still hasn’t locked, thank goodness, so I quickly scroll to Kate’s call list. There are dozens of calls from Rob. Anger flares as I count them. The shithead. How long the two of them lied to me. But there’s no time for anger right now. I notice the little red icon over the voicemail. There are two voicemails Kate never listened to that were left on Friday night. I press play on the first one, which was sent while we were at dinner, and press the phone to my ear.
‘Kate, it’s me.’ Rob’s voice jolts me. ‘Listen,’ he says, ‘I hope you were joking. Please don’t tell her. You promised.’ And now his voice breaks a little and he sobs, pathetically. ‘Please, call me back.’ He hangs up.
I swallow drily, whatever’s left of my heart breaking into pieces. I remember Kate frantically texting in the back of the Uber. That must have been to Rob. Then, at dinner, ignoring a call and letting it go to voicemail. That was Rob too.
I remember as well how she finally took the call and how I watched her pacing outside, having an argument with someone. It was Rob she was on the phone with. He was terrified Kate was going to tell me about the affair and he was calling to beg her not to. Had she really been planning on it or had she threatened it in the heat of the moment? Maybe he’d broken up with her. On the plane she’d seemed subdued and at the apartment before we went out she did seem like she’d been crying – but was it guilt making her emotional? Or was she building up the nerve to tell me? Is that what Friday night was about? One last wild night together before she told me and our friendship was blown to smithereens?
Holding back tears I press the next message. It’s Rob again, an earlier message, from Friday morning. ‘Kate, call me back, please. I know you’re at the airport with Orla but I just want to make sure you’re not going to tell her or anything stupid. Call me when you land. Please. Let’s talk. Call me back. I’m sorry.’
Sorry? Sorry! I’ll give him fucking sorry. How dare he apologise to her?! What about me?
There’s another saved message from Rob, left about four months ago. I stab the button to listen to it, sadness turning to rage. I want to throw the phone out the window, scream and cry and let this beast of a howl out of its cage, but in the back seat of the police car I can’t do anything except keep a demurely blank face, which is something of a struggle.
‘Kate, I’m sorry about the other day,’ Rob says. ‘It was a mistake. OK, not a mistake – sorry, wrong word.’ What’s he talking about? What mistake? ‘I know I said it was over. But I mean it this time. We can’t do that again. I’m sorry.’
I take that in, trying to understand its meaning. Obviously they must have broken up when I got pregnant and then I presume they met up and had sex again when Marlow was a few months old – that must be the mistake he regrets. I wonder, though, if things continued on after that? It seems like they must have.
My stomach cinches tight and I grit my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. Hate is a black liquid pulsing through my veins, soaking into every fibre and cell of my being, drowning out everything else. I could kill both of them right now – strangle them, crush them, pummel them to death with my bare hands – that’s how angry I am. And it feels way better than being sad. When I think of Kate lying dead in the mortuary I feel glad.
‘We’re here,’ Nunes says, interrupting my very violent imaginings.
I look out the window to see we’re outside the apartment already. There are other voicemails from Rob that Kate hasn’t deleted and I want to listen to them but now I don’t have time. Nunes is getting out the car and I need to wipe the phone before I hand it over. Damn. This might be my only chance to do it. Quickly, I scroll to settings, then to reset. A dialogue box pops up to ask if I’m sure. Nunes opens the door. I hit yes. The screen turns blank and I slip the phone into my pocket.