I look down at the note again, at Edgar’s handwriting. He must have put it in the pocket. I double-check the size label on the coat: 38L. ‘His size,’ I say out loud, as if to drive the point home. I lean in, pulling one of the lapels towards me, knowing his habit of applying extra cologne once he’s dressed. There’s no denying the aroma. It’s his. You’ve been living a lie.
Putting the note inside my coat pocket, I scan the room again. There has to be something else. I begin pulling out the drawers in the bedside locker, beside her bed, with the black silk dressing gown staring up at me. The bottom drawer is either stuck or locked. I need to prise it open. I pull the chair away from the door, run down the stairs into the kitchen and grab a sharp knife from the cutlery drawer.
In the bedroom, I don’t bother putting the chair back under the handle. At first, there isn’t a budge on the drawer. I’m holding the knife tight and my hand is shaking, but somehow, I manage to make a narrow slit. I wedge my fingers into the gap, but I can’t get a proper hold. I’m sweating beneath my coat, so I take it off, letting it fall to the floor. Pulling the drawer handle with as much force as I can, I turn the knife in my hand, wedging the handle inside the narrow gap, twisting the blade and tearing my skin. Careful, Sandra, don’t mess up now. I push the knife in further, knowing the gap is widening. When the drawer opens, the blade jerks upwards, clipping my hand. I see blood. It drips onto my coat. I press my right hand over the wound to stop the flow, but it seeps between my fingers.
I can’t stop now. I shuffle items in the drawer from side to side, trying to work out what’s important and what isn’t. The drawer is full of shiny things, a metal letter opener, a cigarette lighter, a silver lipstick case, a pincushion with small steel pins, and a miniature pill box. At the back of the drawer I see something unexpected. It’s another key, one with a large chunky key ring, with the number from the piece of paper. I think about taking it. If she notices it’s missing, she will know someone has been in her house. Can I take the risk?
I pull my blood-stained coat off the floor, pushing the key into the pocket. I look back at the silk dressing gown. She must have worn that against her skin. Edgar touched her in it, sweeping the contours of her body as his excitement rose. I think about the two of them together, gleeful with their little secret, and feel utterly betrayed. In my rush to get out, I trip on the staircase.
It’s only when I’m safely in the car that I begin to write all of it down in my diary – her address, what I found inside the house, the details of the hotel key. I become so occupied in what I’m doing that, for a few minutes, I don’t look up.
Maybe that’s why I miss her, the woman passing the car. By the time I spot her, she has her back to me. Could that be her? Should I confront her? I’m sure she’s walking towards the house. When she’s far enough away, I turn the key in the ignition. The engine starts first time. I reverse slowly, then do a sharp U-turn, looking in the rear-view mirror as I pull away. A part of me is willing her to turn so I can see her face. She doesn’t. She keeps on walking, and the further I drive away, the more obscure she becomes, getting smaller and smaller all the time. I’m shaking again. I grip the steering wheel tighter. What if she already knows I’ve been there? What if she’s one step ahead of me? What if she was watching me all along and is smiling to herself, curious about what I’ve been up to, and how much more it will take for me to crack?
I
IT’S MY TURN now. The scales need balancing. The judgement call is now mine. Remember the eye? Think about the hunter and the hunted. First they eye their prey, and then they stalk. Soon they chase and, finally, they will devour. My new man doesn’t realise how much I’m drawing him in. I care little for his pretty wife, with her pretty past, and her not so pretty future. Consider yourself one of the lucky ones. Be grateful it’s her and not you I have in my sights.
There has been another shift. Something is changing in the power game, and it is in my favour. I’m instinctual about such things, recognising the subtle variations in pattern.
Did I tell you I was born outside wedlock? Perhaps that’s why I care so little for the marital status. A stupid safety net designed to protect people from themselves and their vices. Rules bring structure and reliability. There is comfort in that for some. Not for me. Social normality and I don’t see eye to eye. I’ve been on the fringes from an early age. I am suspicious of normality. Like the perfect picture, it has many unanswered questions. The guy going to work every day to do the same job, the woman desperately striving to better herself, people walking the same walk to identical houses, or sitting in their cars going one way and back the same. What’s the question? Why the hell are they doing it?