I’ve tried to tell myself there were plenty of logical reasons for Edgar being there. It could be a business meeting, the house belonging to a new client, or an old friend, a relative I hadn’t met. It was seeing him turn the key that contradicted all of it, and with that came an attack of questions. What if he had another wife? What if we’d been living a lie for years? What if I was the other woman?
Fear was driving me, and it was fear that kept me there, waiting until he left the house, taking note of the time on a scrap of paper in the car. He had stayed there for at least an hour. When I saw him leave, I should have gone straight up and confronted him, asked him why he was there. So what stopped you? I DON’T BLOODY KNOW. You’re putting off the truth. More fear, Sandra, more bloody fear.
I followed him back to work, thinking he might make another stop along the way, which would help me build up a picture, but he didn’t. It was then I decided to phone him. His secretary put me straight through. He sounded in great form. He told me how he’d known I was in the studio last night, and hoped it had been productive. He wanted to tell me how much he loved me, that I meant the world to him. It was all I could do to stop myself blurting it all out. He even suggested going away for a while – a holiday would do us both the world of good, he said. I let him think I was going along with it, but when he started talking about counselling, I pulled back. He said someone at work had mentioned that writing things down was often very helpful. He wondered if I’d ever considered that. Had he found my diary? Why was he talking about writing things down? Did he know I was keeping notes? I panicked, and could tell my voice sounded less assured. Could he have read my words? Had he found the old tea chest in the attic? It was his house too. It was possible, but he couldn’t have stumbled upon it. His fear of heights would have kept him away from the attic. He hates that ladder. Maybe Alice told him. Was that it? I ended the conversation as quickly as I could, but driving home, I couldn’t get the idea that Alice had betrayed me out of my mind. The only person you can trust is yourself. Everyone else is a potential enemy.
I needed to check the attic. I practically stormed into the house, rushing up the stairs, not even thinking about locking the front door behind me. The most important thing on my mind was to find my diary and, if necessary, another hiding place. I climbed the attic ladder and crawled into the tiny ceiling space. It was the perfect place to keep something away from his prying eyes. Then the questions came back, only this time there were more of them. How would I know if he had found it? Would I know if the diary had been moved? Even in the dark I could see it on top of the old tea chest. I pulled myself in further, curling up into a ball, the way I used to do when I was younger. I turned the pages one at a time until I reached my last entry. I felt relief. Everything was as I had left it. Maybe things were okay after all.
It was only on closing the diary that I noticed the gold ribbon page marker had been moved further than my last entry. Sweat rose on my neck, and my right hand trembled as my fingers reached for it. Opening the page, which should have been blank, I read the words in bold black letters: YOU’RE A FOOL.
I stared at the page. There was something familiar about the writing. That’s when I heard someone moving downstairs. I thought about calling Edgar’s name, but what if the person downstairs wasn’t him? What if it was the stranger who had broken in, the person lurking in the shadows? How would I protect myself? And, once again, I felt cornered.
EDGAR
ARRIVING BACK AT the showrooms, Edgar was no longer sure how he felt about anything. Everything had changed. He knew he had made choices, which he had to live with, but now he was at the point of achieving his lifetime goals – professional success, financial security, respect and admiration for his designs – and his personal life was unravelling. To the outside world, everything looked perfect: career on a high, a wonderful home and a beautiful, talented wife. Despite the lack of children, he would have been considered lucky.
He thought about Lori too. The more time that passed, the more he realised he had made the wrong choice in hooking up with her. She was far from the timid flower that Sandra had described and he was now uncomfortable with the relationship. From the moment the whole thing had begun, he had known he was risking everything but continued to walk a dangerous path. She seemed to have gained a sense of power. He might have to talk to Alice, but what would he tell her? Certainly not the truth – that was something he couldn’t tell anyone, not Lori, not Alice and certainly not Sandra.