My mother is on her way out and James is being much more attentive than I am, as usual, helping her with her coat, checking she’s got her scarf, demanding to know where Stephen has got to again (he went back upstairs halfway through The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel).
‘Goodness, I’m not looking forward to going back to my cold, empty old place on a night like this,’ she says, fully aware she’ll be going back to a warm, comfortable, modern house with her live-in housekeeper.
‘I can drive you, if you’d prefer that to the taxi,’ James says.
‘No, no. I don’t want to be a nuisance and Julianne looks like she’s about to collapse. You’d better get her into bed.’ She comes over to me and gives me her trademark awkward tap on the back and kiss on the cheek. ‘Take care, dear. Try not to let everything get on top of you. Remember some women have a career and a home to run. Imagine how much harder it is for them. And say goodnight to Stephen for me. Such a conscientious boy. I’ll see you all on Christmas Day.’ With this parting shot, she disappears into the night, no doubt confident her final few thinly veiled jibes will have well and truly hit home.
‘Well,’ James says, ‘I don’t think you look like you’re about to collapse. I think you look as lovely as ever.’ He moves towards me and wraps his arms around my shoulders, bringing his body close in to me so that we’re touching. I know the signs. He always does this when he wants to have sex.
‘She’s probably right, I am a bit tired,’ I say, slightly stepping away from him, but he doesn’t let go.
‘Nonsense,’ he says, leaning back to look at me. I find I can’t meet his eyes, and instead settle for a point on his shoulder. Not getting anywhere with his attempts at affection, he changes tack. ‘What was wrong with Stephen? All evening he seemed … not like himself.’
I extricate myself from his grip and move towards the stairs. ‘What he said, probably. School stuff.’
He nods, looking a bit troubled. ‘Listen, I’m sorry the subject of Oxford came up when your mother was here. I realise it isn’t always helpful to have her chipping in.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I say, still not looking him in the eye.
‘Let’s go to bed. Leave the plates and things for Cassie in the morning.’
I sigh and nod, feeling bad for adding to Cassie’s workload, even if such jobs are the very things we pay her to do.
James goes ahead to our bedroom, but I pause on the landing to listen at Stephen’s door. I can hear the sound of his television. Knocking softly, I open the door and see him on the bed, hugging his knees close to him, as if he’s cold. He’s got his pyjamas on, itself rather unusual – he normally only wears them when he’s got flu and doesn’t want to be lying about in just his underpants when his father and I are bringing him hot drinks, soup and paracetamol.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask, and he nods. ‘I’ll talk to Dad about … about what you found. There’ll be an explanation. They’ll be to do with his work, or maybe a computer virus or something. Just … try not to dwell on them.’
‘Okay.’
I give him a weak smile, say goodnight, close the door to his room and walk over to mine.
James is already in his boxers and brushing his teeth in the en suite. He sees me looking in the mirror and I can tell, from the slightly mischievous look in his eye, that his desires haven’t gone away.
I need to talk to him. I can’t sleep until I’ve got all of this off my mind and heard his explanation. He comes towards me now, using the hand towel to wipe toothpaste from his chin. His dark-brown hair is slightly damp from where he’s washed his face, a few strands from his fringe hanging limply over the smooth skin of his forehead, making him look much younger than his forty-eight years. I start to say something about needing to talk to him, but he starts kissing me without warning, the scent of mint and his Hugo Boss fragrance mingling, intoxicating, making me almost fall into him. Then it all happens very quickly, as it usually does when we make love. Though I’m not sure making love is the right word for it. As soon as he’s got me, ready and compliant, he pushes me away onto the bed so I’m lying on my front. With one hand, he gathers my arms together so they’re pinned in front of me, my frame bent over the bed. With the other, he pulls down the bottom half of my clothes, a little roughly, and casts them aside. My face is being pressed into the mattress, the scent of James now replaced by fabric softener and the pine-tree air freshener installed in the corner of the room. I hear the snap of the waistband of his boxers as he hurries to get them down and then, without much warning, always without much warning, there’s the sharp suddenness of him entering me from behind. More often than not, I’m aroused, enjoying the sensation, liking what he’s doing to me, so that he slips in easily. But today I’m not. And he hasn’t asked. He hasn’t checked. He hasn’t said anything, apart from his usual low grunt as he pushes himself deeper. Surely he can feel I’m not ready? That he might be hurting me? Doesn’t he care? He’s pushing quicker now, in and out, gathering speed. And then a grey shape at the corner of my consciousness starts to take hold, bit by bit, until something falls into my mind. Two words. Trial run. The impact of those two words, what they could mean, explodes through my brain. No attempts to contact police have been made. I can’t do this. I cry out and pull myself up.
‘I’m nearly finished,’ James pants, still going, stabilising himself by holding on to my shoulder. Or is he trying to hold me still, stop me struggling?
‘Stop!’ I shout, and again try to get up. He does stop and pulls out of me, too quickly for comfort, and I roll to the side away from him. Lying on my back on the bed, I hear him ask what’s wrong and if I’m okay, but my heart is pumping too loudly and my vision is blurred.
‘Julianne, talk to me?’ He comes into focus now, crouching down beside me, his hands taking hold of mine. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
I let out a splutter – a noise of disbelief. I can’t help myself. ‘Unwell? Must I be feeling unwell to not want you hammering away at me like that?’
I can feel the shock in his silence. It fills the room. I’ve never spoken to him like this. I’ve never interrogated our sex life in such a stark, harsh way. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever really wanted to. Waiting for him to respond, I pull myself up so I’m in a sitting position on the bed and wipe my eyes, finding tears clinging to my cheeks.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ James says, standing there naked. ‘We were just having sex … why did you start shouting?’ He has a semi-erection that looks strangely ridiculous now. It’s practically deflating before my eyes. He’s realising we’re not going to start having sex again. Something serious is happening.
‘It’s the way you were doing it. As if I … as if you didn’t care about me.’
He walks towards me and lays his hands on my shoulders. ‘Julianne, how can you say that? Of course I care about you. I was just … you know … in the midst of it all. Passion. Arousal. That sort of thing.’
I still can’t look him in the eye. ‘That sort of thing,’ I repeat. It isn’t a question. The words just stick in my head and I have to get them out again. Because they seem too vague and leave room for doubt and interpretation. What sort of thing does he really want, does he really like? The thought is making me feel dizzy and I close my eyes.
‘Talk to me, please. Tell me what’s wrong.’
I might be imagining it, but I think I can hear the faintest hint of irritation in his voice amidst the concern. Even the possibility that he might be frustrated with me makes me angry. I get up and go over to the bathroom, not bothering to close the door. I turn the taps on and splash some lukewarm water onto my face. It soothes something within me, even though my heart is still pounding in my chest.
‘Do you prefer rough sex? Violent sex?’ I ask the question simply and quietly and for a second I think he hasn’t heard me over the sound of the water, but then he answers.
‘Violent? What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about sex.’ I reply simply. I’m trying to keep my cool, to sound almost disinterested. It will make this as easy as possible to get through.
‘I don’t think we really need to discuss this.’ His tone is guarded and opaque. ‘I think we have a pretty healthy sex life. Compared to many couples our age.’
I stop for a moment, not liking where my brain is going. ‘How about with other women?’
I can feel the tension coming off him. Something’s shifted. He’s still, not moving, but I can tell his fight or flight response has been triggered. I’m stepping over a line here.
‘Julianne, how can you possibly ask me that?’
I take in a deep breath. ‘I think I can.’
He doesn’t reply.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’ I say slowly. Carefully. ‘Anything that springs to mind?’
Another beat. Then: ‘I don’t know what’s brought all this on, Julianne. It doesn’t sound very healthy.’
I turn off the tap.
‘Oh, I’m being unhealthy, am I? Curious choice of phrase, don’t you think? Talking about sex, about what turns us on, about what we like to do to each other – is that unhealthy?’ I look directly into the mirror above the sink and see him looking back at me from the doorway. He must see the danger in my eyes, as he starts backtracking.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I just mean that … well … all men like different things … and of course women aren’t all the same. Everyone has their own preferences and desires and … needs. Don’t they?’
I find I can hold his gaze now, albeit through a reflection. ‘I don’t know. Do they?’
A few beats of silence pass between us, then I break eye contact and wipe my face with a towel. I get up and, without making a sound, go back into the bedroom, pull on a dressing gown that’s hanging on the wardrobe door, and walk out of the room onto the landing.
‘Where are you going?’ James says as I close the door behind me. I ignore him.
It takes me less than a minute to retrieve my iPad mini from the living room and return upstairs. His eyes widen when he sees what I’m carrying.
‘Julianne, please, tell me, what is all this about?’
I still don’t say anything, but set to work unlocking the iPad, opening up my Facebook messages, taking care to tilt the screen away from him so he can’t see it’s Stephen’s message I’ve clicked on. I then navigate to Dropbox. It’s already signed in to the general family account we use and I follow the file path I’ve now memorised, all the while expecting him to stop me. He doesn’t. He just stands over me as that daunting list of files with the long numbers for names appears on the screen.
I click on the top one, the one I looked at earlier. Up comes the neat, ordered list, the haunting photograph, the mounds of information on how terrible this woman’s life is. I look up at him. His face has gone white and his eyes are glistening.
‘I want you to tell me what this is. I want you to look at it and try … just try …’ The tears are threatening to come now and I swallow hard. ‘Just try to tell me why you would have put something like this in our family Dropbox account?’
He continues to stare at the computer in silence still, a look of mounting horror on his face. I watch as he casts his eye down the page on the screen, seeing how it affects him. His mouth twitches slightly, but overall his face settles into something strangely blank. Then he reaches down and presses the lock button, shutting off the cold white light that had been illuminating his face. The room suddenly feels very dark.
‘Oh, Julianne,’ he says. He turns back to me now and his face looks sad. Troubled and sad, as if I’ve just told him I’m unwell or that someone has done me a terrible, terrible wrong. He steps forward and reaches out, trying to hold me, but I step back.
‘No,’ I say, quietly but firmly. ‘Don’t touch me. Just tell me why the fuck something like that is on here. This is your one and only chance or I swear to God I’ll go to the police.’
He looks even more upset now. ‘The police?’ He says the words as if he doesn’t fully understand what I mean, as if I’ve just offered him an ice cream. ‘Oh God, Julianne, is this why you’ve been acting strangely all evening?’
My eyes widen. ‘Of course it is. What am I supposed to think when I find something as strange as this in a file with your name on it? And there are more of them. This isn’t the only one. Who are they? Why do you have all these details on them? Are you having an affair?’
As soon as these last five words are out my mouth, I regret them. And I know they’re foolish. Whatever this is, it isn’t simple infidelity. If infidelity is ever simple.
‘Please, darling, listen to me. Please.’
I stand in silence, ready to back away if he comes any closer. I don’t want his hands on me. I don’t want him trying to comfort me. ‘I’m listening.’
He takes a deep breath. ‘Julianne, you know what I do for a living. You know that part of my job is to gather information for our clients. Publicly available information, gathered legally and ethically.’
‘This doesn’t look legal or ethical.’
He holds up a hand, a habit of his that’s always irritated me. ‘This isn’t from me or my company. It’s from a start-up firm we were looking to acquire. It’s based in an office block in Mile End and, well, it all looks very promising. It’s run by two young women, actually, along with a few men they subcontract to. They’re very good, very ‘of the moment’, one might say. Very keen to see how information can lead to political gain, social reform. This was part of a project of theirs, looking at disadvantaged people in certain parts of London and the South-East. I think they were looking to sell this to a left-wing pressure group.’
His words are tumbling around inside my head. Have I got this so catastrophically wrong?
‘We aren’t acquiring the firm. We had concerns about their methods – the legality of them. We would never condone people posing as social workers and health professionals in order to get key personal info, like their STI status or drug-use habits. To be completely honest, that kind of thing does go on. Data harvesting through surveillance and undercover work. But those services are usually provided for either rather shady clients paying big bucks or …’ He stops, as if he’s just lost his nerve. Or caught himself before saying something he doesn’t want to.
‘Or?’ I ask.
‘Or MI5.’
I look at the floor. ‘Right. I see.’
‘I think it’s likely this company is trying to appeal to clients who don’t have the same ethical standards I hold so highly. I can honestly assure you, Varvello would never, ever take part in this kind of thing. If it needs to go on, and I’m sure it does, this is the sort of surveillance the security services should carry out on people they’re suspicious about. It shouldn’t be done on the general population by a private firm, with the resulting information sold to the highest bidder.’
I can feel him getting energised. He’s passionate about his work, about the amazing things that can be done with big data, the influence it can have. It both impresses me and scares me. ‘I’m so sorry you had to see it. But please believe me when I tell you it isn’t anything to do with me personally.’
I stare at him, watching the pleading eyes, clearly willing me to believe him. He wants to save me, I can see it in his face. He wants to save me from the horror, be my protector, convince me the hell I’ve been going through is all over now. But I’m not convinced.
‘Then why were the files in your family’s Dropbox file? Why not in your work account or on your computer? Surely you of all people know how sensitive that kind of thing is? Surely it’s illegal your even having it, so easily available?’
He winces. ‘It wasn’t clever of me, I know. I did it by mistake. I meant to put them in my personal account, but I was already logged in to this one and didn’t notice when I dragged them over to my folder.’
I shake my head. ‘I think there’s something else. Something you’re not telling me. And we can’t sort this – we can’t properly fix this – until we talk about it.’
He looks at me appalled. ‘Julianne … there’s nothing more to this …’
‘The truth. All of it. Not some dialled-down version of it.’ I say it loudly and firmly and it takes him aback.
‘Stephen will hear you,’ he hisses. ‘Julianne, please can we just forget about all of this?’
‘Forget about it? Are you serious? If all of what you’re saying is true, surely these would be kept on some kind of secure server or in some other safe place or on a hardrive, only to be looked at by people like you at work. Do you routinely just fling files by accident into your family accounts? What else will I find in there if I go digging? Company policy documents? Pension details?’
He’s looking a bit desperate now. ‘I know. What you’re saying makes sense and that’s usually the case. But …’
‘You copied them, James. You took files from this dodgy company and you copied them. You kept copies for yourself. And you don’t want to know where my mind is going right now.’
‘Okay.’ His deep, hazel eyes are still fixed on me imploringly, his hands reaching out for me, but I step away from him. ‘I’ll tell you everything. I didn’t want to go into it, but if I really have to, I’ll explain. Just … sit down.’
I stay completely still for a few seconds, then take a seat on the small, single-seat sofa we have by the bedroom desk we rarely use. He looks put off – apparently he expected me to sit on the bed – but he sits down on top of the covers on his own, the two of us facing each other.
‘You know I mentioned the security services?’
I don’t reply. Just watch him.
‘Well, I have a friend. Someone Ernest and I went to school with. You don’t know him. He didn’t go to Oxford with us. He works … in that area of things.’
He pauses, waiting for me to react, but I still say nothing.
‘This is all a bit difficult to speak about. It’s sensitive territory. Well, he’s the type of person who would have some use for the data this company provides. For his own services. In the interests of keeping the country safe. So I took some of their files to send on to him.’
It takes me a moment to digest this.
‘Are you telling me you headhunt data companies for MI5? Let them know when you come across people who would do things for them that ordinary, law-abiding people can’t?’
He squirms a little, sitting up straighter. ‘I would prefer it if we just didn’t talk about this. Really, Julianne. That’s all I want to say and, honestly, it’s all I think you should know. But you can rest assured I don’t approve of such practices and neither I nor my colleagues commission them or have any part in them.’
I’m rather stunned by all of this. I knew this wouldn’t be an easy conversation, but of all the places I expected it to go, this wasn’t one of them. He’s not seeing prostitutes. He’s not having multiple affairs with women across London. He’s still James. My husband.
Eventually, I nod. The relief spreads across his face. ‘Okay,’ I say. ‘But there’s still another problem. Stephen.’ He looks as if he’s about to hug me, but stops himself at the mention of his son’s name.
‘Stephen? What does Stephen have to do with this? With any of this?’
The tears come now. I’m not sure if it’s relief or still the after-effects of tonight’s ordeal, but they pour down all the same. ‘Stephen saw the files. He found them. That’s how I know about them. He brought them to me.’
His hands go up to his face and for a second I think he’s about to scream. ‘Fuck,’ he says through clenched teeth. He falls onto the bed and kneels forward, running his hands through his hair. ‘Christ. I’m so sorry about all this. I’ll talk to him. He doesn’t … he doesn’t really think … I have anything to do with them?’
I watch him agonise for a second or two before replying. It’s as if he’s a teenager again; the same eighteen-year-old I fell in love with, but with the quiet confidence stripped away. ‘But you do have something to do with them. Don’t you? You just explained it to me.’
‘Shit,’ he says bitterly, rubbing his eyes now. When he sits up they look red and tired. ‘I had minimal involvement, Julianne. Please believe that. I know I keep saying it, but I’m so sorry. I really am. I’ll talk to him. I’ll make sure he understands.’
I’m still watching him carefully. I’m convinced. I think. All the torment of the past few hours is starting to feel like a bad dream. A nightmare. I want it to go away. I go to him and take his head in my arms and hold it to my chest, then lower myself down to his level so I can look him in the face.
‘When you tell Stephen, you’re not to mention anything about what you just told me. Nothing about the security services. Nothing about spies or MI5. He’s a teenage boy. That type of thing should be confined to TV shows and novels. Tell him what you told me first.’
‘That I got the wrong Dropbox account?’
I nod.
‘I love you.’ He says it simply, but I know what he wants in return. Reassurance. Comfort. Absolution.
‘I’m sorry I ever thought … what I thought,’ I say.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s over. It’s okay.’ He leans forward and kisses me tenderly. I hold him close for a moment, and then we separate.
‘Be careful with how you talk to Stephen. I mean it. I don’t want his Christmas ruined over this and to go back to school thinking …’
‘I promise,’ he says.
‘And …’ The words catch in my throat as I say them and come out in almost a whisper. ‘There’s nothing else? Nothing else at all … that you want to tell me?’
His expression turns hard to read and he says, sounding slightly puzzled, ‘What else could there be?’
I nod. ‘Okay. Let’s just … let’s just go to sleep.’
‘Good idea,’ he says, and walks towards the bathroom. I watch him, hoping to feel relieved. Hoping to see again the man I love above everything else. But all I notice is the way his hand trembles as he reaches out to close the door. Ever so slightly.