And there it is – a ￡1,000 debit paid to DBA Enterprises last Sunday. I stare at the line, clicking back and then forward again, wondering if I’ve somehow misread it. There are the regular debits – home insurance, a couple of bills – and then, completely out of step with everything else is a payment for a thousand pounds.
The payment is linked to Dan’s card but he hasn’t once mentioned spending so much money on one thing. Even during the times at which we’ve been at one another’s throats, we’ve never done anything like this. We’ve bought furniture, cars and holidays – but always as joint decisions.
I search the internet for DBA Enterprises but there’s almost nothing – and then I remember the woman on the phone from the agency telling me I could book on a card and it would ‘appear as something discreet on your statement’. The company name is certainly inconspicuous and it’s only the amount that’s noticeable.
Did Dan pay for Stephen to seduce me?
If he did, then using our joint credit card seems so stupid, so simplistic. Except that I never check the accounts. It took me long enough to find the log on device and then I could barely remember my password. We don’t get paper statements and I’d have no reason to check unless I was suspicious. He knows this because it’s always him who questions small things on statements.
I return to the escort website and it’s right there on the price list. Two hours costs ￡500 but five hours is ￡1,000. I suppose that’s close to the length of time we were with each other at the hotel.
Did Dan set me up so that the impending divorce would be about infidelity rather than a breakdown to the relationship? Would that get him a better deal? More sympathy from Olivia and our friends?
I stare at the figure on the screen with no idea what to think. If it was Dan who booked Stephen, then what about everything else? The car, the field, the blood? Tyler? The stun gun? Even the smaller things like missing keys? Is this an elaborate plot to frame me? Or to confuse me to the point of questioning my own sanity?
If it’s that, then he’s really pulling off a masterstroke.
I log out of internet banking, snap the laptop lid closed and head upstairs to the spare room. I don’t trust Dan but I barely trust myself. The only thing I can hope is that I get some answers from Stephen.
Chapter Forty
Sunday
Dan never bothered me in the spare room when he got in last night. He didn’t even check I was there. It was only Olivia who knocked quietly and then entered. I told her I had a headache and she perched on the end of the bed asking if I wanted painkillers or water. I told her I was okay and then she replied that work had been fine but that she was going to bed early as well. It looked like she’d been crying but there wasn’t much I could say to help. I didn’t trust myself to say much of anything, not when it came to Tyler in any case.
The next morning, I head downstairs to the living room before Dan is up. I check the banking website once more but nothing has changed. When he comes downstairs, Dan is already dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.
‘No gym today?’ I ask.
He heads to the fridge but grimaces slightly, annoyed at my apparent intrusion. ‘No.’
‘What are you up to?’
It’s innocuous enough but not really the type of thing we go out of our way to ask one another nowadays.
‘Car boot sale,’ he replies. ‘I’m going to look for a few things for the new apartment.’
It sounds suspiciously like nonsense. We went to a few Sunday morning car boot sales when we were younger and not as well off – but that would be more than a decade ago. Dan said his apartment was furnished and, for the few things he might need, why buy second-hand?
As with all the other things, I don’t question him.
He says he’s having breakfast first and I reply that I’m going to pop to Ellie’s for a while. Dan barely acknowledges this and certainly doesn’t ask if I want to go with him.
I check on Olivia, but she’s out of it, head buried under a pillow, her body rising and falling gently as she sleeps. After that, I put on some warmer clothes and a coat and then half-jog along the street until I’m outside Ellie’s. I phone her from outside, rather than knocking on the door, not wanting Jason to answer.
Ellie is in a dressing gown and slippers when she answers the door. She yawns twice and asks what I’m doing up at this time on a Sunday.
‘I need to borrow your car,’ I reply.
‘It was banged up, remember. The insurance company took it.’
‘But you have a rental…?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can I borrow that?’
‘Why?’
I want to tell her about the credit card statement and Dan’s obvious made-up story about the car boot sale but don’t have time. I don’t feel like sharing at this time, either.
‘I can’t say,’ I reply. ‘Please trust me.’
Ellie fights back another yawn but then she breaks into a smile. I feel it, too. There’s that hint of the old days, of mischief and mayhem. She nips back into the house for a moment and then returns with a key and fob, before pointing to a maroon Ford on the opposite side of the road.
‘That one,’ she says. ‘Please don’t crash it.’
‘I won’t.’
It takes me a moment or two to figure out where everything is. I bunny-hop away from the kerb but, once I’ve got it, the car turns out to be a smooth drive. I glide along the road, across the junction, and then slot into a spot next to the postbox at the end of our road. I dig into my coat pocket and retrieve the beanie hat, bundling up my hair and pulling the hat down over my ears. I’ve got a view of the entire street and so sit and wait.
Barely two minutes have passed when Dan’s BMW cruises from our driveway. It’s so big considering he’s the only one who uses it. I doubt the back seats have ever had anything on them other than the odd bag or file.
I try to remember what I’ve seen and heard about following someone else in a car. It’s something like keeping two cars in between – except there is no other traffic. All I can do is maintain a distance and hope he doesn’t stare into his rear-view mirror too closely.
One thing that’s certainly true of my husband is that he’s a good driver. He’s predictable, maintaining a steady speed within the limit and signalling his turns early. Even though I don’t know what I’m doing in terms of following him, his competence as a driver makes it easy.
I trail him out of the town, following the main road to the dual carriageway where there is a little more traffic. It’s easier to keep a distance yet still see him, and so I sit in a couple of hundred metres behind and wait for him to make a move.
I’m not quite sure why I’m following him, other than that his car boot story seemed so obviously a lie. I suppose it feels like I’m doing something – and something is better than nothing. This is proactive.
It’s only another ten minutes or so until Dan signals to leave the dual carriageway. I do the same and by the time I’m pulling up to a roundabout he’s already taking a left. The lack of traffic lights makes it easy to maintain a distance without making things too obvious.
I’m feeling like a right smart-arse until I see the sign for the GIANT boot sale. The first sign says two miles, then one, then half. Dan continues on the same route until he slows, indicates and takes the turn into a field.
He was telling the truth.