and when I heard he was going to be alone, I invited him to our house. He’d brought the makings of cocktails and I’d been plastered by the end of the night. And we’d been to his house, too, when he got promoted, when he got engaged. I’d never been out with him on my own, though. Why would I?
But most of the times Oliver and I talked, I realized now, we were on our own. And I grew used to not telling Tom about it; I knew he wouldn’t like it.
I remembered the first time I kept quiet. A couple of years ago, Oliver and I were sitting on the garden wall, chatting. Tom was working late and Oliver was telling me that he’d been promoted at work. He told me all about the interview and the other candidates and what the panel had said to him when they offered him the job. We’d been interrupted as usual by Tom calling me on the house phone, to check I was there. A few days later Oliver was around at our house for a drink and when Tom asked how his job was, Oliver said, “Oh, well, I’ve been promoted at work. I’m their marketing director now.”
There was a split second where I could’ve said, “Oh yes, of course!” but I didn’t. I knew it would lead to endless questions from Tom about when we’d spoken, what was said, and why I hadn’t told him. I just couldn’t do it anymore. So instead I said, “Wow, congratulations! When did that happen?” And there was the slightest hesitation on Oliver’s part as he answered me, as though he hadn’t told me about it in great detail just days before.
I knew it was wrong of me. There was a complicity between us, that we knew something that my husband didn’t. It’s not right. I know that. But sometimes, well . . . sometimes you just want to keep things to yourself. And that’s what it was with Oliver; it wasn’t that I was colluding with him, more that I was keeping just a fraction of myself to myself. I was allowing myself a private life.
And that was the start of it really; it wasn’t long after that that I started to work with Harry, and by then I was skilled at deception, adept at keeping my thoughts and, later, my actions to myself.
* * *
? ? ?
So,” said Oliver, after we’d finished eating. We’d just ordered coffee and I’d thought I was going to get away without having to answer anything personal. We’d covered his job and his upcoming holiday to Ibiza. “Why did you and Tom split up?”
I flushed. “Have you spoken to him?”
“Yes. It was a bit strange, really. I noticed your car wasn’t there for a few days and when I saw him bring Josh home I asked him whether you were at your mum’s. I was really shocked when he said that you’d left. He said he didn’t really understand why you’d gone.”
Now I really was embarrassed. “He did understand. I’ve been telling him for a long time that it’s not working.”
“Maybe he didn’t want to tell me. He seems the sort of guy who’s quite proud. I can’t imagine him telling me anything private, really.”
I nodded. “He hates anyone to know anything about him.”
“So you’re really not going back?”
“No,” I said firmly. “That’s not going to happen. I’m just waiting until my house sells.”
“So are you staying with your parents?”
“No. They’re going to Australia tomorrow to see my sister. They plan to stay there for months.”
He laughed. “Have they told her that?” He’d been to my house on Tom’s birthday when my parents and sister were there and he’d seen Fiona’s exasperation with my mum.
I grinned. “She’s told them to get an open return but my mum’s interpreted that as Fiona wanting her to stay there for a long time. But in any case I can’t stay there. I might embarrass them in front of the neighbors. Apparently I’m killing my mother. She says she can’t stop crying.”
“Really? I saw her in a café in Liverpool on Friday afternoon. She