‘They had a burst radiator. Somebody put new ones everywhere except the bedrooms.’ He shakes his head, as though he despairs of people. ‘False economy every time.’
I stare into his pale-blue eyes, at the sty or little cyst on his lower lid. ‘Who? I mean, do you know who lives here? Their name?’
It’s hard to say whether he’s a bit suspicious now, or if he just doesn’t want to be bothered. Either way, all he says is, ‘Look, I’ve no idea who they are. They found me in the phone book. Left me a spare key.’ He coughs, a sharp and violent outburst that ends in him wheezing up a small storm. ‘Always seem to get the emergency jobs when I’m off to the caravan with the wife.’
I’m dying to say, Who left you a key, and where are they? And why would they leave a key with a total stranger? But none of it will form.
He goes on looking at me. ‘I’m sorry for bothering you,’ I tell him. After a moment or two of registering my defeat, I turn and start walking down the path.
Then I hear him say, ‘MacFarlane. You said you wanted a name. That’s who lives here. Justin MacFarlane and his wife.’
TWENTY-FOUR
When I answer the knock on the door, Sally is standing there holding up a bottle of wine in each hand. My jaw drops. She pushes out her hip, and I see two more bottles peeking out of the top of her messenger bag.
‘I didn’t want us to run out.’
‘You really didn’t need to come,’ I tell her as I watch her walk past me and set the wine down on the bench. I know she tends to be a home bird when she isn’t running around after her daughters. Sometimes, I find it embarrassing that we are always gathering to sort out my relationship problems.
She turns and meets my eyes, her own brimming with kindliness and understanding. ‘Er . . . you ring me and say, Justin’s got another wife, and you don’t think I’m going to come over?’
Insane as it is, I smile.
We sit at the small pine dining table. I tell her the whole thing in detail. Right down to the patch of sweat on the plumber’s shirt. ‘I’m sure it’s not his wife,’ she says, once I’ve told her everything I can possibly think of. ‘I can’t believe that in a million years.’ The first bottle of wine went down so fast that I’ve opened the second. I told her we should let it breathe and she said, ‘I think it’s us who need to be able to breathe, not the wine.’
She is sitting in her rolled-up jeans, barefoot, with one leg lying across the opposite knee. I can see the hard skin on her heels.
‘But how can you be so sure, when you and John think he’s unknowable?’ I can’t resist it.
She gives me that look – slightly disappointed in me – and scoops her hair up between both hands, as though she’s putting it in a ponytail, before letting it fall free again: something she does when she’s thinking. ‘He isn’t a bigamist. On that I’d bet my life.’
‘Would you really, though?’ I realise I’m drinking without really tasting the wine, and I need to pace myself.
‘My life savings then.’
We look at one another, doubt ticking away between us. I can’t stop playing back how surreal it was to hear him say Justin MacFarlane and his wife.
‘I don’t believe it, either,’ I tell her. ‘Or, rather, I simply cannot bring myself to see how it could be true, but bizarre stuff like this happens, doesn’t it? I mean, you never imagine it would happen to you, but maybe I am going to be one of those people . . .’
She is watching me when I come back from staring into space. ‘Al, he was a plumber they got out of the phone book. Why Justin was calling him, I don’t know, but I definitely wouldn’t put two and two together and come up with a bigamist.’
‘No,’ I say, not sure I’m any more comforted or convinced. ‘Maybe you are right.’
We talk for so long – going over the past, looking for clues – that it turns dark, and we don’t bother to switch on a light. ‘Would you have him back?’ she asks me when there is quite possibly no more we can say on this topic. ‘I mean, obviously if there is some acceptable explanation for this.’
I think about it. ‘Well, here’s another question. In my shoes, would you?’
‘No,’ she says. She taps a fingernail on her wine glass a few times, and I listen to it ping-ping. ‘It’s got nothing to do with forgiving, even if you could forgive him. I think, for me, he’d be too much of an emotional wild card now. I don’t want someone whose reaction is to just disappear without accountability. I would never be able to come home without wondering if he was going to be there, and I couldn’t live my life like that.’
‘Like you can with John,’ I say, after contemplating this for a while. ‘John is always going to be there, isn’t he?’ I feel bad again for having had uncharitable thoughts about him; at least he’s reliable.
‘Well, obviously, yes.’
I wait for her to say more, as I sense there is more – she seems suddenly downcast – but she just looks away.
A long time later, after we’ve relocated to the rug with our backs against the sofa, I say, ‘What am I going to do, Sal? Be honest with me.’
‘I think there’s only one thing you can do,’ she says. ‘But only you know if you can.’