“Wa-hey!” Jamie took off his coat, dropped his briefcase, and scooped Nathan up in his arms.
Nathan tugged his father’s hair as they mounted the stairs. “Read me a story!”
At the top, Jamie set him down. “I’ll read to you in the bath,” he offered.
Maggie was standing on the landing. Jamie caught her eye for a split second, then looked away.
“Come with me.” Nathan dragged him into his room to choose a book.
Doubtless Jamie’s glad to have an excuse to put me off for a while longer, Maggie concluded. Yet it tugged at her heartstrings to see the two of them together.
Forty minutes later Jamie had finished putting their son to bed. As she stood in the kitchen, Maggie fondly imagined Nathan tucked under his duvet in his room above her, all clean and pink and shiny. She heard Jamie descending the stairs to join her.
God, give me strength, she prayed, leaning against the stove for support. How shall I start this? If our recent conversations are anything to go by, I’ve been doing an appalling job of steering things the right way.
“So what’s all this about?” he said, entering the room and standing away from her.
“I’ll come straight to the point.” Her heart was racing. “Are you having an affair?”
“No!” he exclaimed without the slightest hesitation. “What makes you say that?”
Maggie drew breath. “Where do you want me to start? It’s a cliché, the way you’ve been acting. Out till midnight a couple of times a week ‘working late’ or ‘playing squash.’” She imitated his voice with acid sarcasm—a manner she was adopting more and more. “Forgetting to call me from New York … what do you take me for? You’ve not been at the office or meeting Pete these last few months, have you? You’ve been shagging someone else.” She spat the word.
Jamie said nothing.
“Haven’t you?”
“That’s crazy.”
“Is it?” In some ways she was desperate for him to say this. There remained a massive part of her that didn’t want to know, or better still, didn’t want it to be true.
“You’re imagining things.”
“Oh?”
“Of course you are!”
She was far from convinced, but relieved all the same.
Jamie continued, “You’ve been spending too much time on your own cooped up here.”
Bloody hell! He was doing it again. It was her fault.
“Let me get this straight.” Jamie was sounding more assured. “What are you talking about? A few late nights and the fact I forgot to call you one day when I was abroad on business?”
Although she was tempted to leave the conversation there, Maggie was damned if he was going to get away with putting a spin on what she was trying to say. “That’s only the obvious stuff,” she said, struggling not to lose her temper or worse—cry. “What’s really made me wonder is how you’ve been toward me.”
“And how’s that?”
“Cool. No, more than cool, cold. You’ve barely touched me since earlier this summer.”
“Jesus, Maggie, who’s counting? Can I help it if I don’t feel like sex at the moment?” Jamie shrugged. “You know I’m not up for it when I’m under pressure—never have been.”
That’s not true, thought Maggie. Until a few months ago, our sex life was fine. In fact it was often more than fine, it had been great. “You’ve never been like this before. Not even when you were badly overworked in your last job. We’ve had the odd patch where one or the other of us hasn’t felt much like it for two or three weeks, I agree, but this … It’s been ages. And anyway,” she felt they were focusing on sex, when the real issue ran far deeper, “that’s not all. I wouldn’t mind about that if you still talked to me.”
“Jesus, not this one again. I talk to you the whole time! I’m talking to you now!”
“You know what I mean. Oh, yeah we talk in passing. We touch base about day-to-day things—who’s going shopping, who’s collecting Nathan from soccer—but we don’t talk, properly, just me and you. Other than to argue.”
“Hmph.” Jamie snorted, though he seemed to relent a little. “Well, I’ll try talking to you more.
She pounced. “Will you come to Relate, then? The counselor says it’s not too late for you to join us.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve told you! I just don’t want to, okay? Fuck, sometimes I feel so got at! I’m simply trying hard to earn money to make a nice home for us, working every hour God sends, and here you are, accusing me of who knows what exactly.”
Maybe he’s telling the truth, Maggie thought, and it’s merely his job causing all this friction.
“Look, it’s not my thing, therapy,” he was saying. “You should appreciate that. In fact, I’m rather surprised it’s yours.”
“It wouldn’t be, in the normal scheme of things,” Maggie continued. “But you simply don’t get it, do you? This isn’t just about me and you, is it? It’s about Nathan. It can’t be good for him to have parents who are at each others’ throats the whole time.”
Jamie appeared to have another touch of remorse. “I’m sorry. I guess I have been pretty wrapped up in my own stuff recently. It’s only—you know what it’s like—I’ve never had so much professional responsibility before. I’ll make more of an effort, I promise.”
“You will?”
“I will.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at him. She knew it took a lot for him to say this; perhaps he wasn’t quite such an arsehole after all.
He smiled back, wanly. Yet it was a smile just the same.
“Shall we have a glass of wine?” she asked, realizing they were both standing there, in the middle of the kitchen.
He let out a long breath. “I think we deserve it.”
“We certainly do.” Then she, too, relented a little, went over to him, and kissed his cheek.
It seemed to work. “Oh, Maggie,” he sounded sad, “I don’t mean to be horrible to you, honestly. It’s sometimes with the demands of my job I get so stressed … and I suppose I take it out on you.”
“I know,” she said.
“Come here.” He reached out and pulled her to him to hug her.
She snuggled into his crisp white shirt and inhaled his familiar scent. “Are you hungry?” she asked, remembering they’d not eaten.
“Not really…”
And before she knew it, they were kissing—properly. A thought flashed through her mind that perhaps he’d been doing this with someone else. Ugh. She shoved it away. Gradually, she found herself becoming aroused despite her upset—or maybe because of it. What she really wanted was to be intimate with him again—and it seemed he must want it as well. They grabbed a bottle of wine and the corkscrew, and went upstairs to bed.
* * *
In the middle of the night Maggie woke in need of a drink of water. She got up quietly, but on her way to the bathroom she was hit by a sudden, dreadful impulse. She still couldn’t shake off her conviction that Jamie had been going to see someone else that evening, even though they’d made love so passionately. The thought of his infidelity sickened her yet again.
She filled a glass of water, gulped it down, refilled it, and left it by her side of the bed. Jamie stirred but didn’t wake. Then, as if sleepwalking, she glided down the stairs. Mesmerized, she picked up Jamie’s briefcase from the hall where he’d put it down when he’d come in. She carried it into the kitchen, turned on the light, and laid it on the oak table.
Click. Click. She opened the catches.
There it was—his mobile. She hated herself for doing it, but she had to know. She had a right to know.
We’ve only just been making love, for goodness’ sake, she shuddered. Is it really possible he was planning to see someone else earlier? That he was going to have sex with her?
Maggie looked down at the object in the palm of her hand. So small and neat, so innocent looking. What secrets did it hold? She had a similar model
—a BlackBerry—and knew how it worked. She pressed the menu, scrolled down until she had what she wanted displayed on the screen.
Call history.
Her heart was in her mouth. She wanted to know; she didn’t want to know.
She looked for the outgoing call icon. There it was, 0207, she read. Inner London. Not Jamie’s mate, Pete, then: he lived in Wimbledon. She read on, 924, and tried to remember what part of London the code represented. Someone she knew had the same one. Ah—Jean. Her place was in Battersea. But it wasn’t her number. As far as Maggie could remember, they didn’t know anyone else who lived around there. She was petrified now, yet couldn’t stop. She looked up at the clock. It was five past four, but she didn’t care. She pressed Dial. Within seconds the phone was ringing at the other end.
Three rings, and an answering machine clicked on. Whoever it belonged to was obviously asleep or hadn’t had time to wake up and take the call.
“Hi, this is Chloë,” said a voice Maggie recognized. The sound made her retch. “I’m afraid neither Rob nor I can get to the phone right now, so leave your name and number after the tone; we will get back to you as soon as we can.”
Maggie ran over to the sink and retched again. She felt hot and cold and sweaty all at once. She puked into the stainless steel bowl, but all that came up was a pathetic remnant of the wine she’d drunk earlier, diluted with water. She thought she might faint. She sat down at the kitchen table, head spinning.
Chloë … Chloë … Chloë …
It fits, she realized. Chloë’s strange behavior when I went to meet her a few weeks ago. Her refusal to give me work. The fact that she’s a colleague of Jamie’s. Didn’t Jean even say he went in to see her once, months ago? He claimed he was introducing himself to all the features editors at UK Magazines—I bet he was. How long has it been going on? Jesus, could Chloë have been with him at the conference in New York?
No, she tried to persuade herself. I’ve got it wrong. Didn’t the answering machine mention a “Rob”? Who’s he? It sounds as if Chloë is living with someone too.
Then an image of Chloë flashed into her mind. The overt sex appeal. The hourglass figure. She had long suspected this was more Jamie’s type. And she must be ten years or so younger … How hackneyed. How obvious.
Maggie closed her eyes, as if to shut out the truth. She shuddered, then remembered. That’s who Chloë reminds me of.
If she had any remaining doubts, this made her absolutely sure.
Beth.
The woman before her, who Jamie had been so in love with. She’d seen a picture of her once. She’d insisted Jamie show her in the hope it would make her feel better, but it had merely increased her jealousy, because she couldn’t see any physical resemblance between them.
Jamie … Jamie … And we were making love only a few hours before …
Maggie was still so shocked that she was numb.
Eventually, she slipped the phone back into her husband’s briefcase and made her way upstairs. Then—at a loss as to what else to do—she returned to bed. Again Jamie stirred but didn’t wake.
She edged herself as far away from him as she could, and curled into a tight, protective ball with her back to him. She lay like that for the rest of the night, unable to sleep, unable to move, unable to do anything.
34
When Jamie got up the next morning, Maggie pretended to be asleep. Then in slow motion, she showered, helped Nathan to dress, and took him to school. When she returned home she reached up into the top of the wardrobe, pulled down two suitcases, and began to fill them with clothes. She didn’t stop until she’d finished packing.
Around morning break, she telephoned Fran at work. Luckily her sister answered her mobile.
“I’ll keep it brief—” she was conscious Fran would be busy “—but I need to get away. Something’s happened with Jamie, and I was wondering if Nathan and I could come and stay.”
“Of course,” Fran said at once. “What’s up?”
“I’ll explain when I see you.” Then, considerate of Fran and not wishing to impose, she added, “I just need to get out of here—have a think. We won’t stay long.”
“Sounds serious.”
If this isn’t serious I don’t know what is, thought Maggie. Yet she didn’t want to create a drama over the phone. “It is,” she choked, her voice breaking.
“Do you need us to come and pick you up?”
“No. We’ll drive over straight after school, if that’s all right with you.”
“Can’t you tell me what’s wrong?” Fran sounded worried.
“I’d rather do it face-to-face.”
“Sure. We’ll see you later, then.”
“Okay … And, Fran…?”
“Yes?”
Maggie let out a long breath. “I really appreciate this.”
* * *
When they arrived, Fran swept Nathan and Dan off upstairs to play, and sat Maggie down at the antique pine kitchen table with a cup of Earl Grey.
“What’s happened?” she asked, pulling up a chair close to her sister.
There was little point in dissembling. “Jamie’s having an affair.”
“I wondered whether that was what it was.”
Maggie shivered. Did Fran know already? Did anyone else? She felt so stupid. “Did you?”
“Couldn’t think what else would make you leave in such a hurry.”
“So you didn’t suspect?”
“No! Why should I?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Maggie, not wanting to say, Because you always know everything.
“Did he tell you?”
“No.” Maggie hesitated, ashamed that she’d had to resort to looking at his phone. But Fran would do the same, she justified. “I checked his mobile.”
“Schoolboy error,” said Fran—Maggie thought it anything but. “I’m surprised he didn’t make more effort to cover his tracks. Maybe he wanted you to find out.”
“Do you think?”
“Lord knows. Who is she?”
Maggie flinched. “A girl he works with.” She certainly wasn’t going to call Chloë a woman. That implied maturity, integrity.
“Quelle surprise.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, because it’s easy. Men are so bloody lazy when it comes to affairs. They like it laid on a plate.”
Maggie was tempted to ask if Fran’s affair was any different, given she’d found her postman on the doorstep, but she needed Fran’s support.
“Chloë Appleton, she’s called.”
“I suppose she’s younger than you, too?”
“Yes.” The obviousness made it even worse. Tacky. Sordid. “I guess she’s sort of up-front looking. Blatant. Displays her assets to the world. Dead trendy. You know the type. Magazines are full of them.”
Fran was puzzled. “Did Jamie tell you this? Doesn’t seem he likes her that much if that’s how he describes her.”
“No, of course not. I bet he thinks she’s bloody gorgeous. She’s exactly his type.”
“You don’t know her, do you?” Her eyes were wide with horror.
“I have met her, yes.”
“God! When?”
“I went in to see her to try and get work.”
“Did you realize who she was?”
“Not a clue.”
“Did Jamie know you were going in to see her?”
The memory stung. That he hadn’t stopped her made Maggie cringe. “Yes, I remember him saying he didn’t think it was a good idea—”
“I’m sure he didn’t!”
“—but I was pretty determined…” Maggie frowned. When she looked back on the whole episode, Jamie’s behavior was despicable.
“So, how long’s it been going on, then?”
Why doesn’t she question if it’s true? Maggie wondered. Maybe Jamie was a more likely candidate for infidelity than I realized. “I don’t know exactly, but my guess is four or five months.” Then she explained what had happened
the day before, about the counselor, the confrontation, the denial, even the lovemaking—though she shivered at the thought, and she knew it would make Fran judge Jamie harshly. Finally, she recounted how Jamie’s mobile had ultimately condemned him.
She had a fleeting concern her sister might think this tantamount to spying, but Fran said, “I have to hand it to you. Well done for figuring it out like that.”
So far, her sister seemed behind her all the way. This gave Maggie the courage to ask, “You don’t believe this is my fault, do you?”
“No! Why would you think that?”
“I’m not sure. I just thought it’s never one person to blame for this sort of thing … Perhaps I’ve been boring him, not given him enough attention, or something.” Her emotions came in waves: one minute she was strong, fired up by anger; the next insecure, full of self-blame.
“That’s bollocks for starters.” Fran topped up both their cups of tea. “He hasn’t been paying you enough attention, not the other way around.”
“That’s what Jean says. I don’t really understand why, then…” Maggie trailed off, and blinked away tears.
“Hey.” Fran grabbed her hand. “It’ll be okay…”
“I don’t think it will.”
“Of course it will! I told you about me and Geoff, didn’t I? We went to hell and back.”
“You did?” Maggie was surprised. Fran hadn’t given this impression before. Although of course Fran was proud, just as Maggie was. She liked to appear to have everything under control.
“Yeah; it was awful … awful … for a while. Both of us were miserable as sin.” For a moment Maggie thought she was going to hear a completely different version of events. “But, I explained before, it came out okay in the end. Look at us now—things have never been better. I’d even go so far as to say that in the long run it was no bad thing.”
“Mm.”
Fran stopped, seemingly aware she must sound sanctimonious. Maggie was crying, so she asked, more gently, “Is Jamie aware you’ve found out?”
“No. No. I couldn’t face it right away—I simply had to get out. I couldn’t get ahold of him at work—I was rather glad not to have to speak to him—so I left a message on his voice mail, saying we were coming here.”