“I know, it’s okay, you don’t have to explain yourself. It is too soon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pressure you.”
“You’re not. I’m not saying no to the idea,” I persist, trying to smooth this over. “Not completely. Just give me a little more time, okay?”
“Take all the time you need.”
He smiles reassuringly at me. In that moment, I think there’s no way that he could ever be unfaithful to me, and I am a paranoid fool for even thinking such a thing. Shane loves me.
As for Alice, she is clearly an unhinged lunatic with an axe to grind against Shane, for whatever reason that may be. Maybe her grudge is work-related, I don’t know. I should also put that text out of my mind, too – the one I found from that Isla. It was nothing because Shane loves me.
“Aren’t you going to eat your soup?” he smiles at me.
“Sure,” I reply, bringing the spoon up to my mouth.
But it’s just so damn bitter, and there’s so much of it. Had it been me cooking soup, I would’ve just served it as a starter – one small bowl would be plenty. But as this is also the main course, I have to eat all of it, just to be polite.
“I really was heavy-handed with the turmeric, huh?” he laughs, but there is no denying how disappointed he looks that his cooking clearly isn’t up to scratch.
“No, God, will you stop? It’s lovely, really,” I insist.
And I will make sure that I eat every last drop of it to please him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TESS
After I have, by some miracle, managed to consume the entire bowl of bitter soup, helped down by copious amounts of Chardonnay, we retreat into the living room with a fresh bottle.
“I think I’m turning into an alcoholic,” I sigh as I flop into the long red leather sofa, only just managing not to slosh wine down myself.
Not that anyone would notice, I tell myself, because somewhere along the line I have turned into a frump. I haven’t lost my figure, or even skipped a hairdresser’s appointment, but I don’t make as much effort as I used to in the early stages of our relationship. I favour comfort over glamour, every time. Give me a loose jumper over a skintight sweater any day of the week. Like tonight, for example – my cable-knit pullover is soft, cute, and expensive, but it’s not sexy.
I’m not a sex-kitten, like Alice.
I have to ask him about her, I decide in my wine-fogged brain. How can I not?
“Hardly. I think you deserve a drink or two, don’t you?” he says.
“Yeah. I guess I do,” I reply absently, my thoughts firmly on Alice.
How do you know her, Shane? I find myself thinking. Is she telling the truth, or is she just out to destroy us?
Shane doesn’t collapse onto the sofa next to me, but instead makes his way over to the fireplace, where there is a little stand for his smartphone. He fishes his phone out of his jeans’ pocket and pops it into the cradle, setting down his glass of wine next to it.
My heart lurches painfully hard in my chest, then starts beating at twice normal speed.
He’s got to use the bathroom at some point, the voice that that now sounds increasingly like Alice’s whispers in my mind. You can look through his messages then…
“What do you fancy?” he asks me, not turning around as he scrolls through his Spotify playlist on his phone.
“Anything,” I reply absently. “Just put it on shuffle.”
The opening bars of a song I vaguely recognise fills the room, coming from the tiny speakers hidden on the bookshelf on the wall adjacent to the white, stone fireplace. I watch Shane’s broad back as he continues to fiddle with his phone, wondering if he’s cheated on me, or if I’m just paranoid.
The lyrics of the song drift over me – something familiar from the eighties I can’t quite place.
I began to lose control, sings the plaintive male voice, sending a shiver down my spine.
I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry that, I made you cry…
My gaze drifts around the vast room, settling on the large bay window overlooking the main road into town. The wooden, slatted blinds are pulled down against the pitch-black evening. I can still clearly hear the low moan of the wind above the music, and the sound of the rain lashing against the window.
Grange Road starts out flat where it begins opposite Broadgate Sands. We live at the top end of the road, a mile away from the centre of town and the main promenade. This part of the road is on a steep cliff, and, as such, we experience the full force of the easterly howling winds, blowing in straight off the Atlantic – far more so than the folks do who live along the main seafront.
I shiver; I can only imagine what this stretch of the Atlantic Ocean looks like tonight, under this evening’s inky-black, angry bruise of a sky. The sea surrounding Broadgate is the colour of dirty dishwater at the best of times, yet alone when it is churned up by weather like this.
“Penny for them?” Shane asks. He has turned around from his phone – a phone I now realise that I have every intention of checking the second his back is turned.
“I was just thinking about the weather,” I reply, half honestly, at least.
Shane laughs, resting an elbow on the high, stone mantlepiece, which is level with his chest. He regards me thoughtfully.
“How terribly British of you.”
“I guess so.”
Lightning momentarily flashes in the room, swiftly followed by a rumble of thunder, as if backing me up by punctuating my words.
“See,” I say. “The weather truly is terrible tonight.”
“Ooh, I’ve had a brilliant idea,” he says, springing in the direction of the living-room door.
“Did it hurt?” I ask automatically – a stock response to a statement such as that. I lean back against the soft leather. My head is swimming – I am more drunk than I thought I was. “Where are you going?” I call after him when I realise he has left the room.
“To get candles,” comes his voice from the hallway. “I think there’s a bag of them in the cupboard under the sink.” His voice is growing fainter as he speaks, as if he is hurrying down the hallway.
I close my eyes and listen to the wind and the rain. The sound is cosy and comforting, making my eyelids and limbs grow heavy.
No. Mustn’t fall asleep, I tell myself sternly.
My eyes snap open and I lurch upright on the sofa, remembering what I had promised myself I was going to do. I have to look through his phone…
Unsteadily, I get to my feet, straining my ears for signs of Shane in the hallway. All I can hear is the storm outside, mingling with the strains of another moody, alternative, distinctly eighties’ pop track.
Do you feel it when you touch me, the deep male voice groans as I approach Shane’s phone. My heart hammers hard against my sternum, all traces of sleepiness having disappeared.
His smartphone is the same as mine as we brought them at the same time, so I can easily navigate into texts, emails and messages without disrupting the music. My fingers are trembling so badly when I swipe at the screen without removing it from the cradle that I almost lose the music completely and a wave of panic surges through me.
But it’s okay – I have salvaged it and I am in his texts. I scroll through them, knowing that I must be quick, that I can’t stop and linger on every single one. I have to make snap judgements over which – if any – texts are questionable, or not. I can’t see the name Alice, which I subconsciously – or not so subconsciously, perhaps – have been looking for. I want to check his Facebook, too, but that would be pushing it, time wise.
I spot the name Isla, and I swear, my heart stops beating in my chest before resuming at twice normal speed. I open it, barely able to read it due to how much my vision is swimming with my mounting panic.
The text I read the other day is the first one in the thread:
Yesterday at work was fun. I hope we can do it again sometime x
To which Shane has since replied:
No problem
. I have a great crew at Blas Designs… getting in a few cream cakes is the least I can do.
To which there is no reply from this Isla.
Yeah. He probably deleted it.
It also strikes me as suspicious that there are no messages before the one I also read a few days ago. I could be horribly wrong, but it feels like there has been a whole message thread deleted.
Maybe he knows I read that message from her the other day, so therefore he left that fake reply there, knowing full well that I would hack in and read it…
Because his reply to this Isla is too neat, too convenient. On the face of it, it is like he is deflecting her flirtatious advances, as if trying to neutralise the sexual implications behind her text. But what if this is solely to trick me?
I know I am overthinking things, but I can’t seem to stop.
Another rumble of thunder echoes in the air around me, and I jump in shock, for I hadn’t noticed the flash of lightning this time. I think I hear a creaking from the hallway – the unmistakable sound of feet on floorboards – and in a panic I get the hell out of his texts, leaving the Spotify on the screen in what I hope is the same position I found it in. I spin around guiltily on the spot, fully expecting to see Shane standing in the doorway, but the space is empty.
The worst feeling curls around me and the hair on the back of my neck prickles. I had definitely heard someone in the hallway. My heart quickens – for someone who was so tired just now, I have perked up considerably.
With a final glance at the smartphone to make sure it is exactly as I left it, I stick my head around the door…
The hallway is empty. I stare at the pale beechwood floorboards, knowing full well that they could only creak that way if the weight of a person had been upon them. Sure, this is an old house, with groaning pipes and creaking wood, but I know what I heard.
On impulse, not thinking too deeply as to why I should do such a thing, I hurry over towards the front door. A small gasp of shock escapes my lips when I turn the handle and the door opens. It wasn’t supposed to open; it was supposed to be locked. We always lock the door when we’re both in, so then why in the hell is it open?
I glare at the offending key in the lock, from which my keyring dangles down – I tend to keep my keys in the door as I’m the one who is home more than Shane, and Shane keeps his keys on a hook in the kitchen, or in his pocket.
“You okay?” Shane asks from directly behind me.
I inhale a funny-sounding scream and pirouette on the spot, palming my pained heart through the thick pullover.
“Jesus, Shane, you scared the crap out of me, don’t sneak up on me like that.”
“Sorry. What are you doing?”
“The front door wasn’t locked.”
He looks at me blankly. I see that he is holding a small, paper bag that I recognise – I know it is filled with tealights and tiny glass jars, because I’m the one who filled up that bag in the first place.
“Oh. I wasn’t aware that was a problem,” he says.
I don’t know if it’s just me, if my sudden bout of anxiety is making me more aware of the storm raging outside, but I’m sure the howling wind is now that much stronger and louder. Then, coming from the ceiling above me, I hear a creaking noise.
I must have visibly flinched, for Shane’s expression has passed from one of blankness to one of concern.
“Tess? What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
There’s someone in the house, comes the sure and true thought, catching me off-guard with its intensity.
The music from the living room drifts out into the hallway, the words ominous and dark:
Do you feel it when you touch me… And do you feel it when you cut me…
“I’m fine,” I say, even managing a smile.
There’s a fire, inside, warns the man, accompanied by the deepest, slowest bass drums I’ve ever heard in a pop song.
I shiver – we really need to put on some more cheerful music.
“Come on, the wine’s getting warm with us standing out here,” Shane quips.
When he drapes his arm over my shoulder and guides me back into the living room, I think I manage to disguise the way I flinch at his touch.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TESS
With the tealights flickering in their little glass jars as the thunderstorm rages outside, it looks – and feels – like a different room entirely. The tiny flames dance and shiver to the tune of an invisible breeze, casting gently shuddering shadows up the whitewashed walls.
This room could be described as minimal, with its smooth walls and pale beechwood floor. The long red sofa and matching armchair are the only pop of colour in the room, and even the baby grand piano tucked against the far wall is pure white. The floor-to-ceiling bookcase that takes up the entirety of one wall is the only concession to clutter. There is nothing on this bookshelf apart from books, because otherwise I think it might start to look messy in here. Yes, maybe I do have a touch of OCD, but nothing that bad, I don’t think. I just like things to be tidy, that’s all. A place for everything, and everything in its place.
The edges of the room appear pushed back, rather than pulled in, the geography of the room rendered unfamiliar by the tiny flames. The overall effect is disconcerting; vaguely unsettling, rather than comforting.
“This is nice, isn’t it?” Shane says next to me on the sofa, letting out a contented sigh. “The storm, the candles, the music… I feel like we should be swapping spooky stories, or something.”
“Yeah,” I reply, not telling him that I quietly hate his morbid taste in music, and I find storms borderline terrifying.
“It’s a shame we don’t use the fire,” he continues.
He’s right – we very rarely use the open fireplace as it’s messy, dirty, and the central heating more than adequately heats the house.
“We don’t even have firewood,” I remind him.
I bring the wine to my lips, faintly surprised to find that my glass is empty.
“Let me,” Shane says, shuffling forward slightly on the leather cushion and plucking up the bottle on the simple, glass coffee-table.
I hold out my glass for him to top up, then watch him thoughtfully as he fills up his own glass which stands on the coffee-table.
He’s not even a fraction as good-looking as Jack, I think.
This strange thought catches me completely off-guard, and I flash hot, then cold, my stomach flipping.
Why would I even think that? It makes no sense. I hate Jack – it is unforgivable the way he came on to me in the kitchen on his birthday. I shudder. God, if anyone had seen the stupid arse… It simply doesn’t bear thinking about.
I take a long sip of the cool, but fiery wine, not even knowing what I’m going to say until it has exited my mouth.
“Do you know a woman called Alice?”
For a heartbeat – less – it feels like my world stops turning. I want to snatch back the words and swallow them down again, but it is too late for that. They are out there now.
He swivels slightly on the sofa to look at me, his expression momentarily rendered that of a stranger’s by the lack of light.
“Alice? I don’t think so. Why?”
Nicely played, Shane, I think, with more than a stab of bitterness. He is displaying just the right amount of curiosity, with the smallest dash of incredulity and hurt.
“So, there’s no girl who’s ever worked for you called Alice?”
He squints his eyes, staring into the middle distance just beyond my shoulder, thoughtfully rubbing his chin. He just seems so genuine.
“No,” he says slowly, as if giving it much thought. “I don’t think so. I mean, no, definitely not. I’ve had, what, forty people work for me in total over the years? I can’t say I remember an Alice. Why?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say breezily, wishing that I had never brought it up at all. Because if he is lying, my casual line of questioning is only going to arouse his suspicions
that I know he had an affair with this woman… It is just going to make him lie all the harder.
“Clearly, it can’t be nothing, otherwise you wouldn’t have brought it up.”
Yeah. Ain’t that the thing?
“I just met this woman at the shopping mall when I was there on Friday with your sister,” I say as casually as possible, also sticking as near to the truth as possible. “She approached me when I was waiting for Kirsty outside the perfume shop and asked me if I was Shane’s wife.” I fall silent, unsure how best to proceed.
“And then what happened? Why did she ask such a thing?”
He looks intensely curious, his eyebrows raised, creasing his forehead. Clearly this has piqued his curiosity – why can’t he just let it go?
“I still don’t know why she asked me that. I mean, it was weird, really. When I said that yes, I was married to you, she just laughed and said, oh, I thought you looked familiar. And that was that.”
“That is strange. Are you sure she didn’t say anything else? Like, her name, or anything?”
Or anything else, like, I fucked your husband, I silently add, but thankfully have the good sense not to say.
“No, that was it. Kirsty came back, and then the woman disappeared into the crowd.”
“What did she look like? How old was she?”
“She was younger than me, I would say. And she was beautiful. Like, movie-star beautiful.”
“Sorry. Can’t help you. I don’t think I’ve ever even known an Alice. I had an Auntie Alice, but she’s been dead for years.”
I lurch unsteadily to my feet, placing my wineglass on the coffee table as I do so, its contents sloshing over the sides.
“Bathroom,” I announce.
I need to draw a line under this conversation, because if he is lying to me, I’m not sure I can take it.
*
There is a bathroom downstairs, but I opt to use the bathroom upstairs that is attached to our bedroom.
In Spite: A terrifying psychological thriller with a shocking twist you won't see coming Page 8
