Every Breath You Take, page 4
‘I’ve found my husband’s car in Horsham, where the tracker said it was. Should I drive the car home or leave it here? It’s got a parking ticket.’
‘You can drive it home and I suggest you pay the ticket.’
‘You don’t need to check the car or anything?’ I ask.
‘As far as we’re aware, no crime has been committed, Mrs Simmons. Please let me know when your husband reappears.’
I decide to drive Samuel’s car home and when I’m en route, I order a taxi to collect me from our home so I can return to Horsham to get my car. The whole exercise takes about thirty minutes and I’m back at my car just in time to see a parking warden approach Mallet Street. Hurriedly, I get in my Golf and drive to the multi-storey car park in the centre of town.
I spend the next hour pacing the streets of Horsham, getting soaked, despite my hood and umbrella, peering behind dumpster bins, showing Samuel’s photograph to a lady selling The Big Issue and a young homeless man shivering in the doorway to an office block. I go into The Golden Duck and ask the middle-aged woman behind the bar if she remembers seeing Samuel with his mates on Monday evening. She’s non-committal. Says it’s a busy pub. And eventually I head back to my car. I’m at a loss what to do next.
Just as I’m starting the engine, my phone pings with an incoming text. I grab my phone and let out a cry. It’s Samuel. Thank heavens. He must be all right after all. I wonder if he’s just come to in a hospital bed somewhere and I let out a moan of relief. At long last. I jab the Messages button and read.
I’m sorry I disappeared without telling you where I was going. I’ve fallen in love with someone else and I’m leaving you to be with her. I’ll be in touch soon to sort out practicalities but for now I need some time away to sort my head and heart out. Please don’t tell the children yet. Say I’m abroad for business. We can talk to them together. S.
The phone slips out of my fingers and slides down into the footwell.
No. This can’t be right. Samuel wouldn’t do this to me. Surely he wouldn’t. My husband isn’t a coward, ending our marriage of fifteen years by text message. Stunned, I reach down for the phone and read the message again. I let out a sob. The shock reverberates through my body. This can’t be right. Samuel has made a mistake; something must have confused him. Perhaps he’s had a head injury or something. I try calling him but as before, the phone goes straight to voicemail. I reread the message over and over until the words are swimming in my tear-filled eyes. He didn’t even sign it Sx. He always puts a little cross after his initial.
And what am I meant to do now? Just accept this? Pretend that I’m not devastated and angry and betrayed? Does the bastard really expect me to lie for him to the kids? And that’s when I start trembling. Samuel is about to ruin our children’s lives. How dare he!
I switch off the car’s engine and telephone Hunter. He’s an accountant working for a firm in Redhill, I think. His phone also goes straight to voicemail so I leave a message in a shaking voice, asking him to call me back urgently. And then I just sit there and stare, straight ahead, my mind and body in a turmoil, unable to accept the betrayal. A woman carrying two shopping bags frowns at me as she opens the boot of her Volvo. It feels like I’m frozen, yet tears are pouring down my cheeks, my heart splintering. The woman takes a step closer to my car and she mouths, ‘Are you alright?’
I nod, wipe my eyes and cheeks with the back of my hand and turn on the engine, driving slowly as I head out of the carpark towards home, my eyes still brimming with tears, a hard, jagged feeling in my chest that veers from dismay to anger to disbelief, the foul weather mimicking my mood. Earlier I’d considered going into work this afternoon, but I’m in no fit state now. Just as I’m indicating right at the end of the street, my mobile rings.
‘Eva, it’s Hunter.’ His voice sounds loud as it booms through the car’s speaker system. ‘Has Samuel come home?’
‘No. He sent me a message to say he’s fallen in love with someone else and is leaving me.’ My voice cracks.
There’s complete silence. Not even any static, just the hum of my quiet engine. ‘Hunter?’ I say eventually. ‘Did you know?’
‘No, of course not. What the hell is he thinking? No, I had no idea about this. Nothing at all.’
For a moment I wonder if he’s protesting too much.
‘Do you know where he might have gone?’ I ask. ‘His passport is at home.’
‘I’m sorry, I’ve no idea. I’m as floored by this as you are. Let me know if I can do anything.’
Another call is coming through so I end the conversation with Hunter in the hope that the withheld number might be Samuel. It’s not. It’s Police Officer Sherri Sayed.
‘I’m calling to say that we’ve logged your husband as a missing person.’
I interrupt her. ‘He’s not. You were right,’ I say, trying to stop my voice from breaking. ‘I received a message from Samuel a few moments ago. He’s leaving me for another woman.’
‘Oh,’ Sherri Sayed replies. ‘I’m sorry to hear that but I’m glad that your husband is safe. In which case we’ll close the case.’
‘Thanks for your help,’ I murmur, before ending the call. Not that they really did anything.
I’m not sure how I make it home, how I’m able to see as the tears splash from my eyes and the sobs choke my throat, but soon enough I’m pulling up at the house I thought I’d be sharing with my husband, at least until the children left home for university. I walk through the back door and sink down onto a kitchen chair, the one that Sherri Sayed sat on only a couple of hours ago. And then I let out a wail and I give in to the feeling of utter betrayal. How could Samuel do this to me?
After a while, my eyes are red and my nose is sore from where I rubbed it with kitchen paper and the sobs ease, even if my chest feels like my heart has been torn out. I go upstairs into our dressing room and I search through every single pocket of every pair of trousers and each jacket that Samuel owns. But I find nothing. No dodgy receipts for hotel rooms or restaurants. I tip our little office upside down, unsure what I’m looking for, and find nothing that might suggest he was having an affair, let alone with whom. Then I go onto the laptop and search through our emails, but I don’t have access to Samuel’s work emails or his sole bank account. When would he even have time for an affair? He came home to me most nights and he was working crazy hours. Or was he? Perhaps he hasn’t been in the office at all, and when he was at home beavering away on his work laptop, perhaps he was conversing with his lover right in front of me. And how long has this relationship been going on? Weeks, months, years even? I think back to our wedding day and those early years when we were so happy. I recall telling him that I would divorce him instantly if he ever cheated on me, but now I think back to that naive young woman and realise that life is more nuanced. We have two children now, a life that is completely interwoven, that can’t simply be undone with a single text message. And I think of Kalah and how she perseveres with what most of us perceive to be a broken marriage. Can I be like her?
The front doorbell chimes and I realise I’m standing in a complete mess having tipped the study room upside down. Hurrying to the door, I glance through the side window and see Hunter and Angela standing there, both dressed in dark suits, Hunter holding a large golfing umbrella. What are they doing? It’s the middle of the working day, when Hunter should be at his accountancy firm and Angela, who is a family solicitor, helping her divorcing clients.
I open the door, a frown on my face. Hunter can’t meet my eyes but Angela is gripping his hand tightly and she yanks him forwards.
‘He’s got something to say to you,’ she says, glowering at her husband.
‘I don’t know for sure, but I suspected Samuel was having an affair,’ Hunter mutters, still unable to meet my gaze.
‘I’m sorry, Eva,’ Angela says. ‘But Hunter rang me from work and told me about the text and that he’d lied to you. I told him in no uncertain terms that our loyalties lie with you, the victim in this, and not your bastard husband.’
I gape at them. Is that what I am? A victim.
‘Hunter has to get back to work but I wanted you to hear this from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Who is she?’ My voice is a whisper.
Hunter shrugs his shoulders and meets my eyes for just a nanosecond. ‘Sorry, I don’t know any detail. It was more a suspicion than a certain knowledge.’
‘How long has it been going on for?’
‘Again, I don’t know, Eva. I’m really sorry. Possibly quite a while.’
‘Why were you suspicious?’ I ask.
‘Just hints of things he said, nothing concrete really.’
I wonder what truths he’s hiding and also why he’s broken up his working day to come to tell me things he doesn’t really know, or is he also lying, covering up for my deceitful husband? I suppose it’s the force of nature that is my friend, Angela, who has insisted he talks to me face to face, but I’m not sure I can trust him any more than I can trust Samuel.
‘Will you let me know if Samuel contacts you?’ I ask.
Hunter nods. ‘Piss off back to work,’ Angela says, prodding her husband in the arm with her right forefinger. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He hands her the umbrella and then dashes away. I’ve never seen Hunter move so quickly.
Angela closes the umbrella and leans it against the door frame, stepping forwards as if she’s going to push past me into the house, but as much as I love my friend, I need to be alone now. I have to collect my thoughts before doing the school run; practice the fibs I’m going to be telling the children.
‘Can we talk at a later date?’ I ask, wrapping my arms around myself.
‘If you need me to represent you, I’ll do it in a jiffy,’ Angela says, squeezing my shoulder.
‘That seems a bit premature,’ I say. I never thought having a divorce lawyer as one of my best friends might prove advantageous.
‘Of course, sorry, lovely,’ she says, placing both her hands on my shoulders. ‘You know you can call me night or day. I’m just so sorry this is happening to you.’
‘Did you know?’ I ask. ‘Or even suspect?’
She shakes her head. ‘You know me, Eva. I’d never lie to you. And that’s probably why Hunter didn’t share his suspicions with me, because he knew I’d tell you the truth.’
‘Thanks,’ I murmur. She gives me a final squeeze before turning and walking out of our drive.
It isn’t until mid-afternoon, by which point I’ve sobbed and screamed and chucked Samuel’s favourite mug onto the floor, shattering it into tiny pieces, that it hits me. All of my husband’s belongings are still here. His toothbrush is in the mug on the side of the sink in our en-suite, his wash bag is stashed in the bathroom cupboard. I haven’t noticed any clothes that are missing, and even the little bedside clock that he takes with him when he travels, and more importantly, his blood pressure medication, are still on the bedside table. If Samuel is having an affair and has left me, why didn’t he take any of his belongings with him? He would have had plenty of opportunity to pack up whilst I was away in Amsterdam. None of this makes any sense whatsoever.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE LOVER
The cottage is small, with just one bedroom and an open-plan kitchen living area. But it’s cosy, with wood-lined walls and ceilings, and I’ve worked so hard to make it homely. I scrubbed the floors and every surface, spending hours in the small bathroom with its antiquated shower and limescale-coated toilet, and the kitchen where mouse droppings lined the insides of the cupboards. Every light bulb was replaced and fitted with a fabric lampshade so there is a gentle glow throughout, and I replaced the moth-eaten curtains with heavy drapes that have blackout linings. But it’s in the bedroom where I spent most of my time and money. I put an expensive, down-filled mattress topper on the bed and purchased new linen, a fine cotton with a high thread count.
Samuel loves it. And so he should, considering the effort I’ve gone to. I found a stack of his favourite thriller books in a second-hand bookshop and they now grace the shelves. The leather-backed gentleman’s chair also comes from a second-hand shop, softened with a beautiful sheepskin rug. I want Samuel to be as comfortable as possible. I’ve piled up his clothes, neatly folding a selection of chinos and polo shirts identical to the ones he normally wears, along with a couple of fine merino sweaters in shades of blue that complement his eyes. It may not look like his grand home, but I’ve aimed to make it feel like home from home. I’ve tried to think of everything, even purchasing his toothpaste brand and an electric toothbrush and the delicious woody scent of his ridiculously overpriced aftershave. The transition has to be as smooth as possible.
The kitchen is tiny and simple, but I’ve bought a few of the recipe books that Eva uses the most often; or at least I assume she does, as her copies are dog-eared and food splattered. Mine on the other hand are pristine. There are three kitchen cupboards. The first houses the crockery and glasses that came with the cottage. The other two are jam-packed full of tins and packets of food; cereals, pasta, long-life milk and everyday provisions to ensure I don’t need to go food shopping too often. Unfortunately the fridge is one of those small under-counter types, not big enough really, but it will have to do. I’m following a recipe for chicken carbonara, one of Samuel’s favourite meals. As the water is boiling on the two-ring hob, I tiptoe through into the bedroom. The curtains are three-quarters closed, although the light today is grey and murky, so the room is dark. Samuel is fast asleep. I stand there and watch him for a couple of glorious minutes, revelling in the fact that he’s here. No. We’re here together. He looks so peaceful when he sleeps, his long dark lashes lying against his pale cheeks, the thick beard and moustache which I wish he’d shave off. The duvet has slipped to one side, exposing his hairy chest, but his hands lie relaxed by his sides, the pale band of skin where his wedding ring used to be calling out to be kissed. I restrain myself. Tiptoeing to the side of the bed, I pull up the duvet so his chest is covered and lean over him, placing a gentle kiss on those soft lips, his facial hair tickling my chin.
‘Sleep tight, darling,’ I murmur. Oh, it would be so easy to tug off my clothes and slip under the bedcovers so I can once again feel his skin on mine. My knees feel weak and a warmth tickles my insides. That’s what this man does to me. He melts my body and my heart. I’d happily spend the rest of my life in this bed, wrapped in his arms, making love. But there is more to life, more to relationships than the physical. Samuel murmurs and turns over. For a moment I wonder if his fluttering eyelids will pop open, but no, he settles back into a deep sleep. I turn and tiptoe back to the kitchen, checking the next step in the recipe book. This place may be simple, but it is still our perfect, secret love nest. A place where we can be happy with each other, away from the prying eyes of the world, safe in each other’s loving company. I smile as I peel the mushrooms. My dreams really are coming true.
CHAPTER SIX
THE WIFE
It’s the day after the text. The moment that may forever define my life into the happy and unhappy, the before and the after. It’s as I’m clearing up the breakfast things, having dropped the kids at school, alone again and perhaps for always, that it strikes me. Just because Samuel has left me doesn’t mean that he will stop going into work. There’s no reason to hide his personal circumstances; no reason not to carry on working. Samuel is proud of Simmons Edge Marketing Agency, and so he should be. He and Jen built up that business into a multi-million-pound agency supporting mid-sized businesses predominantly in the food and wine sectors. Of late, Samuel and I have become competitive about work. Who is working the longest hours? Who is achieving the greatest success? Who is bringing in the most money? Him always, as I’m running a charity. I can see that now, and yet it should never have been that way. Have I pushed him too hard? No. I refuse to become a victim and I refuse to take responsibility for my husband’s cowardly behaviour. I pour boiling water from the kettle and miss my cup, the boiling water cascading down the countertop onto my bare foot. I yelp and swear. After dousing the burn with aloe vera gel, it strikes me that Samuel gains his identity from Simmons Edge, so just because he has walked away from me and our family, doesn’t mean he’ll walk away from the business.
I call the main office number and speak to the new receptionist, a girl called Louise whom I don’t know.
‘Can I speak to Samuel Simmons,’ I say. ‘It’s his wife speaking.’
There’s a pause. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Simmons, but he’s off sick.’ There’s another lengthy pause. ‘Oh dear,’ she says. ‘Have I just put my foot in it? I mean obviously you know he’s off sick, don’t you?’ There’s another lengthy pause before she groans, ‘Dear God. I’m going to lose this job, aren’t I, and I’ve only been here three weeks. I’m still on probation.’
‘It’s fine. Of course Samuel is off sick. He’s at home right now but I’ve got so much on my plate, I completely forgot. Your job is safe.’
‘Oh, thank goodness. I hope Mr Simmons gets better soon.’
‘Just out of interest, did Mr Simmons call in to let you know he was ill?’
‘Um, I don’t think so. I think Jen said he sent her an email on Monday morning. Something about a sick bug. Must be a nasty one if he’s still in bed.’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Between you and me, she was livid. She had to do a big presentation by herself. Took it out on the rest of us. Whoops, I’m talking out of turn yet again.’
