‘I’m off now!’ Dan calls out as he pulls his coat on. ‘Have a nice time at your thing …’ When I come into the hallway, he gives me an absent-minded peck on the cheek. There’s a wisp of cool evening air and then it’s gone again, as the door slams behind him.
I stare at the closed door, jaw tense, and then I go into the living room. Gwen, the lovely Welsh lady from next door is sitting there. She’s going to be babysitting for us tonight. I told Dan if he was having a night out that maybe I deserved one too. Of course, I’m not the only one lying about where I’m going. I told him I was going to the new slimming group that’s meeting in the Baptist Church hall.
‘I’m going to shake a leg too, then,’ I say and give Gwen a tight smile. ‘I promise I won’t be back too late.’
‘That’s fine, dear,’ she says, and picks up the remote. I know she’s itching to watch Coronation Street, so I let her get on with it.
That done, I sling my mac on and head out the door. I walk up the street in the same direction Dan has just gone. In fact, I think I can make him out farther up the road, his head bobbing as he listens along to his personal CD player. Good. I know where he’s heading, but that doesn’t mean I want to lose sight of him.
Ten minutes later, we’re both at Swanham station. Dan stands on the platform, whistling to himself. He seems to do that a lot these days, I’ve realised. I thought it was because he was happier, that ‘project loose ends’ was working, but now I suspect there’s another explanation.
I’m skulking around inside the ticket office, hoping that when the six-forty-six arrives I’ll be able to dart on board without being spotted. It should work. Dan’s farther up the platform, planning to get on the first carriage, which will take him closest to the barrier at Charing Cross. I just have to hope I don’t lose him once we get out.
Yes, I’m following Dan. The thing I said I’d never do.
I could confront him, I suppose, but I’m just so tired of all the lies. At least this way he won’t be able to wriggle out of it. I know that for sure because he’s arranged to meet someone. I saw the text messages on his phone.
Yes, I did that too. I went there.
But a little worm the shape of a question mark has burrowed in itself inside my skull, wriggling, niggling and insistent. I have to know, it sings, and I hum along with it. I have to know. I have to know. It’s going to drive me mad if I don’t.
The train arrives and my pulse quickens. If I don’t time this right I’m going to slam face-first into a closing carriage door. Thankfully, Dan is among the first to hop on board and I have plenty of time to run and jump into the carriage that pulls up outside the ticket office before the door alarm beeps.
Once inside the train, I walk up through the carriages until I’m in the one behind Dan’s. I peer through the dirty window in the door that links the two, but I can’t see him. He must be sitting down, maybe farther up the carriage, or maybe just facing away from me. He’s wearing his red waterproof so I’m hoping he’ll be easy to keep tabs on.
I find a seat and, as the train jostles and bumps me, all I can see in my mind is the blocky message on Dan’s mobile phone from an unknown number: The Terrace restaurant, 8.30. I’ll be waiting for you.
I don’t know where the Terrace is. I tried doing an Internet search, but Google is still in its early days and TripAdvisor has yet to be invented, so I came up with a big fat zero. I’m just praying it’s not too far from the station, because the longer I have to follow Dan, the greater the chances of me getting caught. I’m not really good at this spy stuff. I’d have watched a few episodes of Spooks for tips if I could have done, but it hasn’t started airing yet.
The train pulls into Charing Cross about forty minutes later. I’m there at the door, jabbing the button with my finger even before it lights up, and when it does I spring out, scanning the platform for a bright-red waterproof.
I locate it heading for the ticket barrier and give chase.
I don’t run, but I do walk very fast. Dan makes his way to the exit, pauses to look around, and then makes a sharp right instead of crossing the cobbled courtyard and heading for the Strand. Oh, hell, I think. He’s not going down that side road to the tube station, is he? I’m bound to get rumbled if he does.
Thankfully, though, he only walks a handful of steps before he turns and heads into a building. My relief doesn’t last long, because I notice what it is – the Charing Cross Hotel. My stomach rolls and I think I want to be sick. A hotel? That can’t be good, can it? If I had any doubts, they’ve been shot to smithereens now.
I follow Dan into the hotel and up a large marble staircase. I hide behind a pillar when I get to the top to see where he goes next.
He walks up to the entrance of what looks like a restaurant and asks the girl standing at the host desk something. I look around and see a sign: THE TERRACE. I swallow. This is the right place. The only silver lining I can find is that at least I’m not watching him disappear into a hotel room somewhere on a higher floor.
The girl nods and smiles at Dan then gestures at him to follow her and leads him into the restaurant. Quickly and quietly, I make my way out from behind the pillar and along the carpeted corridor. Since the desk is currently empty, I take the opportunity to peer into the seating area, scanning quickly for a flash of red.
And then I see it – Dan is taking his coat off, smiling and sitting down opposite someone, but there’s a waiter pouring wine at a nearby table who’s blocking my view. As I wait for him to move, a thousand questions bombard my head at once: Is this real? Who is he meeting? It can’t really be Becca, can it? Can it? The questions circle round and round unanswered, gathering speed until I feel dizzy, but then they gradually fade until just one is left: how can he do this to me?
How can he do this to this me?
I get why he did it the first time around, even if it was still absolutely the wrong thing to do. Things were so bad between us and then there’s the seductive tug of meeting someone who thinks you’re funny and exciting and wonderful, instead of boring and naggy. After all, that was why I’d got fixated on Jude in my first life, wasn’t it? And who knows what might have happened if I’d gone to that reunion, if I’d had a couple too many glasses of wine?
But in this life …
I thought we were working it out, that things were going well. When I think of being together in bed at the weekend, of how Dan looked into my eyes with such tenderness and affection, I feel actually, physically sick.
I’m on the verge of turning round and walking away, unable to take any more, when the waiter who’s been blocking my line of sight finally moves.
I gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. This isn’t what I expected! It isn’t what I expected at all!
Because it isn’t Becca that Dan is about to sit down to dinner with. It isn’t even another woman. The person that Dan is smiling and laughing with as they peruse their menus is a man.