I can’t make eye contact with the taxi driver as we pull up outside my home. I could see him repeatedly looking at me in the rear-view mirror as he drove me away from the block of flats, unable to tell whether it was disgust or concern in his eyes. Maybe it was both. I hand over the cash and don’t wait for the change, mumbling my thanks before climbing out and closing the door. The first thing I see as the cab drives away is Paul’s car parked outside. He didn’t tell me he was coming back tonight. He’s hardly been in touch at all.
I search inside my handbag for a mint and spray myself with a spritz of perfume. I find my small compact mirror and examine different parts of my face in the glow from the street light outside the house. It’s the first time I’ve had to look myself in the eye since I woke up in someone else’s bed. Most of my make-up has rubbed off but my mascara has bled down my face. No wonder the cab driver was staring at me. I lick my fingers and rub the skin beneath my eyes before checking my reflection once more. I still look like myself, even though I am not.
I step from the pavement onto our property, crossing an invisible border and closing the gate behind me, cementing the decision to proceed with caution. The air is so cold that the frozen wood needs persuading to shut all the way and burns the tips of my fingers in protest. I force myself to walk towards the house, leaving all the truths we haven’t shared out on the street. I survey the front of our home as I trudge up the gravel path. The place looks tired, unloved, in need of some attention. White paint has flaked in places, peeling away like sunburnt skin. Everything in the garden looks dead or dying. A thick trunk of wisteria ascends and divides into a network of dry brown veins all over the front of the house, as though it will never blossom again. I try to tell myself that maybe I haven’t done anything wrong, but the guilt of what I can’t or won’t remember slows my steps. Madeline has been dealt with but now I fear I’m facing something so much worse.
I search for my keys in my bag, but I can’t find them so I ring the bell. I wait a while, then the cold nudges my impatience and I ring it again. Paul opens the door. He doesn’t say anything and we both just stand there as though I’m waiting to be invited into my own home. It’s cold so I step inside, pushing past him without meaning to.
‘You’re home late,’ he says, closing the front door behind me.
‘Yes, Christmas party. How’s your mum?’ I ask.
‘Mum? Yes, she’s fine. I think we need to talk.’
He knows.
‘OK. Talk.’ I force myself to look up and face him.
‘There’s something I need to tell you. Maybe it’s better if we sit down.’
He doesn’t know but it doesn’t matter. I’m too late.
‘I might get a drink first, do you want one?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and I retreat to the kitchen. I take a bottle of red, doesn’t matter which one. I hesitate as I reach for a glass, then I overrule my apprehension, one glass can’t do any harm. It’s all been for nothing anyway. He wants to tell me that it’s over, all that’s left to do is listen. It doesn’t even matter what I have or haven’t done, he’s already decided for both of us.
I find the bottle opener and hold on to it, trying to steady my hands as I start to twist down into the cork, tearing it from the inside out. As my wrist turns, the irony snakes up around my arm, across my shoulder to my throat, strangling me so that the words can’t get out and the air can’t get in. Her name screams itself over and over inside my head. I need Claire. I need her so badly right now and I hate her at the same time. I thought today was a victory, but now it feels like I’ve been playing the wrong game. The sound of the cork being pulled from the bottle is less satisfying than normal. I hold it in my fingers for a second, from some angles it still looks perfect, you’d never know it was so damaged on the inside.
Paul is sitting on the sofa that is normally for guests. I pause for a moment, then sit down opposite him in the seat that is habitually mine. I feel dirty and damaged but he doesn’t seem to notice.
‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ he says. He looks nervous, childlike. I used to find it endearing, now I just wish he’d grow up, get on with it and spit it out. I don’t say anything, I won’t make this easy for him, regardless of where I have just come from or what I might have done.
‘I’ve been lying to you,’ he says. He still doesn’t look at me, just stares at a spot on the floor.
‘What about?’
‘I wasn’t at Mum’s yesterday. I was before that, she did have a fall, but when I left yesterday morning that wasn’t where I was going.’
I take a sip of wine. I realise now that I’ve been looking the wrong way before crossing a busy road. My patience expires and I need this performance to come to an end.
‘Who is she?’ He looks at me then.
‘Who?’ he asks.
‘Whoever you’re having an affair with.’ My hands are still trembling slightly so I put down my glass.
Paul shakes his head and laughs at me. ‘I’m not having an affair. Jesus. I was with my agent.’
I take a moment to process the unexpected information.
‘Your agent?’
‘Yes. I didn’t want to tell you until I was one hundred per cent sure, I didn’t want to get your hopes up and let you down again.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’ve written another book. I didn’t think it was any good, didn’t think anything would ever be any good ever again, but they’ve sold it, they’ve sold it everywhere. I found out there was going to be an auction when I was in Norfolk, my head was so all over the place with Mum that I didn’t really believe it myself. But it’s real and they’re talking about a lot of money. They love it, Amber, there was a bidding war in the States too and things just got crazy, thirteen territories so far. And the best bit, there’s talk of a film deal. It hasn’t all been completely signed off yet, but it’s looking pretty good.’ He’s smiling, really smiling, and I realise I can’t remember the last time he looked this happy. I’m smiling too, it seems infectious and I can’t help it. But then I remember something I cannot forget.
‘There was underwear in your wardrobe. Now it’s gone.’
‘What?’
‘You bought lacy underwear for someone else. I found it. It wasn’t my size.’
For a moment I can’t tell whether he is angry or amused by what I have said.
‘I bought underwear for you. It was the wrong size, yes. So I took it back. If you go upstairs right now you’ll find the same bag containing what I thought I’d picked up the first time, hidden in the same place. Or at least it was supposed to be hidden until Christmas. You didn’t really think I was having an affair, did you?’
I start to cry. I can’t help it.
‘Darling, I’m so sorry,’ he says, then he holds me and I let him. ‘I know things haven’t been great for a while, but I love you. Only you. I know I’ve been inside the book for the last few months and I’m sorry if I’ve been distant. We’ve been through so much and of course I’m gutted about the baby stuff, but you are the only person I want to spend my life with and that’s never going to change. Do you understand?’
I could tell him right now that I might be pregnant. I shake the thought from my mind almost as soon as I think it. I haven’t done the test yet, I can’t tell him until I’m sure. Really sure. Can’t get his hopes up. I’ve been such a fool.
He kisses me. Really kisses me, like he hasn’t for so long. I don’t want it to stop, but when it does I open my eyes and he’s smiling at me again. I’m smiling back. The happiness I’m feeling is real.
‘There’s just one catch,’ he says.
The mirrored smiles fade fast. ‘What?’