I return to mopping the floor, sloshing water angrily. It’s obvious what’s happening. Jack is cheating on Meg. He’s sleeping with that stiletto-wearing, Botox-frozen, painted whore of an estate agent. How dare she break up my perfect family? What if Jack leaves Meg? What if she kicks him out?
At three o’clock I collect my last pay slip and say good-bye to Abigail and the other girls. Having changed into my winter coat, I walk along the back lane, heading into Barnes village. Pausing outside the estate agent’s window, I look at the glossy photographs of flats and houses for sale. Below the specs for each property there is contact information and a photograph of the agent. Rhea Bowden—that’s her name. I remember her fawning over me when I looked at the house and asking if my husband wanted a private viewing.
There is a pay phone at the pub. I call the estate agency. A receptionist answers, young and plummy.
“Can I speak to Rhea Bowden?” I ask.
“She’s not in the office this afternoon. Can I take a message?”
“I’m calling from Homebase. One of our drivers is trying to deliver bathroom tiles but can’t find her house. We must have the wrong address.”
“Bathroom tiles?”
“I tried her mobile number. No answer. I think she has a tiler waiting for them.”
I hear her tapping at her keyboard. “It’s 34 Milgarth Avenue, Barnes.”
“Right road, wrong number,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”
The address is less than half a mile away. Detouring slightly, I stop at the Barnes Fish Shop and buy two pounds of cooked prawns. The fishmonger is full of banter about fish being good for pregnant ladies.
“You know why fish are so smart?” he chirps.
“They swim in schools,” I reply.
“You’ve heard that one.”
“Noah heard that one.”
Rhea Bowden lives in a pretty detached cottage on a street with lots of trees and builder’s skips. There are two types of cars in places like this—the stockbroker brands like Mercedes, BMWs, or Audis, and the cool cars like Mini Coopers, Aston Martins, or original Beetles. Jack’s car is parked across the road behind the BMW convertible.
Slipping through the main gate, I take the narrow side path past a rusting bicycle chained to a post. As I pass each window, I crouch to avoid casting a shadow on the curtains.
At the rear of the house, I hear music and voices. Stepping in a flower bed, I stand on tiptoes and peer through a window, seeing the corner of a bed and a discarded pair of trousers on the floor . . . a shoe . . . a shirt . . . a blouse.
Holding the window ledge, I scrabble upwards, lifting my chin higher. This time I see Rhea Bowden dressed in black lingerie. She’s straddling Jack, bracing her hands on his chest and rapidly jerking her hips. Her belly is jiggling and Jack reaches up and massages her breasts beneath the camisole. She’s talking dirty to him, grinding her hips and moaning like a porn star.
A part of me is disgusted and another part wants to keep watching. I contemplate interrupting them. I could ring Rhea’s doorbell or set off her car alarm. No, that’s too childish.
Retreating along the path, I walk to Jack’s car and tear a page from a notepad in my handbag. I picture Jack inside having a postcoital cigarette while Rhea douches in the bidet. She’s the sort of woman who will have a bidet because it makes her feel more European and sophisticated.
Dear Jack,
I know you’re having an affair. I know where and when. I have photographs of you and Rhea Bowden together. I also know your wife is pregnant. End the affair now or I’m going to tell Meg. You don’t deserve her. Arsehole!
Yours honestly,
A friend
Folding the page in half, I tuck it beneath the wiper blades of Jack’s car.
Checking the street again, I wander along to Rhea’s BMW and crouch by the passenger-side tire. Unwrapping the prawns, I begin cramming them into the hubcap, moving from wheel to wheel and then the air vents and grille. Some of the heads break off, but I shove them through the gaps.
It will take a few days for the prawns to rot. At first Rhea will wonder where the stench is coming from and blame the neighbors, but slowly she’ll narrow it down because the smell will keep following her around.
Satisfied with my work, I wash my hands under a nearby tap. Hopefully I’ve done enough to teach Jack a lesson. If not, I’ll send the next letter to him at home. I need him to stay married to Meg and be faithful and raise Lucy and Lachlan. I might not be the most moral person, but I will not let them break up. Soon they’re going to need each other.
MEGHAN
* * *
What am I going to do about Simon? I am trapped by his demands, caught between my infidelity and his misguided declarations of love; a rock and a hard place, the frying pan and the fire. Memories of our night together keep popping into my head, creating waves of shame and emotions that swing between murderous rage and my complete surrender.
What if I were to tell Jack and beg for forgiveness?
“It was just sex,” I’d say. “It meant nothing.” How pathetically trite. “Just sex” is what every unfaithful spouse says, as though putting just in front of a word minimizes the betrayal.
Do I also tell Jack that Simon is in love with me and I once had a relationship with him? Surely it makes everything worse because I’ve kept it hidden. I should have told Jack from the very beginning, but it was the night before our wedding.
This is Simon’s fault. He professes to love me, but I don’t think he’s capable of loving anyone other than himself. He’s an opportunist and a dilettante. You can see it in the girlfriends he chooses, who are dull-witted and earnest and never his intellectual equal. Underneath his charm and lavish good looks is a man lacking in emotional conviction or depth. He has no idea what it takes to hold a family together or to maintain a relationship. And the only reason he wants a child is because it would make him more interesting.
Grace wants to take me for a girls’ day out because I quashed her plans for a baby shower. She has booked us into a day spa just off Sloane Square and insisted on driving.
“I hope they have a whale wash,” I say, but she ignores me and says self-pity is proof that I need pampering.
The spa is hidden discreetly behind a heavy wooden door. The décor has a Southern Asian feel, like some idyllic Malaysian oasis with teak carvings, marble floors, and sandalwood scents. Grace won’t let me look at the price list.
“This is my treat,” she says, sipping on her first glass of champagne. “Three hours from now we’re going to feel like new women.”
She’s not wrong. Soon I’m being pummeled, rubbed, stroked, stretched, and perfumed until I fall asleep and drool on my towel. A couple of the male masseurs keep vying to get their hands on Grace, who has that effect on men and boys, straight or gay.