The Affair

by Hilary Boyd

  On Christmas Eve, she spruced herself up – replacing the jeans she felt she’d been wearing since the last century with her black ones – and went out to do some shopping. She’d decided she really would get into the festive spirit now, buy lots of delicious things, then hole up, be patient and wait it out. There’s nothing I can do about anything until after Christmas, she told herself.

  The deli looked as if the good folk of Hampstead were preparing for a siege – and a very expensive one at that. The queue for the counter snaked onto the pavement, while the aisles were rammed with panic and sharp elbows, baskets bulging and weighed down with treats. The mood, far from brimming with good cheer, was focused, everyone hell-bent on the task in hand.

  By the time Connie struggled out of the shop with her meagre waxed-paper bundles of cheese and salami, a pot of olives, a chicken and leek pie and a slab of serious 85 per cent chocolate, she was stressed and sweating. Next on her list was alcohol. Devan always chose the wine, so the rows of bottles meant little to her, beyond knowing she wanted something dry and white. She left the shop with a Chablis that the man serving her insisted would ‘set her taste buds dancing’.

  It was nearly lunchtime, and Connie made her way towards her favourite café for coffee and a sandwich rather than going back to the empty house. Leaving Tessa’s earlier that morning, she’d felt stalwart and resolute. The furtive glances she cast at the other shoppers were a natural reaction, she told herself, to what she’d recently been through. But even as she ate her delicious smoked-salmon and cream-cheese bagel, with the newspaper she’d just bought open at the quick crossword, she kept flicking her gaze upwards with every ting of the café door. All who entered, however, were blissfully strange to her.

  Still unwilling to shut herself up for the rest of the day, Connie lingered on the hill, gazing into shop windows at things she had no desire to buy, wandering back into the bookshop to check whether her hat and gloves had been found – they had not – and buying a couple of books, checking the times of the services at the Unitarian chapel she’d noticed, close to where she was staying.

  She and Devan were sporadic attendees at the village church – although Devan had been a devoted bell-ringer before his back had started playing up. But Connie’s mother had been a lifelong Unitarian and this Christmas she felt drawn to the chapel for that reason. If only I could ring Mum now, she thought, as she viewed the noticeboard in the chapel porch. Sheila would’ve been upset with her daughter for what she’d done, Connie had no doubt. She’d been no soft touch when it came to moral issues. But she would have listened, talked it through in a sensible manner, not condemned her out of hand. Sheila had loved Devan, but was realistic about relationships, her own fraught at times as Connie’s father had become anxious to the point of disorder as he grew older.

  Now, she turned down the street towards Tessa’s house. It was getting dark and the shops would be shutting soon, everyone making their way back to their families. She imagined Caitlin and Ash’s brightly lit flat and the huge floor-to-ceiling tree in the corner of the room. Ash, despite his feelings about Christmas, was given to expansive gestures, claiming a small one in their warehouse space would look ridiculous. She pictured the coloured lights strung, like a twinkling necklace, across the wide expanse of window, smelt the canapés her daughter would be preparing to go with the champagne: chipolata sausages with mustard dip, warm, meaty samosas and maybe aloo tikki with spiced chutneys, some smoked salmon on squares of brown bread …

  The family had a tradition of not eating a proper supper on Christmas Eve, just pigging out on plates of little eats. Sometimes, wherever the family was, there would be other people, friends dropping in for an hour or so. Bash would be round-eyed and crazy with tiredness, but Ash kept to the fond theory that the later he went to bed, the longer he would sleep – wishful thinking, of course. Connie sighed as she reached for the front-door key. Stop, she told herself firmly.

  Unpacking her shopping from Tessa’s string bag, she laid it out on the table. She wished now that she’d got something spicy – thoughts of the samosas had made her mouth water. She frowned as she picked up one of the packages. She didn’t recognize it. Pulling open the flap of waxed brown paper, she found a cardboard tray stacked with ravioli, lightly dusted in cornmeal. Checking the sticky label, she read: ‘Pumpkin and pecorino ravioli’. Shit, she thought, I’ve got someone else’s supper. Thinking back to the scrum in the deli she was hardly surprised. She remembered putting her shopping bag down while she waited at the counter, so maybe someone had muddled hers with theirs. Or she’d swept it into her bag by mistake, along with all the other stuff. It was expensive, nearly nine pounds, but it was too late to return: the place would have shut by now. She felt guilty for a moment, hoping the person to whom it belonged was not counting on it for their festive meal. But she would eat it with pleasure – it was one of her favourites.

  But as she held the tray, she felt a prickle shoot down her spine. It was triggered by a stab of memory that jumped out at her, like a hot coal from the grate. The pumpkin soup Jared had offered her, and him, one eyebrow raised, asking, ‘Remember that pumpkin and pecorino ravioli by the lake at Como?’

  She spun around. The dimly lit room was empty and silent, but Jared seemed suddenly to be everywhere. Was she going mad? But she could almost smell him. She dropped the tray onto the table, where the contents spilled onto the wooden surface. The hand she clasped to her mouth was cold and shaking. No, she thought, no, no, no.

  Connie took a couple of deep breaths, steadying herself against the worktop. Pumpkin’s trendy, probably half of Hampstead’s eating the same ravioli over Christmas. Did she honestly think that Jared would be so devious as to follow her into the deli and lurk about until he got the opportunity to drop the packet into her shopping bag without her noticing? I’m being stupid. But her reasoning did nothing to soothe her nerves. She continued to tremble as she twisted open the wine – not even chilled yet – and poured herself a large glass, pulling the heavy curtains against the night, turning on the television to some shouty gameshow just to banish the creeping silence.

  You’ve got to stop this, she pleaded with herself. She hated how vulnerable, how paranoid she’d become. It was like living with a chronic virus. Outwardly she functioned, just about. But inwardly she was now perpetually weak and afraid.

  The absurd thing was, she couldn’t easily define what was frightening her. It wasn’t physical: Jared had never hurt her, and he’d never given the slightest sign of wanting to, of being in any way violent. He wasn’t doing traditional scary stalker stuff – wasn’t doing anything at all, in fact. She hadn’t heard a peep out of him or set eyes on him in weeks. She downed the glass of Chablis too quickly, barely registering its deliciousness. The truth was all too clear. She didn’t blame Jared for the breakdown of her marriage. That was on her. He had, nonetheless, become a bogeyman, haunting her every step, her every breath. He didn’t even have to put in an appearance for this to be true.

  Connie watched the show on television without seeing it. She was aware of her cheeks warm from the wine, her head slightly woozy, but she refilled her glass anyway, and contemplated preparing some of the food she’d bought. The ravioli, still scattering the table, mocked her. She should bin them, but that would be admitting she believed Jared had had a hand in their presence in her shopping bag, and she refused to do that. There was no chance, however, that she would ever be able to eat them and nothing else she’d bought for herself appealed.

  Returning to the sofa, where Monty was once more installed, the sharp ring of the bell made her start. Immediately she was on guard, her heartbeat sky-rocketing. Who would call so late on Christmas Eve? Holding her breath as she listened, she knew exactly what she was afraid of. I’m imagining things, she tried to tell herself. But she tiptoed as quietly as possible to the front door, gingerly sliding the cover of the peephole across and peering through.

  Connie smiled and gave a huge sigh of relief. Turning the key
for the double lock, she pulled open the door to the cold wetness of the night and greeted Tessa’s American neighbour, Melanie, whom Connie had met a couple of times, coming and going in the street.

  ‘Don’t mean to disturb you, Connie,’ she said, smiling, as she hovered on the slick steps, hands clutching her thick cardigan round her body, her dark hair glistening with drizzle. ‘But Noah and I wondered if you’d care to join us for Christmas lunch? We’ve got a couple of friends coming by. Otherwise it’s just us and the kids.’

  Connie knew Tessa must have put her up to this. How else would Melanie have known I was on my own? She hesitated, acutely embarrassed by her situation and wondering what Tessa had told her.

  ‘Wow, that’s really kind. I’d love that … but I’ve not been feeling that great today. I’m worried I might be coming down with something.’ Which was no word of a lie. And she was sure she looked a wreck.

  Melanie frowned. ‘Sorry to hear that. There’s a ton of stuff doing the rounds. But if you feel better and change your mind, just come over around one. No need to call first.’

  They wished each other a happy Christmas, and Connie closed the door gratefully. The Finemans seemed a lovely couple, but she couldn’t face witnessing someone else’s family engaged in what she would normally be enjoying.

  She leaned her back against the door for a moment, closing her eyes, then was jerked upright by another brief ding of the bell. Melanie again, she thought, and composed her features into a smile as she swung the heavy door open once more.

  But the person she found herself face to face with was not Melanie this time. Jared, dressed in a heavy tweed coat, collar turned up, a striped scarf draped casually around his neck, stood, breathing hard, on the top step. His face was pink with cold. In his right hand he carried a small white-paper carrier bag. ‘Happy Christmas, Connie,’ he said, with a broad smile.

  29

  Connie thought her legs were about to go from under her. For so long she’d imagined – indeed feared – his presence all around her, seen him in every face in every crowd. But his actual presence, in the flesh, standing there on Tessa’s doorstep as cool as a cucumber, was horrifying.

  ‘May I come in?’ he asked, his manners as impeccable as ever.

  For a moment she was unable to respond, unable to move a muscle. She watched Jared start to step forward and her breath shot back into her lungs, her blood to her veins. She thrust out her hand, feeling the rough tweed of his overcoat as she pressed her palm hard to his chest. ‘Stay right there, Jared.’ She took a gulp of air.

  He looked shocked and stepped back. Connie dropped her hand. It was freezing and she shivered in the wintry blast. ‘Go away,’ she added emphatically, as he showed no immediate sign of leaving.

  He was staring at her. ‘Are you OK? You look white as a sheet.’ He reached out, but she backed away as she made to slam the door shut.

  But he was quicker. He already had his fingers curled firmly around the door jamb. ‘Two minutes, Connie. Please.’

  ‘NO! Go away!’ she hissed, threatening to slam the door on his fingers but not wanting him to turn nasty, to create an embarrassing scene on Tessa’s doorstep.

  ‘And stop bloody stalking me,’ she managed, but her voice trembled.

  Jared seemed genuinely taken aback, but he didn’t shift, didn’t remove his hand.

  ‘I saw you,’ she stated, more forcefully. ‘The other day, on the hill. And you – you put those ravioli in my shopping bag.’ She realized as she spoke that this was the only real accusation she could level at him, and it sounded insane.

  He frowned, looking mystified. ‘Ravioli? I’m sorry, Connie, you’ve lost me.’

  Breathing fast with frustration, she wasn’t going to be fobbed off this time. ‘I know it was you.’ She tried to remember which day she had seen him on the rainy hill, but her mind wouldn’t focus. Their faces were too close as he leaned towards her, his eyes dark pools of purpose. She refused to give way, wouldn’t leave any gap through which he could pounce as she waited for the moment when he would let his hand drop from the jamb and she could slam the door shut.

  ‘Couldn’t have been me. I’ve been in Berlin. Only flew in a couple of hours ago,’ Jared said.

  Connie stared at him. He seemed so calm. So frighteningly calm. She didn’t believe him. But the fear that she had imagined it all, put a false spin on perfectly normal situations – his face under the umbrella, the parcel in her shopping – was almost more terrifying than Jared himself.

  ‘Remove your hand.’ She heard the venom in her voice. ‘And if you ever, ever come near me again, I’ll go straight to the police.’

  He gaped at her. ‘Police? God … don’t say that.’ But his tone was quietly rational as he continued. ‘I thought, now Devan is off the scene …’ When she didn’t respond, he frowned as if baffled. But his next words were sharp, intense, his voice ratcheting up to something close to desperation. ‘He doesn’t love you, Connie. Can’t you see that? Where is he now, for instance? I mean, who leaves the person they love all alone at Christmas?’

  ‘I said, remove your hand. NOW,’ she repeated.

  Jared was blinking fast, his cheeks flushed as if she’d smacked him. ‘Connie, please …’

  For a split second she almost felt sorry for him. He looked so pathetic, standing there in the glow of the street lamps, his face pink with cold, clinging to a ludicrous delusion as forcefully as he held onto the door jamb. And to think she’d once thought him Mr Cool: the handsome, seasoned traveller, the one in charge, who turned up and melted away again when it suited him, who’d been so confident in his way around her body that she’d lost her reason. It made her feel sick.

  The night air seemed suspended between them as their eyes met. She held his gaze, hoping he would finally see her steely rejection writ large and glowing neon. He didn’t flinch. Then, to her unutterable relief, she watched the fight slowly drain out of him. Stiffly, he released his grip and stood back.

  ‘OK,’ he said quietly. He held up the bag he’d been carrying in his other hand. ‘This is for you.’ Before she had time to stop him, he dropped it through the doorway, where it fell sideways on the mat.

  Connie didn’t wait a second longer, just slammed the door in his face, hastily twisting the key in the double lock and shooting the stiff bolts. She heard her short, rasping breaths as she leaned her palms against the door, eye to the peephole, terrified he would still be standing there, looming inches from her face. But the top step was empty.

  Not believing he’d really gone, she moved quickly to the window, peering warily between the heavy curtains. He was nowhere to be seen, the street empty except for a couple holding hands as they ran across the road, their breath trailing smoke in the cold night air. But she still felt haunted and unsafe.

  Realizing she was shivering, she pulled her heavy cardigan from the chair back and wrapped it around her, hurrying over to the fridge. She grabbed the bottle of wine, pouring herself a large measure with a trembling hand, wanting to scream out her fear, shout to the heavens until it left her in peace. And longing so much for her husband. His embrace would be the one thing guaranteed to calm her.

  It was a while before she could think coherently, her brain still flooded with fight-or-flight hormones. But as she began to come down from the panic, her initial relief that Jared was gone started to wane. It was the final look he’d levelled at her that shook her the most: his eyes had appeared almost … fanatical. It was the only word that fitted.

  Connie sat for a long time at the kitchen table, clutching her empty glass. Her head was fizzing, like a firework about to explode, her cheeks flushed from the wine and the heat in the room.

  Did he get it this time? she asked herself, over and over. Will he leave me alone? She had never been scared before that he might hurt her. But she’d felt physically threatened tonight, terrified that he would push his way into the house. There was real craziness in his eyes … and she felt his obsession for her like a gun aimed a
t her head.

  She got up, boiling hot and restless, ripping off her cardigan. She desperately craved escape from the claustrophobia of her thoughts, longed to take deep breaths of cold night air and clear her head. It would be heaving on the hill tonight: churchgoers off to Midnight Mass, revellers on their way home from Christmas Eve parties – this wasn’t the country. For a mad second she thought she might join them, just to be among people, to feel the comforting presence of normal human beings. She even pulled on her coat and boots, found a Fair Isle beret of Tessa’s hooked on the coat stand.

  But when she got to the front door, her courage failed her. She knew she wouldn’t be able to open it, to risk leaving the safety of the house. He was out there somewhere, even if she couldn’t see him. Watching her. Waiting for her. He might not approach her, but she would feel his eyes on her, maybe catch a fleeting glimpse of his face in the crowd – real or imagined. She leaned on the door, her painfully compressed heart suddenly making her breath ragged.

  The searing pain took her by surprise and she staggered, gasped, clutching her chest. An iron band seemed to be crushing the air from her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. She felt as if she were dying. Please, she thought, as she tried to catch her breath, please don’t let me die … not like this. She weakly called out Devan’s name. But all she got back was cold silence.

  Connie had no idea how long she stood slumped against the door. It was the arrival of a taxi immediately outside, disgorging a party of shrieking, drunk girls, that startled her out of her stupor. The pain in her chest had lessened and her breathing was easier, although she was ice-cold and stiff, as if she’d been left out in the garden all night.

  Shuffling back into the sitting room, she went to the fire, rubbing her hands together, letting the gas flames almost scorch her cold flesh. She knew she couldn’t spend another minute on the sofa, or drink more wine, watch any more seasonal television. She should go to bed, but her bedroom in the half-basement seemed dark and creepy. She would never sleep down there.