reading

1

The second my plane hit the runway I was already beginning to wonder if I’d done the right thing. Didn’t surprise visits always end in disaster? But, up until the moment the flight took off, a big part of me had been worried that I would have to cancel at the last minute, that work would call and say they’d rejigged things again and they needed me after all, so it had seemed safer not to tell anyone. No expectations, no disappointment: that was my rationale. And, besides, I thought it would be fun.

Not to mention the fact that I needed a bit of home comfort. I was still reeling from my big news. It felt, to be honest, a bit like the world was about to end, but I knew deep down that I was overreacting. I had always known it was a possibility. I had watched as many others had suffered the same fate. I just hadn’t been expecting it to be so sudden.

I’d been living in New York for seven and a half months. In two weeks, I’d be home for good.

And I thought that breaking the news to Jack face to face would help. Because sad though he’d be for me that I was losing my job, I was pretty sure his main reaction would be happiness: that I was coming home, that we could get on with setting a date for the wedding we’d announced before I’d left, that we’d be back to being a normal couple who lived together rather than more than three thousand miles apart. And I knew that would rub off on me. I needed a bit of perspective.

My heart was kicking up a storm as I approached our road, sweaty and overtired with the jet lag that was kicking in already. I have never done anything like this – flown halfway round the world on a whim. Over and over again, I’d been imagining Jack’s face when he found me at home – shock, but I had no doubt it would be quickly followed by sheer delight. I knew, of course, that he would already have left for work by the time I arrived, but there was always a chance he’d have taken the day off sick or as a random holiday. Not that I have ever known him to do either of those things. He loves his job. Or, at least, he loves his work – which is in advertising. He’s finding his actual job a bit frustrating. He’s impatient to move on and up.

I had spent the whole flight trying to decide what I would do – should I hide and jump out on him? (Might give him a heart attack.) Stand proudly beside a lovingly cooked meal with a serving spoon in my hand? (Too Stepford Wives.) Or be lounging on the sofa wearing nothing but a basque? (He’d probably laugh. Also, the slight hitch that I don’t own a basque, wouldn’t know where to buy one if you paid me. I barely know what one is.) In the end, I decided that booze was the way to go. Wine bottle in one hand, glasses in the other. Don’t tell me I don’t know the way to a man’s heart. Or a woman’s, for that matter. I was already planning a trip to the offy around the corner.

I lugged my – way too big for a weekend – suitcase up the stairs. I was transporting as much of my crap home as I could manage before the big move: another reason why this trip made sense. I smiled when I saw that Jack must have been watering the rubber plant on the landing that is my pride and joy, because it looked so healthy and shiny. He might even have polished the leaves, too. That would be a first. This, I realize in retrospect, is when I should have known. Thirty-eight-year-old men do not suddenly start buffing up the leaves of houseplants for no reason. I let myself in, calling out his name, crossing my fingers that today might be the day he had decided to go in late. It was still only a quarter past nine but deep down I knew he’d already be at his desk. He wouldn’t be home till half six, quarter to seven at the earliest. And I hadn’t even dared think about the fact that he might go out straight from the office. When I spoke to him last night – just before I boarded the plane, although he didn’t know that – he didn’t mention any plans, but these things change.

The moment I opened the door I knew something wasn’t right. The flat looked tidy, for a start. And there was a smell I didn’t recognize. Just a hint of it, mixed in with Jack’s earthy blend of coconut shower gel, takeaway curries and laundry with a hint of unwashed gym kit. I sniffed loudly, trying to work out what I was finding so unsettling. Could it be me, a faint trace left in my possessions, even though I hadn’t been back since Christmas, over three months ago?

I ditched my case and my computer bag and snuffled my way around the flat like a bloodhound. There was more evidence of extreme tidiness – the dishwasher was empty and everything put away, papers were stacked neatly on the coffee table; even the remotes were in a straight line. Maybe he’d invited his mum up, it occurred to me. I should have checked with her, let her in on my secret. He probably wants to show her how well he’s coping without me. I know how concerned she was when she heard work was taking me to New York. Maybe she was here already and she’d just gone out for the day, leaving a lingering, unidentifiable but most definitely female scent behind her.

I jumped as Oscar, our portly black cat, appeared out of nowhere and ran towards me. Grateful that he remembered me, I picked him up and made a fuss of him, but I was distracted. I looked in the fridge for his food.

Hummus? Jack thinks the only thing hummus is good for is grouting the bathroom. He thinks it tastes like old sofa cushions, although when he’s ever tasted those I have no idea. I shut the fridge door, plonked a handful of Dreamies down for Oscar, who looked at me, disappointed.

I checked in the spare bedroom for signs of life. The bed was stripped and piled up with junk, like it always is. Most of it has been there since the day I moved in four and a half years ago. Pictures we’d never got around to hanging, two tennis racquets we’d used once on holiday, a lamp neither of us liked. No visiting mother, then. I went back out and along the windowless hall. In the bathroom, I stopped short. There was a little cluster of girly toiletries on the windowsill. None of it belonged to me. Shampoo for fine hair. Toner for combination skin. I suddenly felt light-headed. Put out a hand to steady myself on the sink.

In the bedroom, the bed was made. I don’t think I’ve ever known Jack to make the bed in the five years we’ve been together. Not because he’s lazy, he just doesn’t see the point. He’s only going to get back in and mess it up again. There was an unfamiliar suitcase on my side. I flung it open, riffled through the clothes inside. She was a size eight, whoever she was. In the wardrobe, a row of dresses, blouses and skirts edged my own stuff to the far corner. Some of them looked familiar, but I couldn’t work out why. The labels revealed they were from Zara, Top Shop, Maje. Half my friends probably have the same things.

I resisted the urge to phone Jack to demand answers. He didn’t even know I was in the country. I retrieved my bags and made sure I’d left no trace behind. Then I exited the flat and headed down to the street. I went straight to the park across the road and sat on a bench. I needed time to think.

2

My name is Amy Jane Forrester. Actually, strictly speaking, it’s Aimee Jayne. I was born in the 1970s, when, apparently, it was essential to spell names using random extra letters wherever possible. 1977, to be exact. I gave up correcting people when they spelt it wrongly years ago and started using the simplified version. Life’s too short. Average height (five foot five), average size (twelve on a good day), middle child of three (Nichola, forty-one, and thirty-six-year-old Christopher. The extra-letter thing only applied to girls, it seems), auntie to Nichola’s two boys.

In New York, I’ve been filming a new series that has just made its prime-time network TV debut. My big break after years of ‘Second prostitute’ or ‘Woman at station’. Sometimes even just ‘Woman’. I’ve made a living, don’t get me wrong. Sort of. Most of it working in actor-friendly call centres, to be completely honest. When I say ‘big break’, I mean I am a properly named character who appears in every episode. In this, the first season, at least. Not that I am one of the stars. I am part of the ensemble. I bear an uncanny resemblance to the English actress who plays the lead, which led to the happy stroke of good fortune that was me being cast to play her big sister. Actually ‘bear an uncanny resemblance’ is a bit of an overstatement. By that, I mean we both have near-black, shiny hair, brown eyes and a roundish face. We’re close enough, and the English accent swung it.

I say I appear in every episode. I should add ‘up till now’. Because the big sister of the hero English detective is about to get bumped off by the very serial killer the detective is hunting for. And I only found out the day before yesterday, when the latest script was issued and there I was being strangled on page thirty-six.

The first thing I did was try to phone Jack. There was no reply. So I went out for a few drinks with sympathetic castmate friends instead, and that’s when my plan for a surprise visit home was born.

I live – when in London – with Jack. There was no question that he would be able to relocate with me. We thought about it. He was tempted by the idea of living it large in the Big Apple, until we realized that there’s only so large you can live it without a job and an income. And it wasn’t as if I was going for ever. We both knew that my adventure would only be temporary.

His response had been to get down on one knee when we were halfway through a Thai curry and an episode of House of Cards one evening a couple of days before I left and produce a blue Tiffany box from somewhere under the sofa. Inside was a ring pull from a beer can and a note: ‘IOU one engagement ring’. He’d pushed the ring pull on to my third finger. It was so sweet and unexpected that I’d cried, and so had he, and then we’d laughed about what idiots we were and how everything was going to be okay.

We both studiously avoided discussing what would happen if the programme was such a success that it ran and ran, or if my small turn got noticed and I suddenly found myself with a flourishing US career. The odds on either of those things happening were so low, they weren’t even worth planning for. He visits when he can get the time off, and I’ve managed to get home three times, when the filming schedule has allowed. We’re making it work. Or so I thought.

The deciding factor about this week’s visit, though – the thing that made it worth it, even though I’ll be home for good in a couple of weeks’ time – was my best friend Melissa. Mel. It’s her fortieth birthday tomorrow, and she’s organized a party, even though she didn’t feel up to celebrating in the slightest because she’s been having a really shit time of it. Her marriage fell apart without her even noticing. The first she knew of it was her husband, Sam, telling her he didn’t love her any more, he actually loved a woman called Camilla, and that he was off. To say that I felt bad for not being there while my closest mate tried to piece her life back together – well, you can imagine. Or maybe you can’t. But trust me, it was awful.

She made no secret of the fact that she was gutted when I said I couldn’t get the time off for her party. Even though she knows that my time is never really my own these days, and that it’s a long way to fly just to get pissed and sing ‘Happy Birthday’. I promised I’d make it up to her when I came home for good. Spend a whole weekend in a spa, being pampered and catching up.

So, as soon as I heard that my fate was sealed, my first thought – actually, my third, after Oh, shit, what am I going to do with my life now? and Which way is the writers’ room? I’m going to kill them all slowly and painfully – was Sod it, I’ll go home, celebrate Mel’s birthday with her, have a blast and fuck them all.

I thought it would be fun to keep my visit a surprise. I spent days fantasizing about how happy both Jack and Mel would be to see me. How they would never expect in a million years that I would come halfway across the world just for a birthday party. And it seems, in Jack’s case, I was right.

I find my mobile and call Mel. She’ll know what to do. It goes straight through to voicemail. She’s probably on the Tube, on her way to work. I’m about to leave a message when I realize I can’t do that to her. She’s been focusing on this birthday party as if it was going to be the thing that saved her life. I know she’s been working out extra hard and half starving herself in an effort to ‘show Sam what he’s missing’. Even though he won’t be there (obviously), she’s counting on the fact that they still share a lot of friends who might post pictures of the birthday girl on social media. I know, because she’s told me a hundred times, that she’s booked a facial tonight and that tomorrow is a blur of waxing, blow-drying and Shellac manicuring. It’s not that she wants him back, she just wants him to notice.

I can’t put a damper on her night. Even though she’s been the first person I’ve turned to ever since I was eleven years old, it’ll have to wait.

I try to channel what she might say to me instead. I can imagine the incredulous look on her face. Big green eyes wide. Mouth a perfect O. Mel has a very expressive face. Sometimes it’s like watching an over-enthusiastic mime. And I know exactly what the first thing she’d ask me would be: ‘Who the fuck is she?’

That’s a very good question.

It hits me that this might be my only chance to find out who this woman is. If – when – I confront Jack, he might shut down and refuse to tell me. He might decide he cares about her so much that protecting her is more important than appeasing me. And for some reason, it’s imperative that I know. I’m sure Sun Tzu must have something to say about situations like this. ‘Before you can defeat your enemy, you must know who they are’ or ‘Don’t let that bitch get away scot-free.’ Something along those lines.

Before I know what I’m doing, I’m back on my feet and heading over the road towards my home again, giant suitcase dragging behind me like a reluctant dog, oversized handbag drooping off my shoulder. The unidentifiable smell is still there. I look through the (neat) piles of magazines and papers on the coffee table, searching for anything with a name attached. There’s nothing, which makes me think that, whoever she is, she might not have moved herself in completely.

I open the unfamiliar suitcase again and start flinging stuff out, not caring about the mess I’m making. It’s mostly underwear and definitely not the kind that’s gone grey through being washed too many times. It feels weird to examine it too closely so I pile it all up on one side. There are a couple of T-shirts and a pair of jeans, none of which give much away. A few brightly coloured tops. I start going through the pockets of the case. Keys, a novel, a few old receipts, a tissue, a few hairgrips, a comb. I examine the comb for stray hairs. None. I pick the receipts up again. They’re all for things paid for with cash – a sandwich from Pret, some Lemsip, a coffee. I’m none the wiser. Apart from the fact she’s a woman with a cold who likes ham.

I kick the case in frustration.

I can’t just sit here and wait for one or other of them to come home. What if she arrives first and she’s a psycho? What if they turn up with friends in tow? (Some of our coupley friends, even? It doesn’t bear thinking about. Does everyone know? Am I a laughing stock?) I’m not sure I can face the humiliation. And, besides, I don’t want my own drama to overshadow the reason I’m here. To make sure my best friend has the night of her life.

I decide to phone my brother, Chris. He always knows what to do in any kind of sticky situation. Not to mention the fact that I’m confident he’s one person who won’t already be talking about my errant boyfriend behind my back.

‘Hey, Sis,’ he says when he picks up. He always calls me Sis. It started as a joke because we were both watching the same awful drama on TV years ago and got obsessed with the way the writers would keep trying to remind us of everyone’s relationships through the dialogue. My favourite line – ‘You know your older brother, Martin, the one who’s an estate agent down in Dorking and lives with his wife, Sue, in Reigate?’ We started mimicking it whenever we spoke – ‘Could you ask our mum, Margaret, who’s married to our dad, Graham …’ ‘Hello, younger brother, Chris, have you seen our older sister, Nichola, or her husband, Mark, lately?’ You had to be there really, but it made us laugh at the time. Anyway, ‘Sis’ stuck.

‘Why are you ringing me at half past five in the morning? Is everything okay?’

‘I’m not in New York. I’m in London, remember?’

‘Of course! The big surprise. How is it? Are you having a lovely time?’

‘Not really,’ I say. I lie back on the bed, stare at the ceiling.

‘What’s up? … You still there, Amy?’

I bring him up to date as succinctly as I can. When I get to the part about the suitcase of clothes, I hear him say, ‘What the fuck?’ so loudly that his partner, Lewis, appears in the background, asking if everything’s all right. Chris puts me on speaker.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I have no idea either. Hi, Lew.’

‘You’re up late. Or early. One or the other.’

I listen as Chris tries to fill him in.

‘There has to be a logical explanation,’ Lewis says, once he’s up to speed. ‘Something obvious that we’re all missing.’

‘He’s having an affair,’ I say morosely.

‘Some other explanation, I mean. His sister?’

‘He doesn’t have a sister.’

‘I don’t know … cousin or something?’ Chris tries. ‘Old friend?’

‘Then why wouldn’t he have told me?’

‘Maybe he hasn’t had a chance. Maybe she only showed up last night and it was some kind of emergency.’

‘No one’s slept in the spare bed.’

‘I’ll kill him,’ Lew says helpfully.

I hear myself sigh.

‘Don’t. He won’t.’ Chris says.

‘No, you can. Really.’

‘Do you have any idea who it might be?’ Chris again.

‘None. I need to find out.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes! Jesus. What if it’s someone I know? Someone he works with. I can’t just suspect every woman he’s ever been in contact with. I mean, how will I ever know who I can trust?’

‘Or it could just as well be someone you’ve never met –’ Lew says.

Chris interrupts him. ‘– And it was only meant to be a fling – not that that excuses either of them – but it got a bit more serious …’

‘… But they’re still intending to end it all before … you know …’

‘… And, in their minds, what you don’t know can’t hurt you …’

‘… Or he’s been desperate to tell you, eaten up with the guilt, but he knew he had to do it face to face …’

‘… Yes! He’ll probably confess everything tonight. Not that that … well, you know, it’s still awful …’

I listen to them talking over each other for a moment. What they’re saying does make sense.

‘What are you going to do?’ Chris asks finally.

‘I have no idea. That’s why I’m calling you. I mean, if I’m here when he gets home from work, he’s going to know I’ve found out, obviously.’

‘So you’ll get your answers.’

‘But then I’ll never know if he would have told me if I hadn’t outed him. And what if he just refuses to tell me who she is? And then we’ve got to get through Mel’s party as if nothing’s wrong.’

There’s silence for a moment.

‘How long are you here for?’

‘A week. I don’t know how I’m going to get through it, though.’

‘Here’s what I think,’ Chris says. I can hear a seagull shrieking and I wonder if they’re out in their little sunny Devon garden. I can picture them sitting at the wooden table by their back door, Chris’s dark-brown head and Lew’s tanned bald one leaning over the phone. Chris has the same habit as me of worrying at his earlobes when he’s concentrating, and I imagine him doing it now. ‘Text him and tell him you’re coming home tonight. Then get out of the flat and watch to see what happens. Chances are, whoever she is, she’ll turn up to retrieve her stuff. At least then you’ll get a look at her. If he makes a big confession tonight, then you’ll just have to go to the party on your own and tell Mel he’s ill. You’re a good actress, you can do it. And if he doesn’t, then pretend everything’s fine. Let Mel have her big night. Then hit him with it on Sunday. Or … does he know how long you’re staying?’

‘He doesn’t even know I’m here yet, remember.’

‘Perfect,’ Chris says. ‘Tell him you’re leaving on Sunday morning. Then you can go to Mel’s, cry on her shoulder for a few days and forget about Jack altogether.’

‘What? Not even try and work it out?’

‘What’s to work out?’ Lew chips in. ‘Whether he ’fesses up or not, he’s been seeing someone on the side.’

‘Shit.’

‘Or you could come and spend the week down here?’ Chris says.

It’s tempting. Chris has almost Jedi-like powers in terms of making people feel calm and rested. I always thought he should train as a therapist. He preferred to have a job he could leave behind on a Friday night, he said. He knew that he’d end up carrying people’s problems with him all weekend. Phoning them up and offering them free sessions so he could help them feel better. But it still became his unofficial role in life. Whenever any of his friends is having a crisis, the first thing they do is call him.

It doesn’t make sense for me to hide down there now, though. I need Mel’s ‘fuck ’em all’ take on things if I’m going to get through this.

‘No. Thanks, though. I’ll be fine. It’s a plan. Oh, and there’s another thing, I’m getting killed off.’

‘No! Damn, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s okay. I don’t think it’s any reflection on me, it just makes for a good storyline. Don’t tell Mum and Dad yet, though, I can’t face it. Or anyone else. It’s top secret till it airs.’

‘Of course not. So what are you going to do?’

‘Well, until just now, I was going to move home, start planning my wedding and get on with my life. Now, I have no idea.’

‘Okay, maybe I will kill him,’ Lew says.

Chris chips in. ‘Come down when you get back. You can hide down here and lick your wounds for as long as you want.’

I promise to ring them again as soon as I have any more intel. Then I lean back against the pillows, feeling as if the bottom has gone out of my world. I always wondered what people meant when they said that, but now I know. I feel as if a huge chasm has opened up underneath me and I need to grasp on to something tightly to stop myself from falling into oblivion. Oscar slinks in and jumps up next to me, curling into my side. I sink my fingers into the soft fur on his tummy. Try not to think about some random woman attempting to ingratiate herself with him by sneaking him bits of his favourite cheese.

I have an overwhelming urge to crawl under the covers and sleep. I think it’s a version of ‘If I close my eyes, the monster isn’t there’. But then I look at (my) crisp white pillows and (my) cheerful butter-yellow duvet cover and imagine Jack and God knows who doing God knows what all over them and the urge passes. Besides, I would probably still be there, comatose, when one or the other of them got home and I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Not yet.

If I’m going to let Jack know that I’m coming home this evening, I need to get out of the way. But I can’t wander the streets with my giant case. In the end – after carefully rearranging my rival’s stuff so she won’t realize anyone’s been examining it – I drag my case to the hotel diagonally opposite our house and book myself into a single room. That’s how posh a hotel it is. It has single rooms with single beds. With hairdryers that are wired into the wall to stop you from stealing them. I think it’s aimed at lone travellers from struggling businesses. Or prostitutes and their clients renting by the hour. But it’s clean. If you don’t examine things too closely. Then I crawl into the small but comfy bed, drag the duvet over my face and, despite everything, I manage to cry myself to sleep.

3

I wake bleary-eyed I don’t know how much later. The first thing I notice is a folded-up ironing board screwed into the wall at the foot of the bed. I can’t remember installing that in my state-of-the-art Manhattan apartment. I look around, taking in the tiny TV (screwed to the wall), the kettle (wired in) radio alarm (ditto), and it all comes crashing back. I check the time on my phone. Twenty-five past twelve. I’ve slept for about an hour and a half.

I make myself a tinny-tasting coffee from a complimentary sachet (only two provided) with a sliver of milk from one of three tiny plastic capsules. Then I lie back down on the bed and try to process what’s going on. Jack is having an affair? Could that really be happening? We FaceTime practically every night, unless one of our work schedules makes the time difference a nightmare. I think back over the past few nights and try to remember if there were any tell-tale signs. Nothing. We’ve never been the type to be all lovey-dovey over the phone. Or in real life, for that matter. We both find that stuff a bit cringy. By which I don’t mean we don’t tell each other we love each other. We do. Always. We just say it in plain English, and in normal voices. Not like we’re suddenly five years old. Anyway, there’s been nothing that rang any alarm bells. Nothing that felt different. No stage whispers, no accidental eye flicks to whoever else was in the room. No abrupt ending of calls.

Before I can think too much about what I’m doing, I send Jack a text.

Guess what??? I’m coming home for the weekend!! I arrive late tonight. Flight gets in about half eight. Don’t tell Mel. Big surprise!!!! Call you later. Love you xxx

Almost immediately my phone rings with the distinctive FaceTime tone. I can’t answer, obviously, because he might wonder why I’ve suddenly got an ironing board mounted on my wall. I let it time out and then I call him back, audio only.

‘Sorry. Terrible reception.’

‘You’re really coming today? That’s fantastic!’

‘Yes!’ I say, in what I hope is my happiest voice. ‘I’m at the airport now, actually. We should board in a few minutes.’ I get up and force open the mud-spotted window of my room and traffic noise blasts in.

‘Do you want me to come and meet you?’

Shit. I should have thought this through. Jack likes to meet me at Heathrow. The first time, it didn’t even occur to me that he would be there, so I was halfway to the train before I noticed him huffing along beside me, half swamped by a mountain of flowers and balloons. We both cried, I remember. Me with happiness at seeing him, him probably because of exhaustion.

‘No! You know what I’d really like? I’ll jump in a cab and, if I ring you when I’m on my way, you could order an Indian. I’ve been fantasizing about mushroom balti and pilau rice.’

Jack laughs. He sounds like his usual relaxed self, not like I’ve sent him into a major panic. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

I try to laugh along, but it comes out a bit like a strangled cat. ‘No!’

‘I can’t wait to see you.’

‘You, too.’

‘I’d better … I’m about to go into a meeting. What time did you say your flight gets in again?’

‘Eight thirty. So I should get home for tennish. Half ten.’ I mentally curse myself for picking such a late flight, but I was trying to go for authenticity.

‘Result,’ he says.

‘You didn’t …’ I say, making an effort not to sound as if I’m asking a loaded question. ‘You hadn’t made plans, had you?’

‘Are you kidding? Like I wouldn’t cancel them. But no, this lonely saddo had no plans. Beyond a quick after-work drink. And now I’ve had a much better offer.’

I ring off, promising to call him as soon as I land. It’s so confusing. He sounded genuinely excited at the prospect of seeing me. Maybe I have this whole thing wrong. Maybe there really is an innocent explanation.

I’m suddenly starving. It seems ridiculous to go and buy something to eat when there’s a flat full of food that, by rights, should be mine across the road, but I don’t want to risk going back in there now. Jack will have got straight on the phone to her and I’m pretty sure she won’t be spending her lunch hour eating a sandwich at her desk now, not when she has tracks she needs to cover. I have a quick shower to wake me up and then walk up the road to Tesco Metro. By five past one I’m back sitting on a bench in the park opposite my flat, eating a tuna baguette. I’m far enough away and obscured by enough trees that no one would see me unless they were looking, but I still put a baseball cap over my dark (not to mention dirty) hair, just in case. Air travel does that to me. I get on a plane looking like a Silvikrin advert but by the time I get off you could stand a fork up in the grease. It’s a mystery.

It’s turned into a beautiful early-spring day and I share a crumb with a couple of mangy-looking pigeons, which turns out to be a mistake, because now they think we’re friends for life and they’re making me feel guilty about not just tossing them the whole thing. Eventually I do, just to get rid of them, but all that does is cause them to fight among themselves.

Of course, whoever she is, she could decide to come after work rather than in her lunch hour, although if it were me – not that it ever would be – I would want to get it over with as soon as I possibly could. Just to be on the safe side. Or she might not even have a job, or work shifts – that would mean she could show up at any point between now and half ten this evening. I have nothing better to do, though, I tell myself. I may as well sit here as anywhere.

At twenty-five past, just as I’m resigning myself to the fact that it might be a long wait, a taxi pulls up outside our door. I actually gasp out loud and fling my hand over my mouth, like an overacting heroine in a silent movie. I find myself looking around to check no one has heard me. Thankfully, everyone else is concentrating on eating their lunch or walking their dog, relieved to be away from their workplace for an hour’s fresh air.

I hold my breath, waiting for her to emerge. I have no idea what I’m going to do. Run over and accuse her? Demand that she gives me answers? Sing the chorus of ‘Jolene’ right in her face? Punch her and run away? All of the above?

The door opens. I can hear my heart beating. There’s a second’s pause and Jack climbs out. For some reason, I hadn’t even considered this an option. That he might be the one to hide the evidence. He looks so … Jack. Not like a man who has been living some kind of secret life. He’s never been what you would call classically good-looking, but a happy accident of individually imperfect features resulted in something very attractive. I’ve always thought so, anyway. His nose is a bit too long, his eyes a smidge too close together, his lips a little thin. The combination – along with the violet blue of his irises and the dark brown of his hair – gives him a kind of wolf-like quality. A sort of better-looking Baldwin brother. Without the anger-management issues.

He’s obviously told the driver to wait because the cab doesn’t move, engine ticking over, meter running up. Jack runs up the steps to our front door. I pull my hat down over my face and allow myself to look at the upstairs window. From here, I can see the living-room bay and the spare bedroom. There are flat white sheers over both to preserve our privacy but I think I see one of them flap in a Jack-created draught as he – I imagine – runs around like a whirlwind, gathering up anything incriminating.

I know he can’t have long. He’s never been one for extended lunch breaks. He likes to be seen to be conscientious while all his colleagues are sinking glasses of red at the local bistro. Sure enough, the front door slams open and there he is again, suitcase in one hand, two carrier bags in another and half a dozen girly outfits on hangers slung over his shoulder. The taxi driver chooses just that moment to examine something fascinating on his fingernail, so Jack staggers down the steps alone, goes back up to pick up something he’s dropped, then wrestles with the car-door handle. I can practically hear him huffing with frustration. Safe in the knowledge that he’s not going to be expected to carry anything, the taxi driver springs to life and gets out and opens the door for him, and he half tumbles in, throwing the suitcase in front of him.

Despite everything, my overwhelming urge is to call out to him, to let him know I’m here. To hurtle across the street and throw myself into his arms.

It hits me like a ton of bricks that that is never going to happen again.

4

One. Two. Three.

I take a deep breath to steady my nerves and fling open the flat door.

I’ve spent the whole afternoon imagining this moment. I kept veering between wanting to be the reasonable one, to hear what he has to say without interruption and then tell him he needs to leave, at least until after the weekend, or to go in all guns blazing, pull the floor out from under him and not give him a chance to get his story straight. I want to know the truth. How it happened. When. Where. Above all, who.

In the end, I decide that I’m going to keep my cool. Give him the chance to come clean. I plaster a smile on my face. It’s just possible I look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Hi, honey, I’m home.

‘Hey!’ He pops his head out from the kitchen, arms wide. He looks so pleased to see me I almost forget what’s been going on. He swoops me up in a hug.

‘Mmm, you smell amazing,’ he says, burying his nose in my hair. Shit, I knew I shouldn’t have had another shower. Usually, I arrive after a long flight smelling of old food and other people’s fetid breath, with skin the colour and consistency of a radish. You might have picked up that I’m not a good traveller. I once caught chickenpox travelling on the train from Reading to London.

I mumble something into his chest that I hope sounds like an endearment.

‘Curry’ll be here any minute,’ he says, holding me at arm’s length. I struggle to make eye contact. ‘I can’t believe you’re here!’

‘Me neither.’

‘Mel’s going to be beside herself.’

I take my jacket off. ‘You haven’t mentioned it to her, have you?’

‘’Course not, you told me not to. I haven’t spoken to her for ages anyhow.’

‘Right.’ I don’t know what to say next so I try, ‘It’s looking very clean in here. Have you had the Hoover out?’ just to see what his reaction is.

He has the gall to look smug. ‘Couldn’t have you coming home to a dirty flat.’

Luckily, the doorbell rings so I’m saved from having to respond. Jack hotfoots it down the stairs to retrieve the curry, giving me a chance to have a look around. In the bathroom, all trace of the woman’s bits and pieces has gone and he’s made the effort to spread his own stuff out to fill the gaps and even got a few of my toiletries out from wherever he had hidden them away.

The bedroom is, of course, clear of her belongings. I have a look to see if Jack has changed the sheets, and I’m relieved to see he has. Even the duvet cover, which must be a first. The dryer contains the warm softness of the discarded ones.

I hear him thumping back up the stairs and I root around in the fridge and find a bottle of Prosecco.

‘One mushroom balti coming up,’ he announces as he comes back in. While I open the fizz and he heaps the hot food on to plates, I have a sneaky look at him. He looks tired – well, no surprise there.

He catches me staring. Smiles.

‘What?’ he says.

I feel tears rush to my eyes. Blink them back. Gulp like a frog swallowing a fly.

‘Nothing. Just great to see you, that’s all.’

‘You big softy. Come here.’ He pulls me in for a hug, kisses the top of my head.

Curry over, we polish off the rest of the Prosecco and I wait. Jet lag is making me sweaty and nauseous. I move from ‘I’m a little bit tired’ to ‘I’m going to fall asleep face first in my leftover pilau rice’ in the space of about two minutes. I’m desperate to go to bed, to sleep off my fug, to give my brain the chance to work out what exactly is going on. But I’m too scared to say so, in case he thinks it’s a proposition. And the thing about living so far apart from your partner is that you pretty much do have sex every time you see each other, so he’s bound to be thinking it’s a done deal. I consider allowing myself to pass out on the sofa. That might be the way to go.

‘Do you want a nightcap?’ he says now, and snakes an arm around my shoulders. I ignore the comment, which I know he thinks is flirty foreplay, and indulge myself in a big, gaping yawn.

‘God, sorry. It’s because I didn’t get any sleep last night.’

‘Last night? What were you up to?’

Shit, yes, he has no idea I came in overnight on the red-eye, that I’ve been hanging around in a hotel all day. ‘Just because I had to get up so early to get to the airport, you know. I ended up hardly sleeping because I was so afraid I’d sleep through my alarm.’

‘I know a way to wake you up,’ he says, nuzzling into my hair. I sit there rigid. Has he always talked in such horrendous clichés?

‘I think I might be too far gone,’ I say, moving away as gently as I can.

‘You can just lie there, let me have my wicked way.’ He laughs at how witty this is and I try to join in. I want to shout at him, hurl accusations, but my head is foggy and I know I need to keep my cool.

‘Sleep,’ I say, hoping Jack will get the message.

‘Come on, let’s get you into bed,’ he says, and then he laughs. ‘And I don’t mean that how it sounds.’

PENGUIN BOOKS

FAKING FRIENDS

Jane Fallon

FAKING FRIENDS

PENGUIN BOOKS

Prologue

Part One

1

2

3

4

5