A man in his fifties jumped out and opened the doors for a younger couple who were sitting in the backseat. I had no idea who any of them were.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
Just then the front door opened and Tom came outside. He was smartly dressed in a suit and tie and beamed at the visitors. “Hello, John, it’s good to see you again. Is this Mr. and Mrs. Sampson?” He shook their hands. “Nice to meet you. Come on in.”
I stood there like a fool while all of them backslapped one another, then the couple turned to me, as though wondering why on earth I was there.
“I’m Ruby Dean,” I said.
They did a double take, then turned as one to Tom for verification.
He came over to me and kissed my cheek. “This is my wife,” he said to them.
Then there were effusive hellos in my direction and they trooped into the house.
“I wasn’t expecting them to get here this early,” Tom whispered to me. He smiled. “I’ll show them round and then we can talk.”
It seemed he thought we were going to have quite a different kind of chat.
“Let’s start with the kitchen,” said Tom to the potential buyers.
I couldn’t bear it. The kitchen had been my domain. My home, really. I’d bought every single thing in it; everything was the way I wanted it. I couldn’t stand to see someone else go into it and judge it.
“I’ll wait in the living room,” I said. “You don’t want too many people around.” I stood in the doorway and looked around. Everything in this room was Tom’s: The cameras and books on photography. The pictures he’d bought and put up without any thought of consultation. I liked some of them, but that was irrelevant. I’d learned not to tell him if I liked something; I’d known it to disappear. Whenever I said I liked something there’d be a silence or worse, laughter. “You shouldn’t take it personally,” he’d said. “It’s not a reflection on you that you don’t have good taste.” I thought that’s exactly what it was.
While they wandered the house I sat down in my usual place on the sofa by the window and I listened to the murmurs of approval and exclamations of delight, and the soothing sounds of the estate agent and Tom, who seemed to be in harmony with each other as they showed Mr. and Mrs. Sampson around my home. Meanwhile my stomach was tight and knotted and all I could think was, You have tried to destroy me.
By the time they left, I felt as though I was ready to explode.
CHAPTER 66
Ruby
The front door shut behind them with a click. Tom shouted that he was just going upstairs to get changed, and within a couple of minutes I heard him back in the kitchen.
I was on full alert and strained to hear what he was up to. I heard the kettle being filled with water, then a click as it was switched on. I heard mugs being placed on the counter, a spoon taken from its drawer. The noises were so familiar; they were the soundtrack to my life there. I could picture Tom as he moved about, staring into the garden while he waited for the kettle to boil, his back straight, his hands on the edge of the counter.
And then I heard something else and leaned forward to hear better. It was the sound of a cupboard door opening in the utility room. I knew it was the cupboard where we kept our drinks. There was the clink of a glass on the granite counter and then a glugging sound. The glass was lifted for a couple of seconds, then put down again. The sounds were repeated. Then the dishwasher door opened and shut.
I frowned. Was he drinking alcohol at this time of day? We kept the wine in the fridge or on the wine rack. I hadn’t heard the click and hiss of a bottle or can opening; he couldn’t be drinking beer. That cupboard held the spirits and liqueurs. What was he drinking? My mind flashed