called off at the last minute, claiming he had a meeting. His message had been casual and vague on details, so she had phoned him. He hadn’t liked that, positively squirming as she pressed him on specifics.
He had been lying, she was sure of it. And she intended to catch him out.
She had come straight from her aerobics class, was still wearing her workout clothes under her thick winter coat. She had discussed the situation with her friend, Meg, who had urged her to confront him. Meg had a lot of attitude, one of the reasons Fern had been drawn to her, and had fired her up, hence why she was now sitting outside his house.
Peter always worked late on a Thursday, so she didn’t expect him to arrive home before eight. A light flicked on in the front bay window of the large Edwardian house, lighting up the room and, as she caught sight of Caroline Collins, her breath hitched. Peter had said his wife and kids were away. Visiting family, that was what he had told her. Caroline’s car was there though and now Fern had seen her with her own eyes. That was the first part of his lie exposed.
She watched briefly as Caroline flitted round the room, plumping cushions and switching lights on the giant Christmas tree. They had only crossed paths a couple of times over the years and Fern couldn’t understand what Peter saw in this mouse of a woman.
As Caroline disappeared from view, she hunkered down in her coat. It was freezing in the car and she didn’t want to waste petrol by running the engine. As a distraction, she pulled her phone out of her bag, scrolling through Instagram, then Facebook. That idiot Janice was still on her case, liking and commenting on every single one of her posts.
Fern had ignored the messages she had sent, hadn’t even bothered to listen to the voicemail. She didn’t have time for losers like Janice Plum.
The pair of them had been tight when they were younger, but Fern had moved on, while Janice was stuck in her rut of a life with her drip of a husband and her gormless kids. She had piled on the weight, had questionable fashion sense, and she had become dull, dull, dull, cramping Fern’s style.
Like a leech though, she was proving difficult to shake off, not getting the hint from the unanswered calls and messages to fuck off.
It was tempting to just delete her off Facebook and block her number, but a little part of Fern knew it was best to keep her in reserve. Janice Plum could always be counted on to rally round when needed.
The sound of an engine and the flicker of headlights in her rear-view mirror had her slipping down in the driver’s seat. Fern’s heart was thumping as the car slowed, and she recognised Peter’s Range Rover as it turned into the driveway.
The lying bastard.
He climbed from the car, glancing cautiously around, almost as if he suspected she was there watching. Of course there was no way he could see her. It was pitch black outside and she had been careful not to switch the interior light on.
He unloaded bags from the back seat. It looked as though he had been shopping. Christmas gifts maybe. As he slammed the door, clicking the locks, the front door opened and one of his little brats appeared, quickly followed by Caroline.
Fern’s cheeks were flushed with rage as he kissed his wife on the lips before following her into the house.
She fired a message off to Meg.
The cheating bastard lied to me. He’s home with his wife.
A message pinged back.
You need to confront him. This is your chance. Go tell his wife what a cheat he is.
Fired up as she was, Fern considered the implications of that. She could lose her job, would certainly lose Peter. Was that what she really wanted? She debated for a few moments, looked at the house again, decorated with an elegant string of blue twinkling lights. She imagined the family inside; the cheat, the mouse and their brats. Were they laughing and joking as they discussed their day in the warmth of the house?
Frustrated she thumped the steering wheel, knew she wasn’t going to get out of the car.
Instead she drove home via the supermarket, picking up a bottle of vodka.
Once home she slammed the door, kicked off her trainers, and grabbed the mail off the mat. Walking through to the kitchen,