On a whim I took the phone out of the study. Oliver had been practically glued to the thing while he was alive, so if any clues about this woman were to be found anywhere, it would be on his phone. I leaned back on our grey sofa in the living room and heard Tim cooing through the baby monitor. It was well beyond his bedtime so he’d presumably fall asleep soon. I looked at the mobile device again and wondered if I’d find the name Sandra on it. Would he really have cheated on me?
It was now exactly two months since Oliver had passed away. After I’d arranged everything for the funeral, I’d turned my attention to Tim, seeking advice from the psychologist, who treated patients a few days a week in our GP practice, about how to explain Oliver’s death to him. After two weeks I’d started bringing Tim to day-care again, where he was able to play carelessly with his friends. I thought it would be best to try to get on with life as normal – or at least as close to it – as possible. I’d intended to take some time off myself, but at home the walls came closing in on me and after a week I returned to work, where sorrow didn’t consume me.
I couldn’t say that I’d forgotten the card that I’d inadvertently stumbled upon, sent by the unknown woman. Rather, as the weeks had passed, I’d tucked it away in a small drawer, somewhere deep in my mind and had buried the key. But every now and then, the enigma managed to sneak out, tormenting my thoughts.
Tim was the one who had pulled me through the recent months. Although he was completely oblivious to the pivotal role he played, the little man made me drag myself out of bed every morning as he tightly clasped his chubby arms around me. I’d gratefully bury my face in his neck, easing my headache. His sleeping bag smelled of the night mixed with a hint of sweat – I had a tendency to cover him too much, because I myself was shivering so often in bed at night.
Part of me didn’t want to believe that Oliver had been having an affair. Admittedly, things hadn’t been too perky between us in the months leading up to his death. Tim’s strenuous baby days had left a trail of deep wounds in our relationship, which had seemed too delicate and confounding to heal. In the evenings, when he was still toiling away at his desk in the study with only a table lamp on, I’d plant a kiss on the nape of his neck and he’d give a distant pat on my back in response. At one point, when Oliver had been regularly coming home late while hammering away at an important case, I’d jokingly asked if he had a mistress. He’d insisted nothing was going on and I’d trusted him. Nonetheless, I’d sensed a distance between us for quite some time, as if our lives had turned a corner from which neither of us would ever return, in spite of my efforts to try to rekindle our love.
I restlessly tossed and turned on the couch, the phone burning in my hands. I missed Oliver terribly. The months since the funeral had been excruciatingly tough. The neighbours who had no clue what to say, the well-intended suggestions from friends and the constant questions fired by Tim wanting to know when daddy was coming home – sometimes it became all too much to bear. Not too long ago, while in the supermarket, I couldn’t stifle the tears as I walked past the croissants Oliver used to buy for us and bring upstairs to bed on Sunday mornings. There was no doubt he’d been a workaholic, but he’d spent the weekends with his family. The worst moment was perhaps the first seconds after waking up, during which I thought for a flash that everything was still all right, until the bitter truth hit me like a hammer to the head. Tim suffered from nightmares, and I sometimes brought him into bed with me. He probably needs it right now, I thought. But in all fairness, I might have needed the comforting more than him.
My eyes fell on the cardboard box under the kitchen island, which contained three empty wine bottles. Lately, the alcohol was flowing profusely, and as cutting it out altogether was a bridge too far, I set myself a limit of ten glasses a week. It was only Monday evening and I was already at three.
I clutched the phone between my hands. A sense of guilt came over me. Why did I not trust Oliver? Surely there was a perfectly reasonable, benign explanation for the card. There was no need to browse his phone to check his fidelity, right? Of course he was faithful to me.
In which case, I reasoned, there was little harm in simply confirming this by taking a quick peek. I decided that I was merely doing this to find peace and closure, to be able to move on. And so I put the phone charger into the port.
As I waited, my gaze wandered outside, where in the evening darkness the first flakes of sleet in December struck the restored stained glass window, only to instantly melt away again. Yesterday’s forecast had been quite off as they’d predicted a blizzard. I stood up to close the curtains.
After a few minutes of charging, the device lit up and I entered Oliver’s six-digit code with trembling fingers. I went to his contacts and immediately typed the first three letters of her name. A stab went straight through my heart – there it was. Sandra.
So it was true after all.
“That doesn’t have to mean anything,” I said out loud, trying to reassure myself. Sandra was a common name, it could just be an old acquaintance, a friend of a friend or a colleague.
I opened WhatsApp and searched for a chat session with Sandra. I soon spotted one, but to my disappointment it was empty when I opened it. The contents had been erased.
There was only one alternative to find out more. It would be bold and potentially harrowing but then again I didn’t have much to lose. Being kept in the dark was worse than exposing the truth, even if it meant I’d been deceived by my husband.
I pressed the green button and heard the telephone ring.
There was a click – I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Oliver?” I heard a woman say. “Long time no speak.” I sensed sarcasm in her tone. “I didn’t expect to ever hear from you again.”
It became clear to me the woman had no idea of Oliver’s fate.
“This is Jennifer. I’m Oliver’s wife,” I declared.
There was a short pause and then out of the blue I was cut off. This lady had some guts – she’d hung up on me.
Surely she didn’t think she was going to shake me off that easily? I redialled the number and she answered again. “I’m sorry for hanging up like that. I was shocked, I mean … I still am.” There was a short pause. “Why are you calling me?”
I didn’t answer, wondering what I was hoping to gain from this conversation. I hadn’t yet asked her any questions – even so, I knew everything. At least, enough to recognise it was true – Oliver had cheated on me. As the unsettling truth seeped in, I felt a numbing fatigue wash over me.
“I er …” I faltered. “I don’t really know why I’m reaching out to you. I stumbled upon a postcard with your name written on it. A card addressed to Oliver.” The words now came tumbling out of my mouth. “I had no clue of what was going on between the pair of you. Or actually I still don’t know anything.”
I eased myself up from the couch to pour myself a glass of wine hoping it would take off the rough edges of the painful heart-to-heart with this stranger.
“I’m so sorry,” Sandra said again. This time it was a resolute apology. “I had no idea Oliver was married,” she added, leaving me wondering whether she was being truthful.
I clenched the phone between my right ear and shoulder and with two hands I jerked open the heavy, stainless steel fridge-freezer door, which had been jammed for weeks. I resolved to have someone look at it soon. Lindsey would undeniably know a guy, who knew a guy. She had a way of taking care of those kinds of things.
“Although come to think of it, it doesn’t surprise me,” Sandra continued, while I poured the wine into my glass. “I’m afraid I can’t help you though.”
This conversation was far from over. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions.” I pressed one of the buttons on the black display of the freezer and dropped an ice cube into my white Chardonnay. This old habit of mine had initially made Oliver smile – the plain, village girl he was dating put ice in her wine – but as the years passed, his amusement progressed into openly annoyed looks at my apparent lack of sophistication. Sometimes he’d resembled his mother more than he realised.
Sandra seemed to want to ditch me. “If you don’t mind. I’ve got to go.”
“Wait,” I yelled, afraid she’d end the phone call again. “Hang on a moment. You don’t understand. Oliver is … er … He has died.”
There was the sound of a sharp intake of breath. “He’s dead?”
I leaned my back against the fridge, took a sip of wine, and felt the cool liquid slide down my throat. Although completely wrong, it felt satisfying to shock her like that as well as having a trick up my sleeve to blackmail her with. Presumably she’d not dare to dismiss me again.
It stayed silent for a while.
She recovered. “How awful for you. I’m sorry for your loss. Honestly,” she added softly. “But I really can’t do anything for you.”
I needed to push on. “I’m looking for answers. Please. My husband is gone and all of a sudden I find a postcard from you. A card that shouldn’t have been sent to a married man. I don’t know what to think about it. Your response speaks volumes, but I need to know for sure. Did you …” I took a gulp of wine and closed my eyes. “Did you two have an affair?” Saying it out loud made me feel sick.
“Yes,” she admitted reluctantly after a few moments. “It ended some time ago. But … Yes, we were in contact for a while.” She appeared to be downplaying whatever had gone on between them and it annoyed me immensely.
A range of thoughts and questions flashed through my mind. When had all of this happened? How could I have missed this? She was probably young, pretty and childless, I thought cynically. Did she also live in Amsterdam? I felt an almost irrepressible urge to know the down and dirty truth.
“Can we meet?”
“Meet? You and I? What good could come from this?”
I lost my temper. “You have no idea what this feels like. I need to know what happened between Oliver and you. Do you understand that I was under the assumption we were happily married?” For the sake of simplicity, I left out the quarrels we’d had recently. It was none of her business. “This is a lot to process. Please. Just a short talk from woman to woman.” I felt tears welling up, but I pulled myself together.
She released her breath with a long, weary sigh and I imagined her shaking her head. “Alright then.”