ANNA

SATURDAY, AUGUST 17, 2013
EVENING
I hate myself for crying, it’s so pathetic. But I feelexhausted, these past few weeks have been so hardon me. And Tom and I have had another rowabout—inevitably—Rachel.
It’s been brewing, I suppose. I’ve been torturingmyself about the note, about the fact that he lied tome about them meeting up. I keep telling myself it’scompletely stupid, but I can’t fight the feeling thatthere is something going on between them. I’ve beengoing round and round: after everything she did tohim—to us—how could he? How could he evencontemplate being with her again? I mean, if youlook at the two of us, side by side, there isn’t a manon earth who would pick her over me. And that’swithout even going into all her issues.
But then I think, this happens sometimes, doesn’t it?
People you have a history with, they won’t let yougo, and as hard as you might try, you can’tdisentangle yourself, can’t set yourself free. Maybeafter a while you just stop trying.
She came by on Thursday, banging on the doorand calling out for Tom. I was furious, but I didn’tdare open up. Having a child with you makes youvulnerable, it makes you weak. If I’d been on myown I would have confronted her, I’d have had noproblems sorting her out. But with Evie here, I justcouldn’t risk it. I’ve no idea what she might do.
I know why she came. She was pissed off that I’dtalked to the police about her. I bet she came cryingto Tom to tell me to leave her alone. She left anote—We need to talk, please call me as soon aspossible, it’s important (important underlined threetimes)—which I threw straight into the bin. Later, Ifished it out and put it in my bedside drawer, alongwith the printout of that vicious email she sent andthe log I’ve been keeping of all the calls and all thesightings. The harassment log. My evidence, should Ineed it. I called Detective Riley and left a messagesaying that Rachel had been round again. She stillhasn’t rung back.
I should have mentioned the note to Tom, I know Ishould have, but I didn’t want him to get annoyedwith me about talking to the police, so I just shovedit in that drawer and hoped that she’d forget aboutit. She didn’t, of course. She rang him tonight. Hewas fuming when he got off the phone with her.
“What the fuck is all this about a note?” hesnapped.
I told him I’d thrown it away. “I didn’t realize thatyou’d want to read it,” I said. “I thought you wantedher out of our lives as much as I do.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s not the point and youknow it. Of course I want Rachel gone. What I don’twant is for you to start listening to my phone callsand throwing away my mail. You’re?.?.?.” He sighed.
“I’m what?”
“Nothing. It’s just?.?.?. it’s the sort of thing she usedto do.”
It was a punch in the gut, a low blow. Ridiculously,I burst into tears and ran upstairs to the bathroom.
I waited for him to come up to soothe me, to kissand make up like he usually does, but after abouthalf an hour he called out to me, “I’m going to thegym for a couple of hours,” and before I could replyI heard the front door slam.
And now I find myself behaving exactly like sheused to: polishing off the half bottle of red left overfrom dinner last night and snooping around on hiscomputer. It’s easier to understand her behaviourwhen you feel like I feel right now. There’s nothingso painful, so corrosive, as suspicion.
I cracked the laptop password eventually: it’sBlenheim. As innocuous and boring as that—thename of the road we live on. I’ve found noincriminating emails, no sordid pictures or passionateletters. I spend half an hour reading through workemails so mind-numbing that they dull even the painof jealousy, then I shut down the laptop and put itaway. I’m feeling really quite jolly, thanks to the wineand the tedious contents of Tom’s computer. I’vereassured myself I was just being silly.
I go upstairs to brush my teeth—I don’t want himto know that I’ve been at the wine again—and then Idecide that I’ll strip the bed and put on fresh sheets,I’ll spray a bit of Acqua di Parma on the pillows andput on that black silk teddy he got me for mybirthday last year, and when he comes back, I’llmake it up to him.
As I’m pulling the sheets off the mattress I almosttrip over a black bag shoved under the bed: his gymbag. He’s forgotten his gym bag. He’s been gone anhour, and he hasn’t been back for it. My stomachflips. Maybe he just thought, sod it, and decided togo to the pub instead. Maybe he has some sparestuff in his locker at the gym. Maybe he’s in bedwith her right now.
I feel sick. I get down on my knees and rummagethrough the bag. All his stuff is there, washed andready to go, his iPod shuffle, the only trainers heruns in. And something else: a mobile phone. Aphone I’ve never seen before.
I sit down on the bed, the phone in my hand, myheart hammering. I’m going to turn it on, there’s noway I’ll be able to resist, and yet I’m sure that whenI do, I’ll regret it, because this can only meansomething bad. You don’t keep spare mobile phonestucked away in gym bags unless you’re hidingsomething. There’s a voice in my head saying, Justput it back, just forget about it, but I can’t. Ipress my finger down hard on the power button andwait for the screen to light up. And wait. And wait.
It’s dead. Relief floods my system like morphine.
I’m relieved because now I can’t know, but I’m alsorelieved because a dead phone suggests an unusedphone, an unwanted phone, not the phone of a maninvolved in a passionate affair. That man would wanthis phone on him at all times. Perhaps it’s an oldone of his, perhaps it’s been in his gym bag formonths and he just hasn’t got around to throwing itaway. Perhaps it isn’t even his: maybe he found it atthe gym and meant to hand it in at the desk andhe forgot?
I leave the bed half-stripped and go downstairs tothe living room. The coffee table has a couple ofdrawers underneath it filled with the kind of domesticjunk that accumulates over time: rolls of Sellotape,plug adaptors for foreign travel, tape measures,sewing kits, old mobile-phone chargers. I grab allthree of the chargers; the second one I try fits. Iplug it in on my side of the bed, phone and chargerhidden behind the bedside table. Then I wait.
Times and dates, mostly. Not dates. Days. Mondayat 3? Friday, 4:30. Sometimes, a refusal. Can’ttomorrow. Not Weds. There’s nothing else: nodeclarations of love, no explicit suggestions. Just textmessages, about a dozen of them, all from a withheldnumber. There are no contacts in the phone bookand the call log has been erased.
I don’t need dates, because the phone recordsthem. The meetings go back months. They go backalmost a year. When I realized this, when I saw thatthe first one was from September last year, a hardlump formed in my throat. September! Evie was sixmonths old. I was still fat, exhausted, raw, off sex.
But then I start to laugh, because this is justridiculous, it can’t be true. We were blissfully happyin September, in love with each other and with ournew baby. There is no way he was sneaking aroundwith her, no way in hell that he’s been seeing her allthis time. I would have known. It can’t be true. Thephone isn’t his.
Still. I get my harassment log from the bedside tableand look at the calls, comparing them with themeetings arranged on the phone. Some of themcoincide. Some calls are a day or two before, some aday or two after. Some don’t correlate at all.
Could he really have been seeing her all this time,telling me that she was hassling him, harassing him,when in reality they were making plans to meet up,to sneak around behind my back? But why wouldshe be calling him on the landline if she had thisphone to call? It doesn’t make sense. Unless shewanted me to know. Unless she was trying toprovoke trouble between us?
Tom has been gone almost two hours now, he’ll beback soon from wherever he’s been. I make the bed,put the log and the phone in the bedside table, godownstairs, pour myself one final glass of wine anddrink it quickly. I could call her. I could confront her.
But what would I say? There’s no moral high groundfor me to take. And I’m not sure I could bear it, thedelight she would take in telling me that all this time,I’ve been the fool. If he does it with you, he’ll do itto you.
I hear footsteps on the pavement outside and Iknow it’s him, I know his gait. I shove the wineglassinto the sink and I stand there, leaning against thekitchen counter, the blood pounding in my ears.
“Hello,” he says when he sees me. He lookssheepish, he’s weaving just a little.
“They serve beer at the gym now, do they?”
He grins. “I forgot my stuff. I went to the pub.”
Just as I thought. Or just as he thought I wouldthink?
He comes a little closer. “What have you been upto?” he asks me, a smile on his lips. “You lookguilty.” He slips his arms around my waist and pullsme close. I can smell the beer on his breath. “Haveyou been up to no good?”
“Tom?.?.?.”
“Shhh,” he says, and he kisses my mouth, startsunbuttoning my jeans. He turns me around. I don’twant to, but I don’t know how to say no, so I closemy eyes and try not to think of him with her, I tryto think of the early days, running round to theempty house on Cranham Road, breathless,desperate, hungry.
SUNDAY, AUGUST 18, 2013
EARLY MORNING
I wake with a fright; it’s still dark. I think I can hearEvie crying, but when I go through to check on her,she’s sleeping deeply, her blanket clutched tightlybetween closed fists. I go back to bed, but I can’t fallasleep again. All I can think about is the phone inthe bedside drawer. I glance over at Tom, lying withhis left arm flung out, his head thrown back. I cantell from the cadence of his breathing that he’s farfrom consciousness. I slip out of bed, open thedrawer and take out the phone.
Downstairs in the kitchen, I turn the phone overand over in my hand, preparing myself. I want toknow, but I don’t. I want to be sure, but I want sodesperately to be wrong. I turn it on. I press oneand hold it, I hear the voice mail welcome. I hearthat I have no new messages and no savedmessages. Would I like to change my greeting? I endthe call, but am suddenly gripped by the completelyirrational fear that the phone could ring, that Tomwould hear it from upstairs, so I slide the Frenchdoors open and step outside.
The grass is damp beneath my feet, the air cool,heavy with the scent of rain and roses. I can hear atrain in the distance, a slow growl, it’s a long wayoff. I walk almost as far as the fence before I dialthe voice mail again: would I like to change mygreeting? Yes, I would. There’s a beep and a pauseand then I hear her voice. Her voice, not his. Hi,it’s me, leave a message.
My heart has stopped beating.
It’s not his phone, it’s hers.
I play it again.
Hi, it’s me, leave a message.
It’s her voice.
I can’t move, can’t breathe. I play it again, andagain. My throat is closed, I feel as though I’m goingto faint, and then the light comes on upstairs.