After everyone left, while Scott put the girls to bed, I seated myself in the living room, on what used to be my favourite seat, and looked around me, taking in the fragments of our lives again. The sofa, the chairs, the ridiculous fireplace, the rug, the carpet, the butter-yellow walls, the wooden-slatted blinds, the ceiling rose, the chrome sockets, the oversize television.
I hate this room now. Everything bad that has happened seems to have happened in this room. Over there, Scott was put in handcuffs. Right here, I sat and listened to him tell me about his affair, not knowing he was lying about who but not what. And right there, in front of the door, I discovered whom he is really sleeping with. I will take a flame-thrower to this room one day, I really will. I will raze it to the ground and start again. Much like what I am going to do with my marriage right now.
Scott, my husband, the love of my life, is the picture of innocence as he checks his messages on his mobile and prepares to go out. He is that hard-edged handsome that unsettles rather than comforts or attracts me. His black suit is expensive, you can tell by looking at it. He fills it well, along with the black silk tie that I can tell – from knowing her – Beatrix bought for him. His white shirt is crisp and still crease-free, it will be another designer label. His shoes are from his collection, probably quite old since no new boxes have appeared on his side of the wardrobe recently. His hair is combed back, styled into place with the products that have been multiplying in the bathroom for months, probably even years now. He looks fake. He is a fake. Everything about him is fake.
‘Going over to screw Beatrix, are you?’ I ask him, conversationally. I do not feel like I’ve been hit by a truck this time. For the first time in a long time everything makes sense, the world does not seem to be full of things that don’t add up, with inconsistencies that only I seem to see, which must mean it is me who is crazy, out of step with the real world. I have clarity. I was not going mad, I wasn’t paranoid, I wasn’t selfish and clinging to the past, I wasn’t holding up the process of moving on by being cautious and on edge. All of my reactions were normal because I was still being cheated on, disrespected. LIED TO.
‘What?’ His head jerks up from staring at his mobile. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘Isn’t that what you’ve been texting about all day? How soon you can get over there and screw her?’
Hurt, shock, a smidgen of anger from him. ‘You can’t go around accusing me of all sorts because I’m friends with a woman, Tami. You have got to start trusting me again sometime, otherwise what’s the point in us trying again? Now, it’s been a really long, difficult day, I need to go out and clear my head. When I get back we can talk again about your ridiculous accusations and how you’re going to start to put this stuff behind you.’
‘Or were you both laughing over how stupid I am not to have seen what was going on literally under my nose?’
‘I don’t know where you’ve got this idea from but—’
‘I know you’ve been sleeping with Beatrix. Not Mirabelle, Beatrix. It was her all along.’
Scott’s light brown eyes are piercing as they try to drill their way into my head to find out what I know and what I am guessing.
He moves to speak, opens his mouth to lie.
‘There’s no point lying, I know the truth. I saw it with my very own eyes.’
He closes his mouth and slowly, surely he is transformed. His back is a little straighter, his body a little more rigid, his features set themselves into a sneer, and his hands curl into fists. I have seen this man before, of course, but he has rarely been like this with me. Tilting his head to one side slightly, he observes me for long, uncomfortable seconds. ‘If you know it all, what are you bothering to ask me about it for?’ With his voice the transformation is complete. He is a Challey again. A real Challey with all the sociopathic traits of one.
I should probably be scared, but I’m not. I am a fool, of course. ‘I want to know how you got those texts from Mirabelle because they were definitely from her number.’
‘What makes you think it wasn’t Mirabelle as well?’
‘I know it wasn’t Mirabelle as well,’ I state. ‘She wouldn’t do that to me.’
‘What, don’t think your precious Mirabelle was capable of it?’ Scott sneers.
‘Mirabelle was gay,’ I say to him.
The sneer is washed away by the tidal wave of that revelation. ‘What?’ he says, jolted to a whisper.
‘She. Was. Gay. She said to me that she wouldn’t touch you with a barge pole and me, idiot that I am, didn’t believe her. I mean, I touched you, so in my brain, obviously a million other women must be as stupid as me. But not Mirabelle, apparently, you’re not her type.’
Scott says stares wide-eyed at me.
‘Tell me how you got those text messages that convinced me you had been sleeping with her and that she was so obsessed with you she would lie to the police? I don’t understand how you managed that.’
‘Thought you were the person with all the answers.’
‘You stole her phone and wrote them all yourself, didn’t you? You did that so you could … Oh my God. Oh my God. You set up an alibi so you could force yourself onto someone.’ Nausea rises through me. My husband is a cold, calculating sexual predator. He’s probably done it before. I’m shaking now. The full horror of who I have been living with, sleeping with, loving, is revealing itself to me in broad, sickening strokes.
‘No, no, I didn’t plan it,’ he protests. ‘I didn’t do that and I didn’t plan it.’
‘Then tell me about the text messages because that’s the only thing that doesn’t makes sense.’
‘I, erm, I found her phone—’
‘Where? Where did you find it?’
A sigh, a pause. ‘On her desk. I went through her office, looking for information. I wanted to find out about her, she was so closed, so guarded. I always thought there was something she was holding back so I went through her desk and found she hadn’t taken her phone with her to a meeting. It wasn’t password protected despite how paranoid she was, so I looked through it. I saw the text messages and I knew it was a married man on the board, maybe even Terry. I wanted time to work out who it was, so I sent the messages to my phone as an insurance policy.’
‘Blackmail?’ I put my hands to my face in horror. ‘Blackmail, infidelity, violent porn, rape—’
‘No, no, you can’t say that because I didn’t do that. I didn’t try to rape her. Things got confused. She was sending mixed signals—’
‘How could she have been sending you mixed signals? She’s gay. She was gay.’ Was. Was. Was. She was gay. She doesn’t exist in the present tense any more; she’s gone.
‘Maybe she was confused about her sexuality,’ Scott says. ‘But, I thought, you know, she wanted it. I thought if we got it over and done with, things would be more settled between us.’
‘Over and done with? Did she have any say in it, or did you just—’
‘It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t how you’re making it sound. You weren’t there, you don’t understand. I thought if it got going, she’d—’
‘She’d what, happily accept what was happening? What you’re describing is rape, Scott,’ I shout at him. ‘And you know that. Any man knows that.’
‘It wasn’t like that.’
‘You need to leave. I need you to pack your things and leave.’
He shakes his head. ‘No. I can’t.’ He shrugs.
‘Scott, I need you to leave.’
‘That’s not going to happen. I can’t leave. Where would I go? And I can’t be without you all.’
‘I need …’ My voice dries up and I take a moment, a moment to accept what is happening. I knew before, when I realised it was Beatrix not Mirabelle, what he had done, but now it is real. Now it is in front of me, the monster that lives under the bed, the bogeyman that stalks your dreams. They are real and here. My husband is a rapist. He needs to leave. ‘You have to leave.’
‘I can’t,’ he says. ?
??Don’t you understand? I can’t.’
‘Scott, if I told you that your daughters were living with a man who had been arrested for a serious crime that he’s all but admitted to, that he was planning on blackmailing someone, that he lied to their mother on a daily basis for years, and was addicted to something that would be harmful to them if they were exposed to it, what would you say? Wouldn’t you want that person away from them? Wouldn’t you say that he had to leave and sort himself out before he had meaningful contact with them, let alone lived with them and influenced important decisions in their lives?’
His face crumples, he shakes his head. His hands come together as in prayer, as if begging. ‘Please, Tami, don’t make me go.’ He seems small, terrified.
‘Scott, please, don’t do this. You know you have to leave.’
Suddenly he is a Challey again, his face angry and scornful. ‘It’s my house, if you’ve got a problem, then you go. Because I’m going nowhere.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘OK. I’ll take the girls and we’ll go to London. We’ll stay with my parents.’ I start to formulate the plan for the next few weeks. I’d rather not, I know my parents won’t make it till the end of the first evening there without telling me ‘we told you so’ about my life choices, it’ll be hell, but at least the girls will be OK. At least I’ll have space to think.
‘You’re not taking my children anywhere,’ he spits.
‘Try and stop me,’ I reply.
Another change. ‘Tami,’ soft, reasonable, ‘it’s not as bad as you’re making out. I’ll get help. I’ve already broken it off with … with her. I’ll get help for my porn habit. I’ll get better. But I can’t do that without you and the girls. I can’t do it if I leave. I need to know that you’ll still be here for me at the end of it. What would be the point otherwise? I need you to be there for me.’
‘You’ll always be the girls’ father. They’ll always need you in their lives.’
‘What about you?’ he asks. ‘Will you always need me? Will I always be in your life?’
‘We’re always going to be parents,’ I say. ‘We still have to bring up the girls together.’
He shakes his head, the tears coming back. ‘Don’t talk like that’s all we’ll ever be to each other.’
I say nothing. I can’t tell him that we’ll ever be together again because right now, we can’t. I can’t see how I’m going to ever be with him again.
He crumples completely, his knees giving way, leaving him in a heap on the floor. ‘Don’t send me away. Please don’t do this to me. I love you. And I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Please don’t send me away because I didn’t think. I never meant to hurt you.’
Before all this started, before Scott and I became lovers, we used to sit in my bedsit, watching television or videos and eating crisps. And talking. We talked for hours about nothing, creating a friendship from our words. I don’t know when it became possible for him to do all the things he’s done and I don’t know when it became possible for me to watch him cry and not reach out to soothe him. But that is what is happening. I wonder what the Tamia of then would say to the Tamia I am today if I told her where I was, where she would one day be.
‘I’m going,’ he says to me. Two bags packed, a suit bag draped over the top of the bag that is resting high on his shoulder. He used to carry his schoolbag like that, the memory almost makes me smile. ‘I, erm, I’m going to change,’ he says to my nod. ‘I’m going to be worthy of you again. I promise. I’m going to be a better father and I’m going to be the man I used to be. Do you understand? I’m going to win you back.’
‘Do it for yourself,’ I say quietly. ‘OK?’ I add, softening my voice because it sounds as if I don’t care. As if this is easy and I have removed myself from his orbit in one easy step. ‘Do it for yourself.’
Our eyes meet, and I feel the guillotine fall between us. Severed. Apart. I will never look at him in the same way again. He inhales to speak, and I raise my hand in a stop gesture and shake my head. I don’t want to hear those words again. A thousand ‘sorrys’ will not change this. A million ‘I never meant to hurt yous’ will not undo this place we are at. One ‘I love you’ will not alter the damage in our hearts.
‘I’ll see you, Scott,’ I say.
‘I’ll see you, TB.’
I lower my gaze as I nod, tears collecting on my eyelashes. We used to say that at the end of the holidays, when he was heading back to college. When I knew I’d miss him because he was one of those friends I didn’t really think about, didn’t hear from, and when he wasn’t there it was no big deal, but in the holidays we were inseparable.
I wonder what the Scott of then would say to me if I told him what had happened. I wonder if he’d fix me with his gaze, steady and certain and strong? I wonder if his face would frown as he listened and then would curl up into a smile as he told me I was off my rocker? That he would never do those things, and I would never have allowed things to get so bad.
The front door closing is an explosion that happens deep in my chest.
I want to run after him and tell him to come back, that we’ll work it out, that everything will be all right. And that’s the reason why he has to go away.
Fleur
‘Hi Fleur, it’s Tami Challey. I hope you’re doing OK, all things considered. I’m actually ringing to apologise to you. I didn’t tell you the entire truth about what happened with your mother and my husband. I thought they’d had an affair because the other story was just too awful to contemplate. Basically, my husband was arrested for assaulting your mother. That was very hard for me to accept so I threw myself into believing they had an affair. I didn’t tell you the whole truth and that was a terrible and cowardly thing to do because I was trying to protect myself. Which isn’t at all fair on you when you already have so much to deal with.
‘My husband was also questioned in connection with your mother’s death but he has an alibi. I’m going to be questioned, too, but I don’t know what they’re going to ask or even why they want to talk to me when they know Scott is innocent. Unless they think I’m somehow involved in her death … God, I’m just rambling now.
‘The point is, I’m sorry. I got the impression that your life has been lived with people not telling you the truth about everything and I shouldn’t have done that to you. Fear makes you do stupid things. I really hope you’re doing OK. Let me know if you need anything or even if you just want to chat. Bye.’
That’s the thing about Mrs C, she makes it hard to hate her. Really hard. I didn’t really hate her, I did feel betrayed, though. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t tell me everything until now.
I listen to the message again.
If we were in a film, it’d turn out that she did it all along. Seeing as we’re not in a film but in, like, real life, I don’t think it’s going to pan out like that. Or maybe it will, who knows. The point is, she’s apologised and ’fessed up in the end. And she seemed to know that I’d been hearing half-truths all my life and wanted the truth.
I like her. She’s the person who’s come closest to the idea of what a mum should be. But, still, she stayed with a man who attacked my real mother. I don’t think it’d be wise to trust her completely, or at all.
I’m still here in Brighton. So is Noah. He works from wherever he has his computer because he’s a consultant and travels a lot so can be based anywhere. We’ve moved out of my B&B to a slightly nicer boutique hotel because we wanted more space and much better Wi-Fi for Noah.
He’s sitting by the window at the table where we had breakfast, concentrating on his laptop, papers spread around him on the table and the floor so it looks likes large, rectangular snowflakes have fallen on him. It’s all organised, apparently, and the way he scratches his head, frowns and then searches for a good few minutes for something is just all part of the way he works. It’s nothing to do with not having organised himself properly.
I smile and go back to painting the toenails of my left foot in rainbow colours.
The little toe is red, the next one is orange, the next one is going to be yellow, the next one will be green, my big toe will be blue. Why? Why not? I’m thinking of getting a tattoo done, too – something that starts on my foot and goes up my ankle. Why? Why not?
The sense of peace I feel not having to go back to London just yet is so comforting. Dad’s been calling quite a lot and I’ve only answered half his calls. I’m not being nasty, it’s hearing the desperation in his voice, every time it churns it all up again and the guilt starts and I feel like the worst daughter in the world.
Eight years ago
‘Are you sure, Fleur, you want to do this?’ Dad said to me.
‘Yes, Daddy, it’ll be fun.’
‘I’m not sure it’s safe,’ he said.
We were the last ones at the coach pick-up point, of course. He’d been saying this all morning as I finished packing for the four-day trip to Spurton Hall in Wales. I would be away for four whole days. Four days. I couldn’t imagine it properly. I’d be away from Dad and he couldn’t tell me what to do.
‘Daddy, it’ll be fine.’ After a struggle, I managed to get the case out of his hand. ‘I’ll call you every night and I’ll make sure I go to bed really early.’
Dad had only said yes to this because my form tutor, Miss Devendis, and the headmaster, Mr Ratchford, had told him that I wasn’t mixing well with the other kids. ‘Fleur’s work is excellent, but she isn’t developing social skills as well as the other pupils because she doesn’t seem to participate as much with the other children.’ After that meeting I’d been allowed to join the after-school gymnastics club, and now I was allowed to go on this trip.
I hadn’t really thought it would happen. Dad said we couldn’t afford it first of all, then he changed his mind and said it might be OK. And now we were here. I knew he could change his mind any second and I wouldn’t be able to go, but we were here at least, that was something.
‘Fleur, I’m so looking forward to you being on this trip,’ Miss Devendis said, coming over and taking my bag off me. That was it, I had to go because now Miss Devendis had the bag, Dad would never be so ‘rude’ as to take it back.