a possibility I suppose. He did mention a few weeks ago that he was missing seeing his friends. I encouraged him to have a boys’ night out. Maybe he decided to take advantage while I was gone. But why didn’t he tell me about it? I guess when I spoke to him on Saturday the conversation was all about Kate going missing. He wouldn’t have brought it up necessarily. Remembering something else, I check my messages from him. He sent me a photo of Marlow on Friday night – of her eating spaghetti covered in sauce like an Oompa-Loompa. The bastard. It was a deliberate deception, to make me think he was with her. The photo is an old one from a couple of weeks ago. I know because in the background is a vase of flowers, ones that Rob bought me for Mother’s Day that I threw away before I left for Lisbon because they’d wilted.
Frantically, I do the calculation. It’s possible Rob could have flown over to Lisbon Friday and back to London Saturday morning, and then I suppose he could have come back again on Sunday when I called and asked him to. It’s only a two-and-a-half-hour flight. If that was a drive we wouldn’t think it was any time at all, the distance from London to Birmingham. But if he did fly over then there would be records of it. He wouldn’t have been so stupid to put the flights on the joint credit card. He’s hidden his affair for years, paying for hotel rooms, without me finding out. He’s clearly an expert at duplicity and leading a double life; it’s not a stretch to think he could pull something like this off.
If he was on a boys’ night out I can easily confirm it.
I call Tom, his best friend.
‘Hey, Orla,’ he answers. I can hear a football game going on in the background on the television. ‘What’s up?’
‘Hi, Tom,’ I say, wondering if he’s heard about Kate. He might not have seen my post on Facebook and if he hasn’t spoken to Rob then there’s a chance he hasn’t heard yet. I don’t know if the UK press has picked up the story.
‘Were you out with Rob on Friday night?’
He doesn’t say anything and I can practically hear his brain whirring over the top of the footie commentary. I realise too late that I’ve blundered into the conversation. What if Tom knows about Kate and Rob and the affair? He might think I’m calling to sniff around. He might be panicking about whether he’s meant to provide Rob with an alibi.
‘Er …’ he stammers. In the background a massive cheer goes up and the commentator’s voice rises an octave.
‘Tom,’ I interrupt coolly. ‘I know about the affair. I know about Rob and Kate.’
He draws a breath but says nothing, confirming that he knew. The bastard. I wonder if I’m the only one who didn’t. I feel like such a damn fool.
‘Orla …’ Tom starts but I cut him off again. I don’t want to hear his apology or his excuses. And I most definitely don’t want to hear the note of pity in his voice.
‘Just tell me if he was with you on Friday night; that’s all I want to know. You aren’t betraying him. He’s the one who’s betrayed me. I’m owed the truth on this. You know I am.’
He pauses for a brief second, weighing his loyalty to Rob over his debt of guilt to me. ‘No, he wasn’t with me.’
‘There was no boys’ night out?’
‘No, there was. A few of the lads, we met up down the pub. Rob was meant to come but … he didn’t make it.’
My heart gives a little stutter. ‘Do you know why?’
‘No,’ Tom answers, then a little contrite, adds: ‘I didn’t ask.’ Which means he thought he was seeing Kate.
‘Thanks,’ I say and hang up before he can say anything else. He’ll probably dive right onto a call with Rob, to warn him, so I pre-empt him by dialling Rob immediately.
The line’s busy. Shit. I shouldn’t have given Tom a heads up. Not that it probably matters. What matters is finding out where Rob was on Friday night.
I’m jangling with nerves, my stomach writhing like it’s filled with live eels. What if Rob was here? It seems more and more likely. What if he followed me and Kate to Lisbon, panicked about what Kate might say or do? What if he lured her outside the apartment