As soon as I get home, I know that Max knows. His car isn’t in the driveway. The girls would normally be upstairs doing homework now, yet the house is in darkness.
The security light clicks on as I approach the front door, checking my phone again. No word from anyone. No explanation for his absence, other than the obvious one.
“Eva? Pops?” I call out in the hallway, putting down my rucksack. The house answers me with silence.
Oh, God. What if he’s taken them? Would he do that? Maybe to use them to get what he wants? Why didn’t I consider that a possibility?
My heart starts to thump in panic. I don’t want to be in the kitchen if he returns, but I don’t want to be in the hallway or upstairs either. And I’m trying to work out what that means—which room that leaves me with—when the key turns in the lock and the front door closes and I’m out of options because he’s standing right there, in the kitchen doorway.
“Hello, Jess.”
I didn’t put on the main lights in the kitchen, only the stove light so that I could still see outside. The room is in semidarkness, casting an ominous shadow over his face. “Where are the girls?”
“At Mum’s. Just for a couple of hours.”
“Why?”
“You know why.” He doesn’t say this unpleasantly, but my heart shrivels all the same. I glance about me, at the knife block, the cutlery drawer, the saucepan rack.
He puts his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing his work suit, has loosened the tie. “How long have you known?” he asks.
“About six weeks.”
Hanging his head, he says, “I’m sorry.” And then turns on his heel, leaving the room.
What am I supposed to do, follow him?
I listen. He’s in the dining room. The click of the drinks’ cabinet opening and closing. Liquid pouring. Silence as he drinks. The sound of a glass meeting the table. Now he’s going through to the living room.
I think for a moment. I’m still wearing my shoes. The car keys are in my coat pocket. I can make a run for it—collect the girls, take it from there.
I’m tiptoeing down the hallway when he calls to me. “Jess?”
I stop, hesitate. “What do you want?”
I know what he wants. I look at the front door, telling myself to keep moving, to leave before he sucks me in to all his lies and artifice.
“To talk... Please, Jess?”
Beside me on the dresser is a photo of Poppy I’ve always loved. She’s two years old, holding a baby watering can.
He’s still their dad. What if he were to say something that might make this good? Is there the slightest chance of that? Probably not. Yet maybe I should hear what he has to say.
Five minutes. I’ll give him five minutes.
He’s poured me a drink—holds it up for me as I enter the room. But I don’t take it from him. I want to be able to think clearly and to drive.
“How much do you know?” he asks.
“Enough.”
“Jesus.” He pulls off his tie, tosses it onto the floor. Then he takes a gulp of whiskey, shuddering.
“Should you be drinking on an empty stomach?” I remain close to the door.
“Don’t see why not.” He looks up at me with those big green eyes. “Did she find you and tell you in person or something?”
“Who?”
“Nicky... I can’t remember her surname.”
“Nicky Waite.” It feels strange saying her name out loud, in front of him.
“Well, did she?”
“No.”
He doesn’t know what happened to her?
“She’s dead, Max. Has been for nearly a decade.”
“What?” He stares at me, incredulous. “So, why does this matter, then? Why do you care?”
“Why do I care?” I step toward him and then retreat again, not wanting to get too close. “You raped her, Max! Raped her!”
“Stop saying that,” he snaps, setting his drink down heavily on the table. “That’s not how it was. She turned it all around, lied, but we knew the truth. And it wasn’t rape, I can tell you.”
“Really? Because we read her diary. And it read like rape to us.”
“Us? Who’s us?”
“Me and the other wives. Priyanka. Stephanie. Surely your friends must have mentioned them at some point over the years when you were hiding this from us, making sure the truth never came out?”
“They’re not my friends. I barely know them.”
“Liar!” I yell. “I saw your photo in the club—the three of you, thick as thieves.”
“Shut up!” he shouts, springing up. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You weren’t there. I was there. I know what happened!”
“Yes, and so did Nicky. And it was rape!”
“For fuck’s sake! Listen to me! She was a prick tease and she was drunk out of her mind.” He squares his jaw, pointing at me. “She didn’t say no. She didn’t lift a finger to stop us. Sound like rape to you? No, didn’t think so.”
He sits back down, snatching up his drink, downing it in one, then picking up my full glass.
“She was terrified, Max! It was three against one. What did you expect? She was too frightened to say or do anything. There’s no way you didn’t realize that! Had you paid enough attention—had you cared. Had you stopped to actually think about what you were doing to her. She was just a kid!”
“So was I!” he yells, jumping up again, slopping his drink on the carpet. “I didn’t know what was going on any more than she did. She used us just as much as we used her. And then afterward she tried to twist everything.”
“No!” I scream, waving my arms in frustration. “That’s a lie! You’re lying! There’s a massive difference between doing something against someone’s will and getting their consent. And she didn’t give you her consent.”
“Oh, God, listen to yourself. They’ve got to you, haven’t they? The fucking PC brigade.”
“What PC brigade? There is no brigade! This is just basic decency, and abiding by the law. What you did was a crime. And I’ll prove it. We have a witness!”
I stop abruptly, turning away.
“What witness?” he says.
I didn’t mean to say that. I stare at the mantelpiece. Eva’s looking at me; her most recent school photo, her dental brace gleaming. She seems so pleased with herself and her life. I hate that that’s about to change.
“She had a daughter, you know... Holly.”
“She was the witness?”
I spin around. “No, you idiot. Holly was conceived that night. One of you had a daughter. And she had a terrible life from start to finish. She died of alcoholism, and before she passed away, she wanted us to know what you did to her mother. And that’s how we found out.”
Look at him, his eyes bulbous with fear, sweat staining his shirt. I loved him. Six weeks ago, I loved him just as much as anyone’s ever loved anyone.
“I didn’t know that,” he says.
“But she told you she was pregnant, and you did nothing to help her.”
“Maybe.” He nods. “But I didn’t know about...that girl... Holly.”
“Sounds like there’s a lot you didn’t know. Like what constitutes rape.”
“Just drop it, Jess!” he shouts, his hand forming a fist. “These are people’s lives you’re screwing with.”
“I’m screwing with?” I shout back. “Well, that’s rich! Maybe if you’d done the right thing thirty years ago, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”
“What mess? You said she’s dead. Nothing’s going to change that. So, why are you stirring all this up again? What’s the point?”
I watch him as he squirms, undoing another button on his shirt as his conscience chokes him.
He knew exactly what happened that night—knew it then, and now. But he was never going to admit it, not even if Nicky came back from the dead to testify.
“You’re right,” I say, stepping back into the doorway. “This is a waste of time. I’m not going to argue with you. We’re going to sit down when the air’s cleared and things have settled, and we’re going to discuss this like adults.”
“Who is?”
“The six of us. And we’re going to work out what’s going to happen.”
He downs the remainder of the whiskey, wincing. “You’re out of your mind. No one’s going to be sitting down and discussing anything. You’ve no idea what you’re dealing with.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, my heart faltering.
“You’ll see.”
“Tell me what that means now, or I’ll phone the police.”
“And say what?”
“You know what I’ll say.”
He looks at me apprehensively. “I don’t know anything. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”
“Well, then now you know how it feels.”
Sinking into his chair, he rubs his face, speaking into his hands. “Dan’s a control freak, ex-military.”
“So?”
“So, he’s out there somewhere, stressing about a rape allegation, coming up with some plan.”
“I still don’t—”
“See? Clueless. You should have left all this well alone.”
“Are you saying he’s dangerous?”
“No. I’m saying you should have told me first and I could have handled it. He was the worst person to have found this out.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“I tried to. He left me a garbled message. And since then, his phone’s been switched off.”
I clench my hands inside my coat pockets, thinking about why Stephanie hasn’t called.
Max doesn’t matter now. I shouldn’t be here, babysitting him. I should be ringing the others, checking that they’re okay. I should be with my girls.
As I leave, I look over my shoulder, my progress arrested by the sight of him sobbing. “Is that it? Is our marriage over?” he asks.
I don’t sugarcoat it for him. “Yes.”
“Oh, God, no.” He covers his face with his hands. “No, Jess. Please...”
Despite everything, I feel sorry for him. I wrestle with the unwanted emotion, telling myself not to fall for it—to keep walking. This is what they do. This is what they’re so good at.
Getting up, he comes toward me. “Please, Jess, I’m begging you. Please don’t let the girls find out about this. Don’t break up our family. I love you, baby.” He reaches for my hand.
I close my eyes briefly as he touches me. I’m remembering the first time I saw him. White shirt glowing, UV lights.
And then the image is gone. I pull my hand away. “Which one was the real you? Who did I marry? Jack or Max?”
“Hey?” He frowns. “I don’t get it. What do you mean?”
I shake my head. I already know the answer.
“Do you really believe you didn’t do anything wrong?” I ask, looking into his eyes.
He returns my gaze, his eyelashes wet spikes. “I...I’ve thought about it over the years. And...”
“And what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then let me tell you—she was outnumbered. She was in shock. She fell pregnant. She never got over it and died of an overdose. Her daughter was raised in poverty and died a lonely, miserable death too.”
“I didn’t know about any of that,” he says. “I’ve already told you.”
“And as I’ve already told you, you knew she was pregnant and could have helped her.”
“How? I didn’t have any money. I was a student.”
“Emotional support costs nothing.”
“Emotional support? I couldn’t have given her that either! I was twenty, for God’s sake!”
“Then maybe you should have thought about that before you raped her.”
He goes to bite back again, then changes his mind, shuffles his feet—as much of an admission of guilt as I’m ever going to get.
“I’ve got to go.” I do up the buttons on my new coat, pulling it straight.
“Is that what the brigade’s wearing these days?” he says spitefully.
I look at him in disappointment. I don’t want to remember him for that. I want to remember him for the tears, the quiet remorse.
“I’ll let that go, Max, because I know you’re scared. But this isn’t a manhunt, a conspiracy against you. You committed a serious crime, and I’ll never forgive you for it.”
And then, finally, I leave.
Outside in the car, my hands are trembling so badly, I can’t start the ignition. Smacking the steering wheel, telling myself to get it together, I try again and this time manage to pull out of the driveway.
I go only as far as the end of the road, before stopping to get out my phone. I try calling Stephanie and Priyanka. Neither of them pick up, so I leave messages, asking them to call me back as soon as possible. And then I drive to get the girls, wondering what to tell them, how much to say.