Trouble By Numbers Series

by Alam, Donna

  ‘What co-respondent? I think you’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘I assure you I have not.’ He isn’t offended; in fact, his tone is almost wry. ‘But there are several things wrong with this paperwork, I’m afraid. I—’

  ‘You mean, in those papers, my husband has admitted to . . . an infidelity?’

  ‘But the admission in itself isn’t enough. Also—’

  ‘He doesn’t say I was unfaithful?’

  Frustrated now, and with reason, he flicks a sheet of paper over on the desk. My gaze dips briefly, following his. ‘Here.’ His index finger taps the letterheaded document in front of him. ‘Here, you can see—’

  ‘But he wasn’t,’ I reply, adamant.

  ‘He wasn’t what?’ Frustration leaks from his tone.

  ‘He wasn’t unfaithful.’ I’m aware of my shoulders creeping closer to my ears, and my voice, when I speak again, is small. ‘I—I cheated on him.’ At least, that’s what I’d said in the original paperwork. It seemed easier to leave it that way, especially when I’d found the crumpled copy signed next to my underwear. My hands go instinctively to the chain I’m no longer wearing. And my wedding ring.

  McKenzie’s brow puckers as he looks down again, alternatively grasping then releasing his pen. ‘A petition for the dissolution of marriage can’t be sought by the pursuer for the reason of adultery if it is indeed the pursuer who committed the act of . . . adultery.’ My heart sinks like a rock through my chest. It’s all been for nothing—the lies. I’ll have to start the process again. Oh, God. I can’t see him—can’t face him. I can’t tell him! ‘And I hasten to add; this is not what he agreed.’

  My head snaps up from my lap. ‘Your uncle? Yes, because—’

  ‘We received a sworn affidavit in this morning’s post. It was from your husband or, rather, his legal representative.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Sworn to what?’

  ‘To his infidelity. Unfortunately, there is no correspondent named, though the instances and dates are in their nature, multiple, and are enough for the Sheriff’s Court.’

  At the moment before he slides the paper away, I glance down and notice a list of dates and places and what they stand for— admissions of his adultery. And there, at the top of the list, is the date I’d used myself. The date I’d sworn, at least, on paper, that I’d committed adultery when, in fact, I’d gone home drunk with another man. A gay man. The same date we’d fought, and he’d stormed out. The date he returned to our home with lipstick on the zipper of his jeans. Strange to think so much had changed in a twenty-four-hour period.

  If my heart dropped like a rock at his admission of guilt, the date of the dissolution of our marriage turns it to stone.

  ‘That first date,’ I ask. ‘What does it say?’ He looks confused, so I elaborate.

  He glances down at the open file. ‘At the Vision Gentleman’s Club.’

  Where no gentlemen are ever found.

  ‘Does it say anything else?’

  ‘Nothing I feel you should concern yourself with.’

  ‘Was it the first time or had he’d been fucking around our whole marriage?’ The question is in the air before I realise it. I’m not asking him—I’m questioning myself. Because this? Seeing it in black and white? It’s torture.

  ‘Well, there is a list, so I suppose you can assume . . . ’ His words trail off. He isn’t a counsellor but a bloody solicitor.

  The bottom line? I lied, and he wasn’t unfaithful until he thought I was. He’s taken the blame, at least on paper, but this doesn’t mean it’s not my fault.

  That he’s taken to whoring his way through Hollywood? That’s on me.

  ‘Is there any other way I can do this—get divorced?’

  ‘Without this admission?’ he asks, clearly at a loss.

  Jesus Christ, I’m not fit to raise a child. I can barely manage my own life—I can’t even get divorced right.

  ‘Fuck. Just fuck!’ Elbows against my knees, I have my head between pressing forearms as I begin to rock almost angrily.

  ‘You’ve been separated six months,’ he adds quickly. ‘At least, you’ve been in Scotland that long, according to this.’ I hear rather than see him pointing at the papers on the desk, his finger drumming the wood beneath three times. ‘Six more months and you can file the petition—’

  I sit up suddenly, the blood rushing away from my head. ‘That’s it? That’s the only way?’ I’ll be, what, six or so months pregnant by then. Not good enough. ‘There isn’t a quicker way?’

  I follow the line of my solicitor’s gaze, belatedly realising I’m cradling my stomach containing the little bit of Dylan I’ll always have.

  ‘No,’ he replies. ‘I’m afraid there is not.’

  Chapter 22

  Ivy

  ‘I’m tellin’ you,’ Natasha is saying as I enter the salon, ‘that’s the way to go these days.’

  The bell tinkles as I close the door and am hit by a sudden wave of scent. Flowers, maybe, mixed with something not so pleasant. It’s all I can do not to gag.

  From behind the made-to-look-rough-hewn-but-actually-cost-a-fortune reception counter, June frowns. ‘Something wrong, hen?’

  ‘Has the water been changed for those flowers?’ I immediately regret my terse tone. It’s not like it’s June’s job, and it’s not even as if she gets paid for the help she provides. And it’s not as though the odour resembles stagnant water exactly, but Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, can she not smell those things? They reek!

  ‘They’re fresh this morning; the florist brought them in.’

  ‘Ask her not to bring them again. They stink to high heavens,’ I complain.

  June leans in, her nose hovering over the delicate, pale apricot pink blooms. ‘They smell like roses,’ she answers, perplexed. It’s an expression quickly smothered as another crosses her face.

  Suspicion?

  Nope, not touching that one.

  ‘I just have a sensitive nose,’ I answer, despite not meaning to as I swing past the counter and onto the main floor of the salon to where Nat and Ted stand.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask, only really interested in avoiding June’s observations. Besides, they’re probably only sniping at each other. I’m not expecting anything pleasant from them.

  Nat sits in one of the chairs adjacent to a basin, and Ted is . . . what? Pretending to be busy now that his boss has just appeared?

  Pssht. It’s gone four o’clock on a Wednesday; it’s not like we’re expecting a last-minute stampede.

  ‘Nothin’ much,’ Nat responds to my enquiry, adding an airy, ‘Good appointment, was it?’

  I shrug lightly. ‘About what I expected.’ Maybe if it were opposite day, that is.

  ‘Is that so?’ Eyebrows comically high, she slides a hairbrush from a nearby stand, absently tapping it against the front of her thigh.

  ‘It is.’ It’s so bullshit. But I’m not thinking about it now. Not when she’s giving me the third-degree gargoyle eye. Or something.

  ‘Gimme that.’ Ted snatches the bristled brush from her hand. ‘Do I abuse the tools of your trade?’

  ‘Trade? You were tellin’ me earlier you were an artist.’

  ‘I said a creative,’ he responds, sounding exactly like, well, a child. A big, bearded narky child.

  ‘It’s only a hairbrush,’ she snipes in response, springing from the chair and causing him to stumble. ‘I bet you ten quid that if I left you alone for five minutes in my treatment room, you’d be abusin’ yourself with my massage oils.’ Nat digs me in the arm with her elbow. ‘Wouldn’t he?’

  ‘I hope not,’ I say on the breath of a sigh. My feet are hurting, and I’ve a horrible headache coming on. ‘What was it you were talking about when I came in?’ If nothing else, refereeing these two will be practice for when—for when. Well, you know. Offspring. Child. Don’t they have an answer for everything at some point? I certainly remember my own mother saying so at—

  Oh fu—fudge.

  I’ll have
to tell her.

  She’ll shit a brick.

  I think.

  Maybe I can tell Dad, and he can tell her?

  Maybe if I promise him a safe house afterwards.

  ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘What? Sorry, I was thinking.’

  ‘Thinking?’ questions Ted. ‘You looked more like you’d swallowed a razor blade concealed in a nugget of poo.’

  ‘Poo!’ scoffs Nat, clasping her hands under her chin. ‘My, aren’t we a delicate wee flower. It’s shite, y’bawbag. It’s no wonder you can’nae get a date. You might look like a bear, but you have the personality of a prig.’

  ‘I can too get ma’self a date! I’m just discerning. Unlike some people I could mention.’

  Nat pulls a face in answer before actually answering. ‘Then maybe next time you start your griping, I won’t help.’

  ‘The cheek of her!’ Ted exclaims, turning to me as though to find a sympathetic ear. ‘You know what she did to me last week?’

  I shake my head, not really interested in hearing, but feeling as though I should try. Try to sound interested, at least.

  ‘We went for pizza Monday night, and she introduced me to a man—a friend, she said.’

  ‘Hang on a minute. Where was my invite?’ I ask, suddenly a bit put out.

  ‘We knocked on the way past,’ Nat replies. ‘There was’nae any answer. Then we saw your car heading out of town.’

  Oh. I was going to the doctor’s. This is a prime example of how impossible it is to keep secrets in this village. Or as Nat might say . . . what exactly does she say? Something about farting and everyone knowing about it before the smell.

  She has a way with words, that girl.

  I didn’t say it was a great way.

  ‘Never mind about that now,’ Ted says, grabbing my arm. ‘She,’ he says pointedly, throwing Nat a mildly evil glare, ‘tells me her friend is in property and that he lives in a gated community.’

  ‘Sounds like a catch.’

  ‘That’s what I thought! And then I found out he was a burglar—a bloomin’ house thief!’

  ‘Oh.’ I purse my lips, trying not to laugh. I suppose that’s sort of into property, isn’t it?

  ‘Mmmhmm.’ Ted’s mouth twists in one corner. ‘Go on, tell her what kind of gated community he lives in.’

  Nat’s shoulders begin to shake, which isn’t a good sign. Moments later, the answer is expelled from her mouth, a little like a bullet from a gun.

  ‘Prison!’

  ‘He was on weekend release,’ Ted adds, unimpressed.

  ‘Oh, Nat,’ I admonish, my attempt at not laughing entirely unsuccessful. ‘That wasn’t very nice.’

  ‘Nice? I’m a gem. He was a hottie! And it didn’t stop him from going home with the crim.’

  ‘I asked him about ma’ house’s security, thank you very much! Anyway, nothing happened. I never put out on a first date.’

  ‘But did you let him put it in?’

  ‘Away with you, you dirty wee scrubber.’

  ‘So,’ Nat asks, once she’s stopped sniggering. ‘Same time tomorrow night? Same pizza joint?’

  ‘Aye, of course,’ Ted responds.

  ‘You in, or have you somewhere else to sneak off to?’ she asks me.

  ‘I wasn’t sneaking.’

  ‘No, of course not. You’re the picture of innocence, the soul of transparency.’ Looks like Nat missed her calling. With her theatrics, she should’ve been on stage. ‘Because you’ve got nothing to hide, have you?’

  I narrow my gaze. ‘Why don’t you just . . . ’

  ‘Piss off, shall I?’ God knows where she produces it from, but Nat begins rattling a money box, that appears to be made of tin, under my nose. ‘My swear envelope was getting full,’ she says with a smirk. ‘It’s a wonder the air in here isn’t blue!’

  ‘Yes, why don’t you do just that,’ I respond with as much dignity as I can muster . . . while also swallowing a million very rude words. ‘I’m going upstairs.’

  Chapter 23

  Ivy

  The question of when to announce my current state is more or less taken out of my hands the following week when my lack of appetite becomes something else entirely.

  I begin to vomit.

  Morning sickness, my bum.

  Try all day sickness.

  Try catching-a-whiff-of-something-that-turns-into-projectile-yellow-green-goo sickness.

  Then try hiding it from everyone. Staff. Friends. Clients who look at you like you’re infectious when you make a run for it, slipping and sliding across the wooden salon floor.

  It’s Nat who, in the kitchen, takes me to one side, suggesting I find my way to tell people, so they don’t look at me like I’m carrying the plague.

  So, I do. I tell Mac, my brother, first, who looks like he’d rather be hearing that I do have the plague and that I’m dying from it.

  ‘Holy fuck.’

  The first words out of his mouth are hardly reassuring. In fact, they sound like a plea for mercy. There’s no enveloping hug in response, just a stark astonishment.

  ‘What are you gonna tell the mother-monster?’ he manages shortly afterwards.

  Our mother isn’t really a monster. She’s just a wee bit overbearing. Thankfully, she and my father are on the other side of the world, living in a motorhome while travelling the length and breadth of Australia. They’d originally planned to make their trip based in the States, but after I moved back to Scotland, they’d decided on Australia instead.

  ‘Well, what I’ll not be telling her is that this is the result of a one-night stand.’ My brother winced like I’d smacked him over the head. ‘Don’t start that with me,’ I’d responded with a clear warning in my tone. ‘I’ve had years of girls crying on my shoulder over you. You think they spared me the gory details?’

  ‘I can’nae be held responsible for other people.’ He shook his head with vehemence.

  ‘And you tried to get into the knickers of my best friend—that’s like sanctimonious or something.’ I had known before I’d closed my mouth, I’d gotten it wrong. Again.

  ‘Definitely or something.’

  ‘Sacrilegious—that’s it!’

  ‘Come on! I was drunk—and young. And you,’ he’d said, pointing a finger at me, ‘promised you’d never mention it again.’

  ‘I didn’t tell Mum.’ According to her, you’re never too big or too old for a skelped arse. I think she would’ve more than walloped his backside for that. She would’ve probably called a priest. For an exorcism. ‘I supported you then. I think it’s your turn now.’

  ‘Of course—Jesus, Ivy. You think I’d turn my back on you?’

  ‘No, but it’s not even the call, exactly.’

  ‘I’m not calling her,’ he quickly added.

  Ignoring him, I pushed on. ‘Look, this baby isn’t going to have a daddy.’ At least, it might not. And I can’t stand to think about that right now. How I’ll tell Dylan. How he’ll react. Bugger it—I’m not dealing with those thoughts right now. ‘But he or she will have an uncle in his place—an involved uncle, I hope. A really awesome one . . .’

  Mac frowned, looking like the worries of the world rested on his shoulders. ‘Of course, I’ll be there,’ he’d said. ‘For you both. I’ll be the best bloody uncle there is, only . . .’

  ‘Only what? Spit it out,’ I said.

  ‘You’re sure there’s no way you can find the man? It seems awful unfair that he doesn’t get to know.’

  ‘What part of anonymous don’t you get? I met him in a nightclub, and he was on holiday—I can’t even remember where he said he was from! It was just a night of really hot, sweaty f—’

  ‘Aye, aye!’ Mac winced again, patting the air with both of his hands. ‘I get the picture. No need to be so . . . explicit, yeah?’

  But that was the point. By making him uncomfortable, I could get him to shut up.

  ‘Explicit? Really? We can go there if you like? I mean I miss talking about this
sort of stuff with Fin, with her gone and all. And I suppose you still owe me for me not telling Ma about you beating one out in the front room a few months ago.’

  Fin and Nat had walked in on Mac in our childhood home; jeans around his ankles and porn on the big screen. Hardly his finest moment, though Natasha was certainly titillated.

  ‘You’re a hard girl, Poison,’ he’d said, shaking his head.

  I didn’t even bite at my childhood nickname. Back then, he’d called me poison as an antidote to everyone else thinking I was sweet. Wonder what they’d all think now?

  Probably the same as Dylan; Edera Velenosa.

  ‘Really? Hard? Freudian slip, much?’

  ‘Enough!’ he’d said, doing that weird patting thing with his hands again like he could ward off my words. ‘I’ll do it—do whatever you want.’

  ‘Good, because I’ve booked a Skype call.’

  ‘For what?’ This hit the air more like fir wit?

  ‘To tell the olds they’re about to become grandparents.’

  Mac didn’t answer. He just groaned.

  ‘Could you no’ have worn a t-shirt?’ Mac complains, as my father’s hairy paunch comes into view followed by a grating wave of static.

  It’s late Monday evening, and Mac and I are sitting at my kitchen table, laptop in front. I feel sick—no surprise there—but this time, it’s accompanied by my stomach on a nervous spin cycle.

  I can do this. I’m a grown-up. And a business woman. And . . . I don’t want to disappoint them.

  That’s what it boils down to. The essence of it all. I prefer to be the nice girl; the daughter who causes no problems. The daughter who is nothing but a success.

  ‘Stella—we’re on!’ My dad’s voice carries across the ether, followed by my mother’s admonishment to sit down.

  ‘I suppose we should be happy he’s got trousers on,’ Mac says sotto voce.

  ‘I heard that,’ Dad replies. My father is a man of few words, which is just as well, because if talking was an Olympic sport, my mother could represent Scotland.

  ‘Now all we can see is the top of your heads. Angle the laptop screen down.’