phone number from the text, and wait breathlessly for the results, although if I was hoping for an instant answer, I was an idiot. There’s a lot of garbage to wade through. Entries about car serial numbers and phone directory pages without any actual information. But on page five, I see something that makes me lean forward.
St Saviour’s School Rugby Club. Parent rep: Mary Smith-Sullivan.
It’s her. The same mobile number. The same first name. Oh God, she exists. Can I find out anything else about her? Does she have a job, maybe?
My heart beating wildly, I look up Mary Smith-Sullivan on LinkedIn. And there she is. Mary Smith-Sullivan, Partner, Avory Milton. Specialism: defamation, privacy and other media-related litigation. She looks to be in her early fifties, with close-cropped dark hair and a boxy jacket. Minimal make-up. She’s smiling, but not in a warm way, more in a businesslike ‘I have to smile for this photo’ way.
This is who Dan is sending endless texts to?
He can’t be having an affair with her. He can’t. I mean …
He can’t.
I stare at the page, trying and failing to make sense of it. Then at last, with a trembling hand, I reach for my phone and dial.
‘Avory Milton, how can I help you?’ a sing-song voice greets me.
‘I’d like to make an appointment with Ms Smith-Sullivan,’ I say in a rush. ‘Today. As soon as possible, please.’
Avory Milton is a medium-sized law firm, off Chancery Lane, with a reception area on the fourteenth floor. It has a big floor-to-ceiling window, showing off an impressive view over London, which made my legs nearly give way when I stepped out of the lift. People should not just put terrifying windows there like that.
But somehow I made it to the front desk and got my visitor’s pass. And now I’m in the seating area, firmly turned away from the view.
As I sit there, pretending to read a magazine, I look around carefully. I study the slate-grey sofas and the people in suits striding through and even the water dispenser … but there aren’t any clues. I have no idea what this place has to do with Dan. I am also unimpressed by their timekeeping. I’ve been sitting here for at least half an hour.
‘Mrs Tilda?’
My chest seizes up in apprehension as I see a woman approaching me. It’s her. She has the same close-cropped hair that she did on LinkedIn. She’s wearing a navy jacket and a blue striped shirt I recognize from Zara. Expensive shoes. A wedding ring.
‘I’m Mary Smith-Sullivan.’ She smiles professionally and holds out a manicured hand. ‘Apologies for keeping you. How d’you do?’
‘Oh, hi.’ My voice catches, and I can only produce a squawk. ‘Hi,’ I try again, scrambling to my feet. ‘Yes. Thank you. How do you do?’
My pseudonym is Mrs Tilda. Which is not ideal, but I was so flustered as I made the appointment that I wasn’t thinking straight. When the receptionist asked ‘And the name?’ I panicked and blurted out ‘Tilda’. Then I quickly amended, ‘Mrs Tilda. Er … Mrs Penelope Tilda.’
Penelope Tilda? What was I thinking? No one’s called Penelope Tilda. But I haven’t been challenged yet. Although, as we walk along a neutral, pale-carpeted corridor, Mary Smith-Sullivan shoots me the odd appraising look. I didn’t say why I wanted the appointment on the phone. I just kept saying it was ‘highly confidential’ and ‘highly urgent’, until the receptionist said, ‘Of course, Mrs Tilda. I’ve booked you in for two thirty p.m.’
Mary Smith-Sullivan ushers me into a fairly large office – with, thankfully, quite a small window – and I sit down on a blue upholstered chair. There’s a still, unbearable pause as she pours us both glasses of water.
‘So.’ At last she faces me properly and gives one of those professional smiles again. ‘Mrs Tilda. How can I help you?’
This is exactly what I predicted she’d say, and I have my line all ready to fling at her, just like a soap-opera heroine: I want to know why my husband’s been texting you, BITCH.
(OK, not ‘bitch’. Not in real life.)
‘Mrs Tilda?’ she prompts, pleasantly.
‘I want to know …’ I break off and swallow. Shit. I promised myself I was going to be calm and steely, but my voice is already wobbling.
OK. Take a moment. No rush.
Actually, there is a rush. This woman probably costs a thousand pounds an hour and she’ll bill me even if she is Dan’s mistress. Especially then. And I haven’t even thought about