“She was pretty happy with what she got from you,” I say. “Did she ever mention Claire Evans?”
Astonishment flickers on the psychiatrist’s face.
“No,” he says, his surprise quickly giving way to a blank frown. “I don’t think so. I haven’t learned this fact. But I’ll look at my diary again.”
He clicks away at his iDiary before shaking his head.
“My diary is silent,” he says. “Why do you ask? Were they friends?”
“Reckon not.” I shake my head. “Definitely not friends. By the way, you ought to change your password on that handheld device of yours. The one that grants remote access to your patients’ records. Your dead wife’s name is a bit too predictable.”
The psychiatrist is frozen solid in his seat. His reaction supplies the precise confirmation I require. I should go through the remaining entries in a particular diary on my desk with a fine-tooth comb. After all, I hope to work out why Dr. Jong’s erstwhile lover was obsessed with his troubled patient.
Men can be real arseholes.
—Diary of Sophia Ayling
Chapter Fifteen
Claire
My hands are trembling. Even though Emily has done her best to calm me down. She has made me a mug of hot chocolate and fed me some carrot cake. Its moist sweetness lingers on my lips. But tears are still trickling down my cheeks, tears I somehow managed to hold back when I confronted Mark.
The words I used were calm, even measured. The clear assurance in my voice surprised me.
“I want a divorce,” I said.
He blinked in response, not registering my words at first. But then his mouth fell open. I ran upstairs with a sense of smug satisfaction, knowing I’d hit him hard. Right in his cozy philandering gut. Minutes before his appearance at the Cambridge Guildhall, too. But as the seconds ticked by, I wanted to punch him even harder. I saw the perfect opportunity when Jane McDonald texted to say that she was at Mark’s press conference.
I texted her straight back:
“My soon-to-be-ex-husband’s press conference, you mean. We’re divorcing.”
In the heat of the moment, I thought it was an inspired idea. I couldn’t have brought Mark down in more dramatic fashion. The journalists at the Guildhall must have disemboweled him right afterwards. But then my mobile phone began ringing nonstop. I even answered one of the calls, from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello,” I said.
“Good afternoon,” said a high-pitched female voice on the other end. “May I speak to Claire Evans, please?”
“Speaking.”
“Fabulous.” The voice became a chirrupy trill. “This is Gemma Goddard from The Sun. You got us all excited with that text message of yours. What’s going on? Did your husband cheat on you?”
I was tempted to tell her everything. But something held me back. Somehow the admission that Mark had strayed from our marital bed seemed like a slap in the face. My pride as a wife and a woman was at stake. After all, I’d been unable to keep my own husband in check.
My silence must have been interpreted as a yes, because Goddard began to gush:
“Perfect. You must surely be bursting to tell me more. We’re delighted to offer you fifteen thousand pounds for an exclusive. A no-holds-barred exposé of what went wrong in your mixed marriage over the years…”
The smugness in my heart evaporated. My thoughts dissolved into a churning mess. I hung up and switched off my phone. What I needed, I realized, was a sympathetic friend, someone to listen to my woes. Certainly not a kiss-and-tell interview with The Sun.
So here I am an hour later, still crying. I must have used up an entire box of tissues since arriving at Emily’s. The generous sympathy on her face is causing everything to bubble over.
I dab my eyes again.
“I shouldn’t have allowed Mark to fool me for so long,” I say, stifling a sob. “I should have smelled a rat when he began traveling to London. Should have realized he had a mistress there.”
“It isn’t your fault,” says Emily, patting me on the shoulder. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“But the writing was on the wall,” I say, unable to stop my voice from choking. “The facts were there from day one, Em. Mark’s not to be trusted. He never loved me, not even at the start. I can’t believe I convinced myself otherwise.”
“Rubbish,” says Emily, handing me another tissue. “No way you could have seen this coming. Stop blaming yourself, sweetie. It only makes things worse. It’s Mark who deserves to feel like shit, not you.”
“So what do I do now?” I say, dabbing my cheeks.
“Start thinking about your settlement,” says Emily, dispensing one of her matter-of-fact solutions with a sudden smirk. “How much you can wangle out of that arsehole. Fifty percent should set you up for life. Do contact that lawyer O’Sullivan. I’ve just read in The Sun that he’s managed to get seventy-five million for Petronella Cruise.”
“Who?”
“That actress who found her husband in bed with another woman.”
I sigh.
“Come to think of it, a lie-down might also do you good,” she continues, giving me another sympathetic pat on the back. “You’ve been crying for an hour. You look terrible. Come with me, sweetie. We have a spare bed. You should have a rest.”
I ought to heed Emily’s advice. I can’t think of anything better to do. I grab my handbag and follow her down the hallway. She leads me into a poky little room containing a tiny bunk bed.
“Get in,” she says, plumping up the pillows and drawing back the thin covers.
I fling my bag onto a nearby table and dive into the bed. It smells of ancient mothballs and dust that has not been touched for weeks. Emily tucks the covers over me before kissing me on the forehead and bustling over to the window to draw the curtains.
“You’ll feel better soon, sweetie,” she says. “More carrot cake will be waiting for you in the kitchen when you emerge. Definitely more hot chocolate. I’ll bake your favorite scones.”
She shuts the door.
Despite what Emily thinks, the lie-down isn’t calming me at all. Her dusty, mothball-reeking bed only makes my head spin. I rise and stagger to the window. I pull the curtains back and fling the shutters open, only to be greeted with a grand view of Trinity’s Burrell’s Field student quarters.
The Trinity May Ball, I think with a groan. The night when I should have first understood the writing on the wall.