The House Swap(62)

‘Right!’ Francis is briskly weighing balls, finding ones of the right size. ‘I’ll start. Prepare to get whipped.’ He strides up to the alley and throws one of the balls with more force than precision, sending it skittering into the gutter with a rattle that sets my teeth on edge. ‘Yeah, well …’ he says, shrugging and casting a rueful glance over his shoulder, ‘it’s been a while. Just need to get back into the habit of it.’

I try to smile, but my mouth feels tight and frozen. Despite the number of bodies packed into this space, it’s cold in here, the air conditioning pumping brutally through the room and bristling the hairs on my arms. I take a ball, walk up to the mark and force my arm to swing and release. I watch it rolling, a bright orange sphere heading for a bullseye, but at the last moment it swerves and veers, knocking two or three pins as it drops out of view.

‘Unlucky,’ Francis crows, giving my arm a pat of mock-sympathy as I return.

‘Luckier than you, anyway,’ I say automatically, and a kind of desperation overtakes me as I listen to our banter and I know that I should be enjoying this, that I should be able to relax and have fun with my husband without these shadows crowding the air and these horrible, ugly thoughts forcing their way between us. I reach for his hand where it still rests on my sleeve and curl my fingers between the warm flesh of his. This is what is real, and yet I can’t rid myself of the knowledge that it could all crumble into dust if I said the word, even now. It would take only one revelation, one decision, for everything we’ve carefully rebuilt to pop and vanish. Whatever you do, all it takes to make it worthless is for one person to turn their back and walk away.

We carry on with the game and, all the while, thoughts are pounding relentlessly through me. You and this woman in the photograph you emailed me are linked somehow; you must be. Have you cooked this up together between the two of you? Is she in love with you, willing to do your dirty work? But that doesn’t make sense – if you wanted to be in my home, understand where I lived, then there would be no point in sending someone else in your place. Unless you’re there together. But those pictures in the hallway … it doesn’t strike me as the sort of thing you would ever do, or even approve of. It’s too subtle for you, too threatening. Even if you wanted to hurt me, the bottom line is I can’t believe you would do it like this. You wouldn’t cloak it in this kind of deception and trickery. Which can only mean … that you aren’t the one behind this at all.

But that doesn’t add up, either. I can’t believe it can be a coincidence that you are living across the street from where I am staying. No matter how I look at it, I’m driven round in circles, brought back again and again to the same point of incomprehension. Who the hell is this woman? Why is she in my flat, and what does she want?

Something is rising darkly in the back of my mind, and I push it down, clenching my fists with the effort. The room shimmers around me, the faded psychedelic pattern of the carpet suddenly rising up and rolling beneath my feet like waves.

‘Strike!’ Francis is standing with his arms aloft in triumph at the end of the alley. ‘What a way to end it.’ He jogs back to my side, gives me a commiserating kiss. ‘Never mind, eh. You didn’t do too badly …’

I look up at the score card, realizing I have absolutely no idea how the game has gone. I seem to have racked up sixty-eight points, though when I cast my mind back I can’t remember a single ball I’ve thrown since that first one. I’ve lost the time again, stepped outside my life. Like any addiction, it seems this appetite for self-destruction has been gnawing at my defences with steady, unwavering determination, finally breaking through.

Making my voice light, I congratulate Francis and give him a hug, breathing in the familiar smell of his aftershave and clinging to his reassuring solidity. ‘Are you hungry?’ he asks. I nod, even though I can’t imagine eating and the smell of oil and grease in the air is making me feel sick. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I’ll go and get us a couple of burgers. Maybe see if you can nab a table?’

He heads off down the neon-lit corridor towards the cafeteria, and I follow at a distance, blankly scanning the rows of yellow tables. I see a spare one in the centre and make my way towards it, slipping into one of the hard plastic chairs. Next to me, a family of five is wrestling over the last portion of chips, children complaining and squealing at each other across the ketchup-spattered table and the baby in the highchair drumming its fists and screaming. The sound scrapes at the edges of my already frayed nerves and I look around for another spot, but the tables are all jam-packed and I give up, letting my shoulders slump.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I feel the familiar clench of apprehension. For an instant, I think it might be Amber, telling me that you have returned – perhaps that she’s told you everything, that you’re appalled by the idea I might have followed you here. But the name that flashes up on the screen is Jess’s. I stare at it, jolted. It’s a signal, a white flag in the wilderness, reminding me that there’s more to me than all this.

I open the message. Hey there! Having a good week? How are things with you and F? Saw your FB profile pic – bit weird?! Am I not getting the joke? LOL. Anyway, speak to you soon I hope. Xx

I frown, trying to remember. My profile picture on Facebook is a shot from last summer – on the beach with Eddie, when we took a day trip to Margate. I haven’t changed it for ages. I barely even use the site now, except to lurk and satisfy an occasional curiosity about former acquaintances.