Andy is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the weekend papers, picking at a chocolate muffin, when I tell him that I’m going out for milk.
He looks up quizzingly and there’s something else there too: a look not of mistrust exactly but of doubt. I know what he’s thinking. He’s been thinking it ever since I told him about the letter.
Does she believe me?
Beside him, Beau is eating a muffin also, dragging chunky crayons across his drawing pad, creating a colorful sketch of cows and pigs. I always know what it is once he tells me.
I wonder about taking him with me, just for company. Lately, I hate being alone. But on this occasion, there’s no way I can risk it. I’m not just going for milk; I’m going to see Stephanie.
“Don’t be long, my love,” Andy says, and it’s as if he knows.
Our eyes lock. I’m the first to look away.
Out in the car, I pull up all the recent searches on my phone, deleting them. Whenever I have a spare private moment—in the bath, in the car before going into school, in the staffroom if no one’s around—I’m doing research into rape.
I can say the word now. Something changed after I read Nicky’s diary. It made me braver, more willing to fight in her corner, and yet more confused. Which is why I’m going to Stephanie’s. I want the diary back.
The streets are quiet as I drive. It’s a nothing day, a poorly defined Sunday with a gunpowder-gray sky. There are no obvious signs that it’s mid-October, no autumn leaves in sight, and I try to imagine which season I’d guess at if I didn’t know. But as I’ve come to learn, you can’t unknow things, no matter how hard you try.
I want to read again what Nicky wrote about Andy. I was relieved that he came across as the nicest character, but her description of him was so accurate, it seemed to validate everything else she said.
Yet there’s something else happening here too... I haven’t been focusing on historic offenses and prosecution statistics, like Jess has. I appreciate that we need to know the context, so I’ve delved a little and I know prosecution rates are at an all-time low; if alcohol was involved, the victim’s word was less likely to be taken seriously; consent is everything. It had to be proved that the victim didn’t give consent, verbally or otherwise, and that the defendant knew she didn’t.
I know also that the amount of lapsed time is a factor: maybe the justice system had changed since the crime was committed, or the offender had been a model citizen ever since. Maybe he was elderly now, deemed little or no threat to society.
All of that is important, yet there’s something bigger coming into play—something that I can’t stop thinking about or looking up online.
Nearly all of my searches relate to one thing.
Do nice men rape?
I felt foolish typing the question, expecting the oracle of the internet to answer it for me. Yet, in a fairly direct way, it did.
I discovered that whenever a nice man was accused publicly of rape, women rushed forward to defend his character. In one such high-profile case, sixty-five women testified.
Journalists described the difficulty in accepting that someone close to you might have offended. They talked about how tough it was to imagine that someone who was so kind and considerate to you could have sexually assaulted someone else—the false logic in basing what he might have done purely on how he was with you.
I haven’t just read these articles once, but several times, over and over, each time the words proving harder to swallow, my discomfort growing.
Not only did those close to the accused struggle to believe him guilty, but society as a whole found it hard to accept. We thought of rapists as monsters, frightening deviants, and that was how it had to stay. If we started looking at the Earl Grey drinkers and Argyle sock wearers, everything we knew and believed would unravel.
Defenders of accused young men were quick to point out that juvenile drunken horseplay wasn’t to be confused with rape or cross-examined, certainly not in a way that would ruin their excellent prospects.
There didn’t seem to be a lot of consideration for the young woman whose life probably hadn’t held as much promise in the first place, and certainly didn’t now. Maybe that was the whole point, the imbalance at the root of this.
Yet here’s the conundrum: I can’t see Andy doing that depraved act. Does that make me part of the problem, or right? What if he’s innocent? I’ve never seen any glimpse of that other person—his alter ego, Lee—during our marriage. Doesn’t that stand for something?
A week ago, I thought it did. Now I’m not so sure.
Lost in thought, I notice with surprise that I’ve arrived in a smart part of town where the properties have crested keep out gates and security cameras. Stephanie texted me her address, and I’m trying to find the message on my phone when I realize that I’m right outside her house, the gates slowly opening with eerie anticipation.
It’s very quiet as I get out of the car. The Edwardian house, flanked by baby oaks in coats of autumn red, is standing there expectantly, glistening as though it’s just taken a shower.
I had no idea she lived somewhere like this, but then I never asked. It strikes me that I know nothing about her, nor Jess. We’ve been thrown together by the most intimate of circumstances, yet the questions we’re asking each other are nothing like the usual ones—families, careers, holiday plans.
Instead, it’s: What is rape? And: Would you report your husband to the police? I know the answer to that one. I looked it up. It’s yes.
In a recent government survey, 77 percent of Britons said they would report a loved one for murder; 76 for rape. So, there it is. Our moral compass.
Ringing the doorbell, I run my fingers through my hair, hoping I don’t look in too much of a state. My personal appearance was the least of my concerns when I set out.
Of course, it’s easy to say you’d do the right thing. Everyone’s a saint when surveyed, just like no one ever smokes or drinks according to medical forms. It still means that 24 percent wouldn’t report the rape.
The shiny black door opens and Stephanie is standing there looking as fresh as ice cream in a vanilla cardigan and velour tracksuit pants. She makes dressing down look like something I’d wear to work, if I could be bothered to make that amount of effort, that is.
We smile at each other and I look inquiringly at her empty hands, expecting her to have brought me the diary. She opens the door wider. “Would you like to come in?”
“Oh... Okay. Why not?”
There’s lots of reasons why not. Yet I want the diary, so I follow her.
She leads me through to the living room, which is sumptuously furnished, all praline and pale pink. A generous burst of sunshine is spilling through the French doors, making a crisscross pattern of light on the carpet. I feel a pang of envy at the peace and space, thinking of Beau’s Lego bricks all over the floor, the marks from his toy car wheels on our walls. “You have a beautiful home.” I gesture to the sofa. “Shall I sit here?”
“Please do... Can I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m not stopping long.” I sink onto the soft cushions. “Wow! This is cozy. I’d never want to leave the house.”
She smiles cordially.
“How do you keep everything so perfect?” I ask. “Do you have a cleaner?”
Of course she does. Her nails are beautiful, her hands are unwrinkled. There’s no way she mops.
“No, I do it all myself.”
“Really?” I stare at her, impressed.
She perches on the opposite sofa, hands clasped on lap. “Although the girls help me, I’ll admit.”
I nod.
The girls.
She has kids. I look at the photographs on the mantelpiece, counting the faces. Three daughters. And then my heart falters as I catch sight of something.
Writhing to get up from the deep sofa, I approach a gilt-framed photo on the wall above the fireplace.
It’s Brooke. The military hair. The proud dots for eyes. The suggestion that somehow, for some reason, he’s laughing at you. Beside him, Stephanie is a comparative fluff ball, her hair piled high, her makeup flawless, feature-blurring.
“How long have you been married?” I ask.
“Fourteen years.”
The girls’ pictures are arranged in chronological order: sun hats, swimming armbands, gappy teeth. And then bridesmaids, body-con dresses. “They look older than that. Are they...his?”
“Only my youngest, Georgia—the one in the school uniform. Vivian and Rosie are from my first marriage.”
I touch the glass on the frame, the schoolgirl’s eyes boring into mine. She looks like her father. “Don’t you...well, doesn’t it upset you that Holly might have been his too?”
“No.” She frowns at me as though I’ve said something deeply offensive. “I haven’t given it any thought.”
“It’s just that... I mean, don’t get me wrong. My family are a complete pain in the arse, but I love them to bits. Family’s everything to me. And my son, Beau, well, he...” I trail off.
She doesn’t seem all that interested in what I have to say about Beau. And I realize then that she’s not interested in any of us: me, Jess, Nicky, Holly. Nor does she want to tell me anything about herself. She’s saying as little as possible, as usual.
Yet we’re going to have to be personal. We’re going to have to ask questions of ourselves and of each other. That much is becoming clearer every day.
I try to look as friendly as possible. “Can I ask you something?” I sit back down, the sofa embracing me.
She nods almost imperceptibly.
“Is he good to you, your husband? Has he ever given you any cause to doubt him?”
She looks surprised, which annoys me slightly. It’s not as if this question has come out of nowhere. “No. Not at all.”
“Okay. It’s just that...he didn’t exactly get a glowing review in the diary, did he? In fact, I think he came off the worst of the three men.”
“I didn’t pick up on that.” She touches her hair defensively, cheeks coloring.
“Really? I thought it was quite apparent. I think she even used the word vicious at one point.”
It’s so quiet, the ticking of the mantelpiece clock seems blaring. Perhaps I shouldn’t have got into this, here and now.
So much for intimacy.
“Do you have it, then? The diary?” I ask.
“Yes. Follow me.” She seems glad, hurries through to the hallway, removing my tote from her bag.
I take it from her, holding it to my chest, glad to have it back again. She watches me, a strange look on her face. Perhaps she’s wondering why I’d want something so destructive near me.
On my way to the door, something in me—the teacher, perhaps—makes me try one last time to reach her. I’ve no idea how she would have been at school, but imagine she was unobtrusive, barely leaving a mark. Some pupils carve their names on every surface they can find, while there are others who no one even remembers were there.
“Didn’t you feel anything for her?” I stand on the doorstep, cradling the diary.
“Who?”
“Nicky,” I whisper, just in case.
She said her husband was out, but even so... Something about him scares me.
“It’s not about what I feel,” she says, one hand on the door.
“Isn’t it? Because I think that’s all this is about.”
She frowns at me in incomprehension. “I’m not going to let this destroy my life. It was too long ago.”
“But we found out now.”
“So?” She shivers, tightening the belt on her cardigan.
“So, it’s about what we do now—what we’re prepared to live with.”
“And what do you think the answer is?”
She watches me anxiously and at that moment I feel sorry for her, for each of us. Why should she give up this beautiful home, risk losing everything? It wasn’t her fault. None of us deserve this. What about our children? What about those innocent girls in there, in their bridesmaids’ dresses? What about Beau?
“What do you want to do, Priyanka?” she asks more insistently.
“I don’t know.” A sudden wind gusts up the garden behind me, lifting my coat, making the twin bay trees quiver on her porch. I pull up my hood. “I don’t think I can bare losing my husband, though.”
“Then talk to Jess. Make her see reason.”
Reason? I don’t even know what that means anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “I can’t promise I’ll do that. Besides, I’m not sure I want to.”
“Then how do you intend to keep your husband?”
“No idea. But we do need to stick together. Jess is spot-on about that. It makes more sense every day.”
“What does?” she says suspiciously.
I smile, knowing she’ll hate what I’m going to say next.
“What she said about us being a team.” Tapping the pockets of my parka, I find my car keys. “Well, I’d better go. I said I was only popping out for milk... Take care, okay?” And I set off down the driveway.
“If you don’t rein her in,” she calls after me, “she’ll run away with this and it’ll be out of our control.”
She’s right. Jess will run away with it. Maybe she already has.
I drive home, feeling worse for having seen Stephanie. It’s hard to feel like a team when you’re all pulling in different directions. But at least I have the diary.
At the bottom of my road, I’m struck by the sudden urge to look at it again. Pulling over, I check around me and then open the book at the back where the ink is thickest, feeling the familiar sense of guilt and regret as the spine creaks.
If she’d been my friend, I would never have let it happen to her. Where were Lucy and Kim? Why didn’t they help her? Why did she end up coming around in a cab, alone, abandoned, in shock?
I’m about to hide the diary and head up the hill to home, when I notice an extra thick page at the back. Inspecting it more closely, I realize that two pages are stuck together.
I always keep a stash of school supplies in the glove compartment. Rooting through the mess, I find a ruler, prying it carefully between the pages.
They give, separate, fall open.
“Oh my God,” I say. Grabbing my phone, I ring Jess.