by Jo Jakeman
I didn’t find out until much later that he’d let her off the hook by suggesting he might have accidently captured the speed of the car traveling behind her. Of course, she couldn’t wait to thank him, and there was only one thing that Phillip found as satisfying as getting the bad guy, and that was getting the girl.
Naomi slithered into the room, her footsteps absorbed by the plush carpet.
“Tea,” she said, placing the cups on the pristine mirrored table. No grubby fingerprints from a small child or ring marks from cups and glasses.
“Thanks. I was just admiring your photos.” I placed my body between her and the table so she wouldn’t notice one was missing.
“Why?”
The question threw me. Why? Because I’m nosy? Because I want to know if your life is better than mine?
“I don’t really know,” I said. “They’re nice, aren’t they?”
She shrugged and sat heavily on the sofa. I perched opposite her and smiled.
It was the first time Naomi and I had been in the same room without Phillip circling us like a lion around his pride. I could have got some things off my chest. I could have launched into the wronged-wife routine. It would have been a good time for Naomi to apologize to me. Not that I minded her having Phillip—he was her problem now—but common decency should have pricked her conscience into addressing the tension between us.
Phillip and I should have brought our relationship to an end years before, but I clung to the dream of the childhood that had been denied to me. I’d grown up without a father and I didn’t want Alistair to do the same. Some people call me stubborn; I prefer “determined.” It wasn’t the breakdown of our marriage that bothered me. I didn’t look upon it as losing a husband but as gaining a nemesis. One more person to consider when I was hardly a people person at the best of times.
“Phil should’ve been back from work by now,” she said, looking at the clock.
“Right,” I said, and looked at the clock too. “Is he working today? Only I went by the station and they said he wasn’t in work this week.”
She didn’t meet my eye. There was surprise behind the painted eyebrows but her voice was low and calm when she said, “I forgot. He’s at the doctor’s.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“What?”
“The reason Phillip’s gone to the doctor?”
“Oh.” She looked out the window, her thoughts somewhere else, a slight frown bringing her brows together. “No.”
“That’s a shame.”
I reached for my drink, realizing I was sounding bitter and hating that Phillip brought out this side of me. My hand trembled at the effort of remaining calm and I spilled tea over the table. The milky pool dripped twice onto the cream carpet before I could get my hand underneath it.
Naomi flinched. A sharp intake of breath.
“Whoops!” I said. “Sorry about that.”
Her body was rigid. Years of living with Phillip had made me an expert on body language and reading signals, like imperceptible vibrations in the air. I expected to feel her anger—another remnant of living with Phillip—but instead I saw something that unsettled me more.
Fear flashed across her face like a shooting star. It was instantaneous and I might have dismissed it had I not seen her hands. She rubbed the soft skin between her thumb and forefinger. I knew that fleshy spot. I remembered what it felt like. For a moment, neither of us moved. I stared at her.
A prickle of sweat coated my forehead, though I was suddenly cold. A door to the past had opened and memories blew in on a cold draft. Phillip used to bend my thumb back until I fell to my knees. Always the left hand too, just where Naomi was rubbing. That way it wouldn’t get in the way of the housework, the ironing, the cooking of his dinner. He’d got the most from his police training. Maximum pain, minimum effort. It was barely more than a playground scuffle, nothing that would stand up in court, but I knew what it meant.
Naomi caught me looking and there was a jolt of recognition. Her eyes, wide with fear a moment earlier, narrowed and hardened. I opened my mouth to speak. So much to say and yet, as the words jostled to find the right order, Naomi stalked into the kitchen. My words of comfort floated up beyond the conserved beams and hung there like cobwebs.
I stood and looked back at the photos. The picture of Phillip with his arm around Naomi now looked like he was holding her a little too tightly. Her smile forced. No wonder there had been thirteen frames. Thirteen. Unlucky for some. Unlucky for her.
Naomi bustled back with a cloth and cleaning spray. She began dabbing at the beige spots on the carpet. She’d suddenly become fragile, as if light would pass through her and leave no shadow. I wanted to reach out, touch her shoulder, but the abrupt switch from scorn to sympathy had wrong-footed me.
“I am so sorry. Is there anything I can help you with?” I asked.
The question was ambiguous enough that it could have been about spilled tea or much, much more. Unspoken words cowered in corners.
“No. I’m fine.”
“I never can remember which things are good for stains. Can you? There’s salt, isn’t there? But I think that’s for red wine. I’m more likely to spill wine than tea in my house. Not that I drink more wine than tea . . . just, well, it’s easier to spill, isn’t it? Must be the glasses. Perhaps I should drink wine out of a mug.”
I ventured a small laugh that was lost in the vast room.
She ignored me.
“Would you like me to go?”
The urge to flee was causing beads of sweat to gather on my top lip. The fight-or-flight response was making my heart pound quicker and I was in no mood for a battle.
She had wiped the table and most of the tea from the floor, but a faint mark remained on the carpet.
“Or I could stay if you want to talk to me about anything? You know, before Phillip gets home?”
She sat back on her heels and wiped a strand of hair off her heart-shaped face. I clutched my bag tightly and slowly lowered myself onto the arm of the sofa.
“Don’t sit there! He don’t like it if people sit on the arms.”
I stood up quickly.
“Sorry. You were going to say?”
“Nothing. You should go.”
“Are you sure?”
I glanced at the clock. Phil should’ve been back by now, she’d said.
He would be home at any minute. Ready for me to confront him about the divorce.
Or about bullying Naomi.
Or he would confront me about spilling tea on his impractical carpets. Confrontation suddenly didn’t seem as important as self-preservation, so I rooted around in my bag, pushing the purloined picture to one side and retrieving a fat white envelope.
“Righty-ho. If you’re sure there’s nothing I can do?”
She sprayed the carpet and worried the mark in circular motions.
“Perhaps you could ask Phillip to call me? About the divorce papers. I mean, I’m sure you’re as keen as I am to get this all . . . well, put behind us. Here, could I leave these with you in case his solicitor hasn’t been forwarding them?”
I placed the envelope on the table as Naomi dabbed at the stain.
“I think a formal arrangement would benefit us all, don’t you? Make sure that certain . . . responsibilities are met.”
“You’ve got some nerve,” she said, getting to her feet.
“Sorry?”
“You’ve been poisoning that boy against Phil since the day he left you.”
“Me?”
“You’re letting your bitterness at a loveless marriage—”
“That’s really not what this is about!”
“—ruin Alistair’s relationship with his dad and he’ll grow up hating you!”
There was a silent second, a frozen instant where all I could hear was my ow
n breathing. With our faces inches apart, I could see the anger in her eyes. She was embarrassed and lashing out. It was all too familiar.
This was my moment to tell her that I understood, that I knew what Phillip was capable of. But I breathed out and let the words disperse like dandelion seed heads on the breeze. Any sense of solidarity disappeared when she brought Alistair into this.
“Well, if that’s how you feel . . .”
I walked from the room, pausing only to slip into my boots. Naomi shouted something about me sucking the joy out of life and about being jealous because I was left all alone. “A bitter old crone,” she called me. I consoled myself with something like satisfaction. Well, I’d tried. What more could I do?
Naomi was still shouting as I closed the door softly behind me. Her outburst had given me the excuse I needed to walk away from her, and the life that used to be mine. Perhaps I should’ve been smiling as I started the engine and rejoined the high street. Maybe I should have been content that she wasn’t living the picture-perfect life she portrayed.
But she was no different from me.
My shoulders hunched and an uneven percussion of tears fell into my lap. I was kidding myself if I thought I could ever be free of Phillip. Almost two years since he’d laid a finger on me, and yet, after five minutes with his girlfriend, it was as if the bruises were still fresh. I could feel his fingers digging into my upper arm, see his sneer as he called me useless.
I had been naive to think that the past would ever let me go.
CHAPTER 3
21 days before the funeral
Rachel caught my eye and nodded toward the lift. The phone on my desk was ringing and I put my hand up, fingers stretched, to show I’d be with her in five.
“Imogen speaking. How can I help?”
I took off my glasses and picked up my pen. Despite the smooth silence in my ear, someone was there. Their reticence to speak was disturbing. I shifted in my seat and watched the display on the telephone tick through the seconds. All I could hear was the clack-clack-clack of Claire’s nails on her keyboard at the opposite desk.
“Hello?” I said, uncertain and tentative.
“Don’t come to my house again,” the voice said.
“Phillip?” I leaned back in my chair. “For a minute there—”
“If you’ve got something to say to me, use the phone like a normal person.”
“I did try calling. Perhaps you didn’t get my messages?”
“Did it occur to you that I might be busy?” His voice was terse.
“Well, yes, but—”
“I’ll call back when I’m good and ready.”
“Sorry, I—” As soon as the apology left my mouth, I wanted it back again.
I worked in an open-plan office where everyone pretended not to listen to each other’s conversations. As little as a raised voice or a low whisper, and gossip-hungry ears would prick up. Wolves sensing prey. Eyes following ears, they would read humiliation in the pink spots on my cheeks. I kept my voice calm.
“I only wanted to . . . to . . .”
I lost the ability to speak in front of Phillip. Always quick to jump on my mistakes, laugh at my stutters and hesitations, he made it difficult for me to form coherent sentences.
“. . . chase up on the paperwork. I was passing anyway, thought it might speed things up if I dropped the papers off. Have you looked at them yet?”
I waited for a response that didn’t come. The silence on the telephone became dense.
“Phillip?” I said. “What do you think? Is there any chance you could get it signed and back to my solicitor by the end of the week?”
Still nothing.
I sat forward in my seat and looked at the display on the phone. It showed the date and time. Nothing else. The call had ended.
I kept the receiver to my ear, pressed it into me so that the back of my earring came close to puncturing the soft skin on my neck. There was sudden laughter from across the office. Opposite me, Claire looked up and tut-tutted.
“Right,” I said to the hollow mouthpiece. “That would be perfect. Thank you.”
Claire glanced at me and I cast my eyes skyward. Husbands, eh?
I counted to three.
“Don’t be silly. There’s no need to apologize. No. Really, I wouldn’t use the word ‘tosser’ as such.”
Count to four.
“You’re too kind. Stop it—you’re embarrassing me.”
One. Two.
“You too. Take care. Bye.”
I put down the phone, put on my glasses, and added a note to my to-do list. It now read:
Call school re: parents’ evening.
Cash for child-minder.
Submit expense form.
Type up notes from meeting.
Kill Phillip in most painful way possible.
It took longer than it should have to compose myself. Claire declined my offer to bring her “something back,” by waving a Tupperware box of home-prepared salad at me.
I took the lift to the café on the top floor. Windows reached from floor to ceiling, offering views of office blocks and cat’s-cradle roads to the assembled caffeine-hunters who sniffed out coffee like a heat-seeking missile. The irresistible smell of midmorning muffins pulled us all in. Cardboard-cuffed paper cups taken to go identified Dominics and Sarahs in black Sharpie.
Rachel waved when she saw me, as if I wouldn’t notice a six-foot blond with sunglasses on her head as soon as the lift doors opened. Rachel and I didn’t go to the same places nor move in the same circles. In fact, I didn’t move in circles at all. I zigzagged between work and home. Our paths would never have crossed if it hadn’t been for a drunken Christmas party. She was the drunken one and I was the one holding back her hair.
She was younger than me, lived for the weekend, and was adamant that she would never get married. Her money was spent on spray tans, manicures, and Jäger bombs, while mine was spent on school uniforms, toilet roll, and milk shakes. And yet, she was the only person who knew how Phillip treated me.
I didn’t have many friends. Phillip hadn’t expressly forbade them, but he made it difficult for me to meet people and had discouraged me from inviting anyone to the house. The women I used to mix with were mostly the wives of his friends, and I could never confide in them in case it got back to Phillip.
Rachel had been a breath of fresh air. I’d first told her about Phillip’s treatment of me when she was drunk and I was sure she’d forget, but Rachel was one of those drunks who, though she couldn’t remember how to walk, would recall every confidence you’d whispered. She hadn’t met Phillip, so hadn’t been blinded by his charm. Phillip had been away on a golfing weekend—otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to go to the party. Mother had babysat and I’d had my first night out without Phillip in five years.
Rachel had tracked me down in the office the following Monday and said she wanted to buy me lunch to say thank you for looking after her. In reality, she wanted to tell me to leave Phillip. It was an unlikely friendship but one I was grateful for. For months she urged me to leave him, and then, when he was the one who did the leaving, she threw me a party.
“I’d assumed the usual,” Rachel said, pushing my coffee toward me.
“What? They do Merlot now?”
She laughed once, and loudly, so it was more bark than laughter.
“So,” she said, “I’ve been reading . . .”
“Steady . . .”
“It’s okay—there were pictures. Anyway, this article said the end of a marriage—even a crap one like yours—is huge, right? Even if you wanted it to end, you still need to, like, process it. And it’s natural to be angry about it. You need to let it out of you.”
“It’s been eighteen months . . .”
“Yeah, and you still haven’t moved on.
You need to, like, hit something. And hard. So, I think we should join a boxing class.”
“Rachel . . .”
“No, hear me out. It’s for women only. It’s called Rum Punch or something. What do you think?”
“I’ve decided to practice the ancient and long-forgotten art of forgiveness. I’m doing okay, Rach, trust me. Anyway,” I said, “back to what I wasn’t saying . . .”
“Passive-aggressive. That’s what you are. You’d be better off smacking her. Or him. Or both. Get it out of your system. And you really need to start dating again.”
“I can’t. Not while Alistair is still so young. Anyway, will you listen? I have news.”
She sat back and took a sip of foamy coffee, ignoring me.
“I know people,” she said. “I could have Phillip . . . neutralized. There was this guy I was dating at Christmas and he—”
“Your loyalty is appreciated, even if it is the tiniest bit scary, but I read that the best revenge you can take is to live your life to the fullest.”
“And how is that working out for you?” she asked.
“Listen,” I said. “Phillip is acting strangely.”
Rachel sucked at the froth on the top of her coffee and raised an eyebrow.
“I went to see him yesterday about signing the divorce papers and guess what?”
“What?”
“He wasn’t there. And then this morning he phoned me and told me to stay away from the house.”
“And this is strange because . . . ?” Rachel asked.
“Because Naomi said he was at work. But I’d already been to his work and they said he wasn’t in and he wasn’t expected back anytime soon. Then Naomi said he must be at the doctor’s, but when I went by the surgery his car wasn’t there.”
I looked at her triumphantly. She leaned in closer with her elbows on the table.
“So,” she said, “putting aside the fact that you’re stalking your ex and are two, maybe three steps away from boiling his bunny . . . I still don’t get it.”
“I think he’s having another affair.”
