The First Mistake(25)

‘I just haven’t got any make-up on,’ I say, as she alternates between looking at me and the phone in her hand. ‘And I’d really prefer it if you didn’t use that kind of language. You’re at home now – you’re not with your mates.’

‘Soz,’ she says, and I roll my eyes in exasperation at her inability to use complete words.

Her phone rings and she looks at me half apologetically as she answers it.

‘Hiya,’ she says with a smile. ‘It’s Nathan,’ she mouths.

I can’t stop my features from hardening.

‘He’s asking if we want to meet him at the Cuckoo Club, near the office, for something to eat.’

I know exactly where it is. Does he think I’m stupid? Does he think that him asking us to meet him there verifies his whereabouts for the previous three hours? Is he using Sophia to test what mood I’m in?

I look at my watch. ‘It’s getting late,’ I say. ‘I’d rather do dinner here.’ The thought of forced joviality, pretending to anyone looking on that all is well, is just not in my remit right now.

‘Okay,’ she nods. ‘Yep, I’ll tell her.’ She turns to me. ‘He’s on his way home, says we can have a barbecue if you fancy.’

No, is what I think. ‘Okay then,’ is what I say.

Just a few days ago, I’d have proudly told anyone who asked that my stomach still did butterflies every time I heard Nathan’s key in the front door. Now, I wait here, dreading it. How the hell did this happen?

I can’t carry this burden with me into another day. It’s eating away at my insides.





10


I wait until Nathan’s put Olivia to bed before pouring us both a large glass of red wine and settling down on one of the oversized cream sofas, making sure I sit perfectly in the middle, so that he’ll feel more inclined to sit in the identical one opposite me. I want to be able to watch every twitch on his face, every spasm of expression.

There’s a churning in the pit of my stomach as I wait for him to join me, an unmistakable swirl of nervousness that will only dissipate when I have the answers that I need. I pull my legs up underneath me as he walks in, conscious of relaying a more relaxed mood. As expected, he sits down heavily on the sofa opposite and takes a slug of wine.

‘How did it go in the office today?’ I ask. ‘Get much done?’

I tilt my head to the side, in another subconscious effort to put him at ease. Though why, I don’t know. I guess it just feels that I’m more likely to catch him out if he’s off guard.

‘Yes, it’s much easier when the phone isn’t constantly ringing.’ He clears his throat. ‘So, are you going to tell me what was going on with you this morning, and last night . . .?’

I wonder if he knows he’s walking into a minefield, the severity of the explosion entirely dependent on the words he chooses to utter in the next few minutes. I take as large a mouthful of my wine as I can, in the hope that it might numb the pain. I’m almost a bottle in and still waiting.

‘Steady on,’ he says, and I defiantly knock back another gulp, my eyes never leaving his. ‘What the hell is going on with you?’

I shake my head and shrug my shoulders. ‘Nothing.’

‘You’ve not been yourself since I got back from Japan,’ he says, trying a different tack. ‘Are you worried about the work involved if we get the job? Because you know I only want to do this if you’re entirely happy. I don’t want to put you under any unnecessary stress.’

‘I’m not a five-year-old,’ I say petulantly.

He sighs. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘No, actually, I don’t think I do. What are you trying to say?’

I drain my wine and put the stained glass on the coffee table, both of us momentarily watching it wobble.

‘I just don’t want to risk you having a setback, that’s all,’ he says. ‘You’ve come such a long way and I’m so proud of how well you’ve done.’

Tears jump to my eyes. I don’t know if it’s because I want to make him proud, or that I know he’d be devastated if he knew I was back on medication. I guess they’re one and the same thing.

‘I’m still doing fine,’ I say, hoping he can’t sense my guilt.

He sits forward and looks at me earnestly. ‘You can do this, Alice.’

‘Which bit?’

‘All of it,’ he says, smiling. ‘Japan is a big ask, I know that. But I wouldn’t have pitched for it if I didn’t think you were capable of doing it.’

I nod. I am capable, but that’s not what the problem is here.

‘You only have to say the word if it’s not what you want, but it would be such a huge waste of your hard work. You’ve put your heart and soul into this . . . I thought it was what you wanted.’

It was, until I discovered that my husband is having an affair. Now, everything feels uncertain, as if I’m suspended in some weird, parallel universe. Hanging there in limbo, waiting for my strings to be cut.

‘I’ve got a confession to make,’ I start, half smiling. I can’t go in too accusatory. ‘I’m afraid I washed your white shorts.’

His eyebrows knit together as he watches me walk through to the kitchen and reach behind the last cookbook on the shelf. I pull out the hotel bill.