damp and there were splashes on his T-shirt. “I think you’re right,” he said. “We should bide our time.”
“See what happens.”
He hesitated, then shrugged. “I don’t want to think about this now.” He poured me another drink. “Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”
And so I curled my feet up on their soft velvet sofa and I had another sip of wine and started to talk to Tom about my life. What it was like to be me. It was more intoxicating than the wine, I have to admit. For a while there’d been a barrier between Harry and me; I knew now he’d created that. I realized when I spoke to him nowadays it was as though there was a brief pause where he had to stop thinking his own thoughts and acknowledge mine, but then he’d forget mine immediately afterward and go back to his own. It was more than that, though. It was as though I was speaking another language and he needed time to translate. And the distance had grown greater as time went by. So that night it was the first time in months that I felt someone was really listening to me. Speaking my language.
And then it was quiet and when I looked at Tom, I saw he was looking at me, too. His expression was serious, as though there was something he had to say.
“What?” I said. My mouth was suddenly dry. “I’m sorry. I’ve been talking too much.”
He shook his head. “You haven’t. I just wanted to say . . .” He sat up, put his glass on the coffee table. “You’re really lovely.” His gaze was so intense and I just couldn’t look away. “I don’t know how Harry could do that to you.”
I swallowed, suddenly close to tears. He leaned forward and put his hands in my hair, just as I imagined Harry was doing to Ruby, probably right at that moment.
And then he kissed me.
CHAPTER 26
Emma
I know, I know. I shouldn’t have done it. We shouldn’t have done it. There’s no excuse. None at all.
Except I wasn’t the only one behaving badly, was I?
I woke before dawn the next morning, my eyes snapping open to see the fluorescent digits of a bedside clock blinking at me. My head banged with a red wine headache and my mouth tasted foul. I must have been asleep for three hours, I reckoned. The room was dark, but light spilled in from the lamp on the landing, and I could see Tom, sprawled out on the bed beside me. His face was in the pillow, his breathing deep and regular. He’d drunk as much as I had. More, perhaps. I think he’d had a few drinks before I got there. It’s no excuse, but there it is.
I lay as still as I could, letting my eyes scrutinize the room. We were in their spare room; I don’t think either of us had had the stomach or the sheer gall to sleep together in their marital bed. The bed was large and comfortable, with deep pillows and a huge feathery quilt that he’d pulled up over us just before we slept. It wasn’t that that made me feel uncomfortable, obviously. His clothes were on the floor, where I’d thrown them the night before. I winced and looked away. There were pictures on the wall—I wished they were generic, so that I could feel superior—God knows I needed to claw back some self-respect—but they weren’t. They were clearly chosen by someone who was interested in art, who loved the pictures and had spent ages deciding on frames and positioning and the way the light would shine on them. The huge bookcase held so many books that were in my house, too, and I knew, I just knew that they were Ruby’s.
I closed my eyes. What an absolute bitch I was. In that moment I hoped that Harry was in bed with Ruby. I hoped he was having a good time and wasn’t giving me a second thought. I felt grubby and tawdry and just like the most antifeminist person I could imagine. I was in another woman’s house and in her bed with her husband. I hadn’t thought I could sink so low.