“Can’t they put themselves to bed?” Max says, as I sit down beside him on the sofa with a heavy sigh. He’ll interpret this as my doing too much for the girls, wearing myself out, yet it’s him who’s weighing me down. I swear I’ve aged more than the recommended amount today. “They’re old enough now.” He places his hand on my knee.
“I enjoy tucking them in,” I say. “They won’t always be here.”
“Good. Then it’ll be just you and me.” He smiles at me flirtatiously.
I can’t help it: regardless of the burden I’m bearing, I fancy him. And I like him this way most of all—tracksuit bottoms and sweater, contact lenses removed, glasses in their place. He smells of home.
He’s a very active guy, running a business, going to the gym, ferrying the girls about. And then he stops, sheds his suit and settles onto the sofa, becoming someone you’d think never left the house. I’ve never known a man who watches so much TV. He’s a person of extremes: either full-on, or full-off.
I wonder suddenly whether his niceness has a flip side too.
He turns to kiss me, touching my chin to keep me in place. For all his strength, he’s very gentle and his kisses can melt me. After sixteen years of marriage, you’re not supposed to still crave your spouse, but he can just look at me and I want to go to bed with him. The fact that he’s so dynamic at work, has so much energy as a dad and loves socializing too, only makes me want him more when he’s on downtime. I don’t see it as getting the leftovers, but the real him, the restful one who no one else sees.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning.
“Nothing.”
I’m thinking about the other side of him, the busy man. I used to fret that his colleagues—ambitious millennials with discreet tattoos—would fancy him as much as I did. They would notice the muscles, the way he helped them when the photocopier was jammed, so hands-on, amiable. But I never thought for one moment that it was anything other than Max being Max. I never worried that he might cheat, because he’s always been such a good guy.
Hasn’t he?
And why would that accusation make him a cheater anyway? It’s not the same thing.
I pull away from him, straightening my top. “Eva said Charlotte’s been getting at her again.”
He picks up the remote control, mutes the TV. “Why? What’s she done now?”
“Keeps flirting with a boy—the one Eva likes.”
“Oh.” He turns the volume back on, talks over it. “Tell her to ignore it. They’re their own worst enemies, teenage girls.”
“Really? How so?” I try not to have a tone in my voice, but it’s almost impossible.
He glances at me. “Well, you know, fighting over boys. My sisters were a nightmare. I used to go to the club, just to get away from them.”
I stare at him, my cheeks burning, but his eyes are on the TV. I wasn’t prepared for a mention of the club, and my immediate reaction is to jump up and leave the room.
“Where you going?” he calls after me.
“To make a cup of tea. Would you like one?”
“Yeah, go on, then.”
Standing with my hands against the counter, I bend my head, looking at the kitchen floor. I don’t know how long I can keep this up. It’s only been twenty-four hours, and I’m already struggling.
I used to think it was adorable that Max had three older sisters—that it was the reason he was so attentive and helpful. But now I’m wondering if it meant he was outnumbered, forced to live a separate life at the Montague Club, where boys could be boys...
And of course...he’s surrounded by females here too.
I’ve no idea how to face him with all this going around my head. I’m terrible at hiding things. I can’t stay here like this, though. I need to make a show of acting normally.
Going to the sink, I run the water, filling the kettle.
There’s something else too: that thing deep inside me that Priyanka Lawley unearthed in the day care car park... I’ve thought about it and it’s something I’m ashamed of, even though I can’t help it.
I have this weird compulsion to get at the truth in people, watch them squirm. I didn’t even know I did it until I met Max, and he introduced me to nice couples at dinner parties where the only requirement was being as fake as you could possibly be.
I’d keep it together during the first few drinks, but by the time dessert arrived, I’d be asking that smug man if his neighbors knew about his marijuana greenhouse. Or expressing sympathy for the breakdown of that uptight woman’s marriage who smiled at her husband throughout dinner even though we all knew about his hard-core porn addiction.
I didn’t do it to hurt them. It was just my reaction to being put in a situation where people were so artificial. I didn’t ask them to say anything I wasn’t prepared to say about myself. I have no problem with the truth. Why’s it such a big deal? Often, though, we didn’t get invited back.
That woman whose marital problems I inquired about...we never heard from her again. And that was when Max told me that I was an embarrassment, demanding the truth from people who didn’t want to tell it.
Just because my parents played games, he ventured... And then I blew up at him, outraged. What did my parents have to do with it? But I knew he was right. They had everything to do with it.
As the kettle clicks off, I sneak my phone out of my cardigan pocket and reread the text from Priyanka. It had to be her, although there was no name.
I didn’t mean to scare her with my business card, but I had to do something. I was going crazy at work and then it came to me: there was an emblem on the pile of books in her car. St. Saviour’s school. So, during lunch I drove there, found her Audi, left her my card.
It was her decision to contact me. She didn’t have to, but I’m glad she did. Now I’m going to have to do the same thing with Stephanie Brooke.
“Would you like a biscuit?” I call to Max.
No answer. I hover in the doorway of the living room, repeat the question. “Biscuit, Max?”
“Hmm. Please.” He’s frowning at the TV, picking the skin around his fingernails, lost in the program.
If he did what that letter says he did, I’m not going to be able to take it. It’ll break my heart. So why do this? Why not leave it alone? What’s wrong with me?
It’s because of my obsession with outing the truth. It’s come back to bite me in the worst possible way. It’s karma for making all those people squirm through dinner. It’s the universe telling me that if you want to play with the big guns—Truth, Integrity—then you’re going to have to take it yourself.
I always thought I did know how to take it, but maybe I don’t.
Back in the kitchen, I don’t want tea anymore. Instead, I take my phone into the bathroom since it’s the only room with a lock. Doing a search for historical rape allegations, I hold my breath, no idea what I’ll find.
The Crown Prosecution Service.
A feature entitled He Thinks He’s Got Away.
Men accused or on trial.
Denials, false accusations.
It’s never-ending. I keep scrolling down—article after article about cases being dropped, prosecution rates falling. It was her word against his; he said he didn’t do it. Lack of evidence. One in seventy chance of prosecution.
I’ll admit I’m surprised how bad it is. It’s not something I know much about because I’ve never been on the receiving end of any problems, maybe because I look like I can handle myself. Do abusers target a type, or is it just anyone and it’s the luck of the draw whether it’s you?
And what about the offenders? Are they a type too, or do some men get caught up in something against their better judgment, maybe even without realizing?
I’m hoping that’s Max, that he did something by mistake. That could happen, couldn’t it?
But could you actually rape someone without knowing it?
“Jess?” I freeze; he’s come looking for me. “What are you doing? I thought we were going to watch that program, the one with the woman with the hair?”
When you’re close, you can give descriptions like this.
“On my way,” I call, making a show of running the tap, while deleting the searches on my phone, grateful for the door between us.
“Don’t be long,” he says, moving away.
I can’t be doing this while he’s here. It’s too much. I’ll have to look things up at work, where there’s some space between us.
Finally making the tea, I think about the first time I ever saw him. We were in a nightclub that’s since shut down, but used to be the place to be. I hadn’t lived in Bath long, didn’t know many people, so was taking it all in. The dance floor was circular, sunken, with railings all around that men leaned over, ogling the women as they danced. Cattle market with chandeliers.
I was having a break from dancing, when I spotted him on the opposite side of the railings. He was wearing a white shirt glowing in the UV lights, and even then, he had big arms—well before Love Island. He was with a group of lads, all of whom he was shorter than, yet I looked only at him.
Our eyes met and that was it. I knew I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life.
I return to the living room, sitting on the sofa again. “You’re cold,” Max says, rubbing my hands. And then he pulls a blanket over me, carefully tucking it in around me. “There you go, baby.”
Baby may sound lame to you. It sounds lame to me too. My dad would laugh his head off. But it’s what Max has always called me and I’ve grown to like it. It makes me feel precious. He’s always taken good care of me—knew I wasn’t as tough as I seemed.
Trying to watch TV, I think again of the first time we met. Maybe Andrew Lawley and Daniel Brooke were there too that night and I didn’t pay attention. Maybe the truth was there for everyone to see right from the start, but no one looked for it.
“Warmed up yet?” he asks.
I lean my head against his shoulder. “Yes,” I lie.
I’m so cold. This is what fear feels like. Your blood creeps about slowly, sloshing, as though full of ice, dulling your mind.
One thing I’m sure about: I’m not going to be able to keep this up for long.