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At the foot of the stairs, Juliet pulled her hand free.
“Before I do anything else, I just need to make a quick phone call.” She hoped her voice sounded light and carefree, although her stomach was churning.
Tom was starting to undo his tie.
“OK, Gems, but don’t keep me waiting long.”
She watched him stride up the stairs two at a time, trying not to picture him undressing when he reached the bedroom. Then she opened the door to the study. Earlier, she had spotted a phone on the roll-top desk. Standing by the desk now, she raised the receiver, listening for tell-tale clicks in case Tom had decided to eavesdrop from the handset in the bedroom. It was the sort of house that would have handsets all over the place.
Having made herself comfortable on the leather captain’s chair at the desk, Juliet dialled Rob’s mobile number, swivelling round to survey the room. In an alcove beyond the open fireplace stood a slim antique oak bureau with a pull-down flap. On top of the bureau were more framed family photos, the largest of which was of Tom, sun-kissed and smiling in a lifejacket, in action on a sailing yacht. His plain white t-shirt beneath the custard-yellow lifejacket reflected the brilliance of the cloudless azure sky. One hand on the tiller, he was gazing with obvious affection at the photographer – perhaps one of his children? The smile was paternal rather than lustful.
Juliet swivelled back to examine the snaps on top of Tom’s desk. Bracing herself to see the lucky woman that was Tom’s real wife, she nearly dropped the phone when she spotted a headshot of herself.
For a moment, she thought it must be a mirror, but this was no reflection. It was Juliet as she would have been, had she lost a couple of stone – or rather, never gained it in middle-age. Her hair was its former auburn glory, her skin glowed beneath the Mediterranean sun.
Juliet had never even had a passport.
Maybe Tom had married her double. She’d once read in one of her library books a Ray Bradbury short story about a teenager, thwarted in his love for a beautiful high-school teacher, who goes on to marry a woman exactly like her, but his own age. Perhaps Tom had found someone else who looked just like Juliet, only in better shape.
Another explanation crossed her mind. Perhaps this whole thing was an elaborate practical joke. At any minute, a camera crew would leap out from behind the emerald velvet curtains that framed the bay window. Framed – yes, that was the right word: she’d been framed. It was the sort of heartless stunt a reality television programme might attempt, testing whether an old flame could tempt a woman to be unfaithful to her husband. Reality TV wasn’t renowned for its kindness.
With no answer from Rob’s mobile, she searched for further clues as to her double’s identity. She crossed the mantlepiece to examine official school photos of Eleanor and Edward. Both had Tom’s dark colouring, but their smile was strangely like her own. Despite their distinctive private school uniform with braid-edged blazer and stripey tie – none of the two-for-a-fiver supermarket specials that Jessie and Jake had worn throughout their schooldays – they looked relaxed, confident and neat. These were a far cry from her own kids’ school photos. Jake always pulled a stupid expression as the shutter clicked, and Jessie’s dishevelled curls made her look as if she’d just been turning cartwheels in a cloudburst.
Between the school photos were pictures of Tom’s parents. They’d aged a bit since she last saw them on A Level results day, but they looked pretty good for their age. They’d always had plenty of money. No wonder they’d aged so gracefully.
Beside them was a photo of – surely not! – her own mother, looking ten years younger, with Tom’s kids as toddlers holding her hands. Why had Tom kept in touch with her mother, but not with Juliet? Why hadn’t her mother told her she’d been seeing him? She had always preferred Tom to Rob, but nurturing a secret relationship with him after Juliet’s marriage was downright weird.
The thought of Rob reminded her to try their home number. He should have been back from work by now.
While she waited for him to pick up, she examined a sweet little photo on top of Tom’s desk of herself holding a baby in pink pyjamas. Edward, looking about two, stood at her side, holding the baby’s fingers in one hand, his other hand on Juliet’s thigh. The baby must be Eleanor.
But if Juliet was the mother of Tom’s children, as these photos suggested, what had become of Jessie and Jake? If it wasn’t for the thought of them as she dialled her landline, she’d have been hoping for an unobtainable signal. There was a certain logic to her train of thought. If she’d married Tom instead of Rob, Rob wouldn’t be living in the house they’d bought as newlyweds, and their landline of the last thirty years wouldn’t exist.
If the line was dead, could she really relax with a clear conscience and proceed with Tom’s plans for their evening? And maybe for the rest of her life? How strange it would seem to meet Edward and Eleanor at the weekend when they came home from school and called her Mum.
The thought of Jessie and Jake decided her. If Rob answered the phone, she would go back to him. It would be unthinkable to abandon their children.
Her pulse quickened as the ringing tone sounded. Rob picked up almost immediately.
“’Lo. Who’s that?”
Juliet sighed so hard that for a moment, she feared she’d sound like a heavy breather.
“It’s me, Juliet.”
“Oh, hi, Jools. Make it quick, Sam’s at the door and we’re about to head to The Fleece for a jar or three.”
She paused, disconcerted by Rob’s apparent disregard for her absence. She should have been home, with the repaired car, two hours before. Why wasn’t he worried about her? Why wasn’t he glad to hear her voice as proof that she was safe? Had he even noticed she was gone?
“Maisie’s mum’s ill,” she heard herself saying. “Maisie’s asked me to stay with her tonight for moral support.”
“What about my tea?”
“You can get a pie at the pub.”
“And my packed lunch tomorrow?”
Juliet gazed at the huge photo over the fireplace before she responded.
“You can make it yourself,” she said at last. “You’re a grown-up. Once every thirty years is not a big ask.”
In all their married life, Rob had never made her so much as a cup of tea.
“OK, bye, Jools. That’s me gone now.”
Gone for good? thought Juliet, with a shiver of mingled excitement and fear. Or just to the pub?
As the line went dead, she stared out of the window on to the forecourt. The Mini’s metallic finish was sparkling in the low evening sun.
Juliet replaced the handset and went to examine the expensive canvas enlargement of a wedding day photograph which hung over the fireplace. Beneath a professional photographer’s logo in the bottom right-hand corner, a date stamp told her the occasion was fifteen years ago. Tom was as handsome, poised and confident as ever, and his wife – his wife was herself.
My goodness, she looked radiant. Clearly no expense had been spared on the dress or the flowers, a lavish armful of lilies, and her hair and make-up had been done by professionals. In the background, surrounded by cherry trees in full bloom, was a pretty, ancient church, and around them a pool of rose petal confetti lay at their feet.
The overall effect was far showier than Juliet would have chosen, so different from her modest wedding with Rob, a low-budget civil ceremony in Cirencester Register Office above the library, then back to a room over the pub for a meal with close family and friends. Juliet bet Tom’s wedding reception hadn’t been in a room above a pub.
Tom’s wedding – and hers. For now she realised that she was living the life she would have led, had she married Tom.