Are you sure this is a good idea?
Yes, Mark knows. I told him.
Do you believe him?
I unwind the car window and reread Liz’s text. Do I believe that nothing happened between my husband and Edie Christian?
My heart says yes, my head says I need to be sure.
That’s fair enough. I’m here if you need to talk afterward. You know that, don’t you?
I do. Thanks, Liz. Xx
“Mrs. Wilkinson!” Edie Christian raises a hand and waves. Her long blond hair is tied back in a ponytail and she’s wearing a red flowery dress with black leggings and sensible shoes. Her lanyard swings from left to right as she bounces across reception toward me.
“Miss Christian.” I shake her outstretched hand and force a smile, aware that the receptionist is watching.
“I’ve booked a private meeting room,” she says as she ushers me down a corridor. “A lot of the year heads are in the office today and I know you wanted a private chat.”
I know her office well. I felt as though I spent half my life there last year, discussing Billy’s various “issues.” I’d mentally prepared myself for our chat to take place there and I’m thrown by her suggestion that we talk in private.
She opens the door to a small beige room, and gestures at the desk and six chairs in the center. Does she know what I’m about to ask her? Is that why she wants me out of earshot of the other staff?
“Take a seat. Would you like a tea or coffee? Some water?”
She radiates a happy, enthusiastic energy but there’s something strained about the smile that’s been fixed to her face since she spotted me in reception.
“I’m fine. Thank you.” I take the chair nearest the door.
“How are you?” she asks, leaning toward me, all bright enthusiasm and curiosity. “Is there any news about Billy? Anything I, or the school, could do to help?”
I shift in my chair, cross my ankles, then uncross them again. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Two days have passed since my conversation with Mark. Forty-eight torturous hours of going back and forward in my mind about whether or not this is a good idea.
“Miss Christian.”
“Yes.”
“Have you been having an affair with my husband?”
She recoils, her chair creaking as she sits back. Her right hand flies to her chest. “I’m sorry?”
“My husband. Mark Wilkinson. Have you been having an affair with him?”
“No.” Her hand drifts from her chest to her throat. “God, no.”
“But you’ve kissed?”
“What? No.” She glances toward the window in the top of the closed office door as a student walks past. “Whatever gave you that— Oh.” Her expression morphs from horror to understanding. “This is about what happened last year, isn’t it?”
I nod. “My brother-in-law told me that Billy saw you kissing. He put a brick through Mark’s car window.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She sits forward in her chair again, her professional demeanor regained. “Mrs. Wilkinson. I’m not sure what your brother-in-law told you but I think he might have got the wrong end of the stick. Your husband was very upset that night. I recognized him and went up to the bar to check if he was okay. He was . . .” She glances toward the door again and lowers her voice. “He was very drunk. Very upset.”
“And he tried to kiss you?”
“Yes. But I rebuffed him. There really wasn’t anything to it. I left shortly afterward.”
“Did he say anything? After he tried to kiss you?”
She shifts in her seat. “I’m not sure it would be helpful if I—”
“Please. What did he say?”
“He said that you were the love of his life and he thought he was going to lose you. He said he knew you were unhappy but he didn’t know how to make things right. He blamed himself. He said he’d been working so hard you’d barely seen each other and it had all been for nothing. I told him to talk to you, to tell you how he felt.” She gives me a long, lingering look.
“We didn’t have that conversation.”
“I see.”
“And when you met him recently, at the doctor’s, what did he say then?”
She looks surprised. “He said how sorry he was. He was really very apologetic. I said it was okay, that I’d already forgotten about it.”
“And that’s it? That’s all the contact you’ve had since it happened?”
“Yes.” She runs a hand over her hair. A diamond glitters on the ring finger of her left hand. “That’s all the contact we’ve had, other than when the two of you were both here about Billy.”
“Did you see him?” I ask.
“Sorry?”
“Billy. You said you left the pub shortly after Mark . . . after the incident. Did you see Billy when you left?”
She gazes up at the ceiling as she tries to remember. “I don’t know. I couldn’t say for sure. It was very dark. I spotted a couple of people over by the bins. I was startled when I saw them. I remember walking faster but I couldn’t tell you if one of them was Billy.”
“Were they male or female?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. As I said, it was dark. I’m sorry. Is there anything else I can—”
“No.” I stand up so quickly my chair tips backward and I have to put out a hand to stop it from falling. “No, that’s it. Thank you so much for your time. I won’t bother you again.”
“Mrs. Wilkinson,” she says as I reach for the door handle. “One more thing, before you go.”
“Yes.”
“I know it’s not my place to give you advice but I do think it might help if you and your husband had a convers—”
“I don’t think that’s any of your business, do you?”