by Pip Drysdale
I moved over to it and stared down at the screen.
It took a moment for the letters to register in my mind. For a word to form. For understanding to take hold.
But when it did, the walls became liquid and I had to grab onto the desk for stability.
@Oliver1982 has sent you a gold coin.
My skin prickled and my heartbeat sped up as I clicked through to the app, to the profile. There was still a chance I was wrong.
But then there it was.
The proof I feared. The proof I’d gone seeking.
The photograph of Oliver wandering back from that pool I’d seen just two days before in that yellow-lit Mayfair bar.
I hadn’t been imagining things, I wasn’t crazy, and I wasn’t wrong.
And as I stared down at his profile I knew that my life, or rather ‘our’ life, was officially over.
I just didn’t realise how over.
7.12 pm
Rain gushed down in streams, blurring my view from the window: umbrellas, a charcoal sky and a tangle of traffic lights turning emerald to tangerine to fire-engine red. I was in a semi-trance, sitting still as a statue at a small square table in the corner of an Italian restaurant, drinking the water they’d put on my table when I came in. The glass smelled like a dirty rag and my eyes kept darting between the pale yellow, plastic-covered tablecloth, my phone screen (Tess had just texted to say she was almost there) and the green ribbon tied around my wrist. I swallowed hard and fought back tears as the last 48 hours presented themselves in a repeating loop of flashcards: the app, the accusation, the denial – I’d never do that to you – the wishes, the Instagram story, @lover7 and finally the gold coin from @Oliver1982.
My phone screen flashed white in the low light. It was Tess: 2 mins xx
I’d called her immediately, of course. Standing there alone in the shop, a locked door now between me and any potential customers and a thin layer of sweat on my forehead. She’d answered on the second ring.
‘Hello?’ she said, her voice low like it always was when she answered at work. I paused – I couldn’t find my words – and so she spoke again: ‘Charlie?’
‘Hey,’ I said. My voice had a flat, foreign timbre to it.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You sound weird.’
I swallowed hard and my stomach contracted. I was about to say the words out loud. And that would make it real.
‘It was him. On the app. It was him,’ I said. Short. Sharp. Staccato. There. It was done.
Silence rang out over the line. A car alarm screeched outside.
‘Huh?’ she’d asked. ‘What app? Oh, you mean from the other night?’
‘Yeah,’ I said.
‘I really don’t think it was, hon,’ she said, her voice distracted, as if she was multi-tasking.
‘No, I mean it was him. I know for certain.’
Beat.
‘How do you know?’ she asked. I could almost hear the cogs of her mind speeding up, trying to piece it together.
‘I signed up and found him,’ I explained, clenching my jaw as I recalled the moment I clicked through to his profile.
Oliver.
38
Private equity
About Oliver:
Hi, Oliver here, looking for dates for Torture Garden, Subversion, Killing Kittens, La Boudoir etc. Message me.
That was when the nausea hit.
‘Shit,’ she said. Swallow. ‘Where are you?’
‘Still at the shop,’ I squeaked through a tight throat as I looked around. What was I going to do? My heart was beating so fast. ‘I don’t know how to deal with this. What am I going to say when I see him?’ My voice was shaking.
‘You can’t see him,’ Tess said, her voice calm and firm. ‘Not yet. Hang on,’ she said, her voice lowering to a proper whisper now. ‘I can meet you at the Italian place in Marylebone at seven. Is that okay?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave now.’
I was numb as I locked up the shop. Then, as I wandered down Portobello Road to the Tube, I texted Oliver to say I’d be late because Tess was mid-emergency. The air smelled of French fries and the soft mist of drizzle turned into light rain, so I put up my umbrella and listened as the droplets pitter-pattered on the fabric. Everything was a daze. Colours brighter, somehow. Everything so surreal. Was this what it felt like then? To find out your husband was cheating? Interesting.
And now I was here, at the restaurant, sitting beneath the red glow of a heater. Struggling to make sense of everything. The door opened – a creak and a blast of cold air – and I looked up. It was Tess. Finally. I watched as she dropped her wet umbrella in the basket then rushed over to me.
‘Honey,’ she said, her grey eyes full of empathy as she slipped off her black coat and draped it over the back of the chair opposite me.
‘Hi,’ I said as she sat down. It was such a relief to see her.
‘Shit, haven’t you even got a drink?’ she asked, motioning to the waitress who came straight over. ‘Could we please get two big glasses of Malbec?’ she said, demonstrating that when she said ‘big’ she meant ‘huge’ with her hands. ‘And some gluten-free garlic bread.’
She looked to me: ‘You must be starving’. Then back to the waitress: ‘I said gluten-free, right?’ That was her way of saying ‘Were you listening?’
The waitress nodded and left and Tess reached across the table for my hand. A cold squeeze. Her eyes on mine. A crack in her hard-boiled veneer.
We sat there for one, two, three seconds then: ‘Can I see?’ she asked, her face crumpling in sympathy.
I nodded, let go of her hand, found his profile and handed it to her. Calm. I think I was in some sort of shock.
She swiped through his photographs, one by one, taking a moment to linger on each. I could see them in my mind’s eye. That first one: him at a distance, walking back to me from the swimming pool on our honeymoon. The second: a shot of his face, tanned and grinning. The third: the tuxedo shot in front of the mirror, my dark red nails and bangles visible around his waist even though I’d been cropped out.
‘Shit,’ she said, looking up at me.
‘Read his profile,’ I said, my voice flat.
‘Hi, Oliver here, looking for dates for Torture Gar—.’ She started reading out loud and then stopped. Dead. ‘Wow.’ She looked up at me. ‘I’m so sorry, hon. Do you know what these are?’
‘Well, I do now,’ I said. ‘I googled.’
They were sex parties. FYI. Lots of them. My perfect husband wasn’t just on a dating app – he was looking for women to take to sex parties. And I couldn’t figure out whether that was better than him looking for a romantic connection, or worse.
It was at that moment, while mentally revisiting the images from various party websites – low lights, smiles, skin – I’d clicked on after reading his bio that the waitress chose to deliver our wine.
‘Thanks,’ Tess said to the waitress with a smile.
I gave a flicker of a smile, waited for her to leave, then reached for my glass. ‘I asked him, you know. The night of your birthday. And he looked me in the eye and swore he wasn’t cheating,’ I said, my voice cracking. ‘How could he lie like that? How could I have believed him?’
‘I’m … I’m so sorry hon,’ she said, reaching for her glass.
‘Though, it does explain a few things,’ I said. I was thinking of how @lover7 could easily have found Oliver via a quick Google search of the info in that profile. And if that hadn’t yielded conclusive results, all she had to do was take a screenshot of one of his photographs and upload it to Tineye.com, the way I’d done many times when trying to figure out the source of a photo I wanted to use for the shop’s website or an Instagram promotion. Once she found him, I was just a short jump away.
That’s how I would have found me.
Tess was looking at me again, her eyes narrowed. ‘Explain things like what?’ I could tell from her expression she thought I was going to reveal something kinky. Some
sort of strange sexual preference Oliver had that was now all making sense.
‘No, nothing like that,’ I said in answer to her silent question, thinking of how he’d never been like that with me – why had he never been like that with me? Didn’t he trust me? ‘There’s just this woman who’s been looking at all my stories. Here,’ I continued, going to my Instagram and handing her my phone again. ‘@lover7’.
I watched her expression as she went through my stories. I wondered if Oliver had given @lover7 a Bahia bracelet too. My stomach clenched: which parts of our relationship were sacred – were any?
‘Oh,’ Tess said, her mouth contorted into a yikes expression.
‘I know,’ I said, gulping back wine. ‘It’s suspect, right?’
‘Do you want me to follow her?’ Tess asked. ‘So we can see who she is?’
‘No,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘She might look at your page and see me in the pictures. I don’t want the extra layer of drama.’ I exhaled loudly. ‘Shit. I bet they’ve had sex already. She wouldn’t be bothering if they hadn’t, would she?’ I took another sip of wine. ‘I really thought we were happy,’ I said, tears prickling behind my eyes. My mind was working double speed, trying to figure out what to do next.
Tess let out a long hard exhale. ‘Maybe he is happy with you. I know he loves you, it’s obvious. I mean, maybe it’s not about that. Maybe he just didn’t think you’d be into it or – I don’t know – maybe he’s got a sex addiction or something?’
‘Do you think so?’ I said, my voice verging on hopeful. That would be so much better. A nice little sex addiction we could go to couples’ counselling for was better than him cheating for real. Bad yes, but we could work through that. And Justin had been dragged to counselling by one of his exes so I knew Oliver might be open to it.
‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘But he had both of us fooled, hon. That means he’s a really fucking good liar. Scary good.’ She looked up at me. ‘And that means he does it a lot.’
All I could do was nod. Because I knew she was right, but I was scared if I tried to speak I’d break down properly. My heart was banging around in my chest. The reality of the situation was settling heavily on my soul.
And then I asked her the real question on my mind, the one I’d been muffling with all the others. ‘Why aren’t I enough, Tess?’ My voice was small and childlike.
She leaned forward and took my hand. ‘Oh hon,’ she said, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s not about you.’
As I nodded, the hot tears I’d been trying to hold in streamed down my face. My mind was struggling to find answers. A way out of this. A way everything could be okay again. A way to make the pain stop.
‘Maybe I should ask him about the parties?’ I said, swallowing the tears. ‘I mean, maybe I’d get into it. I’ve never really thought about it, but I’m open minded, and I’ve done loads of sex scenes, I even did that threesome one, remember? Maybe …’ I shrugged. And I wanted to believe that – that we could be like Nicole Kidman and Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut. But even then, as I thought it, I realised I couldn’t remember how that movie ended and I was pretty sure it was badly.
‘Hon,’ she said, measuring her words. ‘You shouldn’t be doing things just to please him. And—’ she cut herself off.
‘And what?’ I asked, wiping my cheeks with my hands.
‘If he wanted to talk to you about it he would have. He out-and-out lied to you when you asked, remember? And you don’t want to corner him and have some shame-bomb go off on you.’
She was right. I knew too well how shame could erupt. I didn’t think Oliver would hurt me, but I should probably play it safe.
‘I’m not saying don’t talk to him. I’m just saying you need to be careful here. Oliver’s a clever guy and clearly good at hiding things. So you’re going to need to be a bit strategic. Protect yourself in case it gets uglier.’ She paused, taking a sip of her wine. ‘You just need to know exactly where everything is and what’s going on before you confront him. Try to get a copy of all your accounts and whatnot. Otherwise he might totally screw you in the divorce.’
Even the sound of that ‘d’ word made me wince.
‘Oh god, do you think we’ll get divorced?’ I asked, the tears starting up again as I glanced down at my rings.
‘I have no bloody idea,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Two hours ago I would never have thought Oliver was on a dating app, never mind going to sex parties. He always seemed so Mr Perfect to me. So strait-laced and into his reputation and work and what have you. I’m just saying be careful.’
And I knew she was right. I had no idea what was going on with our finances. Which might sound naive in hindsight, but he was in investments; he had an MBA from London Business School. It made sense for him to deal with it. And if I’m really honest I hate numbers and budgets and tax time. It was a relief to have him take it off my hands. So yes, maybe if I had it all to do again I’d do things differently, but blah blah blah.
‘How am I supposed to act normal?’ I said.
‘You’re an actress, Charlie, a good one, just pretend it’s a role.’
I shook my head, clenching my jaw. ‘I don’t think I can, Tess. You don’t get how this feels.’ But then I wanted to rescind that last statement, because she did know.
‘You can,’ she said, reaching for my hand. ‘Think of it this way, there are only two rules you have to follow: (1) Don’t tell him you know about the app and (2) Get copies of everything you can find. That’s it. You can do that.’
‘Like Fight Club,’ I said with a small smile.
‘Yes, just like Fight Club,’ she replied.
Episode 4
THURSDAY, 7 JUNE 2018 (9.55 PM)
I stared at the swirling grain of our dark wood front door, the murmur of the TV floating through it as I tried to calm my breath. Things are always so different in reality to how you plan them out in your head. I’d spent the cab drive home amping myself up, telling myself that if he wanted to screw with me he’d better bring his ‘A’ game and practising my nonchalant ‘Hi honey, I’m home’ face. But now that I was standing here, keys in my hand, only inches away from having to face him, I could all but taste my heartbeat. I closed my eyes.
You can do this, Charlie.
I slid the key into the lock, turned it and the door swung open.
He was lying on the sofa, I could see his feet – grey socks, socks I’d washed and balled up many times – on the arm rest and some sort of cooking show on the screen.
‘Hey,’ he said, popping his head up to smile at me. The shine of his dark hair caught the light and his eyes met mine. My pulse sped up. Fuck. I looked away immediately, turning back to the door as I slipped off my shoes.
‘Hey,’ I said, closing my eyes to centre myself, then shutting the door behind me as my pulse thumped in my ears. ‘What are you watching?’ I asked, dropping my bag on the kitchen counter. There was a pot still on the stove and the colander was in the drying rack by the sink: spaghetti. He must have made spaghetti. I moved over to him. He was wearing a pair of grey tracksuit pants and a white polo shirt.
‘Something shit,’ he said, pressing ‘pause’ on the remote control. The room was silent now apart from the muffled gunfire from whatever Natasha upstairs was watching on TV.
‘Oh my god,’ he said, looking up to the noise. ‘I’m going to take up the trumpet one of these days just to even the score.’
Then his eyes were back on me. ‘I missed you tonight,’ he said, wriggling towards the back of the sofa. From where I stood I could smell ylang ylang and the spice of his cologne. He patted the space in front of him and as I lay down he wrapped me in his arms, warm and tight, his breath in my hair. He was acting the same way he’d always done but instead of comforting me, it filled me with nausea; that meant this wasn’t new. It meant he’d been living a double life for as long as we’d known each other. Nothing had changed in his world.
But I was left wondering how many sex parties h
e’d already been to, what sorts of things he did there, whether Alyssa – his ex – had ever gone to them with him.
‘What’s going on with Tess that you deserted me like that?’ he croaked, his nose nuzzling into the space behind my ear.
‘Man troubles,’ I said through a tight throat, regurgitating the cover story Tess and I had formulated over garlic bread. ‘This guy she likes. He’s being a knob.’ Our wedding photos were in my line of vision and my chest ached as I ran the memories through the filter of this new information. Searching for signs. Signals I might have missed. But there hadn’t been any.
‘Wow, Tess never likes anyone. Is she okay?’ he asked and my lower lip wobbled as I nodded.
‘Yep.’
He took a deep breath. ‘So I have some bad news,’ he said. ‘I have to go away again.’
‘What?’ He was supposed to be home for another week and my chest panged. And all I could think was: One of the first signs of cheating is an altered schedule.
Had the signs been there all along and I’d just been oblivious?
And where was he really going – was it really for work?
‘Just for a couple of days,’ he said. ‘I have to go and smooth things over with a couple of investors in Nigeria.’
‘But you just got back,’ I said, clenching my jaw to stop the tears. Because I knew that was the last time we’d lie there on that sofa like this. I knew I’d ask the hard questions soon, and he would eventually have to tell the truth. And no matter what happened, everything would be different. We would never be this couple again. And what if we couldn’t figure it out, what if we went our separate ways? Fuck, that would hurt. It was hurting already; a hot tear rolled down my cheek.
‘Hey,’ he said, his voice soft and gentle as he propped himself up to look at me. ‘Don’t cry. I promise it won’t always be like this,’ he said, wriggling his fingers between mine and staring into my eyes. I nodded but I couldn’t hold his gaze. And my eyes landed on my Bahia bracelet. On the knots. On my wishes. And my lower lip trembled more.
‘God, I hate seeing you sad,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back before you know it. But you seem upset a lot at the moment – are you sure you’re not pregnant?’
