by Adele Parks
Then, like the sun coming out from behind a huge storm cloud, Robbie said, ‘You better give me your numbers, too. I hate it when one person or the other has the responsibility to call and there’s all that horrible agonising about who promised to call who and when. It’s such a waste of energy. Should we just agree to make sure we speak by Wednesday? It doesn’t matter when before Wednesday and it doesn’t matter who calls who. OK?’
Pip nodded, relieved. She was more than happy to be swept along by his frank and uncomplicated approach to making arrangements, although she was pretty sure that someone somewhere in one of her many books must have written a dating rule that advised women not to be led but to assert their independence as early as possible.
‘Shall we go to the movies?’ Pip nodded. ‘What sort of movies do you like?’
‘Nothing too violent or arty or miserable,’ she said quickly. ‘Ones with happy endings.’ Pip wondered whether such a confession could be considered an assertive, independent act.
7
Stephanie walked down the aisle of the supermarket, slowly pushing a shallow trolley with, typically, a funny wheel that meant the trolley veered off towards the right. This meant she had to push harder with her right hand and as a consequence she had a slight pain in her shoulder. She’d had a funny twinge on that side for a few weeks now, she should probably book herself an appointment for a back and shoulder massage. Julian was always encouraging her to do that sort of thing but Steph was a bit funny about being that – well – that naked in front of a stranger. OK, she knew that they didn’t actually see anything, and she knew that absolutely everyone had massages nowadays – the Queen probably did. Massages weren’t sexual, necessarily. Silly to think they were. But. Even so. She might just settle for a deep bath and a generous slosh from her bottle of Radox.
Her intention had been to just dash into the supermarket and pick up the champagne, she’d done a big shop on Thursday, but on the drive over here she’d remembered they were out of garlic paste, kitchen roll and leather cleaner. She’d forgotten to buy these few items the last two times she’d visited the store because generally on her weekly shop she rushed around, grabbing replacement produce for the things they’d consumed in an efficient, mechanical way. Unfortunately, her haste and the repetitive nature of shopping meant that she had a tendency to forget anything slightly out of the ordinary. But she wasn’t in a rush today so this was a great opportunity to buy all those outstanding bits and bobs that made a home run smoothly, there was only so long a woman could manage without garlic paste.
Besides, she really didn’t want to go home right now. She didn’t much like being in the house when Mrs Evans was cleaning (however inefficiently) because on some level it made her feel strangely useless and displaced. Stephanie still wasn’t convinced that they needed a cleaner or that she deserved one, her mother had never had one and her house was always spotless. Steph could comfortably manage the housework now the children were all at school, in fact her problem sometimes seemed to be filling the hours. But when she’d suggested as much to Julian, he’d said she was nuts. Why would she want to put on rubber gloves and put her hands down the loo when they could pay someone else to do that and all the other grubby jobs – like emptying bins, scouring the oven and washing kitchen tiles? Steph had not said that Mrs Evans was rather hopeless at any of these elbow-grease jobs, she realised that wasn’t the point, instead she replied that she might get some sense of satisfaction from scrubbing their home. But then he’d pointed out that Mrs Evans had been cleaning for them for almost ten years and she depended on the income, he said it was a contribution to the economy (as was employing a gardener, people to repaint the rendering and buying organic meat off the local farmer). Stephanie had then felt rather guilty and silly that she’d failed to think about her responsibility to Mrs Evans. Julian was so considerate, he saw the wider picture. Stephanie sometimes worried that she was becoming increasingly myopic as the years went by. When they’d graduated (she’d gained a first-class degree, Julian had a respectable 2:1) she would have looked at the employment of a cleaner in terms of economic value too, she was sure she would have. Although, frankly, the issue would never have arisen because when they graduated they’d both earned a pittance and could hardly afford cleaning products for their little rented flat in Fulham, let alone a cleaner.
Anyway, today, it wasn’t the issue of feeling displaced in her own house that made Steph reluctant to go home, the thing was she could not face the inevitable chatter about the nuisance calls. Mrs Evans would more than likely go on and on and on about it all afternoon. Stephanie could do without it.
So instead she had decided that she’d saunter up and down the aisles, at a snail’s pace, carefully considering the produce on offer and see if she did indeed need a chemical to stop the build-up of hard water ravaging the innards of her washing machine or ready-to-roll pastry (she tended to make her own but having a packet in the cupboard – just in case she was ever horribly short of time – seemed wise).
It took her forty-five minutes to reach the alcohol section but no time at all for her to snatch up the most expensive bottle of champagne, tomorrow was a Bolly occasion, not an own-label occasion. Steph was fully expecting to gain a certain amount of vicarious pleasure from the resurrection of Pip’s career, it was only right that she launched the ship with the very best champers on offer. It would probably surprise and confound Pip to know that, in some small way, Steph envied her. Of course, it was a genuine shame that Pip was struggling financially and even with a contract from Selfridges Pip’s income was likely to be a relatively modest one. She probably would still not be able to afford the things that were scattered at Steph’s feet, yet Steph still faintly remembered the thrill, the sense of achievement, the sense of satisfaction that she used to get when she bought something she’d saved up for. It was wonderful to own something that you’d earned. Julian was fond (a little too fond) of saying, ‘There’s no need for you to work, Steph.’ Steph knew there was no need but being needed was rather lovely. Of course she understood that her role as mother to three boys was work enough and it was fulfilling (and exhausting, thrilling and strenuous) but Steph thought it might be nice, on occasion, to buy Julian a present that she had actually paid for.
Not that Steph’s career had ever been as glittering and fascinating as Pip’s. She’d worked as a civil servant, an administrator in the health sector. She’d been rigorous, focused and disciplined, yes, she’d been rather good at it, although admittedly on some days it had been simply dull. Steph, her parents and Julian all agreed that the civil service was the perfect place for a bright woman to be employed, specifically one who was thinking of starting a family in her mid-twenties. The maternity leave was especially generous, she could have up to a year off. Not that it was relevant in the end. Despite her intentions, she never did return to work after Harry was born. How could she justify continuing? Her salary wouldn’t cover the childcare costs, even if she’d wanted to leave her boys with someone else (which she didn’t). Besides, few careers could withstand three maternity breaks. One or two an employer might not notice (some assume a woman is yo-yo dieting as she balloons up, disappears and then reappears some months later – in fact, she is precariously balancing her home and work life) but a third pregnancy seemed to tip the scales.
Steph carefully loaded the shopping into the boot of her new Audi. It was a roomy boot attached to a roomy car. Julian had surprised her with it, just the week before last. He brought it home without them having had any discussion about buying a new car, a late birthday present, he’d called it. Her birthday had been last month and he’d bought her a simply lovely dress and a pair of gold stud earrings then. A new car was so unnecessary.
‘Quit grumbling and hop in,’ Pip had insisted excitedly. She’d been at theirs when Julian handed over the keys. ‘I’m desperate to go for a spin, even if you’re an unappreciative, miserable bag.’
Steph was not a miserable bag and she really did apprec
iate the gift. It was just that the car was extremely long and Steph sweated buckets whenever she had to park it. Although she had to admit the roomy boot was so useful when she had three sports kits, three instruments and three school bags to lug from A to B to C to D and back again. Steph got into the car and took a deep breath, it was just a case of getting used to the size, she told herself.
Steph’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone. She reached for hers which was nestled in her handbag but it wasn’t ringing. She looked around, confused. Could the sound be coming from outside? No, it seemed to be closer than that. She followed the noise. Ah ha. That’s where it was coming from. There was a mobile lost beneath the back seat. Steph stretched to retrieve it, her fingers made contact just as the ringing stopped. The phone then beeped to say there was a new voicemail message. Steph was perplexed, she didn’t recognise the phone. It wasn’t Julian’s or Harry’s and the younger children weren’t allowed a phone yet. Steph pressed 121 to listen to the message, no doubt it would be some frantic mother of a friend of Harry’s, regretting that she’d spent so much on her son’s first mobile and swearing that from now on she would only buy standard issue.
But the voice was not that of a stressed mum but a rather formal, slightly loquacious male voice. Stephanie had heard the same tone a hundred times before from overly keen shopkeepers, car salesmen and waiters. The tone was used by anyone who worked on commission or depended on tips; Steph understood the effusive manner but didn’t enjoy it.
‘This is the concierge at Highview Hotel, Mr Blake. I’ve just been checking our reservations for tomorrow evening, sir, and I’ve noticed that while your regular room is reserved, there’s no order for your usual champagne or fresh cut flowers. Nor is there a booking for dinner. I’m concerned this might be our oversight, so I have taken the liberty of reserving you your regular table at nine p.m., sir, and I’ve arranged for you to enjoy an upgrade to our suite tomorrow. I’ll personally make sure that there are flowers in the suite and champagne on ice for six p.m. as usual. This week, we’d like to offer those with our compliments, Mr Blake, sir. Just in case there has been any oversight on our part.’
What could this mean?
It could mean only one thing.
This was the most horrible moment of Steph’s life so far, although she couldn’t computerise and categorise it as such as it was happening. All she thought was Highview Hotel? Highview Hotel? Stephanie felt her body go slack. It slipped away from her and she looked at the ground, fully expecting her liquid being to be in a mushy pool on the floor. Flowers? Champagne? She had no bones, no guts and no heart. They’d all vanished in that single moment. Spontaneous combustion. Disappeared. Left her. She was resourceless. She was a void.
Except her head, she could still feel her head. It seemed to be expanding and contracting and she could hear a wailing sound, like a siren but she didn’t know where that was coming from, she could not make sense of it. Had someone called the emergency services? They should have. This was an emergency. Regular table? This was a horrific, unspeakable disaster. She felt her head swell and push angrily against the car interior. The cushy leather seats no longer appeared plush and comfortable but instead, momentarily, she imagined she was inside a padded cell. She was insane. But then, in the next microscopic instant, her head began to shrink, to implode. She felt it heavy in her hands. Her hands were wet. Why was that? Where was the wailing siren coming from? She wanted it to stop. Suddenly Stephanie realised that it was her making the siren sound. She was howling. The wet on her hands was an undignified mess of tears and snot. Instantly Steph clasped her mouth closed and swallowed the agony. She scrambled to press the button to lower the car window. She needed fresh air, she was suffocating. She stuck her head outside and took panicked gulps. The howling had created an instant and intense pain inside her head. The betrayal had created a yet more ferocious pain in her heart.
She’d heard other women, in similar circumstances (because, yes, there were always women in these circumstances), say that at first they didn’t understand or accept what was going on when they discovered their husband’s infidelity. It wasn’t that way with Stephanie, Stephanie understood immediately. She wished the knowledge – the bleak, cruel awareness – had seeped into her consciousness slowly. Even a moment longer in blissful ignorance would have been wonderful. But she knew. She categorically knew. Affair. Adultery. Treachery. Ruin. She knew. Such ugliness.
She knew what it was. She just didn’t understand how it could be so. Not her Julian. Julian Blake was an upstanding member of the community. He’d started a Neighbourhood Watch scheme on their quiet private road. He paid all his bills by direct debit – on time and in full – he donated to charities, he worked so hard to give his family a good life, he was an adoring father, a loving husband. A filthy adulterer. These descriptions didn’t sit together. They didn’t make sense.
Stephanie blew her nose. Right, that was a bit better, she couldn’t think properly with goodness knows what running down her face. She picked up the phone again and forced herself to relisten to the message from the concierge at Highview Hotel. There was no mistake. The man had said Mr Blake twice.
Stephanie knew the Highview Hotel. Everyone in Surrey did. It was a beautiful country hotel with a luxurious spa and a Michelin star restaurant. It was the sort of hotel young girls imagined they’d host their wedding receptions in, it was the hotel that Stephanie and Julian had celebrated their last wedding anniversary in. It was the sort of place people took their lovers if they wanted to impress them, Steph knew this for a fact.
Stephanie used her own phone to call the Highview. With extraordinary self-possession, she pretended to be Mr Blake’s new personal assistant. She said she was standing in for Rosie O’Grady, his usual PA, as Rosie was off sick. ‘I might be around for a few weeks,’ she lied. Steph did not care about telling the lie. She was not alone in telling lies, it seemed. She pleaded ignorance about the usual arrangement and asked for details about the booking. The kind receptionist understood what it was like to get a bollocking from a boss and so helpfully ran through all the details so that the temp PA would have all the minutiae on file for future reference. Good PAs were supposed to know as much about their bosses as their wives did – well, more in this case, clearly.
‘Yes, Mr Julian Blake stays with us every Tuesday and has done so for three months now.’ The receptionist didn’t add that sometimes Mr Blake left the room during the course of the evening but his friend always stayed the entire night, she felt doing so was unnecessary and unseemly, the PA would understand. ‘He and his companion often take advantage of our spa facilities by booking a massage for early evening.’
A massage! ‘What time does Mr Blake arrive?’ interrupted Steph. She didn’t have to disguise her voice, it was unnaturally high anyway. Her breath was caught, trapped.
‘Between six and seven. Occasionally a bit earlier. He likes flowers and champagne in the room. They used to order room service but recently he’s been making a dinner booking for nine.’
Knives sliced Steph’s flesh. The deepest thrust was not the thought of the chilled champagne bubbling down his throat, perhaps being passed from his mouth to this other woman’s during a passionate kiss, it was not the thought of the fragrance of fresh flowers drifting through their room or even the thought of Julian indulging in a sensual, aromatherapy massage before he touched this other woman’s body. The most malicious and merciless words that the receptionist had inadvertently delivered was the fact that he arrived at the hotel at 6 p.m. The hotel was only a few miles away from their home. To arrive there by six, Julian would have had to leave work in London at 5 p.m. on the dot, at the latest. Stephanie realised that silent fat tears were rolling down her cheeks again. She saw them splatter on to her Mark Jacob handbag, the leather would be marked. She didn’t care. There should be stains. There should be outward signs. How could these things happen and the world go on unchanged?
In all the years they had been marri
ed, Julian had never made it home in time to help with homework, teatime or bathtime. Never. Oh OK, maybe once or twice, her birthday or one of the kids’ birthdays possibly, but very, very rarely. And she had never, ever allowed herself to grumble that she could do with another pair of hands during those fraught and chaotic few hours. Not once. Her restraint was superhuman. Oh, she’d wanted to, often enough. And of course she’d moaned to Pip and even some of the other mothers at the school gate who identified with her position. Every parent who had battled with a fractious kid who didn’t want to eat broccoli or practise their piano scales understood how hard those relentless, unpredictable evenings could be. But Steph had always believed that moaning to Julian about her evening responsibilities would be unfair. She’d believed that he was in the office working like a dog, for their family. She’d nurtured the idea that he’d actually like to rush home and complete these tasks that she sometimes considered mundane, if only he could. She’d told herself that he’d have considered it an honour to do so and so she’d never grumbled.
The bastard.
Stephanie thanked the receptionist for her help and assured her that all the details for Mr Blake’s bookings were now on file and that she wouldn’t have to inquire again. She resisted doing anything obvious like cancelling the dinner reservation or asking for Blue Nun instead of champagne, she knew if she did so, she’d alert the receptionist that something was wrong and she could not risk doing that. Obviously Julian was a valued client of theirs and the hotel staff might feel a responsibility to inform him of his new PA’s inefficiencies or idiosyncrasies. No, Steph had to think clearly before she did anything at all. This was too dire for a hot-headed response.
