I’m at parents’ evening in the school hall, yawning silently, when my phone vibrates. No one’s looking at me. No one’s queuing to talk to me. Math is predictably popular, as is English; French, even. Yet people peer at my sign, see RPE and then pretend to be needed elsewhere.
I read the message on my lap.
17.55 P.M. >
Call me ASAP. Steffie’s husband found the letter.
My brain makes a sluggish connection: Andy already knows and is steeped in denial, prepared to playact for the rest of his life; but what about Daniel Brooke? What sort of person is he? Stephanie’s barely said a word about him.
I have to get out of here. Leaving the hall, I stumble along the corridor, moving away from people and noise. I push open the double doors to the canteen. It’s perfect: dark, empty.
I feel about in the blackness, inching forward until I knock into a chair. Sitting down, I dial Jess, my hand on my heart, feeling it race.
“Pree?” She sounds out of breath, on the move. “Where are you?”
“Parents’ evening. Where are you?”
“On my way home from work. You got my text?”
“Yes. What happened?”
“No idea. Steffie just rang to say that Dan found the letter. I don’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen!”
“No,” I say unhelpfully.
“But then maybe we don’t have to do anything? I mean, this makes it easier in some ways, doesn’t it? They had to find out somehow. Saves us having to do it... Damn it! I’m going under the subway. If I lose you, I’ll—”
My phone remains lit for a moment and then blacks out and I’m sitting in the dark again.
Andy’s looking after Beau right now. He’ll be getting fish fingers out of the oven, taking baked beans off the stove, buttering toast.
Or maybe none of that’s happening. Maybe—
She’s ringing again.
“Look, I’m nearly at the car. Steffie doesn’t know where he is. But chances are, he’s told Max and Andy, so be on your guard... Pree? You there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Thought I’d lost you again... I don’t think this changes anything—doesn’t give them any power. We’re still doing this our way. We just need to wait for things to calm down. So let’s stay strong, okay?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll call you later, soon as I—” In the background, a car honks and she gasps. “Oh my God, that made me jump... Pree?”
“Yes?”
“Good luck.”
“Jess?”
She’s gone.
Rocking myself, I think about Meena’s old joke: Can the real Priyanka Bandyopadhyay please stand up? If ever there were a time when that applied, it’s surely now.
But I don’t want to go home to more lies and protestations of innocence. Or worse: acting as though nothing’s wrong.
Getting up, I smack my bandaged wrist against the edge of the table and stop in shock before the pain hits me and I yelp, dropping my phone. Crying, I grope about in the dark, my nails scratching at the wooden flooring.
Retrieving my phone, I stand up, feeling determined suddenly.
I know exactly what I’m going to do. It’s what I should have done right from the start. No one’s better equipped than me. I solicit confessions every day of the week, from small misdemeanors to gross infractions resulting in expulsion. It’s all the same thing, the same technique.
Tell me what happened.
The trick is not to respond as soon as they reply, but to wait. Because the truth nearly always comes next, filling the silence.
Our home looks idyllic from the outside: the silver birch tree twinkling with fairy lights, the stained-glass door panel depicting the sun with rainbow rays, Beau’s straw yule goat in the living room window.
As I get out of the car, carrying my books in one hand, my wrist is weeping through the bandage. I’m going to have to soak it off and apply ointment as soon as I can.
Fumbling for my keys, I realize it was the butterfly—that side of my personality and history—that got me into this marriage. Without it, I wouldn’t have needed someone like Andy to rescue me and everything would have been different.
But it’s no use thinking like that now. I did marry him. And he withheld his past from me. And now we have to face the consequences of those choices.
“Pree?” he calls out, as I close the door behind me. Setting down my keys and bag, I take a moment to compose myself. “How did it go?”
I look at Beau’s latest creative endeavor on the console table: painted macaroni glued onto a paper plate. Everything’s going to change for him. I tried so hard to avoid this, to stop his world from being devastated. Yet in the end, I couldn’t stop it. No one could have.
Andy appears in the doorway, blocking the light. “How was it?”
I can tell by the look on his face that Daniel Brooke hasn’t contacted him yet. “Fine.”
He doesn’t approach for a kiss—has one eye on the TV in the living room.
“Is Beau okay?” I ask, picking up a double-glazing flyer, feigning interest in it, stalling.
“Yep. All fed. Just needs a bath, but I thought you’d like to do that.”
I would, yes, ordinarily. Tonight, though, it feels like a mammoth task. I examine my bandage, tentatively lifting it away from the wound. “Where’s your phone?” I ask.
“Uh.” He taps his pockets, glances around the room. “Maybe I left it in the car. Why? Have you been calling?”
“No.”
“Oh.” He looks confused, then nods at my wrist. “Is it playing up?”
I go to respond, slipping into domesticity, chitchat. But I have to stop his game...and start mine.
“We need to talk.”
“That sounds serious.” Incongruously, he smiles. “Shall we go through to the kitchen? I’ll just get my cuppa...”
“Leave it,” I say.
“Okay...” He glances at me warily. Going to the door, he holds it open for me. “Shall we?” Something about him feels stilted, forced, reminiscent of something, but I can’t think what.
The kitchen smells of egg and beans. A frying pan is blocking the sink, and the counter is littered with dirty plates and cutlery. “Sorry about the mess,” he says, opening the dishwasher. “I haven’t had a chance to—”
“Don’t do that now,” I say, leaving the door ajar so I can listen for Beau. “It’s not important.” Sitting down at the table, I find a clean place among the crumbs to rest my sore wrist, In the Night Garden music drifting from the living room.
I gaze at the PVC tablecloth that Beau chose especially: lines of toy soldiers with curly mustaches and shiny boots.
That’s what he thinks men—heroes—are like. That’s what he thinks Daddy’s like.
“What’s up?” Andy rests his back against the sink, one foot crossed over the other. “Did something happen at parents’ evening?” His voice is so pleasant, so considerate. And that’s when I realize what his stilted demeanor reminds me of, or who.
Lee.
What was the phrase Nicky used? The act of chivalry...
“Tell me what happened.”
It goes quiet and I can hear In the Night Garden again. I focus on one of Beau’s day care paintings on the fridge. Trees, block houses, stick people with huge heads.
“What happened...” he says, as though trying to recall an obscure fact. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
I help him get there. “The letter, Andy.”
“You mean about Nicky Waite?” He looks surprised.
Funny that he struggled to recall her name when I first mentioned the letter. And yet now it’s right there, at the surface of his mind, bobbing like a rotten apple.
It’s the first sign he’s given that the truth is within my grasp. Not as far away as I’d imagined.
“Yes,” I reply. “That’s right.”
“I thought we already discussed this and agreed it was purely attention-seeking.”
I nod.
He continues. “I thought we decided to put it behind us? And that’s exactly what I’ve been doing, and I thought you were too.”
Again, I nod. He takes this as agreement, his face brightening. “So, what’s the use in raking it up? It has absolutely no bearing on our lives.”
I nod a third time. “Except that you haven’t had a chance to tell me your version of events. And I think you deserve that.”
He frowns. “I... Well, I told you. She slept with the two other chaps.”
“And somehow that became a rape allegation.”
Shifting position, he folds his arms. “But it was nothing to do with me, as I already said.”
“Yet your name was in the letter.”
“I don’t know why that was.” He narrows his eyes at me, unsure where I’m going, whose side I’m on.
“Andy...I know everything. I met Katie, your ex-wife.”
“You what? Why on earth would you do that?”
“She told me about the floating restaurant and—”
“Floating restaurant?” He laughs unconvincingly. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“She said that you wanted her take on it...as a rape counselor.” I let those words linger, watching his face grow taut. “Why would you have done that, if you weren’t involved?”
He opens his mouth to reply, hesitating.
“It’s okay, Andy. You can tell me. I know you want to lay the burden down.”
It was the wrong thing to say—too on the nose. I feel him drawing away from me again, from the truth.
“You’re not seriously going to believe a word Katie says, are you? She’s a flake, a do-gooder. I should never have married her.”
“Actually, I thought she was very nice and utterly convincing.”
A noise from the television—raised voices—causes him to stare at the door, in Beau’s direction. Getting up, I close the door with a soft click.
I sit back down, my hands sticking to the PVC cloth.
I can do this. We’re almost there. I have two more cards to play.
“It’s ridiculous how a bit of fooling around gets blown up into something it’s not,” I begin. “You see it all the time, especially at school. It’s so over the top, when really it’s just boys being boys.”
He looks at me uncertainly.
“It’s such a minefield.” The fridge hums. I cock my ear, listening for Beau, hearing the murmur of the TV. “I can see how things might be misinterpreted, especially in the heat of the moment.”
“Right,” he says, fiddling with a plate on the counter beside him, nudging it away.
He’s not daft—is more worldly than my students. He’s not going to fall for it.
I change tack slightly. “Besides, like you said, it’s not as if it matters now anyway. It was thirty years ago. Nicky’s not even alive.”
He stiffens, eyebrows rising. “What?”
“She died.”
“When?”
“Ten years or so ago, of an overdose. Her daughter didn’t believe it was accidental.”
“That’s terrible,” he says, rubbing his cheek. “Poor woman.” But I catch the relief on his face. He’s not quick enough to conceal it. “And how do you know all this?”
My face flushes. Jess told me to be on my guard. I don’t want to mess anything up.
I’m going to have to play my last card and fast.
Standing up, I set my hands on the back of my chair. “Why did she think it was rape, Andy? What did they do—restrain her, beat her up? Were you the one keeping lookout, or holding her down? Is that why she included you in the allegation, because—”
“That’s not how it went!” he says heatedly. “No one used violence against her or even threatened her with it. I told you before—she seemed very into the whole thing.”
I want to take him up on that word seemed, but I don’t.
He regains his composure, tucking in his shirt, standing taller. “She was drunk. We all were. She followed us into the storeroom of her own free will. No one made her. Brooke thought she was leading us on, if anything—a social climber.”
“So, you decided to teach her a lesson? Is that why you used the side door, instead of signing her in? Because it was a trap?”
He tries to look outraged, but doesn’t succeed. There’s something else dominating his expression, an internal conflict. “How do you know about—”
“Why did you use false names?” I ask. “Had you used them before, or was it just that night—part of the plan to make sure she couldn’t trace you?”
“Stop it, Pree! There wasn’t a plan.” He places his hand on his hip, his other hand waggling at me, but it’s trembling. He can’t hide that. “The nicknames were just a bit of fun. We used them sometimes when we were chatting up the ladies.”
His hand drops limply to his side, the conflict there on his face again.
“What is it, Andy? What’s bothering you? Did you get caught up in something and couldn’t stop it?”
He gazes at me, torn.
I recall a detail from the diary then: the whispering outside the club before they went in. “Was it a last-minute thing—a sudden change of plan?”
“I knew something was up,” he says, “but I didn’t know what—didn’t catch what was said.”
I nod sympathetically, taking a step toward him. “Tell me what happened.”
He reaches for the plate again, nudging it distractedly. “Everyone had too much...” He searches for the right word, or excuse. “...Too much alcohol.”
He’s looking at me to say something, anything, but I’m not going to. I’m going to let him fill the spaces now. Instead, I take another step forward.
“Jack...Max...made the first move. He started kissing her. I didn’t really know what was going on, but it was...well, she was a very attractive girl.”
Again, he looks at me to speak.
I’m thinking about how previously he’d called them Jackson someone, someone Brooke. And yet now how well versed he is.
I wait, keeping my face blank.
“Before I knew what was happening, Jack was...having sex with her, against the wall. She didn’t say a word, didn’t stop him or put up a fight. I thought she must have been enjoying it.”
Must have.
He looks away, at the floor, at his feet.
“Brooke was... Well, Dan...he...he was a bit rougher with her. She didn’t say anything. Her face was buried, hidden, so I wasn’t sure what was happening.”
It’s so quiet, I pray for Beau’s TV show to remain unobtrusive, no sudden noises.
He shuffles his feet, fiddling with the plate. “Afterward, she stayed still, didn’t move an inch. I didn’t want any part in it. But Brooke and Jack turned on me, accusing me of being a voyeur, gutless. Brooke said that a real man would just get on with it.”
I’m right in front of him now, looking up at him so intently he’s morphing into someone else. Faces do that, if you stare too hard. It’s just that his face was so familiar, I never thought I’d see anyone else there.
I take in the silver hairs, the jade vein on his temples, wondering how he could be saying this, here, now, after so long. It’s so fragile this moment, one wrong move and it would break.
His voice drops to almost a murmur. “Just before I...started...she opened her eyes...and...”
And what? I hold my breath.
Stay quiet, Beau. Please, baby boy.
“...There was no one there. Her eyes were like glass. I didn’t...I didn’t want to. But I felt railroaded. In the end, it felt like the only way out of there.”
I don’t move, don’t speak.
“Afterward, I realized she was in shock. Her skin was cold. She was breathing quickly, staring around as though lost. Brooke and Jack ran out. I wanted to stay and help her, but Brooke called me a moron and pulled me away.”
He breathes in deeply, exhales in a shudder, his face ash gray. And then he looks at me as though he didn’t even realize I was there.
“Andy...” I begin, wondering whether to say it.
I have to.
“...It was you who she liked. She was there because of you. She thought you were kind, a real gent.”
“What?” His body sways, disorientated.
There’s a swell of sound behind us, footsteps approaching. The door handle rattles, and Beau enters looking very pleased with himself.
“I turned the television off, Mummy,” he announces, pressing his hands together.
Andy is staring at him, startled. Turning away, he bows his head over the sink. I think for a moment that he’s going to be sick, but then I realize he’s crying noiselessly, shoulders shaking.
I’ve never seen him cry before.
Beau looks at him quizzingly and then holds out his hand to me, beaming. Nothing interferes with bath time.
“Come on, then,” I say, glancing back at Andy.
Ascending the stairs, I’m aware of him underneath us, the grim silence.
“Does it hurt, Mummy?” Beau points at my bandage.
“Yes.” I press a kiss onto his forehead, inhaling the scent of his day care hair. “It does.”
As he splashes about in the bath, I sit on the edge of the tub, redressing my bandage as best I can with shaking hands. Then I check my phone. Nothing from Jess yet. I can’t remember how we left it, other than her telling me to stay strong.
I watch Beau, my heart barely ticking.
Downstairs, a door closes. Whoever that is down there, it’s not Andy, not anymore.