Grace is sick to her stomach. She recognises this feeling from long ago. It’s how she felt when she found out an ex-boyfriend had been openly cheating on her. All the evidence was there, right in front of her nose, but she was the last to know.
Melissa had pulled her aside in the end. ‘Look, I know we aren’t friends any more, but I think you deserve to know the truth. He’s been cheating on you, Grace. You need to dump him. Pronto.’
Grace can’t remember if she thanked Melissa. All she can remember is being utterly mortified, and feeling let down by Annabel because she should have been the one pulling her aside.
Now those same feelings: a nauseating suspicion in the pit of her belly, the vague threat of complete mortification.
Tom knew about Daniel all along. Is it possible he sent that email to Annabel to force her to take action? And because he’d sent Annabel an email, did he feel compelled to send Grace one too, in order not to arouse suspicion? But what about the others? Why target Zach, Melissa, Luke and Katy? People he hasn’t even met? And why bother to tie it in with the yearbook? If he had something to say to Annabel, surely he could have said it face to face?
Grace thinks about her own email. The detail about the miscarriage. Her fears about Lauren. The photo that was temporarily missing from the fridge. The same photo that Tom ‘found’ and returned to its rightful place. Her head is spinning. She has barely slept these last few nights. The idea has taken hold and now she can’t stop thinking about it. She can hardly look her husband in the eye, flinches every time he comes close to touching her. One minute she’s almost certain that he’s responsible, the next minute she’s just as certain he’s not. The problem is that deep down she knows it’s not beyond the realm of possibility. Tom’s always had a vigilante side, an ingrained righteousness and, at times, intolerance. He might be lenient with parking tickets and other small misdemeanours, but he has a completely different attitude to what he regards as reckless behaviour. Drug users, in particular, have always infuriated him.
An old conversation plays back in her head.
‘Throwing away all the privileges they’ve been given. No respect for themselves, their families or society. Sucking up police and medical resources. It’s a crime.’
‘They can’t help it, Tom.’
‘It’s self-inflicted. A mockery of all the poor kids who don’t have a home or good health. It drives me insane.’
There’s no doubt he would have been furious to find Daniel in the park smoking weed. But was he infuriated enough to send that email? Did Annabel’s hush-hush approach prompt him to go to such extremes?
‘Mum, I need help.’ It’s Tahlia. She’s sitting at the kitchen table, chewing the top of her pen. Her teacher has been piling on home-work, in an attempt to prepare the class for high school next year. Poppy is sitting opposite, industriously colouring in one of her own creations. ‘It’s algebra. It’s so hard.’
Grace’s brain is muddled enough as it is. She sighs and sits down next to her oldest. Pulls across the workbook so she can read the question. Suddenly, she can see herself doing this alone: helping with homework and school projects, ferrying the children to parties and sport, putting them to bed at night. She can actually see herself as a single parent. Now she’s panicking. Jumping to all sorts of crazy conclusions.
‘Look, all you have to do is move this figure over to the opposite side of the equation. Do you know what happens when you move it across?’
‘It becomes negative.’
‘Exactly.’
Grace leaves Tahlia to it and goes to check on Lauren. The bedroom door is closed. She knocks and sticks her head inside.
‘What’re you up to in here?’
‘Reading my book. We had library today.’
What would happen to Lauren if she and Tom were to split up? Lauren adores her father. She trusts him, even more than she trusts Grace. He’s the preferred parent when she’s scared or upset. He’s the one who can talk her around, calm her down. Trust is such a big thing for Lauren; it would be heartbreaking to see it broken.
Next Grace checks on Billy, who’s playing Lego in the playroom-cum-study. Billy is the most like Tom. Same physique: shortish, stocky, that proud tilt to his head. How would it feel with Tom gone and still seeing his image in her youngest child? Would some of the children eventually choose to live with their father? She must stop catastrophising like this. There is no proof. All she has is a niggle. And the knowledge that if Tom is indeed responsible, she’ll never be able to feel the same way about him. Their marriage will be over.
Grace sits down at the home computer while Billy constructs his Lego uncomfortably close to her feet. She opens her inbox, deletes some junk mail, then sorts the messages by sender. There are half a dozen messages from Katy, most of which are addressed to the entire year group, with all the individual email addresses plain to see.
Did she leave her inbox open on the computer? Would it have been that easy for Tom? It’s not as if she’s security conscious; she’s never had anything to hide from her husband or he from her. Tom’s email account is linked to hers. She switches accounts and it asks for a password. She types Grace123, which has been Tom’s password for as long as she can remember. Password incorrect.
She hears the front door open and shut again.
‘I’m home,’ her husband calls out cheerily.
Billy drops the Lego and sprints to greet his father. Lauren will have dropped her book and rushed to meet him too. Tahlia and Poppy are getting too old for the rock-star reception, but they’ll happily succumb to Tom’s bear hugs when he eventually makes it to the kitchen.
Grace closes down the screen. Stands up slowly. Composes herself.
How can she face him?
Stop. You’re acting crazy. You know this man. He doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.
Except when it comes to being righteous. At times, zealously so.
She walks into the kitchen, smiling brightly. She plans her route so that she’s giving him a wide berth. There’s no opportunity for him to pull her close for a kiss or hug.
‘I haven’t even started dinner. There’s time for a shower, if you want.’
‘Is that a polite way of telling me I’m sweaty?’
She tries to return his grin. Her face hurts from the effort.
He heads towards the bedroom, whistling. Lauren returns to her book and Billy to his Lego. Tahlia is doggedly working through the algebra: her persistence will get her far in high school. Poppy is bent over her colouring, frowning with concentration. Tom’s keys and phone are where he left them on the kitchen counter. Is there enough time? She picks up his phone, shielding it from Tahlia and Poppy’s line of sight. The screen is still open, as are his emails. She scrolls down. Nothing untoward. She goes to his sent messages. Nothing there either. Of course, there wouldn’t be. The fake yearbook entries were sent from a different email account. She checks his internet history: breaking news; sports results; an online menu for a restaurant. Then she checks his text messages. Mostly to work colleagues and herself. Squeaky clean.
She puts the phone back down where she found it and tries to gather her wits. Dinner. What’s on tonight’s menu?
She’s half-heartedly chopping vegetables when Tom reappears. Hair glistening. Smelling of aftershave. Wearing a favourite old T-shirt. Her heart constricts. She’s not sure if it’s from love or grief.
‘Anything I can do to help?’ he asks, nodding towards the chopping board.
He is a good man. She knows this in her heart. She chose a good man; she has reminded herself of this fact every day since they’ve been together.
‘Can you have a look over Tahlia’s algebra?’
Why doesn’t she ask him outright? Did you send that email to Annabel? And then to me and all the others so it wouldn’t be obvious?
She can’t. She can’t ask the question. This is her family at stake. Everything she holds dear. She has been smug. About her cosy little family and perfect husband. Now it could all implode. She would never think of him in the same way again. Never.
Tom was there, right next to her on the couch, the night Katy phoned, fresh with panic and terror. But he’d been out earlier in the evening, on his usual patrol, and Katy said she couldn’t be sure when the note had been slipped under her door.
There’s no proof. None whatsoever. Only a horrible niggle. The very same niggle she had about that scumbag ex-boyfriend and chose to ignore.