I take another step upwards, telling myself to remain calm. Speed could mean missing something, but the higher I go, I realise I’m moving deeper into the belly of the house, and further away from any potential escape. What if she comes back? What if I don’t hear her? What if, in my effort to find information, I become so engrossed in what I’m doing that she suddenly appears, standing behind me? Without understanding why, I have a vision of her laughing at me.
Downstairs, her touches had been everywhere, the lavish furnishings, the claw-legged hall table, the ornate chandelier. I turn around, looking behind me. The door to the living room is open, and I can see the gold-framed mirror hanging over the fireplace, two tan couches at either side. I think of her sitting in one of them, perhaps her and Edgar, raising wine glasses, joking with each other about me.
I continue up the stairs, and despite the silence of the house, and my weight pressing on each step, I’m not making any noise, as if I’m invisible. The only thing I hear is my heart thumping.
The first two bedrooms are small, furnished lightly with little more than a single bed. The last room, the one at the back, is the largest, a double, spanning the width of the house. I know it’s her room from the moment I walk inside. There is a black silk dressing gown lying across the bed, and on the bedside locker, a pearl necklace. I pick it up, allowing the beads to slip through my fingers, before holding them to my neck, as if I’m pretending to be her. I feel the coolness of the pearls against my skin, then look up and see my shadow on the wall, large and looming. I don’t close the clasp, but drop the beads back onto the locker. I feel as though I’m choking, even though the necklace is no longer on my neck.
Feeling panicked again, I search for something that will tell me who she is – a photograph, a letter with her name on it, a driver’s licence, anything. Did I miss something downstairs? Now that I know what I’m looking for, it should be easier to find it. But there are no photographs of her anywhere in the room, or any letters with her name on them. Maybe she doesn’t live here all the time. Maybe it’s a place she and Edgar come to be together. I turn around, checking I closed the bedroom door behind me. I grab a chair from the corner, placing it under the door handle at an angle. If anyone tries to come in, it will be a warning and give me more time. I cross to the bedroom window, I lift the lower sash. It would be a jump, but there are shrubs I could aim for. I rub my forehead, thinking about confronting her, calling her a bitch. Stop wasting time.
The air coming from outside is cold, now that it’s late evening. I walk over to the dark cedar wardrobe. It’s large and overbearing. There is a keyhole on both doors, but one has a brass key with a small red tassel. Turning it, I hear the click, and the two doors open wide. There are male and female clothes. Perhaps she’s married. Or the men’s clothes belong to Edgar. I rummage through them like a mad woman, checking the labels on the men’s jackets and the size of the shirt collars. They are the same size Edgar wears. Could it be a coincidence? I remind myself that he has a key to this house and my stomach heaves.
Looking inside every pocket, I hope I might stumble on the final proof, but then I hear a noise coming from outside. I stop in my tracks, but it’s only the breeze causing the trees to creak. I keep searching, knowing that at any moment she, the other woman, could appear, accuse me of breaking in, ask what I’m doing in her house, and how dare I go through his and her things, as if I’m the intruder. But you are, Sandra. I sense that I have more to fear from her than I can possibly know. She is the one in charge. I’m the one in the dark.
It’s in one of the inside pockets of a man’s overcoat that I find the rolled-up piece of paper. There is no denying Edgar’s handwriting, even though it takes me a while to concentrate on the words: the name and address of a hotel in town. I’ve never stayed there, but I’ve had drinks in the bar. It’s opulent, not my kind of place. I turn the piece of paper over, and on the reverse, there are three digits. A room number? I lean against the wall near the window, breathing in the cool air. My mind goes into overdrive, putting all the bits of information together. I followed Edgar here, and I know he has a house key. When he arrived, he stayed for nearly an hour, as if it was his home, not that of a stranger. His clothes are hanging in the wardrobe, or at least clothes that fit him, and then there’s the smell of his cologne, and his handwriting on the piece of paper. How much more proof do I need that he is living a second life?
You hear all the time of people living secret lives. People who have multiple love affairs, false identities, an innocent woman not knowing she is living with a fraud, even a killer. It’s all possible.