The Hike(55)

Cat kept walking. Heat was starting to build in her veins. He couldn’t even say the woman’s name. He wanted to keep her at a distance. The woman. That mysterious woman who had a few too many, and took the elevator with a colleague she thought she trusted. The nameless woman who would never stop blaming herself for the actions of one creep. One creep amongst many creeps. It was just the fucking way of the world. Not all men, no. But we don’t know what the bad ones look like.

‘Her name is Samantha!’ Cat wanted to scream it, but her voice remained low and steady as she fought to keep her anger in check. ‘That woman whose life you ruined, and who no one fucking believed, is called Samantha.’

Paul said nothing.

Cat’s head pounded with fury. Her vision blurred.

She stumbled.

Felt her ankle go. She reached out blindly, but there was nothing to grab on to. Dank air whooshed past as her centre of gravity shifted, and she fell.

And this time she had no little sister to reach out and pull her back to safety.





Forty-Four

SUNDAY MORNING

Cat had a vague sensation of falling and hitting her head, but when she opened her eyes, she was no longer on the mountain. No longer with Paul. She blinked a few times, trying to force herself awake. She knew she was dreaming, but she couldn’t lift herself out of it. She was vaguely aware of the sounds of the forest, and then she let herself succumb. Her eyes closed.

In her dream, Cat opened her eyes and found she was in a very different place. Morning sunshine hit her face and she lifted a hand to shield herself from it, rolled herself over. Her head was banging. Her mouth dry. She was desperate for a sip of water. A glass appeared in front of her as she tried to shuffle herself into a sitting position.

‘Morning, sleepyhead.’

Her dreamy vision swam, and it took her a moment to work out where she was. The voice that spoke to her was slightly unfamiliar. Unexpected. And somewhere far away, she thought she could hear another voice, too; a familiar one, calling her name. But then it was gone, and she was firmly back inside her head.

Dream Cat sat up and took the water, gulping it down, spilling a cold trickle down her naked chest.

‘Possibly the third bottle of fizz was overkill.’

She watched as Tristan climbed out of the bed, heading towards the bathroom. His arse was smooth and toned. His whole body was like that, in fact. So different to Paul’s. She finished the water and put the glass on the side table. The third bottle had definitely been too much.

The night before came back to her in segments. Pieces of a jigsaw slowly slotting together. The conference ending, Tristan sending her a message with his room number on it. Her sitting in the bar alone, downing a vodka and trying to decide if what she was about to do was brilliant, fun and wholly justified . . . or if she was nothing but a clichéd bored wife, ready to blow up her marriage for a bit of fun. Her choice of ‘partner’ was a consideration, too. Her brother-in-law. Her little sister’s husband. Surely this was peak nastiness on the scale of affairs, from blurry one-nighter to years-long second-family adultery?

Tristan came back from the bathroom carrying another glass of water. His face broke into a grin. ‘Heyyy,’ he said, slow. Sexy.

She felt a stirring down low. Familiar. Urgent. She remembered the rest of the night, too. Champagne, lots of it. Her sucking on an ice cube then taking him in her mouth. Fucking. Lots of fucking. Laughing. Music. More champagne.

The sight of him made her forget her headache. He climbed on to the bed, his eyes locked on hers. His hands all over her.

‘Hey, yourself,’ she managed. Then they stopped talking, their mouths busy elsewhere.

Afterwards, he got out of the bed and walked over to the coffee machine, a swagger in his step. She watched his arse again. The room smelled of his sandalwood aftershave, and their hot sweaty sex. She sunk back into the pillows, watching him. After a few minutes, the aroma of coffee hit her.

‘Never say I’m not a fucking genius,’ he said. Cups and saucers rattled.

She closed her eyes, opened them again. She was still there. In that room. King-size bed, antique furniture. Gilt-framed oil paintings on the walls.

‘How did we get here?’ She sat up quickly, holding the sheet up to her neck. At some point she had removed her wedding ring, and she momentarily felt sick at her own betrayal. She shook the sensation away, remembering why she was doing this.

‘Well, I took the M3, mostly, then I cut down by the—’

He stopped talking when the pillow hit him on the back of the head.

‘Oi, careful. Got your coffee here, lady.’

He kicked the pillow up into the air like a football, then lifted the cups and carried them over to the bed. He didn’t bother with the saucers.

She took the offered cup from him and inhaled the steam. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Bit late to get contemplative now, isn’t it? I’ve already shagged your brains out.’

She slapped his arm. ‘I’m serious, Tristan.’

He put his coffee down and sat on the bed, facing her. He crossed one leg in front of him and pulled the sheet over his lap, covering himself up. Funny how serious conversations and nakedness could leave you vulnerable.

‘I was bored, you were bored . . . now we’re not bored?’

She bit her lip. Frowned.

He carried on. ‘I sent you that message after Ginny’s thirtieth. Well, after the argument the two of you had at breakfast. Awkward.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t like the way she treated you. I thought it was shitty.’ He laid a hand on her leg.