by Lucy Dawson
Marc had looked at me and laughed. ‘All right, Jason Bourne. It was probably just dodgy tax stuff.’
‘You say that,’ I replied, ‘but the other day I read an interview with some It girl. A gangster called her, demanding that she pay off her ex-husband’s drug debts, or he’d pay her a visit. She then called a family friend who had connections in – and I quote – “the business of making people disappear for good”. Half an hour later, the first bloke called back to apologize, saying he’d never bother her again… Claudine’s boss could have had life or death information on that computer.’
Marc had snorted. ‘The socialite’s making it up. Anyone who actually did that is hardly going to blab it to a national newspaper.’
‘Well,’ I replied, ‘I’ve said it before – the gulf between the super elite and everyone else is getting wider and wider.’
‘I don’t deny that’s true.’ He’d stretched and yawned. ‘People who have vast financial resources do approach life in a different way to you or me. It’s the same attitude that makes clients think if they pay £450 an hour for my services, they have a right to call me any time of night or day, at the weekend – whenever they feel like it. Money can certainly buy you freedom, silence and anonymity.’
‘Have you had to deal with some shady stuff for your clients?’
Marc had tapped the side of his nose, but then turned serious again. ‘Of course not. All solicitors in the UK adhere to a strict code of conduct. We’re obliged to uphold the rule of law and the proper administration of justice. If I commit a crime, I can’t practice any more – it’s as simple as that. No client is worth taking that risk for.’
Marc is a man who values honesty very highly. I realize I haven’t deleted my message to Rich, and return guiltily to it, watching the evidence of contact vanish.
I close the computer and just sit there. This is not me. I have never, ever behaved like this before. Marc is out there somewhere now, having gone to collect the children, all of them excitedly anticipating the wedding.
I have to close my eyes to force the picture away.
Outside, I can hear the first stirrings of the dawn chorus and, glancing tiredly at the thin curtains, I can see it is already starting to get light.
I lean my head back on the sofa. Marc will have told Isabelle she can be a bridesmaid, I know he will. I rest my fingers on my temples and think about Issy when I last saw her – only a month ago – running happily into her and Olivier’s new room at the house to check that the shoal of four little fish we made together was still hanging up. It was my mother who helped me find something we could bond over: at her suggestion, I bought some rainbow felt, sequins and coloured beads, thinking we could make Isabelle a bag – but Issy had had other ideas, hence the fish, now suspended from the ceiling. She’d giggled as I stuffed them with balls of cotton wool, only for one to pop out of a gap in my inexpert stitching. The sound had lit me up inside, making me smile, and she’d grinned shyly back at me. They are now the first thing she rushes to see whenever she arrives. Sometimes I go in there and just look at them, sequins shimmering in the dark as they catch the street light outside, twisting quietly in the otherwise still room, waiting for her to return.
My insides knot up. This is all going to happen in front of the children. Has Claudine not considered that, if nothing else? It’s one thing to annihilate me – she couldn’t be about to expose me if I hadn’t done something wrong in the first place – but to let her kids witness this? Has she not thought about the damage this is going to do to them?
And Marc. Oh my God – Marc.
Little things over the last two months are starting to make sense now: why he insisted we should have my birthday party at Goldhurst Park – ‘It’s the ideal opportunity to test-run them and check if the service is really as good as everyone says it is’; he suggested it should be black tie too – ‘No one ever gets dressed up these days. You ought to have a really glamorous night.’
I’d been a bit carried away with that as an idea, and mused that maybe it would be fun to have a forties theme. ‘You know, forties dress – I’m forty.’
‘Yes, I get it.’ He’d smiled. ‘But I wouldn’t. People hate all of that fancy dress stuff. It’s a faff. Play it safe.’
He’s even bought me a dress – the man who denounces shopping as ‘the ideal way to flush a perfectly good afternoon down the lav’. I’ve always assumed wedding-dress shopping would include me coming out of a changing room in a gown that would make my mum and sisters well up, but the image of him thoughtfully selecting something for me instead makes me want to cry. This is going to devastate him.
How, how can Claudine be willing to do this to Marc all over again? Does she actually believe that if she stops the wedding he will go back to her? Or is this simply spite: ‘I can’t have him, so no one will.’
My heart flutters with sudden panic. It’s not an actual letter bomb, is it? I snatch up the computer again. The first search result I read says:
Note the size of the package. Letter bombs can be small, but flat or thin envelopes are unlikely to contain them. Letter bombs are usually bulky, with irregular lumps. If there is an opening or tear, can you see any protruding wires? If so, or if there is any oil seeping through the package, then immediately move away.
Protruding wires? This isn’t serious advice, surely? It sounds virtually cartoonish. Still, the envelope is flat and thin. I start to calm slightly, realizing that in any case, Claudine is hardly likely to send me something that might explode when I open it, given there’s every chance Olivier and Issy might be standing next to me when I do. She’s not that mad.
I rub my eyes. I am exhausted, but there is no chance that I’m going to be able to sleep. I reach for a blanket, cover myself and curl up on the sofa, my mind inevitably turning to Lou and her children.
What is my best friend going to do when she finds out, publically, that I have slept with her husband? I think about Rich again – us holding hands in the taxi. Was that me? Did I do it and give him the wrong idea? Or was it him? Did he intend to start it up again, all along? I shudder at the thought of him getting out of my bed, naked. I might have gone for his tall, lanky look when I was younger – hence my original crush on him, I suppose – but that was then, for Christ’s sake. Marc is broader and stockier: a by-product of his regular gym routine and rugby training. I like that I always feel tiny and safe when I’m wrapped in his arms.
‘You are safe.’ He laughs every time I say it to him. ‘I’ll always look after you.’
The thought of him, such a man’s man, bashfully confessing his idea to my mother and sisters over dinner is heartbreaking. It was just the three of us girls and Mum for such a long time, so the way he has so sensitively handled this – essentially asking their permission – is absolutely right and fitting.
How the hell could I have been so stupid? It was one thing to believe that Marc had walked out, but to then fall into bed with Rich of all people? I’m not a teenager any more – I don’t need that kind of validation. What will I say to Marc and Lou? That I was drunk? That explanation would never mean anything to them, and I’m not even sure it does to me. All Marc will see is what Claudine did happening all over again, but this time with me. And Lou will think something must have been going on for years, and that her whole married life has been a lie.
Claudine must have had me followed. It’s the only conceivable explanation for her finding out. If she’s mad enough to hire someone to break into my house in the middle of the night, she’s probably crazy enough to do that too.
I shiver. By this time tomorrow, I’ll know for sure. It will have all unfolded and played out.
It will be over.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Ding dong, the bells are going to chime!’
I blink and turn my stiff neck. Alice swims into view, standing over me apprehensively, holding a steaming cup of tea. ‘What you doing out here on the sofa, you lemon?’ She holds the drink out, expecting me to ta
ke it. ‘Oh no, was I snoring?’
I heave myself up and, shivering, reach for the mug, burning my hands slightly. ‘No, you were fine. I couldn’t sleep.’
She climbs onto the end of the sofa, hugs her knees to her chest and looks at me. ‘Not surprised. You’re still sure you want to do this?’ I nod and she inhales slowly. ‘Absolutely certain, Soph?’
I give her a bright smile. ‘No doubt in my mind.’
There is a pause. She sighs and says helplessly, ‘OK. Well then, happy wedding day. Are you going to take his surname?’ She shifts position suddenly, jogging my foot and slopping some of the scalding tea into my lap. ‘Oops, sorry. Or will you just use Turner for domestic stuff and keep Gardener professionally?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I actually had no idea there was so much stuff to change – your bank cards, passport – although you need to change that anyway, FYI. Your picture is appalling.’ She claps her hands over her mouth, horrified. ‘Oh God, what’s wrong with me? It’s like now I’ve broken the seal, I’ve turned into some verbal incontinent. I know nothing about your honeymoon. Anyway,’ she says hastily, ‘I’ve told Mum and Marc you’re here and that you’ve lost your phone.’
‘Are they OK?’
‘Yeah. Marc just texted back to say he’s going to ring you in a bit, and Mum was a bit arsey about having got the champagne breakfast just for you and her when I told her to bring it here instead, but she’s fine. She’ll be over in about half an hour.’
‘What time is it now, then?’ I feel dazed.
‘Half eight.’
My heart thumps. Already? I only finally closed my eyes at 6 a.m., which feels like it was about five minutes ago.
‘Once she’s here and we’ve eaten,’ Alice continues, critically inspecting something on one of her fingernails before turning back to me, ‘she’s probably going to want you to go back to yours for some other stuff she’s organized. Just so you know.’
‘What sort of other stuff?’
But Alice shakes her head firmly. ‘No, I’m not telling you anything more. I’ve let more than enough of the cat out of the bag as it is – there’s pretty much only its tail left. You’ve got to have some surprises today.’
I’m pretty sure I’ve already got that covered, thanks, Al.
‘Can I borrow your laptop?’ I ask, and she nods, getting off the sofa. ‘’Course. I’m just going to nip to the loo. I’ll leave my mobile here too in case Marc rings.’ She reaches into her dressing gown pocket and pulls out her phone, before balancing it on the sofa arm. ‘The computer is just there.’ She points to where I left it when I switched it off about three hours ago, and wanders out of the room.
I hurriedly put down my tea and reach for it.
It takes what feels like an age to load up and, once it does, I scramble immediately to my Facebook messages.
He’s replied.
Of course not. Delete this now.
Alice’s mobile phone buzzes into life on the sofa arm, making me jump out of my skin.
Soph’s Marc shows on the screen. Still holding the laptop on my knees, with Rich’s message in front of me, I reach over and answer the phone. ‘Hey Marc, it’s me.’ I try to sound as normal as possible.
‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dearest Sooooophiiie, happy birthday to you!’ he sings. ‘Morning! How are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’
‘Apart from losing your phone,’ he says sympathetically. ‘What happened? You’re normally surgically attached to it. Well done for reporting it, though. I called it this morning right before I got Alice’s message, and it said the number was unobtainable.’
Well, that’s a relief, at least. ‘Good,’ I manage to say.
‘The last thing you want is someone else finding it and racking up a great big bill that you’re liable for,’ he says. ‘So, excited about the party later?’
‘Very.’
‘Me too. I can’t wait, in fact!’ He sounds incredibly happy.
I close my eyes briefly and shrink back into the sofa. ‘How’s Berlin?’ I practically whisper, because I would ask, I think, if I didn’t already know what I do.
‘Oh, it’s fine,’ he says dismissively. ‘The only thing is, my flight times are a little tighter than I realized. I know this is a bit much, and I really, really wanted to see you on my own first, but I think I might have to go straight from the airport to the party. Is that going to be OK?’
‘Of course,’ I say automatically. He’ll want to get the kids sorted, I suppose, and greet the guests before I arrive.
There’s a pause. ‘Really?’ He sounds a little surprised. ‘You don’t mind?’
I sit up a little straighter. ‘Well, it’s a little bit James Bond-esque’ – I quickly inject a pretend wry annoyance into my voice – ‘but there’s hardly much I can do about it. You’d better have bought me a good present, that’s all I can say.’
‘Trust me,’ he says delightedly. ‘You won’t be disappointed.’
Now I know to look for it, I can hear that he can barely keep the excitement from his voice. Has it been like this for the last six weeks and I just haven’t noticed? Or is it just that now the day has arrived, he is struggling to hide it?
‘I love you, Sophie,’ he says suddenly. ‘You know that, don’t you? You make me happier than I ever thought I could be.’
I glance at Rich’s message and hit ‘Delete’, as if Marc might be able to see down the phone line. ‘I love you too. I’d better go. I think Mum is coming over for breakfast or something, and I’m not even dressed yet.’
‘Well, you have a really lovely day,’ he says. ‘Enjoy it, and I’ll see you later, OK?’
‘Thanks. Safe trip back.’ I hang up and then exhale sharply. That was horrible. Really, really horrible. Everything I say just feels like another sticky strand that I’m somehow wrapping around myself in this bloody web I didn’t even realize I’d become trapped in.
‘You made up then?’ Alice smiles, walking back in to find me still holding her phone.
I look up at her dumbly.
‘That was, I take it, your husband-as-of-this-evening?’ She frowns at me. ‘You are actually awake, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I am…’ I shake myself. ‘Listen, do you think I could have some coffee? Would that be OK?’
She shrugs. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Can you make it for me?’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘Please?’
She tuts. ‘Only because it’s your birthday…’
I turn quickly back to the laptop once she’s left the room.
I know about this evening being a wedding. Please do whatever you can to make Lou miss it.
That’s as much as I feel comfortable in saying. I have to be there, but Lou doesn’t. The very least I owe her is to ensure she doesn’t discover my and Rich’s betrayal in front of the rest of our joint friends; although what could possibly convince her to forgo her best friend’s wedding, I don’t know.
‘Here you are.’ Alice reappears, holding yet another cup out to me. ‘Don’t you think you’d better get off Facebook and get dressed?’
‘Obviously Lou and Rich are invited tonight, aren’t they?’
She nods and sinks onto the sofa.
I don’t answer. How on earth can this all be happening to me, when last night I watched a Sky Plus episode of The Good Wife over a bowl of Alpen, then went to bed like normal?
Alice sits there looking at me worriedly. The insane thing is, whatever scenario is now going through her head – Rich jumping to his feet, as if in some bad soap opera, when the registrar says, ‘Does anyone have any reason why this man and woman should not be joined in matrimony?’ – isn’t anywhere near as bad as what is actually going to happen when I open the letter that’s sitting in my bag.
The sudden sound of the door buzzer makes us both jump, shocking Alice out of her reverie. ‘Mum,’ she says in dism
ay. ‘OK. Let’s not panic. We’ll think about this Rich and Lou situation. Don’t say anything to her – not that you were going to!’ she adds hastily, at the sight of my face. ‘We can sort this, Soph. Don’t worry. All right, Mum!’ she shouts, as the buzzer growls furiously again.
I can hear Mum snapping crossly at Alice as she comes up the stairs, and then she’s there, in charge of the room immediately, as usual, although slightly puce in the face having lumped up a large wicker basket, out of which is sticking the neck of a bottle of champagne. Her handbag is slipping from her arm, which is obviously irritating her immensely. Setting everything down, she barks, ‘Hello, darling, happy birthday,’ before straightening up and smoothing her hair. ‘So.’ She smiles tightly at me. ‘Why are you here and not at your house?’
‘Don’t bollock her, Mum. It’s her birthday; she can do what she likes.’ Alice nips in behind her like a feisty terrier and whips the bottle out of the basket. ‘I’ll open this, shall I?’
‘You’ll need to chill it again first,’ Mum says, adding pointedly, ‘I had a rather longer than expected journey. You were saying, Sophie?’ She looks at me and waits.
‘She wasn’t saying anything,’ Alice replies, before I can even open my mouth. ‘She went out for some birthday drinks in town, got a bit tiddly and came here afterwards because it was closer.’
Mum raises an eyebrow. ‘But your car is outside.’ She turns to face me with the full weight of her stare. ‘You drove while drunk?’
‘She came here first and then went into town,’ Alice says smoothly. ‘Let’s just have that drink, shall we?’ She pulls a ‘Gah!’ face behind Mum and dashes off to the kitchen.
‘Well, at any rate, it’s fixed now,’ Mum says starchily.
I frown at her. ‘What is?’
‘Your car,’ she replies impatiently. ‘The man was just leaving as I arrived. He said to tell you everything seems to be running smoothly, but it’ll need keeping an eye on for the rest of the day. He said you’d know what he meant, and he’ll be dropping the invoice off at your house shortly.’
The man… I blanch immediately and hurry over to the window, peering down into the street below from behind the net curtain. All I can see now is an elderly couple going into the greasy spoon two doors down.
