His & Hers(73)

I’m about to leave when I hear the sound of footsteps crunching over broken glass down below. I move behind the bedroom door and stand perfectly still, then listen as someone slowly walks from the kitchen, through the dining room, and up the stairs. I feel inside my pockets and squint into the darkness, but can’t find anything to defend myself with.

I hear whoever is out there open the first bedroom door—it creaks in protest—then I wait as they creep along the landing toward me. As soon as they step into the room, I slam the door in their face and throw them against the wall, my height giving me a clear advantage. They fall hard onto the floor, I switch on the light, and am completely shocked by who I see.

I wasn’t expecting it to be someone I know.





Her



Thursday 00:55



“What do you mean I know your wife?” I say.

“Are you serious?” Richard asks, his face full of disbelief.

“Deadly.” I regret my choice of response as soon as I’ve said it.

He shakes his head and laughs.

“Wow. How is it that you never seem to know what’s going on in other people’s lives? Are you really that self-involved? I’ve known you for years, we’ve slept together, how can you not know anything about me?”

“I do know things about you. You talk about your kids nonstop, I look at your endless pictures of them. Who is your wife?”

“Cat.”

“Cat who?”

“Cat Jones. The woman who presents the One O’Clock News, like you used to? She just came back from maternity leave. We even have the same surname, although I appreciate it’s a little common, bit like me.”

“You’re married to Cat Jones?”

“I know she’s a little out of my league, but there’s no need to say it like that.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“I … presumed you knew. Everyone else does. It isn’t a secret.”

Half the newsroom is either sleeping with or married to one another, and I’m not the best at keeping up with office gossip, but this still seems a little hard to believe. It’s her fault I’m here, not just because she has taken her presenting job back, but because it was Cat that suggested, in front of the whole team, that I should cover this story.

She insisted, if I remember rightly, as though she knew I didn’t want to go to Blackdown. But she can’t possibly have known my connection to the place. Nobody does. I never talk about my personal life with people at work; perhaps that’s why I rarely know anything about theirs.

“You must have known about me and Cat,” Richard says, shaking his head. “She had a stalker, and I found him in our backyard not long after our first little girl was born. I thought the whole newsroom knew this story. He was trespassing on our property, trying to take pictures of Cat breastfeeding, and when I punched him a couple of times, I got done for GBH. Can you believe that?”

I don’t know if I do believe it. I don’t know what to think about anything. All I know right now is that I don’t want to go inside that house.

“Can I just use your phone to make a quick call, please?” I ask.

I have a strange and sudden urge to speak to Jack.

“I told you at the hotel, I can’t find my mobile. I expect Cat probably called to tell me she was driving down, but I didn’t get the message. I’ve lost my phone, or someone has stolen it. Either way, I still have my charger, so you can use it once we get in.”

He gets out, walks around to the passenger side, and opens my door.

“Are you coming, or would you rather sleep in the car?”

I don’t answer, but reluctantly follow him toward the house.

It’s hard to see where we are going in the dark. A crescent moon does a halfhearted job of lighting our way as we crunch over dead leaves and twigs. It’s impossible to find the path because it looks like nobody has swept it, or tended to this yard, for years. It’s as though the place has been left abandoned for a very long time.

“That’s strange,” says Richard.

“What is?”

“There is another car here.”

I see the sports car he is referring to but don’t say anything. Everything about this situation is strange.

We carry on along the path and I get a better look at the house. It looks like something from a horror film: an old wooden building, covered in ivy, with windows shaped like eyes. It’s pitch-black behind them, but then it is very late.

Richard opens the front door and we step inside. He switches on the lights and I’m relieved that they work. Then he unzips his bag and hands me his phone charger.

“Here you go. I’m just going to go and check on Cat; hopefully we haven’t woken her. Make yourself at home, if that’s possible in this dump, and I’ll be down in a bit. I’m sure there must be something edible in the freezer, and I know there is something to drink—my father-in-law shunned DIY, but he was good at maintaining his wine cellar—I won’t be long.”

He’s trying to make me feel welcome. It isn’t his fault the hotel canceled our booking; I’m being ungrateful and I feel the need to apologize.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so tired—”

“It’s fine. You’ve been a busy bee,” he interrupts.