Deb’s in her pyjamas when she answers the door.
“Hi love, come in,” she says.
I close the door as she moves over to the couch and sits down. Some reality show is playing on the TV. Real Housewives of wherever.
“Can I get you something?” I ask.
She barely looks up. “All good.”
I want to give her a hug. It’s been three days since the incident with Richard, and since then, she’s totally retreated into herself. “I’m going to check on the ASOS order,” I say. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
She nods and I walk to the study. It’s painfully neat, as if nothing ever happened. But there’s an eerie feeling to it. Like Richard’s about to barge in. I sit down and type ASOS into the browser. The shipment has arrived in Spain, but there’s no sign of where it is.
If I think about it, Deb and I are helping each other. I shop for clothes for her, and she breaks my loneliness. I suspect she likes having me around as much as I like being around. Right now, I can’t think of anything worse than going back to the house, wasting the days away.
I’d much rather stay here.
I browse the Daily Mail online, the bold blue headlines holding my attention for a few minutes. I log onto Facebook, and familiar faces pop up in my feed. Friends of friends. People I used to be close to, but barely talk to at all now. It’s all I can do not to miss home.
I realise I haven’t checked my email in weeks. I open Gmail, but it’s already logged into an existing account.
Richard Taylor.
I should click away, but I can’t stop myself. I skim through his inbox. Old friends asking to meet up. Facebook notifications. All signs of a normal human being.
One subject line catches my eye. An order confirmation from Interflora. Whatever he’s ordered, it’s certainly not for his wife. There are no flowers in this house. I check the order, and wonder if Susie Davies in Camberwell knows about Deb. Or vice versa.
My fury builds. Not only is Richard abusive, but he’s a cheater too. And Deb probably knows. My mind goes back to the evening of the dinner party. How she grabbed the phone from his hands. How angry she was. She definitely knows. Whether she knows about the flowers is another thing.
I continue scrolling furtively through his inbox, glancing at the door. I stop when I read another subject line. Thank You For Your Latest Donation.
I narrow my eyes and open the email. It loads, and there’s a banner of an African girl beaming up at the camera. Your donation brings a brighter future, the strapline reads. I keep reading.
Hi Richard,
Thank you for your ongoing support! Your latest generous donation has helped to feed the people of the village of Dhakiya, and is giving their children hope by providing them the resources they need for a world-class education. With your help, we’re building a better future for our children.
The Save a Village Foundation
I frown. What? I read the message again, leaning forward and blinking at the screen. This is surprising. On the one hand, we have an altruistic man, donating to the less fortunate. On the other, we have Richard.
It doesn’t add up.
I sit back in my chair. Maybe Richard assuages his guilt through charity? Or perhaps Deb convinced him to donate? They don’t have kids, so maybe this is their way of paying it forward.
I scan the email for more information, but there’s nothing. I click on the web link at the bottom of the email and open a site that looks like it’s from the early 2000s. I know funds are tight at NGOs, but a website revamp is seriously overdue for this one.
I type in Save a Village in the search bar, and a whole series of emails pops up.
Thank You For Your Latest Donation.
Thank You For Your Latest Donation.
Thank You For Your Latest Donation.
There must be more than 100 here. At least one every month.
My curiosity is piqued. How much are Richard and Deb donating? The emails don’t say. And without access to a bank account or bank statements, there’s no way of telling.
Unless.
I look over at the cabinets in the corner of the room. What are the chances they still get their bank statements delivered?
No. I shake my head. I’m not going there.
I think of the empty bedroom upstairs, the softness of Deb’s eyes. It had to be her idea. But why is the email addressed to Richard, then? I search for another Gmail inbox, but Deb’s isn’t there.
You should stop snooping, I tell myself.
I close the browser and shut down the laptop.
I make lunch, but Deb barely says a word. She’s like a tipsy ghost, her second wine of the day already in hand.
“The order’s in Spain already,” I say. “It should be here in a day or two.”
“Nice.”
She stabs half-heartedly at a potato wedge. I steal a glance at her. She must feel awful. Dedicating years to a marriage, only for it to collapse. I look at the house. Beautiful as it is, it’s empty. Devoid not only of children, but family and friends.
She must be so lonely.
I think of their unexpected charity habit. I have no doubt they can afford it. But I can’t help but wonder how much of this life Deb chose for herself. I wish I could get inside her head, check for warning signs. So I decide to try something.
I scroll through my phone, then abruptly plonk it down on the table. “I really don’t like these ads.”
She looks up. “Hmm?”
“I keep getting these ads on Instagram,” I lie. “To adopt a polar bear.”
“I don’t use Instagram anymore,” she mutters into her wine.
“Right, well, there are a lot of ads going around asking you to adopt a polar bear, or some other charity. Honestly, how much will it really help? Am I awful for thinking that?”
Deb’s face is blank, but then she shrugs.
“Do you ever donate? You and—”, I swallow fast, forcing the name out, “Richard?”
She takes a swig of wine. “I’ve donated clothes a few times. But him?” Deb shakes her head, lips curling in a sneer. “Never. Nothing is ever free with him.”
I watch her drain the rest of her glass.
“Why don’t you go back to the couch,” I say. “I’ll clean up.”
She doesn’t argue, slouching over to the TV. As I wash up, I run through it in my head. The outdated web page. The numerous, regular donations. Deb’s belief that Richard doesn’t give anything to anyone without getting something in return.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Richard has a softer side.
But my gut tells me otherwise. And I won’t let it go.