I’m still on my way back from the station when Simon phones from his sister’s. He must have been on the Tube when I called his mobile, he tells me. He’s just picked up my voicemail.
‘I won’t be late back. Ange has got an early start in the morning, so I’ll head off after supper.’
‘Did you have a good day at work?’ The words are the same ones I use every evening, but there’s an edge to my voice that makes him pause, and I wonder if it’s enough to prompt whatever truths he’s been hiding from me.
It isn’t.
‘Not bad.’
I listen to Simon lie to me; to the detail he gives me about the guy at the next desk to him, who eats with his mouth open and spends half the day on the phone to his girlfriend. I want to confront him but I can’t find the words; and more than that, I still can’t believe it’s true.
Of course Simon works at the Telegraph. I’ve seen his desk. At least, I’ve seen pictures of it. Soon after we started dating he texted me.
I miss you. What are you doing now? I want to picture it.
I’m in Sainsbury’s, I replied. I sent him a photo of the frozen food aisle, laughing out loud in the supermarket.
It became a game, abbreviated to WAYDN? and responded to with a photo of whatever was in front of us at that precise moment. A packed Tube train, a sandwich at lunch, the underside of my brolly as I walked to work in the rain. It was a window into our lives; into the days and nights between our evenings together.
I’ve seen his desk, I repeat to myself. I’ve seen the vast open-plan space with its computer screens and ever present Sky News feed. I’ve seen the piles of newspapers.
You’ve seen a desk, a voice says in my head, it could have been anyone’s.
I shake it off. What am I suggesting; that Simon sent me photos of somewhere he didn’t even work? That he took pictures of a newsroom from the Internet? It’s ridiculous. There’ll be an innocent explanation. A missed entry in the switchboard directory; an incompetent receptionist; a practical joke. Simon wouldn’t lie to me.
Would he?
I cross the road so I can stop by Melissa’s café. I know that Justin’s shift finishes shortly, and I see them sitting at a table poring over paperwork, Melissa leaning forward until her head is almost touching Justin’s. They move apart as I come through the door, Melissa jumping up to give me a kiss.
‘Just the person! We were just arguing about the Christmas menu. Turkey baguettes with cranberry, or with sage and onion? Stick those menus away, Justin, we’ll finish off tomorrow.’
‘Cranberry and sage and onion. Hi, love.’
Justin picks up the papers and shuffles them into a pile. ‘I said both, too.’
‘That’s because it’s not your profits you’re giving away,’ Melissa says. ‘Sage and onion or cranberry sauce. Not both.’
‘I thought we could walk home together,’ I say to Justin, ‘but you’re busy.’
‘You go on,’ Melissa says. ‘I’ll lock up.’ I watch my son take off his apron and hang it behind the counter, ready for tomorrow.
I loop my hand through Justin’s arm as we walk home. My stomach feels hollow as I remember the certainty with which the Telegraph’s switchboard operator had delivered her news.
There’s no Simon Thornton working here.
‘Has Simon ever talked to you about his job?’ I try to speak casually, but Justin looks at me as if I’ve suggested he might have chatted with Biscuit. The antagonism between Simon and Justin is the elephant in the room; ignored in the hope it will one day leave of its own accord.
‘Only to make the point that I’d never get a job like his without qualifications. Which was nice.’
‘I’m sure he was just trying to motivate you.’
‘Well, he can stick his motivation up his—’
‘Justin!’
‘He’s got no right to lecture me. He’s not my dad.’
‘He’s not trying to be.’ I put the key in the lock. ‘Can’t you just try and get on? For my sake?’
He stares at me, his expression registering a flicker of remorse beneath the bitterness. ‘No. You think you know him, Mum, but you don’t. You really don’t.’
I’m peeling potatoes when my mobile rings. I’m about to leave it, when I catch sight of the name on the screen. PC Kelly Swift. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and snatch up the phone before it can go to voicemail. ‘Hello?’
‘Have you got a minute?’ PC Swift sounds hesitant. ‘There’s something I need to tell you. Off the record.’