say, “Proud of me?” and he says, “What for?” And I laugh and slap him playfully on the arm and say, “Never mind!” and turn back to face Isabelle. She’s folding her napkin neatly, brushing it flat and folding it again and if I didn’t hate her so much, that would earn her a point in my book.
“I really should go,” she says.
We all get up, unsteadily in my case, and say goodbye. Luis helps Isabelle with her coat. It’s funny, but he seems almost relieved that she’s leaving, and she seems almost detached. Certainly not that friendly. They behave like colleagues, not like lovers, and I don’t know anything anymore. Is it possible that I was wrong? I kick myself now, because I should have asked her when he was out of the room whether there’s someone called Belle who works at the gallery. Maybe all this time I’ve been focused on the wrong person.
But when she turns to slip her arm into the sleeve of her coat, I catch a glint at her throat and I know. There is no other Belle. They’re just playing it cool for my benefit. And I’m such an idiot that it’s almost working.
“This is pretty,” I say, reaching literally inside her collar for the delicate gold chain, trying not to scratch at her throat. It sits below the neckline of her woolen dress. I bet that’s why she chose that dress, so she could wear it in secret. A secret between her and my husband. And the joke’s on me.
She looks down. “This? Yes, isn’t it?”
“Was it a gift?” I ask, my heart bouncing around my chest.
She has the gall to glance at Luis as she replies, “Yes, it was a gift.” Then, after a beat, she adds: “From Patrick.” And I have to walk away to stop myself from doing something I won’t regret, like sticking a fork into her pretty neck.
Luis pops his head in through the kitchen door to say he will walk Isabelle back to her car. I nod, unable to speak, give a small cough to hide it.
“I’ll finish in here,” I say finally, clearing my throat. “Goodbye, Isabelle,” I sort of shout out.
She too pops her head through the door. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, Anna.”
“You’re welcome!” I say, then under my breath I add, “Not,” because I am a child. Then I wait until they’re gone to sprint up the stairs so I can watch them.
It was supposed to be a guest bedroom, this room, but we use it as a storage space now, mostly for the children. It still has a bed, which is covered with god knows what: sports things they don’t use anymore like hockey clubs and Carla’s little tutus that I packed in crêpe paper and inside silk lined suitcases. I squeeze past Luis’s old speakers and step over boxes of DVDs and guitar cases and hit my toe on a kettle bell. When I reach the window, I stand just off to the side of it, in the dark, and lift the edge of the drape with one finger.
It must have rained—the yellow hue of the streetlight across the road is reflected in pools of water on the asphalt. Her shiny silver Lexus is parked across the road. It lights up and beeps awake. Luis opens the door on the driver’s side, they talk for a minute then he turns around and glances back at the house. When he turns back, she takes his face in her gloved hands—white, fur-lined at the edges to match the coat—and kisses him, eyes closed. It’s a long, languid kiss, her mouth pressed hard on his, before the kiss turns strong, passionate and familiar, like they’ve done it before so many times they know each other’s mouths by heart. I feel a sob crack in my chest. He takes hold of her wrists and brings her hands down. Then Isabelle lifts her face up to me and she looks right at me, like she knows I’m there, watching in the shadows.
And she smiles.
I jerk back quickly and the drape flutters down. She can’t have seen me, it’s dark and I was only looking through a sliver of glass, but she knows I’m here. She must have known I would be watching, because that kiss, it was for me.
I went to bed and pretended to fall asleep immediately so I wouldn’t have to look at his treacherous face. He joins me not long after