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 sug............