wasn’t anything, but the pillars on either side of the door were distinctive. Bringing the photo with her, she went downstairs, took her laptop from under the sofa and switched it on.
Pulling up Google Maps, she worked out in a circle from Mark’s office, stopping at every hotel, bringing up a photo of the entrance door and comparing it to the photograph. ‘Bingo,’ she said when she brought up the fifth, the Floating Harbour Hotel.
‘A five-star, boutique hotel,’ she read, her lips twisting in a sneer. Is that where they were, my husband and this other woman? ‘His mistress.’ The word felt strange on her lips, incomprehensible. She shut the laptop with a snap. Now what?
Her mobile was in the other room; she went through, picked it up and ordered an Uber. She had no plan. All she knew was that she wasn’t going to sit around while her husband entertained his floozie in a five-star hotel.
Ten minutes later, she was sitting in a taxi, heading into Bristol. All she’d done was slip on a pair of shoes, grab a jacket and a bag. She hadn’t brushed her hair, or even slicked lipstick over her lips. There didn’t seem to be much point. She’d no idea who this woman her husband was fucking looked like but there was no doubt she’d be gorgeous, beautiful, younger – of course – no lines, laughter or otherwise.
As the taxi negotiated the always busy roads of Bristol, she’d time to wonder if she’d lost her marbles. Just what did she hope to achieve by accosting them in their hotel room? Would she find them naked together, point with a loud gasp, and hold a hand over her forehead like some sad Victorian lady having a fit of the vapours?
When the taxi stopped outside the hotel, she stared at the entrance, pictured Mark standing there with a stunning woman at his side. She’d been air-brushed from the photograph. Susan suddenly knew what that felt like. It was as if the edges of her body were shimmering, becoming transparent, blending in with the surroundings. Soon, she’d be invisible, wiped from Mark’s life.
The anger she’d felt earlier had faded as the image of Mark and this woman solidified. For all Susan’s brave talk about dealing with her, for all the violent thoughts of knives and blood, she knew there was nothing she could do except try to stop the damage as she was tossed aside, discarded, an empty crisp packet swirling along the street to get caught in barbed wire or stamped on by careless feet.
‘You getting out?’
She stared at the back of the driver’s head. Was she? She should go home. This had been a crazy idea. Crazy, she thought again as she pushed open the door and climbed out.
Since she was there, she might as well make a complete idiot of herself. She climbed to the top step of the entrance, and turned, imagining Mark beside her, smiling at her the way he’d smiled at that woman. She tried to dip back into the well of anger, but it seemed to have run dry.
The lobby was small with a reception desk angled diagonally in one corner to make the most of the space. A woman stood behind it, frowning at a computer screen. As the automatic door slid open, she looked up but the frown didn’t fade into something more welcoming.
Susan wasn’t surprised. She didn’t present a five-star, boutique hotel appearance. Fuck’s sake, she hadn’t even brushed her hair. Anger returned, and for the first time, it was directed solely at Mark rather than being shared with the unknown woman he was with. He’d done this to her. Turned her into this mess. This discarded, unwanted, redundant mess.
‘Can I help you?’
The tone of the words wasn’t particularly encouraging. Susan gripped her bag tighter and approached. She was there, she might as well find out the worst. Close up, the receptionist was just the kind of woman Susan found both fascinating and intimidating. Perfectly applied make-up, glossy hair pinned back in a neat bun with only a couple of strands artfully curling under the curve of her chin, the pussy-bow blouse she wore startlingly white. This wasn’t a woman who was going to help.
Susan felt the edges of the photograph in her pocket. Were they upstairs in one of the fancy bedrooms, the woman with her mouth pressed to the scar under Mark’s ear? It was that incredibly intimate image that made her pull the photograph from her pocket and slap it on the desk with such force, the receptionist’s heavily made-up eyes widened, and her hand moved along the edge of the desk. Perhaps there was an alarm there. Maybe it would sound throughout the hotel triggering an evacuation. That would be perfect. To see Mark and his floozie run out, clothes hastily pulled on to cover their shame.
It could also be an alarm connected to a police station and she’d find herself being arrested. The thought made her hold a hand up. ‘I’m sorry, please, listen.’
Obviously deciding she was crazy rather than dangerous, the receptionist nodded. Her hand, however, remained where it was.
Deciding she’d nothing to lose, Susan went with the truth. ‘This is my husband. I think he’s having an affair.’ She pushed the photograph further across the desk. ‘This was taken outside. The woman has been airbrushed out, but I know she was with him. I think they’re here tonight.’ She watched the woman’s expression. It didn’t change. Maybe it couldn’t, Susan thought, allowing the catty thought to cross her mind. ‘Right, it looks as if I’ll have to wait and see, doesn’t it?’ She nodded towards where the receptionist’s hand still lingered. ‘You can get me thrown out, true, but you can’t stop me standing across the street to wait. It’ll be a long night. I’m that desperate.’
The beautifully painted mouth pursed, then parted to allow a sigh to escape. ‘I do recognise him. And yes, he has been here with a woman, but they’re not staying tonight.’
Susan clutched the edge of the desk. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Positive.’
She’d been so sure she’d find them there, she felt suddenly lost. Bereft. It was a feeling she’d have to become accustomed to. ‘I was so sure.’ She reached for the photograph. ‘I’m not even sure what I was going to do, you know. I thought…’ she shrugged and put the photo back into her pocket. ‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe to shame them into breaking up so he’d come back to me.’ Was that what she thought? It didn’t matter; they weren’t there. It had all been a waste of time. ‘I don’t suppose you could give me her name, could you?’ She knew the answer before the receptionist shook her head.
‘It’s against hotel policy to give out information about customers, I’m afraid. I’ve told you more than I should have really.’
‘Yes, I understand. Thank you.’ At least Susan knew she wasn’t going completely crazy. Mark had stayed there with a woman. The same one who’d been airbrushed from the photograph. ‘It’s just hard. I know I should confront him about it but I’m afraid if I do that it’ll be just the push he needs to leave me.’ She gave a shaky smile. What was she doing? How sad and pathetic to be standing in a hotel lobby, spilling her heart to a woman she didn’t know and who couldn’t possibly care. One who’d already turned away and was back in work mode, tapping away on her keyboard.
The automatic door slid open. Susan stared out to the step where Mark had stood with his mistress. She wondered what they’d talked about.
‘Excuse me!’
She sighed and turned with a hand raised in apology. ‘I’m going.’
‘You should take this with you,’ the receptionist said, holding her hand out.
Puzzled, Susan re-turned and took it from her. It was a flyer for the hotel.
‘You might want to stay here sometime.’
Once again, violent thoughts crashed in Susan’s head. She crumpled the flyer in her hand, then reached across, grabbed the receptionist by those stupid, curling strands of hair, dragged her over the desk and rammed it between her narrow painted lips until she choked on it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, putting the leaflet into her pocket.
Outside, she was lucky and flagged down a passing taxi. She sat back and took a deep breath that shuddered on a gulp. Where were they? That they’d had to go to a hotel for their sexual gymnastics indicated the floozie didn’t live nearby. Maybe that had changed. Maybe… Susan felt her heart swell with sadness… maybe they’d rented an apartment together.
Or maybe the bedrooms in the hotel didn’t live up to their boutique hotel description and they’d gone elsewhere. She reached into her pocket for the flyer the receptionist had given her. It was good quality as befitting a posh, expensive hotel, a nice shot of the hotel on the front, making it look grander than reality. Inside, there was a photo of the dining room, and one of the bedrooms. Mark would have hated the silly cushions piled on the bed. He could never see the point and removing them was the first thing Susan did when they went away. Did his floozie do that for him, or were they so lost in passion that he didn’t even notice them?
She sighed, folded the flyer shut, then bent it in half. That’s when she saw it. Written in small, neat writing above the directions and social media information on the back of the flyer.
A name.
Hannah Parker.