mega-successful interior designer. He thinks I’m this incredible businesswoman. And, yes, I do okay. Salinger’s is holding its own. But I don’t earn as much as he thinks I do. Not enough to afford the clothes I wear and the car I drive. Not enough to buy him his expensive presents and go halves on the luxury holidays. So, when I’m running low on personal funds, I put things through the business.’
‘But surely Nathan wouldn’t expect you to match him in terms of earnings?’
‘Kelly, Nathan expects a lot from me. Our relationship’s always been built on the fact that we’re each self-sufficient. We don’t rely on one another. He’s always liked that about me.’
‘Well, that’s fine. But he can’t expect you to be perfect all the time. You should tell him what’s been happening. He might be shocked at first, but he loves you, so he’ll bail you out of this. He’s your husband, Fi. I bet he’d hate to think of you going through this stress on your own.’
At my advice, Fiona nods. ‘You’re right… I’ll tell him and I’m sure he’ll help me straighten this whole thing out.’ She bites her lip and blinks, trying to smile.
‘Of course he will. Are you sure you’re okay now, Fi?’
‘Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks, Kelly. I’m sorry to have dumped this on you when your own situation is so crappy.’
‘What are we both like?’
She gives me a small smile.
After more hugs and apologies on both sides, Fiona finally leaves. I look around the kitchen and wonder if these are going to be my last few days as a free woman. If this whole Sophie thing is going to ruin my life.
I check the kitchen clock and see that it’ll be supper time soon. No time for that long, soaky bath I was dreaming about. Instead, I check on the kids before taking a brief shower and changing into fresh clothes, which definitely makes me feel less icky.
Back downstairs, I examine the contents of the fridge, but there’s nothing much inspiring in there. Maybe I should order that pizza we were going to have yesterday. Yes. That sounds good. A family evening of pizza and a movie. The boys would love that on a Sunday night.
My phone pings. I take it out of my bag and see the battery’s almost dead, so I plug it into the charger and check my messages. The latest one is from a mobile number I don’t recognise. As I read it, I feel a nervous surge of hope:
I can get the charges against you dropped. Meet me at Ashridge Falls Boathouse at 11.30 p.m. tonight.
That’s odd. Why would whoever it is want to meet me there? And 11.30 p.m. seems like a crazy hour to meet up. I text back:
Who is this?
I wait for a minute or so but, frustratingly, there’s no reply. Could it be from Saul Barker? I haven’t added his number to my phone yet, so I suppose it’s possible… maybe he’s found out that Sophie’s lying. But I can’t imagine that he’d choose such a strange venue so late at night. I root around in my bag until I locate his business card. I compare the number on the card to the number on my phone. They don’t match, but maybe Saul has more than one phone. Or maybe it’s from Ash. But I don’t think so; surely he would call round or have me come into the station. It doesn’t seem like the kind of message either Ash or Saul would send.
And then I realise that I’m being dense. This text has to be from Sophie. But if it is, then what’s she playing at? And why the sudden change of heart?
Thirty-Three
FIONA
Sipping my warm G & T, I stare around my office, running my fingers across the marble desk. I pick up the hammered-brass pen pot and lay it down again, let my gaze drift over the art-deco black-framed windows and the carefully chosen artwork on the walls. This beautiful room that used to feel like a sanctuary is tainted. It doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. What the hell am I even doing, skulking here, alone on a Sunday afternoon? Aside from the fact that I’ve never bought alcohol to drink on my own before – I’ve always been a social drinker rather than a solo drinker, but right now drinking feels like the only thing that will do. The only way to dull the fear.