PRIYANKA

No one speaks. We’re too shocked. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I have met a lot of unique types over the years. When you hit the party circuit as hard as I did, you encountered these sorts of people all the time.

“Well, this confirms what I thought, to be honest,” Stephanie says, the s in honest whistling sharply.

One of the language teachers at school has the same slight impediment, her s’s making distracting whistle sounds, much to the boys’ amusement. It never seems to get to her, though. I guess when you can speak five languages, including Cantonese and Russian, you don’t care about a hissing s.

“And what’s that?” Jess asks.

“That this is a waste of time.”

Jess doesn’t respond, is moving a sheet of cardboard out of the way—the reason she couldn’t get the door open. There’s paint-splattered cardboard all over the floor, maybe as insulation.

“Is she some kind of artist?” I gaze at the canvases leaning against the walls like drunken bystanders: semiclad women with droopy breasts, messy mouths. Why would anyone want to create art like that? Yet at the same time...I can’t look away. Maybe it’s the same hollow-eyed woman in each painting, although it’s hard to tell.

“Was,” Jess says.

“Sorry?”

She pushes her hands rigidly into her coat pockets. Under these lights, her features look feline. “You said is she some kind of artist. But it’s was... She’s dead.”

“And you know that for sure?” Stephanie asks, holding her gloved hands in front of her as though scared she might fall knee-deep into the mess. It would be hard to cross the floor without stepping in a paint pot or rotting takeout. It’s that disgusting.

“Yes. I checked with the front desk before you arrived. They said someone on reception called Lewis knew her quite well... She was still young, only twenty-nine, poor girl, but had a drink problem. So tragic.”

I gaze at a Pot Noodle container and an empty bottle of vodka, wondering whether that constituted supper, my stomach churning guiltily.

It’s possible that everything in sight belonged to the unclaimed daughter of one of our husbands. The others are contemplating the same thing, I can tell. Stephanie’s face looks pinched. Jess is chewing her lip; she has marionette lines on both sides of her mouth—puppet lines, as my big sister, Meena, calls them.

At the thought of my sister and family and Leicester, my guilt increases. No matter how bad things seemed at times, my only real issue was that their grip was too tight. Yet imagine if it had been the other way around, with no one holding me, no safety net beneath me.

How could Holly Waite have lived here? How had she kept herself clean, safe?

I gaze at the portraits in turn, wondering whether one of them is her—whether I might see Andy’s likeness in one of them, but the faces are too distorted, ghoulish.

“Looks like she slept here,” I say, pointing at the bony mattress along the back wall, strewn with tampon boxes, bras, paintbrushes and congealed palettes. It reminds me of that famous work by Tracey Emin; the disheveled bed.

I remember then that Holly left all of this to us.

“You work for a gallery, don’t you, Jess? Presumably this is her work? Is it any good?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she says dispassionately. “I look after the relationship side of things.” She runs a finger along the nearest canvas, wiping the dust on her jeans. “I could have it evaluated, but what would be the point? Hardly seems fair, making a profit off her.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I just thought maybe the money could go to Rape Crisis or something.”

“Nice idea.” Jess nods. “We’ll circle back to it later.” She steps forward, accidentally kicking over a tower of Styrofoam cups, black coffee streaming across the cardboard flooring. “I wonder how long she lived like this.” Bending down, she opens a box, pulling out a teapot.

“You’re not going through all of that, are you?” I glance at my watch.

“No. I’m thinking of coming back tomorrow to talk to Lewis. He works Mondays...if you’re around?”

I consider this. Mondays are a bad night for me: marking books.

Stephanie is examining her gloves, pretending not to have heard. She really is the strangest person. I can’t make up my mind whether I pity her or want to be like her. Somehow she can just stand there, not feeling the need to say or do anything. Alongside her, I feel needy, immature.

“What do you do for a living?” I ask her.

She looks at me, blinks rapidly. “I’m a dental receptionist. At Chappell and Black, in the Circus.”

Never heard of it. Must be private.

She doesn’t like talking about herself, is shifting her weight. “Are you looking for something in particular?” she asks Jess.

“Not really. Just anything that helps us find out whether she was telling the truth.” She pushes away the box with a disappointed expression.

“The artwork is hers, look...” I point at the nearest painting. “Her initials—HW.”

“Oh, yeah. Well done.” She laughs wryly. “You’d think I’d have spotted that in my line of work... They’re actually quite beautiful, aren’t they, in a disturbing kind of way.”

“I agree.” I glance at Stephanie for her opinion, but she’s looking up at the ceiling.

I want to give Jess something, some sort of support, without signing up for too much. “Have you tried the local council?” I offer.

“Yeah. They gave me the date of death, 4th October. But couldn’t tell me anything else because of the risk of fraud.”

“Ironic,” Stephanie mutters.

“I’m sorry?” Jess says.

She hesitates. “It just seems ironic, given that she was the one committing fraud.”

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, obviously she needed money. And I’m assuming your husbands do well for themselves if they’re members of the Montague Club?”

Jess seems as fascinated by her as I am, staring at her as though she’s stood there naked. “Where are you going with this?”

She hesitates again and I confirm my original opinion of her: she’s not a confident speaker. “I...”

“Because Max and I don’t earn all that much. Our kids are at state school.” Jess folds her arms, making them look huge in her puffer. “And I don’t suppose Priyanka makes much as a teacher.”

At this point the boys at school would be chanting, digging a hole, digging a hole...

She should stop now.

“But her husband...” Stephanie begins.

“Oh, so it’s about our husbands earning the money? We can’t?” Jess isn’t being aggressive—even smiles; but Stephanie is floundering and doesn’t notice.

“That’s not what I’m saying...” She looks tearful and I feel sorry for her. I would put my arm around her and call her me duck if I knew her better. But even if we were sisters, I sense that she wouldn’t want me to.

Jess kicks an empty can of lager, the ring pull tinkling inside. “Let’s drop it. I was only messing with you.” She glances at me and I shrug, not wanting to get involved.

I can tell that this trick of mine is going to wear thin. So, I try to offer her something again, anything.

“I don’t think this is about money,” I say. “She only had a few days to live.”

“Exactly.” Her face brightens. “Maybe it was revenge, or closure.”

“Then why tell us right before dying?” I ask. “How could she get closure if she was dead?”

“Dunno.” She casts her eye around the room. “But I reckon there’s something here we’re supposed to find. She left us that key for a reason, right?”

I smile, even though there’s nothing to smile about. “I’ll help,” I say impulsively.

I can feel Stephanie staring at me.

“Great. Thanks,” Jess says. “I’ve paid three months up front to keep the place going. So we don’t have to worry about that.” Her phone beeps; she peers at it, then drops it into her pocket. “I’ve gotta go. Can you make six o’clock tomorrow night?”

I nod uncertainly. “I’ll do my best.”

“I’m afraid I can’t,” Stephanie says.

“Well, that’s disappointing.” Jess picks her way across the floor toward the door.

“I think you should come,” I say, daring to touch Stephanie’s elbow. “We might be able to disprove this and forget it ever happened.”

“That’s the least likely scenario. But yeah, why not?” Jess says sarcastically. “Hey, I wonder what this is.” Crouching down, she pulls a large book from underneath a crate.

“What is it?” I ask. “Sketches?”

She opens the pad delicately, looking at the loose pages. “Yep. Lots of them... All of doors. Do you reckon these are real places? Look at all the details, and in charcoal too. They’re amazing. I couldn’t do that, could you?”

I know full well I couldn’t do that. I’m useless with my hands, unless I’m eating. “Why draw so many doors? Isn’t that a bit odd?”

“Maybe she was making some kind of point.” She examines another sketch, holding it up to the light. “Wait...this is my front door! We’ve got a special door plaque—number five, look.” Kneeling down, she fans the sketches on the floor. “Are any of these yours?”

I peer down, immediately spotting number thirty-two. There are even jam jars hanging from the silver birch tree in the foreground. “Stephanie?” I prompt her, sensing that she wouldn’t have spoken otherwise.

“Number seven,” she says, pointing at a shiny black door with twin bay trees.

“So, what are all the other doors, then?” Jess gazes up at us, hands on knees.

“It’s anyone’s guess,” Stephanie replies, not that helpfully. “Didn’t you say you had to leave now?”

“Oh. Yes. Right.” Reluctantly, Jess gathers the sketches, slotting them back inside the book, placing it back down with reverence. “Do we care about whose she was, by the way?”

“What do you mean?” I ask stupidly.

“Whose daughter.”

Behind us, Stephanie gives a derisive sigh.

“No.” I look down at my boots. “I don’t want to know. Not yet, anyway. Maybe never.”

“Okay. We’ll play it by ear.”

I follow her to the door. “How would we even find out?”

“There are ways, surely?” She roots in her pocket for the key. “Aren’t DNA tests a big thing now? I think you can get them online.”

“But she’s dead.” I have a knack for stating the obvious.

“I don’t think that matters. I bet there’s a brush in here with her hair on it.”

The idea seems macabre. And I’m picturing a morbid DNA test, when Stephanie says something that astounds me.

“Why not just show your husband the letter?” She’s asking Jess, but I feel the weight of the question as though it’s directed at me.

Jess blushes, frowns. “I...uh...”

“You seem hell-bent on finding the truth. I’m surprised you’re not going straight to the source.”

“The source?” Jess says, playing for time. But there’s more to this. She seems very uneasy.

“Stephanie has a point,” I say, jumping in. “I think there’s a strong possibility that my husband’s innocent, and I’d like to give him the chance to tell me his version of events.”

“His version of events?” She smiles, shakes her head.

I turn to Stephanie. “Do you want to tell your husband?”

She stares at me, her eyes hardening. “Of course not! I’ve no intention of doing that. He’d absolutely explode.”

“Really?” Jess says, glancing at me. But Stephanie is already facing the door, waiting to be let out, probably having said more than she intended to.

I don’t need their permission. The idea of talking to Andy fills me with hope and relief. And yet...I want Jess to approve it.

“Would you be okay if I spoke to him about this?” I ask, touching her arm.

She avoids eye contact. “It’s your choice, not mine.”

I press her arm more firmly, making her look at me. “But I’d value a steer from you.”

“I can’t do that. Only you know what’s best for you.” And she opens the door, Stephanie leaving quickly as though running low on oxygen. “For what it’s worth, though, if he’s innocent, then you still won’t know for sure. And if he’s guilty...then he’ll lie.”

I flinch at this, following her puffer jacket down the corridor, no one speaking.

We must have missed a heavy downpour of rain. The trees overhanging the car park are dripping, and there are black puddles like craters in the gravel. Jess pecks a kiss onto my cheek, which surprises me. “Good luck. Let me know what he says.”

That’s it? That’s my blessing? I don’t have time to respond—she’s already getting into her car.

Stephanie is lingering, fiddling with her bag. “Are you really going to tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think it’s a good idea. It could save us from rummaging through all that lot.” She gestures loosely to the storage building.

“I care more about the fact that I share everything with him, and keeping this from him is killing me.”

“Of course,” she says. “I’m in the same position.”

Somehow, I don’t buy it. “Are you coming tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps you’ll give us some good news and the whole thing will be called off.” She smiles.

Driving home, I wonder what that smile meant, and why Jess was so uneasy.

Maybe they know something I don’t. Maybe they’re holding back because the first person to speak up is the one most at risk of marital damage. I’d be letting Andy know that I believed—no matter how hypothetically—that he was capable of sexual assault. The other two wives could play none the wiser if they so wished.

Pulling up outside our house, I dial Jess’s number.

“Hi?” she whispers. “I can’t really talk.”

“I’ll be quick.” I wonder where she is. It’s very quiet. “I just wanted to ask—why haven’t you told your husband?”

“Because if he lies, I’ll know.”

“And you’re worried he might?”

She hesitates. “Maybe.”

“So do you think I should wait?”

“Totally up to you. It all depends on whether you can handle the answer.”

My stomach lurches. I gaze at our house, the table lamp in the front room casting a blissful glow. “Do you think they’d tell each other? Is that what you’re worried about, that your husband would find out that way?”

“Not really. If it’s all a lie, then why would they even bring it up?”

They probably wouldn’t.

“So, really this boils down to whether or not I have faith in him?” I ask.

“I think so, yes.”

“Then I’m going to do it.”

“Okay,” she says.

For all her apparent transparency, it feels as though there’s something she isn’t telling me, and Stephanie too. Maybe it’s simply that their marriages aren’t as strong as mine.

I end the call, going up the path to the front door. Andy and Beau are sitting by the bay window in the armchair, poring over a book together.

No one’s making me do this. Yet I can’t bear the thought of another night with this secret hanging over me. I must talk to him.

We take our cups of Earl Grey through to the living room, sitting on opposite sofas. It feels like an interview or staff appraisal. In the room above, Beau is asleep, oblivious. I tell myself again that I’m doing this to restore peace and harmony in our home.

I won’t mention Jess and Stephanie, or the storage unit. That would only complicate things, make him feel cornered. I’m going to keep it simple, just between us, husband and wife.

“Andy...” I take in his tufty hair, the way he crinkles his lips to drink the tea. He’s wearing houndstooth slippers, the ones I bought him for Christmas. Does he have to look so homely, so mine?

“Yes, my love?” He isn’t even listening, his thoughts elsewhere.

How to word it in a way that’s not utterly offensive? I press my feet together, bracing myself. “I got this letter...”

“Hmmm.”

“It wasn’t very nice. In fact, it was shocking.”

He’s looking at me now. “What? When?”

“Doesn’t matter... The point is that it was about...well...you.”

“Me?” He looks perplexed. I’m watching him carefully, trying to catch any signs of realization—small ripples of panic. Yet there’s nothing.

“It was from someone called Holly Waite.”

I’m scared to blink in case I miss something.

He scratches his head pensively. “I don’t think I know anyone called that.”

“Her mother was Nicola Waite.” As I say her name, I sit forward, waiting.

“Nope.” He shakes his head. “Don’t know her either.”

“Think about it. Are you absolutely sure?”

He looks at me then, right in the eye, and I know he’s made the connection. “Oh,” he says softly, swallowing.

I feel nauseous. I set my tea down on the table. “Andy... Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes. I’m afraid I do.” He rubs his face. Is he erasing his expression, hiding it?

“Okay...” I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking. “So do you want to tell me about it?”

He smiles without humor. “Not really.”

“Is it true?” I ask.

“Is what true?”

I’ve no idea whether he’s being honest. Somehow, I’ve lost the ability to tell. I’m going to have to say the words. He’s going to make me say them.

“Did you sexually assault her?”

He looks horrified. “What? God, no! Whatever made you think that?”

“Well, what did you think I was talking about?”

“I don’t know.” He runs his hand through his hair in agitation. “I remember her making some such accusation, but it didn’t bear any weight. We all knew the truth.”

“We?”

“The chaps I was with. Jackson someone and someone Brooke.”

I cross my arms tightly. “I’m supposed to believe you’re not friends with them, even though you all belong to the Montague Club?”

“Hey?” he says, his forehead creasing in surprise. “It’s the truth! I’ve not seen or heard from them in years! I barely go to the club anymore, you know that. What is this, Pree? Surely you don’t think that I...”

“I don’t know what to think.”

He’s over by my side in an instant then and I don’t stop him, even though I don’t want him crowding me. He kneels before me, his hand on my lap, trying to look me in the eye, but I’m staring down at the carpet.

“Please, my love. This is me we’re talking about. You know I’d never do something like that.”

“Then why would her daughter say you did?” My voice sounds small, childish, as though navigating a playground hurt. I look at him then, feeling myself being drawn toward him. I so want to believe him, to make it all go away.

“I’ve no idea. Probably because her mother lied about it in the first place.”

“And why would she have done that?”

He seems to take strength from this question, exhaling. “I don’t know. Why does anyone ever lie about this sort of thing? Attention, sympathy? Or maybe because she was embarrassed about what happened?”

“What did happen?”

He puffs out his cheeks, looks up at the ceiling. “Crikey, we’re going back, what, thirty years or more? I can’t remember all the details.”

“Try,” I say firmly.

“Okay...” He scratches the stubble on his chin. “Well, I remember that she came to the club one night. It was Christmas and everyone was plastered, as tended to be the case back then. From what I recall, she came on to us rather heavily. She was an attractive girl, seemed to know what she wanted.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she slept with the other two chaps.”

“Willingly?”

“Yes!”

I gaze at him. “You weren’t involved?”

He clasps my hand impassionedly, looking into my eyes. “Of course not. You do believe me, don’t you?”

“I want to.”

More than anything, I want to.

But I just don’t know.

“What can I do to convince you?” he asks. “Isn’t my word enough?”

It is when we marry. A simple I do suffices, seals the deal. Yet now words don’t seem enough—not nearly enough.

“Are we okay?” He looks desperate, his body teetering as he rests on his gangly haunches. I want to put him out of his misery, like setting a daddy longlegs free from a spiderweb.

So, I lie. “Yes.”

“Okay.” He relaxes his grip on my hand, then sits down on the floor, head in his hands. “Christ, what a shock...for you, I mean,” he says, gazing at me. “Where’s that damned letter now?”

“In the shredder,” I say, picking up a cushion, hugging it.

“Best place for it.” He nods slowly, gathering his thoughts. “Do you think it would help if we spoke to her discreetly, straightened it out?”

I’m surprised. “Who?”

“The girl who wrote the letter. Her daughter?”

“Yes, but...” I stop.

Would he really do that? Momentarily, I’m reassured. Yet surely he knows this is impossible. Is it an empty offer, designed to trick me?

“We can’t, Andy. She died recently. She was an alcoholic.”

I watch him closely. If he already knew so, he’s a very good actor. He seems suitably surprised, then appropriately sorry. The look of someone at a funeral when you barely know the deceased.

“So there’s nothing more we can do?” he asks.

“No.”

Neither of us says anything after that. We withdraw to separate sofas, not acknowledging that normally we would never sit on opposite sides of the room.

I pretend to watch the TV when he turns it on. He seems settled enough, even laughs once or twice. But when he thinks I’m preoccupied, I notice him watching me, a look of speculation on his face.

As Andy cleans his teeth, I text Jess.

I wait for her response, tapping my foot, hoping she’ll be quick.

As I climb the stairs, I realize she was right. He was never going to say that he did it, was only ever going to say that he didn’t.

Tiptoeing into Beau’s room, I kneel on the carpet beside him, inching his cover from his face, blowing him a kiss, whispering a frightened prayer.

I feel as though I’m at a crossroads, but maybe that’s just an illusion and not the case at all. Maybe I already made the choice, set things in motion the moment I agreed to meet Jess. There’s a hideous inevitability about where we’re headed that I can’t bring myself to acknowledge, yet I’ll probably fight it nonetheless, like aging or death.

I shouldn’t have said anything to Andy. I did it to protect my family, yet all I’ve done is invite mistrust into our marriage, the most destructive ingredient of all. I walked right into it, volunteering to be the messenger. And we all know what happens to them.