Something to Tell You

by Lucy Diamond

  ‘Where I saw that woman,’ said Fliss excitedly. ‘Your half-sister. It was in this article in the paper – the Guardian, I think. Big piece in the Saturday magazine a few months ago. I’m sure it was her. Rory!’ she suddenly exclaimed, sounding panicked. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Okay, email me a link,’ Paula said, just as the line went dead. Bugger! Then, for the benefit of the vendor who might be eavesdropping, she said into the phone, ‘And they want to make an offer of one-point-two? Right, well, let’s see if we can push them up to one-point-four. That house deserves the best price. I know we can get it.’ Stuffing the phone back in her bag, she wheeled around with a bright smile. ‘I’m sorry! Now where we? Did you say that these units are Shaker? They’re so gorgeous, I love what you’ve done in here. And will you be taking these fab pendant lights when you move out, or would they come as part of the fixtures and fittings? Right you are. Let me make some notes.’

  Ladling on the charm and schmoozing a potential customer had never been a problem for Paula, especially when she was in a beautiful property like this one. She had her technique down pat: gratify the owner by noticing the tiny personal touches about a place, lavish on the compliments at all opportunities, and spot potential in any under-used areas. But beneath the smile, positivity and charm offensive, her mind was working like the clappers now, replaying what Fliss had just said to her. Frankie had been in the Guardian? Was her half-sister famous or something? This was too intriguing for words!

  It wasn’t until Paula was back in her car, some forty minutes later, having enjoyed a thorough look around the property, followed by her full sales pitch and suggestion of a price, that she was able to check her phone once more. And there in her inbox, as requested, was a link that Fliss had found to the article, which had appeared last year. ‘When Work Means It’s Love-All’ was the headline, and it featured three different stories about couples who’d met at the workplace. Including Frankie!

  Paula let out a squeal and zoomed in on the picture of Frankie snuggling up to a smiling man who seemed vaguely familiar himself. Then the penny dropped. No! Was it really him? Yes! It was him – Craig Jacobs, the guy who wrote the ‘Dad About the House’ column!

  ‘Oh my God,’ Paula exclaimed aloud, poring over the text. And Frankie was his partner as well as being the illustrator, it turned out. Wow – Paula loved that column! She read it every Sunday! And she loved the artwork, too: witty and bright and eye-catching. So Frankie did that? Amazing! Her sister was an artist!

  Paula suddenly remembered that she was still sitting in her potential client’s driveway, and quickly started the engine to make her departure. What a stroke of luck, though, she thought, speeding down the road in jubilation. And actually, she realized, having read Craig’s column over the years, she already knew all sorts of things about Frankie’s life. They had a little boy, didn’t they? A really cute-sounding boy, who’d overcome some gruelling operations and health problems; that was right. They lived in London, she seemed to remember, and had an idyllic work set-up together over the kitchen table, or something equally romantic, where they conjured up their delightfully charming words and pictures each week.

  Oh my goodness. This was so exciting! And Paula was related to her – how weird was that? Who would have thought? Now she just had to hope that Frankie was still interested in getting to know the Yorkshire side of her family. Because now that Paula had a means of getting in touch, she was most definitely going to use it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Tea?’

  ‘Lovely,’ said Robyn, sitting on Beth Broadwood’s elegant grey sofa with her hands in her lap. It was Tuesday afternoon and she had succumbed to her own desperate curiosity. Can we talk? she had texted Beth, finding her number on a list of PTA members’ contact details that one mum had helpfully pulled together some time ago. What the hell, Robyn had thought grimly. This was sure to be humiliating, but she was already way past the point of trying to avoid losing face. Besides, before she set about confronting her husband, she needed to have the facts. She needed to know just how angry with him she should be.

  Sitting in a dusty-pink button-back armchair, Beth leaned forward to pour the tea. There were framed photos all around the room of her beautiful daughters with their neat plaits and wide smiles, and a large black-and-white print of Beth’s wedding, where the bride and groom gazed into each other’s eyes with complete adoration. Beth seemed to have the perfect life, Robyn thought miserably, unable to help comparing it to the current mess of her own.

  ‘So,’ said Beth pleasantly, passing her a cup and saucer. ‘How are things?’

  Robyn stirred her tea, fingers trembling on the spoon. Here we go. ‘Things,’ she replied in a rather strangled voice, ‘have been better.’ She attempted a smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. Deep breath. Get it out. ‘Listen, Beth, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve got something I need to ask you. I’m just going to get straight to the point. What do you know about John getting sacked from the university?’

  Beth blanched at the direct question. ‘Well . . .’ she began carefully, pausing for just a fraction too long.

  ‘It’s all right, you can tell me,’ Robyn assured her. ‘I know it’s something terrible. I know there’s this woman he’s been seeing on the sly. A very young woman, by the looks of things, too, maybe even a student. But I don’t know the details.’ She gritted her teeth, cringing to find herself in this predicament. She and Beth had once run a stall at the school Christmas fair together, and they’d exchanged chit-chat at university social events or in the school playground, but that had been their limit. Until now. ‘I feel really embarrassed to be asking you, and I’m sorry if this makes you feel awkward or . . . or on the spot,’ she went on. ‘But John’s been . . .’ She swallowed, lowering her gaze. ‘He’s been lying to me about this, all along, and I just want to hear the truth now. However awful it may be.’

  Beth nodded gravely. She was a tall, rather horsey woman with a mid-length brown bob, pinned back with a clip. The sort who had been head girl once upon a time, no doubt, form captain, sports prefect. Maybe all of those things. But at least she was kind enough not to kick a person who was down, so she didn’t pretend not to know what Robyn was talking about. ‘Okay. Well, from what I can gather, there was something of a cheating scandal this summer in terms of the second-year exams,’ she began slowly, and Robyn’s ears pricked up, remembering having vaguely heard something about this herself. ‘The students suspected of cheating were questioned, and allegations were made about John – namely, that he had supplied copies of the exam papers to one of the undergraduates, who went about selling them for a profit.’

  Ka-boom. Robyn hadn’t seen that coming. Give him his credit, her husband still knew how to surprise her. ‘Oh God,’ she croaked, twisting her hands together.

  ‘The student in question is a rather attractive young woman called Naomi Ellis,’ Beth went on, with an apprehensive glance across at Robyn, as if she really didn’t want to say the next part. Robyn, meanwhile, was torturing herself with visions of the woman she’d seen in the café with John: that long coppery hair, the pierced nose, the creamy skin. Was that her, Naomi? ‘And Naomi has complained to the university that . . . ah . . . that apparently John seduced her, promising her the exam paper if she would sleep with him – I’m sorry,’ she added unhappily, seeing the agony on Robyn’s face. ‘Should I go on?’

  Robyn nodded without speaking. Let’s hear it, the full mortifying works, she thought. Give me the worst you’ve got.

  ‘Then, before term ended, I gather her father turned up on campus, making threats against John, as well as alleging that his daughter had been taken advantage of, and demanding that she be allowed to continue the course,’ Beth went on, with an apologetic grimace.

  Robyn put her head in her hands. Great. A whole soap opera played out in public. She could just imagine how the gossip had gone whipping through the corridors and around the lecture theatres. Have you heard? Oh my
God, have you heard? No wonder Gabrielle had sounded so peculiar on the phone.

  ‘So it’s a bit messy, really,’ Beth said. To put it mildly. ‘John has been . . . his contract has not been renewed, as you know, and as far as I can tell, the situation with Naomi, in regards to the uni, is ongoing.’ She flushed suddenly, seeming to remember herself. ‘Um. Whoops. It goes without saying that this is all confidential. I probably shouldn’t have told you that last bit, but . . .’

  ‘It’s fine. I’m not exactly going to spread it around,’ Robyn replied dully. John, cheating. John, seducing a student. John, turfed out ignominiously. John, receiving threats from some furious, ranting dad. She wasn’t sure which of it was worse. The whole saga was so horrifically tawdry from start to finish.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Beth said again, biting her lip. ‘That’s all I know, I promise.’ There was a moment of miserable silence while they both stared at their teacups, no doubt wishing to be elsewhere. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked after a few seconds. ‘I mean, I’m sure you’re not, but . . . Can I help at all? Can I do anything? If you want to talk, I’m a good listener.’

  Robyn wasn’t sure anyone could help her right now, unless they had discovered how to rewind time. ‘Maybe you could murder my husband for me,’ she replied, trying to make a joke, but the words just came out sounding really angry and bitter. Then she groaned and shook her head. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For being straight with me. But I guess I’ve got to work the next bit out all by myself. Somehow or other.’

  Beth nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but I’m here if you need anything.’ Her grey eyes were sincere and sympathetic. ‘And by the way, I’m pretty good with a spade. If you do decide on the murder option and need a hand digging a shallow grave or anything . . .’

  Robyn made a noise that was mostly laugh, but with some element of sob. She gulped down her very nice tea, blew her nose and tried to compose herself. ‘Thank you,’ she managed to say after a moment. ‘You never know, I might just take you up on that.’

  The conversation with Beth drummed around Robyn’s ears for the next few hours – while she was picking up the children from school, while she was preparing dinner, while she somehow navigated her way through all the usual bathtime and bedtime routines. She gave it her best shot at acting completely normally, but inside she was shell-shocked and battle-weary; numb that all this had been going on in John’s world and he’d deliberately kept her at arm’s length the whole time. Her husband, the man she loved, and he’d been leading this sleazy double life without a single glimmer of guilt, as far as she could tell. She felt so bitterly disappointed in him. So let-down. How could a couple come back from this? Was it even possible?

  By nine o’clock that evening the children were in bed, the dishwasher was taking care of the dinner plates, and John was stretched out on the sofa, his hair wet where he’d showered after a run. (Had he been for a run, though? she found herself wondering upstairs, paranoid that everything he told her was now a lie.) Robyn peered at her pale face in the bedroom mirror, putting on some lipstick and brushing her hair, wishing she didn’t look quite so frightened. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it, prettying yourself up when you were about to have a showdown with your husband, but these tiny things felt like the application of armour. I am worth more, she reminded her reflection. I deserve better. He can’t treat me like this and get away with it.

  ‘Glass of wine?’ she called through to the living room, where John was still acting the part of everyday spouse with impressive aplomb.

  ‘Love one,’ he called back, swinging his bare feet up on the coffee table.

  Me too, she thought darkly, sploshing cold Sauvignon Blanc into two glasses and knocking back half of hers in a single gulp. Dutch courage – bring it on. She topped up the glass, her insides clenching. If what Beth had said was true, then their whole way of life here was in jeopardy. But she really couldn’t ignore the facts any more. Who could?

  ‘I was wondering,’ she began, walking into the living room and lowering herself into the armchair opposite her husband. ‘Is there anything you would like to tell me, John? Anything that you need to get off your chest?’

  He was laughing at something on his phone. ‘God, have you seen this on Facebook, the dancing-dog video that’s going round? Dad would love it.’ He took the glass from her. ‘Thanks. Sorry, what were you saying?’

  Robyn gritted her teeth. Somehow the words seemed even harder to get out a second time. ‘I was asking if you had anything to tell me,’ she replied, and then her voice cracked with emotion. ‘And if our marriage has ever meant anything to you, then you really need to tell me the truth this time.’

  The laughter left his face, replaced by a wary expression. ‘What do you mean?’

  She held his gaze unhappily. ‘Don’t make me spell it out,’ she said. ‘I mean you getting sacked from work, the cheating, this Naomi woman . . .’ Then all of the hurt and embarrassment and anxiety took hold of her, and her voice rose. ‘What the hell is going on with you? Why did I have to hear this from another person? How do you think that made me feel?’

  He swallowed, shifting uneasily in the chair. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Were you hoping to just get away with it?’ The questions kept bursting from her with increasing shrillness as he sat there, head lowered, his expression worryingly blank. She thought of the children upstairs in their beds, their faces rosy and soft as they slept, and felt an ache inside that she was having to ask these things, that John had steered them onto such a narrow precipice. Why had he gone and lit this great big bonfire in the middle of his life, for everyone to witness? ‘John! Talk to me!’ she cried, unable to bear his silence. ‘What happens now?’

  He twisted his hands in his lap, his shoulders slumped. ‘I . . .’ he said, eventually, staring down at the carpet. ‘The thing is, I love her. I’m sorry, but that’s just how it is. I love her.’

  Robyn, who’d been expecting a grovelling apology and the promise of John being able to put everything right, felt as if her breath had been snatched away from her. ‘What?’ she replied.

  ‘I love her,’ he mumbled again, his eyes still fixed on the carpet as if it held the answers to everything, rather than a red-wine stain hidden under the rug and some waxy blobs left by a dripping Advent candle three Christmases ago.

  Robyn could hardly believe what she was hearing. ‘John, she must be half your age!’ Love? Was he serious? ‘She’s practically a child. Are you sure this isn’t just some mid-life crisis you’re going through, some—’

  ‘I’ve never felt like this before,’ he said, not seeming to care how these words might bruise Robyn’s heart. ‘And she feels the same way. We’re going to elope. We want to be together.’

  Now he had to be kidding. ‘She’s using you!’ Robyn told him, shock turning to disbelief. ‘Can’t you see that? She used you to cheat on the exams, and now she’s using you as an excuse – John, that’s not love. This is insane!’ She stared at him, willing him to see the light, desperate for him to realize what an idiot he sounded. ‘Hang on a minute – I thought she was the one who got you sacked anyway, telling tales, landing you in it? That’s not exactly loyal, is it? How can you say you love her, after that?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Robyn. I should have told you earlier. But . . . I can’t help the way I feel. And it was my idea for her to blame me. ‘

  ‘It was your idea?’ Robyn blinked, trying to take this in. Had he really jettisoned everything – his family, his career – for this woman, in so cavalier a fashion? ‘You’re infatuated, John, that’s all. Flattered that this girl has even looked twice at you. It’s called a crush, a massive great crush – and fair enough, I saw her myself, she does look gorgeous—’

  ‘What do you mean, you saw her yourself?’ His head whipped round. ‘How do you know about this anyway?’

  She snorted. ‘How I know is hardly the point,’ she told him. ‘The point is that all of this was going o
n and you didn’t think to mention it to me. Me, your wife! Instead, you’re carrying on with this . . . this teenager—’

  ‘She’s twenty-two.’

  ‘Oh, twenty-two! That makes all the difference. Christ, John, will you just listen to yourself? Can you not hear how this sounds?’ She shook her head, anger rising, but he merely shrugged again, seemingly unmoved.

  ‘You might as well know, we’ve decided to head up to Edinburgh together for the summer – I was going to tell you,’ he said quickly as Robyn gave a startled squawk. ‘She’s got some friends there, they said they’ll put us up for the time being, just until we can get our own place.’

  ‘John, stop,’ Robyn said, putting up a hand. Was he having some kind of breakdown? ‘Stop saying these . . . these crazy things. You can’t just . . . What about the kids? You seem to have forgotten them. Are you seriously saying you’re just going to abandon—’

  ‘We’re in love,’ he said again, with the simplicity of a drunk, or somebody brainwashed, who wouldn’t listen to reason.

  ‘She’s stringing you along, more like,’ Robyn cried, still reeling from the turn the conversation had taken. Love? Elopement? Edinburgh? He couldn’t mean it, could he? He couldn’t genuinely think this was a good idea, to move all the way up to Scotland with his twenty-two-year-old crush? Staying with some of her mates, it would be like regressing to student years: tie-dyed Indian throws hiding naff old furniture; awaiting your turn to use the shower in the morning; bitching about who had finished the milk. She shook her head, trying to assimilate the image, but found it impossible. ‘I think you’re making a big mistake here,’ she told him, voice shaking.