“You’re Harry’s wife? Is everything okay? Nothing went wrong with their flight, did it?”
“I doubt it,” I said with confidence, because I always think that bastards get away with everything. “Can I come in? I need to talk to you.”
He looked behind me, as though I might have a posse with me, and automatically I looked, too. His house is on a corner and he has only one neighbor; that house was in darkness and its driveway was empty. Then he remembered his manners. “Yes, of course. Come on in.”
He ushered me through the hall and into the living room, then switched off the television.
“Would you like a drink?” he offered. There was a bottle of red wine open on the coffee table and a glass stood beside it, half-full.
Right then I would’ve done anything for a glass of something even stronger, but I answered, “I’d better not. I’m driving.”
“Sparkling water? Orange juice?”
“Water would be great, thanks.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a tall glass of icy sparkling water. He set it down on the table beside me. “Let me take your jacket,” he said. “Have a seat.”
He was nervous, I could tell. I gave him my jacket and sat down on the sofa. I felt like I was going to be sick. The room was lovely, actually, much nicer than I’d expected. The colors were soft and relaxing, and a bowl of pink summer roses on the table made the room warm and welcoming. On the mantelpiece were a couple of photos in silver frames. I saw a teenage boy with a direct gaze and hair down to his shoulders: he looked like he wouldn’t take any crap. Then there was a photo of the same boy aged about seven with a smile that would break your heart. Next to him was Tom, looking tanned and relaxed, and on the other side was a woman in her thirties with dark glossy hair and sharp cheekbones. I’d last seen her an hour or two before, kissing my husband. She had her arm slung around the boy in a casual hug and I wondered what on earth she was doing, having an affair when she had so much to lose.
“What did you want, Emma?” Tom said. He was clearly trying to act nonchalant, as though your wife’s boss’s wife came calling uninvited every Friday evening, but his back was stiff, I noticed, and his hand gripped his wineglass. He took a long drink—I knew exactly how he felt—and put the glass down on the coffee table.
“I wanted to talk to you,” I said. “I think my husband is having an affair with your wife.”
He stared at me, then laughed. “What?”
“Your wife works for my husband,” I said. “They’re away in Paris this weekend.”
“Yes. They’re at a conference. She’s his PA.”
“That’s not all she is.” I hated that, no matter how I tried, I sounded bitter. As though I cared.
He stared at me for ages. I met his eyes straight on. I knew I’d sounded like a bitch, but I had nothing to be ashamed of.
“Tell me everything,” he said.
And so I did.
CHAPTER 25
Emma
We hadn’t talked for long before I caved in and let Tom pour me a glass of wine, and then when he asked if I’d like another, I decided that I’d take a taxi home. Soon the bottle was empty.
Tom stood. “I’ll get some more wine.”
While he was out of the room, I called, “Mind if I use your bathroom?”
“Of course not. It’s out here, off the hallway.”
In the bathroom I looked around furtively, trying to get a sense of the woman who had attracted my husband. Everything looked clean and freshly painted, but there was nothing personal there. No photos, no cosmetics, just soap and hand cream and a mirror on the wall. I took one glance at myself, at my face, flushed pink with alcohol, my hair awry, and thought of Ruby standing there every day, looking at herself, standing just where I stood right now.