When You Are Mine(45)

‘They should rename this place Divorcee Hall,’ says Tempe. ‘It’s full of separated husbands. I keep bumping into them in the basement.’

‘Why the basement?’

‘A shared laundry. They’re always asking my advice about what they can tumble-dry and when to use a cold wash.’

‘They’re chatting you up.’

‘Maybe. Just a little.’ She smiles.

Tempe doesn’t have much in the way of furniture, but I’m slowly helping her pick up things, like the flat-pack shelves and two bedside tables that we struggled to put together. Slot A went into Slot B, using a hex key and half a bottle of white wine. She has a laptop computer and a small printer and a wireless speaker to play music.

I’m still worried about the text messages. Despite Tempe’s efforts, Goodall is getting closer. How long before he finds her address? Would he hire someone to follow her?

‘Come to our place for dinner.’

‘Won’t Henry mind?’

‘No. Why?’

She gives a non-committal shrug. ‘I think he resents how much time we spend together.’

‘Nonsense.’

Tempe has woven herself into my life over the past month. She has a brilliant memory for completely unrelated things like birthdays and doctor’s appointments and dry-cleaning pick-ups. I can make an observation or mention something in passing like the name of a restaurant, or how much I like a particular song, or a show that I watched on Netflix, and Tempe will file it away.

She seems fascinated by my relationship with Henry, wanting to know how we met, our first date, our first kiss, our first everything. Occasionally, I’ve caught her watching us when Henry drags me onto his lap, or comes up behind me in the kitchen and nuzzles my neck. She’s not embarrassed by these shows of affection, but seems to be studying them, as though wanting to learn.

Back at the house, I begin cooking a vegetarian pasta sauce, while Tempe looks through Henry’s vinyl collection in the sitting room.

She shouts, ‘What music do you want?’

‘You choose.’

‘How about Abbey Road?’

‘A classic.’

‘Is it?’

‘You’ve never heard of Abbey Road?’

‘Music isn’t my thing.’

‘But you’ve heard of the Beatles?’

‘Of course.’

Before she can explain, my phone begins to vibrate. Henry’s name comes up on the screen. I put him on speakerphone, while I’m stirring the sauce.

‘I’m running late, babe. I’ll be half an hour.’

‘That’s OK. Tempe is staying for dinner.’

He groans and I hit the mute button, hoping Tempe didn’t hear. I pick up the handset, whispering, ‘What’s wrong?’

‘I was looking forward to spending the evening with you.’

‘Did you have anything in particular in mind?’

‘Something extremely energetic that involves little clothing and lots of room.’

‘Will we have to move the furniture?’

‘Yes, I will definitely require a run-up.’

I giggle and tell him to hurry.

Tempe appears next to me. ‘Who was that?’

‘Henry. He’ll be home soon.’

‘Why do you have to move the furniture?’

‘It’s a private joke.’

She looks a little hurt but shrugs it off.

When I hear the front door open, I set the water boiling for the pasta and pour a glass of wine. Henry wants to take a shower first. I hear the pipes rattling as he turns on the water. When he emerges, he has changed into track pants and a rugby sweater. His hair is damp. His feet are bare.

‘I’ve poured you wine,’ I say.

‘I’d prefer a beer.’ He takes one from the fridge and slumps on the sofa, toying with his phone.

‘How was work?’ asks Tempe.

‘Good.’

‘Any fires?’

‘No.’

‘What do you do when there aren’t any fires?’

‘We sit on our arses.’

‘He’s joking,’ I say, annoyed at him.

‘We test equipment. We clean trucks. We do training exercises.’

Tempe makes further attempts at conversation, but Henry isn’t interested. Clearly, he’s in a mood. Finally, the silence seems to play on his mind and he asks, ‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘I’m boring,’ says Tempe, sipping her wine.

‘Phil told me how you met. You were having an affair with a married man.’

‘Does that shock you?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t know he was married – not at first.’

‘And when you did know … ?’

‘He told me he had an open relationship with his wife.’

‘Phil says that open relationships are like Communism – good in theory.’

Tempe laughs and Henry seems to warm up.

I have to check on the pasta and make a salad dressing. I leave them for a few minutes. When I come back, I pause in the doorway.

‘Really?’ says Henry, leaning forward on the sofa. ‘Have you … ? I mean … Are you?’