The Family Next Door(35)

And yet Ange couldn’t quite accept Lucas’s explanation.

The next day at work Ange went through his dialed numbers. He’d called one number—a number she didn’t recognise—four times in the previous seven days. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to give the number a try.

“Hello?” the voice said.

“Oh, yes, I had a missed call from this number,” Ange had said jovially. “Can I ask who this is, please?”

“May I ask who is calling me?” she countered. Ange listened keenly to the voice. It was high-pitched and feminine, and didn’t sound unlike Erin.

“It’s uh … Dianne. Dianne Taylor.”

“I’m sorry, I think you’ve got the wrong number. I haven’t called any Dianne Taylor.”

“Are you sure? Maybe if you told me your name?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. And she hung up.

So there was no evidence to say it was Erin. It may have been someone else entirely and Lucas’s phone may have been hidden for the exact reasons he gave. But Ange had a feeling that wasn’t the case. And Ange had a sixth sense for these things, ever since Josie.

Josie. Ange felt a knot form in her throat. It was such a nice, normal name. It was a veterinarian’s name. A kindergarten teacher’s name. Then again, why wouldn’t she have a nice name? It wasn’t as if Josie’s mother would’ve looked down at her newborn daughter and thought she looks like she’ll become a home-wrecking harlot.

Will had been a toddler. Ange had been a stay-at-home mum for over a year and still, she hadn’t gotten used to it. Every day she got dressed, blow-dried her hair, put on lipstick. But the day offered so little. A visit to the park. Playgroup. Finger painting. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Will. It was just that she didn’t love motherhood.

Lucas had been in his studio constantly. His business was booming, in large part because of Ange. Every banal playgroup she attended she brought along a bunch of his flyers. His photos, admittedly, were sensational. He had a gift for capturing the moments. The toddler pulling her mother’s necklace and pearls spilling all over the floor. The child throwing a tantrum while the rest of the family laughed. Falling in puddles and squinting into sunshine. Somehow he made the disasters into art.

One morning, Ange was dressed, blow-dried, and lip-glossed with nowhere to go, when she had a brilliant idea. We’ll get a family photo of our family! she decided. It seemed ridiculous, now that she thought of it, that they didn’t have one already. The cobbler’s child always had the worst shoes. And, aside from being something to fill the next few hours, it was the perfect advertising for Lucas. They could use it on flyers, and she could display it proudly when she hosted mothers’ group at her house.

She loaded Will into his stroller and they wandered down to Lucas’s studio. It was located in the center of a park—an ideal location for outdoor shoots when the weather was good. If Lucas was with a client, Ange decided, she’d let Will have a play in the playground while they waited.

The door was locked when she arrived, which meant Lucas was in the darkroom. Good news, she thought, he’s not with a client. The weather was perfect for an outdoor shoot, she realized. Perhaps Lucas would be able to set a self-timer and get in the shot himself?

She knocked loudly. “Lucas!”

She wasn’t concerned when it took a while—the darkroom involved lots of chemicals. It could take a few minutes before he could step away. Ange just waited. After a minute or so, she knocked again.

And waited.

It was possible he’d gone to get a sandwich, but then again Ange had made him a chicken, avocado, and mayo this morning (making a lunch that did not consist of tiny pieces of cucumber and cheese gave a tiny sense of purpose to her day). And his car was in the parking lot; she could see it from where she stood.

Finally the door swung open.

“Ange.”

There was no blissful moment of confusion, no split-second of nothingness while the pieces whirled into place. She just knew. And that was even before she saw the woman standing behind him. There was no newborn with her. No toddler. No fiancé or husband. The overplayed looks of innocence on their faces were as good as confirmation.

“This is Josie,” he said.

Josie was a brunette. Not pretty exactly, but slim and large breasted with striking Egyptian-looking eyes. She had the audacity to hold out her hand. Ange remembered staring at it. Was she meant to shake it? Slap it? In the end, she’d just looked back at Lucas, and Josie eventually let her hand drop back to her side.

That night, after Will was in bed, Ange sat cross-legged on the floor while Lucas paced the floor.

“I’ll get an apartment,” he said. “Not far away. I can still see Will every day.”

The shock of that had been worse than discovering Josie in the darkroom. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to her that he wanted to leave her. She’d been waiting for Lucas to beg for forgiveness, to swear he was going to change his ways. For a while, they’d tiptoe around each other, timid and uncomfortable, until finally they’d realize, “Wow, we got through it.” All marriages have hard times, they’d tell Will on the eve on his wedding day. But when you make a commitment, you work through those hard times and wind up stronger for them. But that wasn’t what was happening. Instead, Lucas was leaving her for Josie.