‘But you did,’ Rachel interrupted. ‘People make mistakes, and you’ve both been brave enough to admit that to each other. The critical thing now is whether you can properly move on from everything that’s happened?’
‘I really hope so. I’m not going to lie, Rach, you know that, before kids, my relationship red line was someone cheating on me, and I hate how differently all the Hannah stuff has made me feel about Rob. Yes, he’s still fundamentally the same person. We’re still looking after the kids, sorting packed lunches, brushing teeth, working, food shopping – but now he does one wrong thing and immediately I’m thinking: That’s it – divorce. So, after what I told him yesterday, is he thinking that too? I don’t know.’ I hesitated and sat back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment. ‘But then thinking divorce because you’re angry and hurt is one thing – actually doing it… who can even afford to split up these days? Two houses and all of that shit. That’s before you think about what it would do to the girls… You couldn’t find two little children who adore their father more than Tilly and Maisie. And I love him too. The very real thought of him leaving us, meeting someone else, marrying her and having another family, is unbearable.’
Rachel sighed. ‘Life is never straightforward, is it?’
‘No, it isn’t. And I’m really not saying this is an excuse, for him or me, but it is bloody frightening how easy it is to make such a huge mistake that you genuinely regret. Is that worth chucking away ten years over? I think I might feel different if he’d had an actual affair, but it was one night. What I did was one night.’ I shivered uncomfortably, not wanting to think about it in any detail. ‘Obviously there are problems, otherwise neither of us would have done anything in the first place, but we both want to fix them.’
‘Well, I’m really pleased,’ Rachel said sincerely. ‘No one’s saying it’s going to be easy, but surely you both wanting it to work is half the battle?’
* * *
There was no question we were both making a lot more effort to consider each other. Rob politely asked if he could go to the gym on Monday, unless I wanted to? I made it to a spin class on Tuesday evening, and on Wednesday, Rob volunteered to collect the girls so I could dash to an early parent’s evening at their school, to be told what we could expect Maisie and Tilly to be learning during the autumn term in Year 2 and Nursery 2, respectively.
When I got back, he’d opened a bottle of wine – because, although it was our all new date night, I hadn’t been able to find a babysitter – and made his pasta dish. I turned my phone off, so did he, and we watched Passengers together: a movie about a spaceship transporting thousands of hibernating people to colonise a new planet. One man wakes up ninety years too early and, after a year alone, deliberately wakes a female passenger he’s been watching sleep to join him. I silently wondered if Rob would choose to wake me up if his pod malfunctioned, or if he’d select Hannah instead, but then pushed the thought firmly away.
We went to bed too late after it ended disappointingly, and I didn’t really want to have sex – although I knew we probably ought to. Thankfully, Tilly woke up while I was brushing my teeth, and by the time I went back to bed, Rob was already dozing. We hugged until we fell asleep, however. It was a start. We were both trying.
On Thursday, 14 September, four days after I’d come back from Ibiza, the last on my list of lunchtime call-backs was a Christy Day. The name was unfamiliar to me, and Jen, the receptionist, had made the note
Would rather not say reason for call
which probably meant Ms Day had some sort of gynae issue. I scanned through her medical record – her last appointment had been with David, on 7 August, at which he’d prescribed Zopiclone for insomnia.
I dialled, and a slightly breathy, high voice said: ‘Hello?’
‘Can I speak to Christy Day, please?’
‘Dr Inglis? Thank you for calling me back.’
‘How can I help?’ I glanced at the clock and tried to sound friendly. I was barely going to get five minutes to eat my sandwich at this rate.
‘Well, this is rather embarrassing, but I’ve had severe diarrhoea and vomiting for the last three days. I can’t seem to keep anything down at all.’
I unwrapped my sandwich and got it ready. ‘Not even water?’
‘Not really, no. I’m getting a bit frightened. I’d go to the hospital, but I don’t want everyone there to get it. Do you think you could come and see me at home today, Dr Inglis? I’m sorry to ask.’
I cursed inwardly. I wanted to get home in time to see the girls before they went to bed. ‘We don’t do home visits unless they’re absolutely necessary, Mrs Day.’ I glanced at her notes again, how old was she? Forty-nine. ‘You’re sure you couldn’t come into the surgery?’
‘But what about the infection risk?’
‘That’s OK,’ I assured her. ‘We could let you in through our side entrance and take you straight through to a consulting room.’
‘I honestly don’t think I could make it through the journey, if you know what I mean, doctor. I wouldn’t ask unless it was absolutely necessary.’
I tried not to grit my teeth crossly. After three days and now not keeping water down, she definitely needed to be seen, but… I forced a smile instead to make my voice sound cheery. ‘OK, Mrs Day. I can’t promise exactly what time it’ll be, as I have a couple of other house calls first, but I will come tonight.’
‘Thank you, doctor. I’m very grateful.’
So you should be, I thought gloomily, finally picking up my sandwich. The first appointment of the afternoon pinged onto my screen before I’d even had chance to take a bite.
* * *
My mood had not improved by the time I tiredly programmed my satnav with Christy Day’s address at around half past six.
She lived on the leafy south side of Tunbridge Wells, up a private drive off one of the nicest roads. It had once been an area discretely scattered with detached arts and crafts houses and their huge gardens. Over time, they’d all been sold to developers who had built luxury closes and cul-de-sacs of still very desirable executive homes. Christy’s was a large contemporary version of the original thing – a half-tiled hung double frontage with leaded windows and immaculate lawns. I whistled enviously as I drove down the drive. I wanted to move in immediately.
Crunching over the gravel past a sporty little Merc and a chunky black Range Rover, I rang the bell, and a dog started distantly barking somewhere. The enormous honeyed oak front door opened to reveal a classically attractive man in exceptionally good shape, not just for his late forties. He was unseasonably dressed in tennis whites, shorts and trainers – presumably to show off such a muscular, hard-earned physique – and was a little too tanned with an absolutely immaculate full head of suspiciously brown hair that looked almost sprayed into place. He flashed a bright white smile at me, and I extended a hand.
‘Hello, I’m Dr Alex Inglis.’
He took it and we firmly shook. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Gary Day, Christy’s husband.’
I struggled to think who he reminded me of, only to realise it was Maisie’s Ken doll, who’d been kicking around her plastic princess house dressed in nothing more than a bandana and moulded pants for months. The likeness was uncanny. I suppressed a smile, at which his eyebrows briefly flickered with interest. That was enough to refocus me instantly.
‘Your wife is upstairs?’ I said pointedly, taking back my hand.
‘No, she’s in the kitchen actually.’
Kitchen? With severe D&V? My mood darkened as I stepped into a vast oak-floored hall and he closed the door behind me. A tiny, fluffy, white dog began to bounce down the stairs yapping and wagging its tail enthusiastically. Gary bent to scoop it up as it got to the bottom step and let off another volley of yips.