The Girl I Used to Be(29)
“Sometimes you lie to him?” asked Sophie, wide-eyed.
“No,” I said, impatient now. “Of course I don’t lie to him. But . . .”
“But you don’t always tell the whole truth?” said Rachel.
I laughed. “It’s complicated. Marriage is complicated.”
“You’re telling me,” said Brian.
Sophie’s phone pinged then. “Here’s the number,” she said, “just in case you want it.” She forwarded it to my phone and I saved it in my contacts list, determined to call them as soon as I could.
* * *
*
LATER THAT DAY I escaped into the car park and called the cleaning service. They were happy to be recommended and the owner promised to come round to my house later that evening to see what I wanted done. They would be able to fit me in the next day, so I only had one more night of squalor. Before I went back into the office, I sent Joe a text wishing them a happy holiday. While I was waiting for his reply, I scrolled up, looking at the messages we’d sent back and forth over the months. When I saw the texts I’d sent the night I was in London, I paused.
There it was, clear as anything. At six thirty P.M. I’d written:
Just got to hotel. Going to have a bath and relax! Kiss Rory for me xx
He’d replied: Will do and kisses to you from me. Hope you have a good night xx
I’d replied: Don’t worry, I will! I’m going to order a meal and watch TV xx
That had been my intention. That wasn’t the problem, though. Anyone can change their mind. I’d looked at the empty room, heard the sounds of people out on the terrace through the open window, and decided to go down for a drink instead of staying alone in my room. That was okay. But then at nine thirty P.M. he’d written:
Hope you’ve had a good night. What did you watch? xx
And there in black and white was my reply:
I decided to read instead. Ready for sleep now. Night xxx
I felt cold as I looked at the message I’d sent. Why had I sent that? I remember sitting chatting to David and having a good time when my phone beeped. Often when I’m out with friends, Joe will start to text and want to carry on a text conversation with me. If I’d said I’d gone down to the bar, he would’ve asked who I was with, what we were talking about . . . He wasn’t possessive or jealous, he was just interested, but often it would spoil my night out because his texts would fly in while I was trying to talk to someone. And I’d known he’d be bored and lonely in the living room while Rory slept. He loved company, loved to chat. A night on his own after a day looking after Rory wasn’t his idea of fun.
I could have gone back to my room and chatted to him, but I hadn’t. I’d carried on drinking with someone I hardly knew. I’d even paid for his dinner. I’d chosen to do that rather than talk to my own husband.
I thought of the photo that I’d received, the photo of me kissing David, or of David kissing me, whichever way it had happened. And I thought of the bill, the proof that I’d been for a meal with someone else when I’d said I was alone in my room. Then I realized: That was a photocopy.
Where was the original?
TWENTY
THAT EVENING, JANET Boyd, the manager of the cleaning company recommended by Sophie’s mum, came round and we had a bonding session over the state of my house. She was a quiet, efficient woman and I was immediately won over.
“We’ll sort this out for you,” she said. “Don’t worry about it. Go to work in the morning and when you come back it’ll be as good as new. If you give me a spare key now, I’ll make sure it’s left with the bill.”
It cheered me up to hear that. It was bad enough clearing up my own mess, but everywhere I looked I could see where Joe had been over the last couple of days. Everything was half finished, half eaten, half drunk. He had great intentions, but as far as housework was concerned, he seemed to have the attention span of a gnat.
Rory phoned me and told me about meeting his cousins; he was breathless with excitement as he told me about their adventures, and he said his dad would call me later that night.
I worked into the night at home, then dialed out for a pizza and, feeling guilty about eating badly, took a vitamin pill. While I waited for it to arrive, I lay on the sofa just staring at the television; I couldn’t have said what was on.
The landline rang. Startled, I jumped off the sofa and picked up the receiver.
“Mum?” I said. She was the only person who called on the landline.
There was silence. I said, “Hello?” but there was still no reply. I looked at the handset and saw that it was a withheld number. I sighed. It was likely to be from a claims company, trying to persuade me to claim for an accident I hadn’t had. For a second I listened for the background sounds of a call center, but there was no sound at all. Frowning, I put the phone down. Immediately it rang again. I picked it up and said, “Hello?” again, but no one answered.
I glanced at the clock. It was after nine P.M. Surely call centers weren’t allowed to call at this time of night? Then the doorbell rang, making me jump. I looked through the peephole just to check who it was, something I rarely did when Joe was home, and saw it was just the pizza-delivery guy. I took the box into the living room and turned back to the television again, but I was no longer hungry. Despite the fact that it was still early, I wanted to sleep, so I put the pizza into the fridge, filled a glass with water, and went upstairs.