The Third Wife (24 page)

There. There it was. The final, crushing nail. It had sounded like exactly the sort of thing that sharp-tongued Luke would say: camply cruel, designed to elicit guilty laughter. She fought back a sob of indignation and headed towards bed.

She could hear Adrian behind the bedroom door, opening and closing the wardrobe, brushing his teeth. She stood there for a while, her head spinning slightly, her hand upon the doorknob. And then she exhaled quietly, turned, and made her bed for the night in the bottom bunk of the children’s room, her head face down on a pillow that smelled bittersweetly of Beau’s scalp.

‘Where’s the Board of Harmony?’ said Otis, peering at the white space on the hallway wall through his fringe.

‘I took it down,’ said Adrian, swinging bags of groceries through the doorway to the living room and resting them on the kitchen counter.

Otis followed behind him and added his bags to the pile on the counter. ‘But why?’

Beau was still standing in the hallway staring at the bare spot on the wall with his jaw hanging open as though the missing whiteboard was a spectacle on a par with a holy miracle.

‘Because’, said Adrian, ‘it made me sad. Because she did it to make everyone like her and it doesn’t seem to have worked.’

‘I liked her,’ said Beau indignantly.

‘Yes,’ said Adrian. ‘Of course you liked her.’

‘Well, mostly I liked her,’ he continued. ‘But also sometimes I didn’t like her.’

Adrian looked at his baby curiously from the corner of his eye. ‘Oh yes?’

‘Yes, like when she told me to
do the right thing
. Because she was a teacher, but she wasn’t my teacher. And she wasn’t my mummy.’

‘No,’ said Adrian, ‘she wasn’t your teacher or your mummy.’

‘But mostly I liked her.’

‘Good,’ said Adrian, rolling a net of satsumas into the fruit bowl.

‘Well, I’m glad,’ said Otis, hunting through the bags for the packet of Maoams he had somehow persuaded Adrian to buy for him. ‘The Board of Harmony was basically a really, really bad idea.’

Adrian threw him a curious look.

‘Yeah, it was like I almost preferred it when you forgot things because at least it was
you
forgetting things. You know. And the crappy presents you used to get us. At least you chose them yourself.’

Adrian draped a hand of bananas over the satsumas and frowned. ‘But you lot were always moaning because of that kind of thing.’

‘Well, I wasn’t moaning. I was happy. You were doing your best. You were just being … you.’

‘And I got the distinct impression from all and sundry that me being me was not good enough.’

Otis shook his head and ripped open the Maoam packet. ‘It was good enough for me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see why you needed someone to come along and change everything for you.’

‘I think the idea was that Maya was
improving
things, not
changing
things.’

Otis shrugged and put a sweet into his mouth. ‘Whatever,’ he said, ‘I’m just glad it’s gone. I hated it.’

Adrian flinched. There was a darkness and a heat to his words, unexpected and unsettling. He looked at his son, his middle child, this mysterious boy of his who appeared so often to have no opinions at all, suddenly expressing one – with such vehemence. And the thought occurred to him, like a small electric shock to his consciousness, that maybe it was Otis who had sent the emails to Maya.

He didn’t allow the thought to grow roots. He busied himself with the preparation of a meal for his two boys. He chatted with them both about all manner of interesting topics. He arranged food on to plates in pleasing patterns with bits trimmed off and separated from each other to request. And then, halfway through loading the dishwasher, while the boys sat at the kitchen counter, eating their dinner and watching something shouty on the TV, Adrian’s phone rang. The number was vaguely familiar so he took the call. It was Jonathan Baxter.

‘Hi, Adrian, listen, good news. Or at least I think so. According to my wife and my daughter, Matthew has a flatmate with mismatched eyes. Not only that but she also works for him so she might easily have had access to one of my old phones.’

Adrian stood up straight, a plastic cup still clutched in his other hand. ‘What’s her name?’

‘She’s called Abby. They’re very close knit apparently. Best of friends.’

‘God, OK … What do we do now? I mean, does she know I’ve been looking for her?’

‘No,’ said Jonathan. ‘No. We haven’t said anything to Matthew or to her. I wanted to let you know first. Find out how you wanted to handle things.’

‘Well, right, I’d like to talk to her ideally. As soon as possible. Can you give me a number?’

Jonathan sighed. ‘Well, personally,
I
would be very happy to give you the number but my wife is being very cautious about this. A bit paranoid. You know. So we thought we could give you Matthew’s email address instead; you could write to him, and take it from there. How does that sound?’

‘Well, yes, it sounds better than nothing, I guess.’ He put down the plastic cup and sifted through some paperwork on the counter looking for a scrap of paper and a pen.

‘I hope you understand. I mean, you hear so many bizarre stories these days, you know, stalkers, identity theft. For all we know you could be an ex-boyfriend with a grudge.’

‘Well, no, that I most definitely am not. Most definitely. But I do understand. And that will be fine. Fire away.’

‘OK. His email address is
[email protected]
. Got that?’

‘Yes, yes, I have. Thank you so much.’

He hung up and smiled, feeling suffused with relief. Because he had a much better idea then emailing Jonathan Baxter’s son and getting some flannelly response because clearly this woman was very close to him and clearly this woman had no desire to see Adrian’s face again and clearly Matthew Baxter would do whatever he needed to do to protect his friend from Adrian’s appearance in her life. Instead he flipped open his laptop and Googled ‘Matthew Baxter’ and ‘Retrotech’ and there it was, in under five seconds, an office address on the City Road.

‘Who was that?’ said Otis, a piece of roast chicken speared on his fork.

‘That’, said Adrian triumphantly, ‘was a man who is going to help me find Jane.’

‘Jane who came here to take Maya’s cat?’

‘Yes. That Jane. Except she’s not Jane. She’s Abby. And I’m going to find her tomorrow. It’s my turn’, he said, studying the Google map on his screen and writing down the address, ‘to stalk her.’

The following afternoon, Adrian found himself outside the offices of Retrotech, which were housed in a scruffy art deco block halfway between Old Street and Angel. He pressed the buzzer and shouted into the intercom, ‘Is Abby in today?’

‘Yes, but she’s not here right now. Who is this?’

‘Just a friend. Just passing, was going to see if she was free for lunch. What time are you expecting her back?’

‘She’s gone to a client’s in Soho; she should be back within the hour. Can I give her a message for you?’

‘No, no, don’t worry. I’ll try again next time I’m passing. Thanks for your help.’

‘You’re welcome.’

Adrian walked slowly away from the office doors and glanced from side to side. He saw a bench diagonally across the street and ran through the traffic to get to it. Then he phoned the office and asked the receptionist to reschedule the 3 p.m. development meeting, pulled on a pair of sunglasses and waited.

It was a relief for Cat to see Luke’s face when she pulled the front door open that afternoon. It was the second week of the summer holidays and she was done. Done with kids, done with rain, done with picking up dog crap, done with cooking fish fingers, done with Caroline’s increasingly late returns from work. She had not had time to do her hair properly for, like, three days and it was currently in a ponytail that she knew would stay in place even after she released the elastic band.

‘You look like shit,’ said Luke, taking in her appearance from head to toe.

‘And you look gay,’ she retorted, not for the first time. It was often true and it was always satisfying. ‘You try looking after three kids and two dogs every single day for two weeks. What happened to your beard?’ She squinted at his baby-soft face.

‘I took it off,’ he said. ‘I didn’t look gay enough with it on.’

‘I quite liked it,’ she said, letting him into the house where he was greeted like a long-lost son by the dogs. He patted them and then brushed non-existent dog hair off the front of his immaculate cream drainpipe trousers.

‘Yes, well, the day I take sartorial advice from you, dear sister, is the day I turn myself in to the fashion police.’

He headed automatically down the stairs to the basement, the dogs running behind like footmen. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, looking at the carnage in the kitchen and the TV area. ‘You should totally not be in charge of children. Or houses.’

Cat looked at what he saw: a half-hearted attempt to tame the kitchen post lunch and biscuit-making, one chocolate-faced child watching the Olympics on the floor in a pile created from every cushion in the house, another chocolate-faced child stretched out on the cushionless sofa eating yogurt from a pot balanced on its chest and a third child, dark-eyed, still in pyjamas, banging a tennis ball off the exterior wall in a state of near psychosis.

‘I agree,’ she said. ‘This was not a vocational decision, I can assure you. And I will not be doing this again next summer. I will be somewhere else entirely.’

‘A hundred pounds you won’t. Hello, small siblings!’ he shouted across the room to the children, only one of whom turned at the sound of his voice and raised a feeble hand.

‘What are you doing here, anyway? Why aren’t you at work?’

‘Oh, Dad’s doing these early finish days, to beat the non-existent Olympics traffic nightmare. Everyone is totally taking the piss. Dad wasn’t there this afternoon, he’s gone awol again, so I thought fuck it—’

‘Language …’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘So I thought
to hell with it
. And then I thought I hadn’t seen you for a while …’ He shrugged.

‘You are a love,’ she said drily. ‘Coffee?’

He shook his head.

‘Wine?’

‘What time is it?’

‘It’s …’ She pretended to look at a watch. ‘Oh, look, it is wine o’clock. Actually, it’s ten past.’ She beamed at him, pulled open Caroline’s booze fridge (she did love Caroline for having a booze fridge) and took out something with a screw top. ‘I totally deserve this,’ she said. ‘And I’m never having children. Or actually, if I do, I’ll emigrate to Hawaii or something, somewhere where it never rains. It’s so
fucking boring
.’ She mouthed the words silently. ‘Seriously, every time I suggest something, some activity, you can guarantee there’ll be one who says
no way
. And then I can’t be arsed to talk that person round so I end up having to placate the ones who
did
want to do the thing, which takes just as much effort as it would have taken to talk round the person who
didn’t
want to do the thing and then we’re all stuck here in the rain in bad moods. Making mountains out of cushions
for the thousandth time
.’ She rolled her eyes.

She offered Luke a plate of slightly misshapen biscuits decorated with Team GB emblems printed on to rice paper. ‘Olympics biscuit?’

‘No,’ said Luke, as she’d known he would. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him eat anything that had been baked in a real person’s oven. ‘Thanks all the same.’

Cat looked at her brother properly, over the rim of her wine glass. He looked pensive and uncomfortable. ‘So,’ she said, ‘what are you
really
doing here?’

‘I told you,’ he said, ‘I came to see you.’

‘No,’ she said, mock-sternly, her head cocked to one side, ‘you did not.’

‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Well, yes and no. I’ve done something really stupid.’

‘Oh, goody!’ She rubbed her hands together.

‘Oh, fuck off,’ he said sardonically.

‘Shhh!’

He grimaced. ‘Anyway, listen, remember Charlotte?’

‘Of course I remember Charlotte. We used to be quite close, remember?’

‘Well, anyway,
I slept with her
,’ he whispered.

Cat looked at him enquiringly. She had no idea if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

‘I bloody well slept with her. After it took me so long to get her out of my life. And now she’s … she’s …’

‘She thinks she’s your girlfriend again?’

‘Yes. Exactly.’

‘And you don’t want that?’ She eyed the plate of Olympics biscuits from the corner of her eye. She’d already had two; they weren’t even that nice, but she couldn’t stop thinking about them. She plucked one from the plate delicately and nibbled at the edge of it as though the biscuit were neither here nor there to her, a mere prop, something to do.

‘Of course I don’t want that. She’s a pyscho.’

‘Then why did you sleep with her?’

‘Well, no, obviously. Obviously I shouldn’t have slept with her. But I did. And now she’s all over me. Talking about moving up to London, getting a flat together.’

‘Oh, you total idiot.’

‘Yes. Thank you. I know. What shall I do?’

‘Why are you asking me?’

‘Because you’re a woman; because you used to be friends with her. I thought you might have some insight.’

She nibbled another strip off the biscuit and fiddled with the crumbs left in its wake. ‘Sorry, mate. No insight whatsoever. But maybe some honesty wouldn’t go amiss. Just tell her that it was a mistake. Tell her you don’t want her to be your girlfriend.’

‘I’ve tried.’

‘Trying doesn’t come into it, Luke. Just do it. Just say: Charlotte, you’re so hot that I couldn’t control my tiny little penis, but now, in the cold light of day, I’ve decided that this isn’t what I want. I’m sorry I’m such a total cocksucker. Please forgive me.’

‘Please don’t talk about my penis, it makes me feel dirty.’

‘Well, don’t go around putting your penis inside scary girls and then asking me what to do about it afterwards.’ She forgot to be delicate with her biscuit and stuffed the remaining third into her mouth in one piece.