Lizzie had, so far, resisted the urge to poke through Alice’s drawers. It seemed a little disloyal. She had no such loyalty toward Max, however, so she had a good rummage through his. She hadn’t come across any indication that Max was playing around—no dubious receipts in pockets, lipstick on collars, or hidden mementos. Lizzie was an expert at sniffing out infidelity—like a pig rooting for truffles. She was relieved. Alice, despite being a flibbertigibbet, had a good heart and did not deserve to be messed around. Lizzie wasn’t letting Max off the hook entirely, however. If it wasn’t a woman keeping him away from home so much, it was neglect and disinterest in his exhausted wife and young baby.
Lizzie had also been keeping an eye on the recycling. Alice and Max were getting through a rather large number of wine bottles, and she suspected that Alice was drinking the lion’s share. But, on the upside, she was rather pleased to note the number of bottles decreasing since she’d managed to get Bunty settled into a more predictable and manageable routine.
Finally, she’d had a quick poke in the bathroom bin. Always interesting. And this one did not disappoint. She found an empty pack of sleeping pills (no wonder Max was no use with the nighttime feeds) and one used pregnancy test. It was negative, thank the Lord. That might have just tipped Alice over the edge. And at least she and Max were still having sex.
Now she was having a great deal of fun doing Google searches on Alice’s laptop, looking for photos of Julian’s dead wife. She loved rummaging around the internet. It was like one giant knicker drawer, just waiting to spill all its secrets. She’d had a quick check on the browsing history. Max had, predictably, been looking at some porn, but nothing too distasteful or illegal.
She’d searched under Mary and Julian Jessop and had found a wonderful photo of them on their wedding day, standing on the steps of Chelsea Town Hall. She was wearing a white minidress and white high-heeled boots, and he was dressed in an extremely dapper white suit, with flared trousers and a purple silk shirt. They were both laughing uproariously. She sent the picture off to Alice’s printer. Under the wedding photo she found a mention of Mary’s maiden name: Sandilands. She opened the Google search engine again, and this time typed in Mary Sandilands. Now, that was even more interesting.
Lizzie heard the key in the lock and quickly closed down the page she was on.
“Hi, Lizzie! Is everything OK?” asked Alice.
“All fine and dandy. I gave Bunty some baby rice and apple puree and she went out like a light, bang on time. I doubt you’ll hear a peep from her until six a.m.”
“You are an angel,” Alice said, as she took off her cashmere coat and hung it on the hook by the door, shook off her vertiginous heels, and sat down at the kitchen table next to Lizzie. Max had gone straight upstairs. She heard the door of his study closing.
“How was date night?” Lizzie asked her.
“Fine, thank you,” replied Alice, not entirely enthusiastically, Lizzie thought. “Fabulous new restaurant, just down the road. Supertrendy. Hazard was there, too, with a girl. Stunning one. How did you do with the photos?”
“Great. I’ve got some lovely ones. Mary was a knockout. Reminds me a bit of Audrey Hepburn. All wide-eyed and innocent-looking, like Bambi. Have a look.”
SHE WAS SITTING in bed listening to Jack snore. Sometimes, the noise would stop for what seemed like ages, and she’d wonder if he’d died, and if so, how much she’d care. Then, like a car engine firing violently into life, he’d start up again.
She scratched her head. Damn. She was pretty sure that one of those little buggers at the nursery had given her head lice again. Should she sleep in the spare room until she’d napalmed them? She looked at Jack’s nearly bald head. The likelihood of a stray louse finding anywhere to hide there was remote. She didn’t want to have another parasite discussion with him. It had taken him weeks to get over the threadworm incident.
She reached into her own knicker drawer—chuckling to herself at the irony—and pulled out the notebook she’d picked up at the nursery. It was her turn to write in it now, and she knew exactly what to say.