We don’t usually meet in public, but I really needed to see you, Amber. When I called, you weren’t at home; you were just coming out of the gym, having done an early morning spin class. You spin at your local gym three times a week, and it shows. Unlike Chrissy, you look fit and healthy. Not too skinny, but slim and toned with curves in all the right places. You look slightly flushed as you walk into Deco’s – a trendy cafe fashioned in the Art Deco style – and spot me at a table for two at the back, trying not to look conspicuous, even though it feels like I’m on some reality show and the whole world is watching me, waiting to catch me and my infidelity out.
But I don’t care. I can’t get the email out of my head; the accusation that my wife is a whore is too shocking to discount, to keep bottled up inside me. And I can’t help wondering whether it was sent by the same person who sent Chrissy the note. It just seems like too much of a coincidence, in which case, I should probably tell Chrissy about it, and we should both tell the police. But I can’t quite bring myself to do that. Not before I’ve spoken to someone about it. Someone neutral and uncomplicated. Someone like you.
You approach the table, wearing Lycra leggings and a purple zip-up top, pulled down just enough to reveal the top of your cleavage. There’s still a faint line of sweat on your chest, and your face has a glow about it, while your hair is pulled up in a high ponytail. You look so young dressed as you are, with no make-up, and again it makes me question what on earth you are doing with me. I suddenly feel ashamed of my behaviour, like I’m some dirty old man. Then again, you’re probably off screwing guys your own age on the nights you don’t see me. I mean, who am I kidding, that’s what young, attractive, single girls like you should be doing. Although, of course, the rules are different for my daughter. I shudder at the thought of Ella doing such a thing.
I’ve already ordered you a skinny latte, your favourite, while I’ve gone for a large, full-fat version. Slyly scanning the other patrons as you sit down opposite me, you smile faintly, and look nearly as nervous as I feel, which is hardly surprising because it occurs to me how panicked I must have sounded on the phone, and you must surely be wondering what was so urgent that I needed to see you at 8 a.m. on a Monday morning.
‘Thanks for this,’ you say, gesturing to your latte, before you coolly bring the mug to your lips and take a sip.
I say it’s nothing, then take a sip of my own drink, before setting it down on the table, at which point I start tapping the side of my mug with my forefinger.
‘What is it, Greg?’ you ask, eyeing me with concern – or is it irritation, I can’t quite tell? Or maybe I’m just imagining things?
I don’t dither. I pull out a folded piece of paper from my jacket pocket and hand it to you.
You look at it with a puzzled expression, then ask, ‘What’s this?’
‘Open it,’ I say, my heart beating frantically.
You look nervous again; you’re probably asking yourself what the hell you’ve got yourself into, thinking that perhaps you should never have given a washed-out middle-aged man like me the time of day. But then you slowly unfold the paper and read the words, frowning, before looking up at me with quizzical eyes. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘It was sent to my email account last night.’
‘From who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t recognize the address?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know what the sender’s getting at?’
This strikes me as a rather superfluous question, because it seems pretty obvious what the sender is getting at. He or she is insinuating that my wife has cheated on me, perhaps many times. I repeat my thoughts to you, whereupon you redden slightly, and I feel bad for laying this on you because, of course, it isn’t your problem. You didn’t sign up to be my agony aunt.
‘And do you think it’s come from the same person who sent the note?’ you ask, doing your best to look interested and concerned.
‘It has to be the same person, don’t you think? It’s too much of a coincidence, and if you remember me saying, the note claimed that Heidi was better off with her kidnapper than with Chrissy – this email appears to be telling us why.’
‘You mean because Chrissy slept around, and therefore wasn’t fit to be a mother to Heidi?’
‘That’s the implication, yes.’
‘Did you ever have any inkling that Chrissy might have cheated on you?’
‘No, none at all.’ And that’s the God’s honest truth.
‘Are you going to show it to Chrissy?’
I sit back and sigh. ‘I think I have to. I just can’t ignore it, and who knows what other messages we’ll get? We need to be on the same page. The police also need to know. They may be able to trace the email, spot a pattern.’
‘I’m no expert, but unless this person wants to be found, I’m sure they’ve done everything possible to ensure the email can’t be traced back to them.’
I smile wryly, thinking you’re not just a pretty face. ‘Yes, you’re probably right, but I have to try at least.’
You smile back, reach for my hand and take it in yours, and we stay locked in that moment for some time, smiling at one another. But then, as I happen to glance past your shoulder, I see the door open, and a new customer walks in.
My heart drops to my stomach. This surely can’t be happening.
It’s Janine.
She spots me, as if she has a cheat antenna attached to her head. And even though you have your back to her, she sees that I am not alone, that I am holding hands with a woman who isn’t Chrissy.
She sees that her best friend’s husband is an adulterer.