by Tina Seskis
And afterwards? Afterwards Eleanor had felt fearful, and all alone in the knowledge. She hadn’t been able to tell him that she knew about the passport, but she hadn’t been able to tell anyone else either. She and Alex had each been trapped in their own world of secrets – but it seemed that his secrets were even more outrageous than she could possibly have thought.
Eleanor’s mouth filled with saliva. She got up from the bath, lifted the seat of the toilet, bent over and spat into the bowl, and her saliva was warm and stringy, hard to detach. As she stood up straight and wiped her face with the back of her hand, she was still trying to compute what everything meant. The woman had been yelling, ‘Piers!’ and that was the name on the passport, and Eleanor knew that the answer must be simple, so simple . . . and yet still it wouldn’t come to her. All she knew was that she’d put down her own restlessness of late to Rufus’s reappearance, and the kids having left, and Alex’s job being so all-consuming, causing a space between them . . . And when at last she’d pulled rank, had insisted that Alex put his wife above his job for once, she’d thought things were better between them. Until this.
Eleanor’s mind began to soften, lose its shape. She did her best to concentrate. It was so weird, that Rufus had been her very first love – and yet now she was unavailable, the more it seemed he wanted her. There must be a name for that kind of screwed-up mentality, Eleanor thought, of wanting what you cannot have. But what was the name for just taking what you cannot have, as it seemed Alex had done? Taking and taking and taking? Where did the lies start, and where on earth did they end?
Eleanor sat alone, her stomach alternately taut and heaving, waiting for something to happen – and yet all was silent. She’d spent so many years knowing nothing about her husband’s job, believing that his allegiance was to Queen and country, crazy as it sounded for an American. She’d had no choice but to stay quiet, and respect that. And respect it she had. But now she remembered the dreadful day she’d thought he’d been killed, and yet the police had been unable to trace him. Did he even work in counter-terrorism? She had no idea any more. All she knew was that it seemed her husband was involved with someone else too, who called him Piers.
Eleanor threw back her head then, and started laughing, and laughing, and it echoed around the tiny white bathroom, until it seemed she couldn’t stop . . . And now the laughter was turning to tears, and she went downstairs and double-locked the door, put the chain on. She wouldn’t let him back into the house for now, maybe not ever again, not until she’d got her head straight. Who knew what might happen in the future, but the one thing Eleanor was certain of right now, in this particular minuscule moment in the history of the universe, was that there was so much she didn’t know about her husband – and, perhaps most pertinently, just what he was capable of.
81
CHRISTIE
There was no fool like an old fool, Christie thought as she gazed at Piers in disbelief. He had come out of the little terraced house and escorted her away down the street, and now he was standing opposite her on the corner of the next road, looking utterly distraught. Her realisation was banal in its simplicity – the reason Piers had seemed too good to be true was because he was too good to be true. It seemed almost risible now, outside an unknown house somewhere in the labyrinthine streets of North London, that she had fallen for his charms. Maybe she’d simply been so bowled over by grief about Paul that she’d been an easy target for a handsome half-French man with substandard driving skills. She wondered now whether he really was a management consultant. Or whether his first wife had in fact died. It was a fucked-up macabre lie if it was one, and yet she didn’t know what level of deceit Piers was capable of. Again, it made her wonder how much she knew him at all. Perhaps it would turn out to be like a house of cards, where as one truth tumbled others would follow in a flurry of facts disproved, lies rudely outed. The corniness of the narrative was almost funny. Rich widow. Handsome lover. And yet there had been something so winsome about Piers at first, about his puppy-dog eyes, his obvious need for adoration. He had seemed too naive to Christie to be a player. It was mind-numbing, how wrong this had gone. She remembered Alice’s impassioned warning; how her children, and especially Jake, had always appeared to dislike Piers; how Piers had changed so much since they’d got married. It seemed her family had been right all along.
As Christie glared at her husband, her emotions were wavering between contempt and heartbreak. Piers was still speaking quietly, insisting that he could explain everything, but he was lying. Just a few minutes before she’d knocked, she’d seen the woman come out, in denim shorts and wellington boots, with a bagful of garden recycling. She’d been so pretty, had looked so happy. Was it possible that she didn’t even know Piers was married, was as much of a mug as Christie was?
‘Please, Christie,’ Piers was saying now. ‘You’ve got to believe me. I can explain everything.’ And he seemed so convincing it was unnerving her, and she had a sudden crisis of confidence that maybe she had it all wrong, after all. And then she told herself that of course he was having an affair. The private detective had rung her earlier and told her he was at the exact address she’d just called at, although Piers had said he was still in Bristol. But Piers had been lying, and here was the absolute, irrefutable proof. For an instant Christie wanted to run at her husband and smash his faux-innocent face against the wall, and she swore she’d never had a violent inclination in her life before now. But it seemed so unfair, to lose Paul in that way, and now find out that Piers was nothing more than a thief and a liar and a cheat.
‘Christie,’ Piers said now, and he sounded almost frantic. He took her arm, and the firmness of his grip surprised her. She imagined it might be how it felt to be taken into custody. ‘Please, love. Let’s go home. I can explain everything.’
82
ELEANOR
Alex still hadn’t come back, and Eleanor could sense the danger, smouldering from afar. She could feel the heat of it. She knew there was something gravely wrong, and yet she couldn’t work out what it was. All she had to go on was a name. Piers Romaine. Perhaps it was a matter for the police, she thought. And yet Alex was the police. Was it a legitimate part of his job to have that passport? Or was it a crime? Maybe he was one of those police infiltrators and had let an undercover relationship go too far. Eleanor didn’t have a clue.
It was the morning after Alex had left and Eleanor was still in bed. She couldn’t seem to stop shivering, even though she was under the covers and it was a warm day anyway. She had no idea where Alex had gone, or what was going on. All she knew was that Piers was Alex. Alex was Piers. But who was the woman? Eleanor could live with a simple betrayal, would have to deal with it. But if the situation was a part of his job somehow, where would that leave them both?
Eleanor tried to search through all the clues of her and Alex’s life together. He was certainly away enough for something like this to be true. She couldn’t get hold of him half the time, although she’d always put that down to his job. And yet he loved her, she was sure of it. Did people who loved their wives have affairs?
Eleanor raked through her thoughts, as if through sand, searching for lost treasure. There was something else about Alex, something he’d always kept private, that lately he’d been struggling to hide. What was it? Resentment? Jealousy? She knew he’d been jealous when they’d first met, but she’d worked hard over the years to convince him that there was no need to worry. She’d almost forgotten how insecure he’d seemed back then. But when she’d told him she’d seen Rufus again it seemed to have ignited some kind of pathology in him, which had been the opposite of what she’d intended. She’d wanted to be honest, of course, but also to shake Alex up, let him know that they needed to work on their marriage. She hadn’t expected him to react the way he had.
Eleanor got out of bed, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, walked barefoot along the landing, down and out through the kitchen, into the garden, and it looked nicer than it had in a long ti
me. Newly installed wallflowers were nodding their glossy heads to the sunshine, starting to spread their leaves already, beginning to settle in. The hedge was trimmed neatly. They’d laughed when Alex had pretended to come at her with the electric cutter, but it didn’t feel funny any more. Her whole life was in danger of being a sham, but that wasn’t only what was concerning her. The air of menace felt physical too. Think, Eleanor, think.
Eleanor returned to the house and padded upstairs to their bedroom. She pulled out the drawers in Alex’s bedside table. They were so neat, she almost wondered whether he had OCD. Hers were a mess, but she liked them that way. She never usually went through his stuff but, as suspected, there was nothing of any interest. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.
As if on autopilot, Eleanor searched through the rest of Alex’s drawers now. There were the T-shirts and jumpers and chinos that she’d last put away. In his underwear drawer she found odd socks, a broken watch, a card she’d given him last anniversary, his old epaulettes from when he used to be in uniform. She opened the wardrobe and felt in his jacket pockets, half-heartedly checked in his shoes. Her phone buzzed but she ignored it. She was concentrating, relying on her intuition. She went over to their bed, lifted up the mattress, searching for something. Searching for Piers Romaine. Who on earth was Piers Romaine?
Eventually Eleanor ran out of ideas. She needed to know. She went into Mason’s room, with its skateboards and electric guitars hung on the inky grey walls, the edgy graffiti posters. It was far too tidy, the indisputable evidence that her teenage son was away at university too painful in this new version of her truth. Brianna’s room was equally bereft of clues. She checked the cupboard on the landing. At the back, in the corner, was Alex’s police bag. Surely there must be something in there. Alex tended to keep the bag at work, but he brought it home sometimes, usually when he was on leave, like now. It was padlocked, as always. One time he’d opened it up and shown her the pepper spray, but when she’d asked him if he had a gun in there too, he’d just smiled enigmatically and closed it, and she hadn’t asked again. She tried her birthday, the children’s birthdays, but it was hopeless attempting to guess the combination.
She needed to know.
Eleanor picked up the bag, and it was heavy. She took it downstairs and into the kitchen. It was a bit larger than a standard briefcase, made of thick black leather. The lock was solid metal. She opened the cutlery drawer and took out the largest carving knife she could find. She sized up the knife, and then she sized up the bag. She wondered what the charge was for destroying police property. And then she heard the voice, somewhere inside her own head, urging her on, and she knew she had no choice.
Eleanor lay the bag on its side on the floor, like a dead animal. She got down on her knees, the edges of the tiles digging against her bones. The knife was clutched between both her hands. She felt afraid and panicky, but she knew she had to do this.
Eleanor closed her eyes, said a quick prayer . . . and then she stretched her arms high above her head, leant forward, and brought down the glittering knife with all the force she could muster.
83
CHRISTIE
It seemed that Piers was planning on coming back to Ware with her, and Christie wasn’t sure whether she even had a choice in the matter. He’d finally managed to persuade her to tell him where her Mini Cooper was parked, and he’d continued to hold her arm as they’d walked to the next street together. When she’d pressed the button to release the heavy, clunking locks, he’d proceeded to help her in and then had shut her door, dashed round to the passenger side and jumped straight in too. She’d still hesitated, though. Part of her had wanted to tell him to just fuck right off and leave her alone, but he was in her car now, and he’d promised to explain everything, so maybe she needed to at least give him a chance to tell his side of the story. She felt depressed and depleted after the confrontation she’d orchestrated, too tired to argue almost. Perhaps she’d hoped that her private detective had been wrong somehow, but the realisation that her marriage appeared to be nothing more than a sham was devastating.
‘Christie, love,’ Piers said now. ‘Everything will be all right. I promise.’
Christie ignored him, put the car into reverse and squeezed the accelerator. She watched the live camera image of her car edging closer and closer to the one behind, heard the increasingly rapid beeps meld together to become one long blare, felt the peculiar satisfaction of the cars making contact. Metal on metal. Like how they’d met. It wasn’t enough of a bump to cause damage, just one to show that she wasn’t someone to be messed with.
‘Christie!’ Piers said. ‘Careful!’
‘Yeah, right,’ Christie replied. ‘I’m the one who needs to be careful.’ She turned and glared at her husband then, in his old shorts and shirt, the stripe of dried mud across his nose, the big blue eyes, the beseeching look. Emotions bubbled, threatened to reach the surface. She swung the Mini’s stub nose out and roared off down the road like a teenager. When they hit the inevitably terrible traffic on the main road it was a relief in a way, at least helped make sure they got home in one piece.
The rest of the hour-long journey was uneventful. Piers didn’t speak, and neither did she. But once Christie had turned the final corner into her street she had an abrupt vivid memory, of a sparkling Christmas tree, a fluffy owl in a wreath on the sage-green front door – the very last moment before her whole world had collapsed, the last time. She pulled into the driveway and cut the engine, dropped her head on to the steering wheel. She put her hands on her ears, pulled on the diamond studs Paul had given her, making the lobes stretch. She’d worn a new black silk shirt-dress, had made an effort with her make-up. Wronged wife or not, she’d wanted to look her best. Despair threatened to overwhelm her.
‘It’s OK, Christie,’ Piers said. His voice was like treacle. ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you inside.’
84
ELEANOR
It had taken a while, plus a variety of implements, but she’d done it. Eventually there had been enough of a hole in the bag for Eleanor to get her hand in, and she pulled out handcuffs, the pepper spray, an empty lunchbox, a jumper, two hats, various papers, an opened letter. But no gun. No poisoned umbrella tips. There was a wallet, though, one she’d never seen before, and a mobile phone, and when she opened the wallet, there were four £50 notes along with credit cards in the name of Piers Romaine, and a picture of an elegant-looking woman, smiling on a boat somewhere tropical, and a wedding band in the zipped-up section where the coins were. There was a driving licence too, with an address in somewhere called Ware.
Eleanor’s mind was so scrambled, it was taking her ages to process what everything meant. The papers seemed to be mainly police stuff, but the letter was personal. The envelope was made from thick, creamy paper, the name and address neatly typed and official-looking. She remembered that envelope well. It had arrived a year or two ago, and when she’d picked it up off the doormat it had puzzled her, as the name was unknown to her. When she’d taken the letter into the kitchen and asked Alex whether it was for him, he’d virtually snatched it off her and left the room, and that had been the last she’d ever seen of it. When she’d asked him about it later he’d told her it had been junk mail, and she’d been busy making dinner at the time, so she’d not given it any further thought.
Now Eleanor studied the envelope with great concentration. The postmark was Holborn. The surname might be wrong, but the address was most definitely theirs, and the first name was Alexander. The letter inside was from a firm of solicitors. Was it the case that her husband actually had three identities? It was too confusing.
Eleanor took out her laptop. It was old and the keyboard was sticky with peanut butter and crumbs and the Internet was slow, but it would have to do. It was weird how she’d been married to a policeman for so many years and yet she had no idea how to trace someone. Maybe she could just text Alex and ask him outright. No. Somehow she knew she had to tread carefully
.
Eleanor googled ‘Piers Romaine’, but nothing came up. Now she tried ‘Alexander John Ingram’, and again drew a blank. ‘Paul Ingram’ had far too many results. This Paul Ingram had died though. The letter said so. And so next she tried ‘Paul Ingram death’ – and this time she did find something.
‘Local businessman falls from loft in tragic accident’ was the headline in the Hertfordshire Mercury. The story was so sad. Apparently the poor man had been decorating the house for Christmas to surprise his wife, but she’d come home to find not only a beautifully decorated tree in the living room, but her husband upstairs with his neck snapped.
Eleanor’s sorrow about the ghastly tragedy distracted her from being able to process the one relevant piece of information. She lay down on the floor for a moment and rested her cheek against the ransacked, ruined leather bag. She felt so tired, as if her brain was fully overloaded now. Hungerford Way. Her mind attempted to make sense of what she had read . . . It ambled through every last possible avenue . . .
Eleanor sat up, instantly alert again, scrabbled for the wallet. Her hands were trembling as she reopened it, stared at the address on the driving licence.
Piers Romaine, 18 Hungerford Way, Ware.
What the fuck was going on?
It had taken her just over an hour to get there. It was a medium-sized red-bricked house, well kept, with tall Gothic-style windows, a bowling-green lawn. There was a black convertible Mini Cooper parked up in the U-shaped driveway. Eleanor didn’t know what she should do. She had driven here with little more than a sense of extreme unease, as if maybe she should warn this other woman that there was something fucked up going on. But now she didn’t know how to play it. She drove past and stopped fifty yards or so away, where the road curved, so that her car wasn’t visible from the house.
