a cheat and a liar? ‘Unless you can prove he’s been lying to me—’
‘I can’t,’ Fran cuts in. ‘Look, I thought I saw something on the Roundthehouses website, that’s all. Maybe I’m wrong, I don’t know. I can’t help noticing that you’re in no hurry to find out what it is.’
‘This isn’t denial, Fran. This is me coming to my senses – trying to save my marriage, which I’ve spent the last six months tearing apart with accusations and doubt.’ I sniff back tears. ‘I’ve been torturing Kit – that’s no exaggeration, believe me. Interrogating him constantly, turning away from him in bed . . . He’s been so patient and understanding – anyone else would have left me by now. Know what I did the other day? I got home from the shop and he was in the bathroom with the door locked. He never locks the door. I made him open it. He refused at first, said he was in the bath, but I knew he wasn’t. I’d heard him walking around. I insisted. Said I’d leave him if he didn’t let me in immediately. I thought maybe he’d gone in there to phone her – Selina Gane, though I didn’t know her name then. When he unlocked the door and opened it, I expected to see him holding his mobile and looking guilty, or trying to flush it down the loo or something. I thought, this is it, finally – I’ll grab his phone and find her name and number, and then I’ll have my proof. I’ve looked at his phone before and found nothing, but I thought maybe this time . . .’ I stop. It’s difficult to describe a state of mind that now seems so alien. It’s as if I’m reporting on the behaviour of someone else, a lunatic.
‘My heart was beating so fast I thought it was going to explode. Then I saw the words ‘‘Happy Birthday’’ on a roll of wrapping paper next to Kit’s feet, and a Chongololo carrier bag. Scissors and sellotape . . .’ I cover my face with my hands. ‘Poor sod was trying to wrap my birthday present, not a mobile phone in sight. He was doing something nice for me, and I wrecked it. My suspicion fucked it up, like it’s fucking up everything. I’d have been furious if someone did that to me, but Kit wasn’t. He tried to make me feel better – insisted that I hadn’t ruined anything, that my present would still be a surprise. ‘‘All you know is that it’s from Chongololo,’’ he said, ‘‘and you don’t even know that. The bag might be a decoy. You don’t know there are clothes in it.” ’
‘For God’s sake, stop punishing yourself,’ Fran says. ‘Let me show you what I saw on Roundthehouses. Once you’ve seen it, if you want to trust Kit, that’s up to you. Come on.’ She stands up.
Automatically, I do the same. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Next door, to the library. We can get on the internet there.’
This is good, I tell myself as we head down the spiral stone staircase and out of the castle. This is a test, and I’m going to pass. Let Fran play her trump card, whatever it is. I know there’s nothing in those Roundthehouses pictures of 11 Bentley Grove that implicates Kit, so I’ve nothing to fear.
I can’t believe Fran’s so ready to think the worst of him. How dare she?
Back in our glass house with our big bag of stones, are we?
‘Talking of Chongololo, where’s your pink coat?’ she asks, as we walk across the cobbles to the library.
‘Coat? It’s warm, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I’ve no idea. In my wardrobe, probably.’
‘It’s bright pink, Con. If it was in your wardrobe, you’d see it every day – it’d leap out at you.’
‘Maybe it’s hanging up on the pegs near the back door. Why?’
‘I want to borrow it,’ Fran says.
‘In July?’
‘You haven’t worn it in ages,’ she persists, not looking at me. ‘Maybe you’ve thrown it away.’
‘No, I wouldn’t have . . . Oh, I know where it is – in Kit’s car, behind the back seats, tucked in behind the headrests. It’s been there for about two years. I’ll dig it out for you if you really want it. I thought you hated pink.’
There’s a stiff expression on Fran’s face as we walk into the library. I want to ask her more questions, but she’s busy trying to attract the