Just My Luck(32)
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I offered them a million pounds each if she changed her testimony and confirmed our stories. Close down the Pearsons completely.’
‘You did what?’
We’ve been together long enough for me to know that he always goes on the attack when he feels guilty or wronged. ‘It’s not what I wanted, Lexi. But I don’t think we have any choice.’ Jake dumps the packages he was carrying on the floor and storms out of the room.
Our house isn’t big, there aren’t a huge number of places available to go to sulk or rage. Jake slams a few doors as he stomps around the house, but his vehemence needs more space, it needs to be exercised out. He goes outside into the garden and to my utter surprise starts digging in the vegetable patch.
I watch him. I hear the shovel hit the earth and then my husband’s grunt, the earth being thrown to the side. What is he doing? The vegetable patch needed turning over but he is shovelling with such force it looks like he’s on his way to Australia. I know him, he’s very physical. When we were at uni, he played a lot of team sport every weekend and on Wednesday afternoons. But, besides that, if ever he was stressed by an assignment or upcoming exam, he would have to find another physical outlet. He’d go on a run, go to the gym, have energetic sex. I guess today he’d rather dig into the garden than me.
I sigh and force myself to fill the kettle, open a cupboard, find a couple of mugs. I root out the teabags and milk.
I take two steaming cups of tea out to the garden. ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ It is the universal peace signal, everyone knows that. Jake slows down, then nods, throws his shovel on to the ground. We both sit down on the low wall. That’s when I notice that he hasn’t even changed out of his suit. His brand-new, cost-an-arm-and-a-leg suit. There is mud caked on his trousers, all the way up to his knee. I’m angry with him but picking my battles. We’re teetering, unstable. I’m not going to row about something that the dry cleaners can fix.
‘Is it going to be OK?’ I ask.
‘Of course,’ says Jake. His tone isn’t as confident as his words. ‘We’re winners, Lexi. You have to trust me.’
16
Hearing the door open, she turned and glared at him. She wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to meet him at all. The text finally arrived. It simply said, Usual time. Usual place. It was insulting in its brevity. It was tardy and isolated. She wanted to ignore it.
But it was too tempting. She needed to hear what he had to say, how he would justify himself. So yes, here she was, usual time, usual place. They had met at this hotel almost every Tuesday afternoon for over two years, exceptions being Christmas, spouses’ birthdays and last week. They had picked this particular hotel because it was convenient for him as it was not too far from one of his big clients; his boss thought he put a lot of hours in securing their ongoing profitability and loyalty. ‘Long, boring meetings,’ he always claimed. She didn’t work at all. Tuesday afternoons were handy for her because she had her hair blow-dried on Monday, her nails done Tuesday mornings. On Wednesday she liked to swim at the club, Thursday was yoga classes, she often shopped on Fridays or met a girlfriend for lunch. He fitted in perfectly to her life on a Tuesday afternoon. Just another treat.
At least that’s what she thought at the beginning. A sexy, charming, handsome treat. She’d always admired him. For years. She realised it wasn’t quite the right thing fancying your friend’s husband, but despite appearances she’d never been particularly hung up on doing the right thing. She thought it was overrated.
Anyway, she might have left it alone if he hadn’t made it clear that he wanted her too. He had instigated the affair. Hadn’t he? Or was it just one of those things? Inevitable? She didn’t believe in fate or anything dreamy like that. She was not a romantic and fate was the excuse for those too idle to cut their own paths. She thought that there were identifiable patterns in life that led to predictable outcomes. She thought his wife was a tad sanctimonious. He was competitive with most men, anyone who earned more than him, which her husband certainly did. He had a chip on his shoulder about that. Throw in a basic attraction. Ta-da!
On some levels it went back a lot further than two years, a lot further back than the sex. There had always been a little flirtatious spark, just waiting to be lit. Often, he would agree with her opinion even if it meant disagreeing with his wife. He’d listen attentively to what she had to say, whereas her own husband sometimes cut her off mid-sentence, or worse dropped off mid-sentence, actually fell asleep. It was so nullifying. When the three families went on holiday together, and she was wearing a bikini, his eyes would roam her body. Explore. Challenge. If she ever asked for help putting sun oil on her back, he’d jump to lend a hand. On New Year’s Eve, what should have been a friendly peck on the cheek had always been a firmer kiss on the lips. Just brief enough to pass as pally, just long enough to suggest something more. He started to squeeze her tighter when saying hello or goodbye.
Something shifted from friendly to fuck me.
It finally happened at the end of one of their infamous Saturday night suppers. She’d hosted, which meant she’d been up and down from her seat all evening, seeing to other people’s needs; she’d hardly had time to take a bite. The drink had gone straight to her head. Evidently, it hit a different part of his anatomy. Hard.