Good Husbands E-Book

Cate Ray

• Herausgeber: September Publishing
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 518

Beschreibung

'The most riveting and unflinching he said/she said novel to date ... absolutely staggering, insanely gripping and wholly unputdownable.' May Cobb, author of The Hunting Wives Jess, Priyanka and Stephanie are all happily married to men they think they know inside out. Then each woman receives a letter accusing her husband of involvement in a sexual assault that took place 20 years ago. Who do they believe, what should they do and can they come together as their lives are upended? A compelling, beautifully crafted thriller about consent, friendship and prejudice which asks - would you sacrifice your family life in support of another woman? 'In an emotional and powerfully evocative story, three women grapple with a discovery that could shatter their lives. Ray has expertly crafted a thoughtful and important read that ends with a stunning surprise.' Liv Constantine, author of The Last Mrs Parrish

Leseprobe

Good Husbands

Good Husbands

Cate Ray

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

First published in 2022 by September Publishing

Copyright © Cate Ray 2022

The right of Cate Ray to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder

Typeset by RefineCatch Limited, www.refinecatch.com

Printed in Poland on paper from responsibly managed, sustainable sources by Hussar Books

ISBN 9781914613135

EPUB ISBN 9781914613142

September Publishing

www.septemberpublishing.org

For Bec Vaughan, with love

Yes, injured Woman! rise, assert thy right!

Anna Laetitia Barbauld, ‘The Rights of Woman’, c. 1795

Contents

Prologue

PART ONE

The Letter

Jess

Priyanka

Stephanie

Jess

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Jess

PART TWO

The Diary

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Priyanka

Jess

PART THREE

The Key

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Jess

Priyanka

Stephanie

Jess

Jess

Stephanie

Priyanka

Jess

Stephanie

Jess

Jess

Priyanka

Jess

Jess

Stephanie

Jess

Epilogue

Acknowledgements



It starts out as curiosity – the temptation to peep behind the door. Just one look, and maybe that will be enough to satisfy it. But that’s never going to happen because the door is always locked. They know what they’re doing.

Before long, the desire has grown so sharp it’s difficult to sleep through. Nothing dulls the pain. I carry it everywhere I go.

I begin to have the same dream, night after night … Someone opens the door for me and I turn to thank them, but they’re gone. A stranger who has done me an enormous kindness, perhaps without even knowing.

I don’t have time to think about it because the clock’s ticking. I’m taking in the palm-leaf wallpaper, inhaling the scent of lilies, knowing that at any moment they will spot me, eject me back onto the streets.

It happens all too soon. And I wake to a smell that isn’t lilies, to walls that aren’t palm leaves, and to bones that ache and creak. The longing becomes hostile in those moments; I hatch all kinds of plots, none of which will see the light of day.

And then, one night, in my dream, everything changes. The stranger reveals her face to me and suddenly the way forward is clear.

Maybe there’s a way inside, a way of staying longer, after all.



PART ONE

The Letter

Jess

I’m 100 per cent average – said no one, ever. Yet that’s what most of us are, myself included. I know the sum of my parts and it equals ordinary and there’s no shame in that. In fact, it’s a strength. My parents were ordinary too and as their only child they raised me to respect being a leaf on a tree, a grain of sand on the beach. You get the picture. But it doesn’t mean being insignificant, anonymous. It means being part of a community, a clan, a cause greater than yourself.

I realise this kind of thinking isn’t very now. The idea of being average scares my girls to death. I wouldn’t accuse them of it outright, yet it’s probably in their DNA too, and at some point, they’ll have to confront it. Mediocrity isn’t something they can deal with and perhaps that’s where we’re going wrong because ordinary is what gets you through. Ordinary is noble, life-affirming. It’s the heart of humanity and, somehow, we’ve forgotten that.

And then the letter arrives, and I know as soon as I read it that I’m going to have to rethink everything. Because I’m fairly sure that ordinary people don’t get letters like this.

It’s the first day of autumn and I don’t know if it’s actually colder or whether I’m imagining it, as though a door closed yesterday on summer and a chillier one opened, but I’m definitely feeling it today. The tip of my nose is icy and I would get a hot water bottle for my lap, only I’m leaving the house in twenty minutes.

I’m meeting Duane Dee, my favourite sculptor – the only sculptor – on my client list, and anything could happen. You never know what you’re going to get with artists, which is why I like working with them. They’re up and down but more than that, they’re honest. I’ve never known a profession like it. My artists talk about integrity and authenticity all the time and I lap it up. I love that the men don’t shave for meetings, the women don’t dye their greys, no one bothers ironing anything.

The investors are another sort altogether. People who buy and sell art are very different from those who create it. I know whose company I prefer, but I keep that to myself because even I know not to bite the hand that feeds me.

Max thinks it’s funny that I work for Moon & Co – he calls them the Moonies – even though he was the one who got me the job. He knows everyone in Bath because he grew up here, whereas I’m originally from the East End, London. I’ve been living here for twenty years and it still makes me laugh that locals think it’s urban, even though I can see cows from our bathroom window.

I’ve just got enough time for a quick look at Facebook. I don’t know why I do it to myself, but sometimes I feel that if I don’t keep up, I’ll be left behind. Which is odd because it’s not as if it’s a race, is it, being human?

I’m forty-six years old and still on the lookout for new friends. I’m pretty sure I won’t find them here in this endless scroll of happy images. People work so hard to make themselves appear perfect, it’s hard not to try to find faults. I don’t enjoy it. It makes me feel bitchy, but still I return and peek.

I glance at the time: ten minutes until I have to go. Outside, red leaves are hanging on the trees as though they’ve gone rusty and can’t move. There’s no wind today, the air completely still.

Duane Dee doesn’t use social media. He thinks the tech companies are using us to get rich and that it’s odd I’m willing to be a pawn in Silicon Valley, because I strike him as militant.

It’s probably because I still have a slight East End accent, which can sound blunt, tough, but I like to think of it more as plain-talking. My late dad used to say that the East Enders wore their hearts of gold on their sleeves. A firefighter all his life, he believed in helping people, especially along our street of identical terrace houses where no one could set themselves apart.

Enough of Facebook. I shut it down, telling it I won’t be back, knowing I will. And then I gather my things, ready to take off.

In the hallway, I sit on the stairs to put on my trainers, wondering when I started dressing like a teenager, and that’s when the postman comes. There’s only one small piece of mail, which slips in like a piece of confetti, drifting to the mat. I pick it up with interest because I can’t think when I last received a handwritten letter.

But it’s gone from my mind now because I’m locking up and putting on my puffa jacket as I walk to the car. And then I’m driving to town – the sun a pale wedge of lemon above me – running through what to say to Duane Dee.

Is he well? Is he pushing himself too hard? Is he sleeping enough? He always looks chronically tired.

I ask too many questions. ‘Intrusive.’ That’s the little bit of feedback my boss always gives me. Jess, here’s some feedback you didn’t ask for …

When people say you’re intrusive, assertive or direct, they’re basically telling you to be quiet. Are men given feedback like that? I don’t know. But I’m thinking about this as I enter the Sicilian café, which is my personal preference for brunch and not Duane’s. Whenever he chooses, we end up somewhere too dark to see our food, sitting on tasselled mats.

The service here is very good. Within seconds of my sitting down, the waitress hands me a menu even though I always have an Americano and an almond pastry.

Glancing in the wall mirror beside me, I note that my expression is severe. A semi-friend told me recently that I carry a lot of tension in my face. It wasn’t that kind of her to say, but I know what she means. I have bony cheekbones and thin lips that can look mean if I’m not careful.

So, I’ve been making an effort lately to smile more, worry less and unclench my hands. I also tend to tap my teeth together and I’m doing that now in time to the café music as I wait for Duane.

And then I remember the letter.

It takes me several moments to find it, as well as my reading glasses. Since hitting my mid-forties, I misplace things all the time. I normally ask myself, Where would I have put it? And it’s never there.

The letter is in the front compartment of my rucksack, which I haven’t used for so long there are still specks of food and foil from the school run years ago. Flicking the crumbs off the envelope, I examine the handwriting, feeling a pang of nostalgia at the idea of someone putting pen to paper just for me.

The writing is tiny and in capitals – internet code for shouting – but in this case is more like whispering. Something about it gives me the sense that it’s trying its hardest not to offend or take up too much space. I have to prise the paper out of the envelope, where it’s wedged, folded into eighths.

THURS 1st OCTOBER

DEAR JESSICA,

I HOPE YOU’RE SITTING DOWN TO READ THIS AND THAT YOU’RE ALONE.

 THIS IS SO DIFFICULT. YOU WOULDN’T BELIEVE HOW OFTEN I IMAGINED TALKING TO YOU, BUT I DIDN’T KNOW HOW TO GO ABOUT IT. AND NOW IT’S TOO LATE.

For what? I check the postmark on the envelope: Monday, 5 October, 5 p.m. That was last night. Shifting uneasily in my seat, I turn over the letter to see who sent it: Holly Waite.

 I’VE KNOWN FOR SOME TIME THAT I WON’T MAKE OLD BONES, BUT NOW IT’S URGENT AND I’VE ONLY GOT A FEW DAYS LEFT. SO, I’LL JUST COME OUT WITH IT.

 ON 22 DECEMBER 1990, MY MUM NICOLA WAITE WAS RAPED BY 3 MEN IN THE MONTAGUE CLUB, BATH. THE MEN WERE ANDREW LAWLEY, DANIEL BROOKE AND MAXIMILIAN JACKSON.

 MY MUM FELL PREGNANT WITH ME. SHE ASKED THE MEN FOR HELP, BUT THEY DIDN’T WANT TO BE INVOLVED. SHE NEVER RECOVERED FROM WHAT HAPPENED AND DIED 9 YEARS AGO OF AN ACCIDENTAL OVERDOSE.

 EVERYTHING I OWN IS AT STONE’S STORAGE, UNIT 21, 156 CLEVEDON ROAD. IF YOU GO TO THEM, THEY’LL GIVE YOU THE KEY. YOU’RE WELCOME TO ANYTHING. I HAVE NO ONE ELSE TO LEAVE IT TO.

 WE NEVER KNEW WHO MY FATHER WAS. SO, I’M ALSO WRITING TO:

 PRIYANKA LAWLEY, 32 WALDEN WAY, HIGH LANE, BATH.

 STEPHANIE BROOKE, 7 SOUTH AVENUE, BATH.

 I’M SORRY TO DO THIS. I KNOW IT’LL BE A SHOCK, BUT I COULDN’T GO WITHOUT TELLING YOU. YOUR HUSBANDS WENT UNPUNISHED, WALKING AWAY COMPLETELY FREE. I ALWAYS HOPED THAT ONE DAY I’D SEE JUSTICE DONE, BUT I COULDN’T THINK OF A WAY TO DO THAT WITHOUT DESTROYING MORE LIVES.

 NOW THAT I’M OUT OF TIME, I CAN SEE THAT IT WASN’T MY CHOICE TO MAKE. SO, I’M PASSING IT OVER TO YOU, TELLING YOU WHAT YOU SHOULD HAVE KNOWN FROM THE START. IT ALWAYS FELT SO PERSONAL, BUT IT WASN’T, NOT REALLY. YOU CAN’T DRAW A LINE WHERE ONE LIFE STARTS AND ANOTHER BEGINS.

 ONCE AGAIN, I’M SORRY.

I HOPE YOU DO THE RIGHT THING.

YOURS TRULY,

HOLLY WAITE X

The kiss throws me the most. I stare at it. It’s like she’s trying to add a softener, after making the worst possible accusation.

I read the letter again, my eye lingering on Maximilian Jackson. No one ever calls Max that. It doesn’t even sound like him.

‘Jess?’ I glance up to see Duane standing there, untying his Aztec scarf, clay stains on his jumper. ‘All right, darlin’?’

I can’t pull out a smile for him. I’m not great at hiding my emotions. It’s one of the things Max has always loved about me and I like it about myself too. Yet, suddenly, it feels like an impairment; a liability, even. Slipping the letter into my bag, I stand up robotically and we exchange kisses. He smells of autumn air and his cheek as it brushes mine is so cold it makes me shiver. ‘Hi, Duane.’

We sit down and Duane scans a menu before tossing it aside. ‘Who am I kidding? I’m gonna get the calzoni. I always get the calzoni.’

‘So … how are you?’ I manage to ask. ‘How’s the new project going?’ I sound uptight, formal. I clench my hands, trying to stop them from trembling.

The waitress takes our order. And then I sit rigidly in my chair, listening as Duane describes his latest creation – how it embodies technoculture, hyperreality, paranoia.

When the coffees arrive, I drink mine too quickly and burn my tongue.

‘You OK?’ He cocks his head at me.

No, I’m not. How could I be?

‘Actually, I just need to pop to the ladies. Could you excuse me a minute?’

In the solace of the toilets, I stand with my hands against the sink, trying to breathe, feeling dizzy. Closing my eyes, I see Maximilian Jackson again in that tiny handwriting.

It’s not Max. It’s some sort of mistake. Holly Waite … whoever that is … is wrong. And, perhaps, dead.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt happy before to hear of someone’s demise, but as I open my eyes it occurs to me that if this woman is deceased then there’s no one around to make any accusations.

I return to the table, where Duane is tucking into his calzoni, a thread of cheese hanging from his lip. Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to tell him, or anyone, so they could set themselves straight. But something strange happens and I just sit there, silent, watching the thread dangle as he chews and talks.

It seems to me that I don’t know who I am. Or, more to the point, who my husband is.

When I get home, Max is out. I pause in the hallway, noiselessly taking off my shoes because I don’t want Eva to know I’m back. At some point during the last year, I started tiptoeing around the house, stealing moments of peace. Sometimes I sit in the dark so no one knows I’m there. Tonight, though, I have more reason than usual to sneak.

‘Mum? Is that you?’

Damn. A door opens, followed by footsteps across the landing.

‘Hello, my lovely,’ I say.

‘Hi, Mum.’ Eva recently turned fifteen and was gifted very long legs. From this angle, they’re all I can see until she emerges fully at the top of the stairs. ‘You’re home early.’

‘Am I?’ I pretend to be surprised. ‘I’ve got some work to do. Are you OK carrying on with your homework?’

She nods. ‘That’s fine. I’ve got Spanish revision.’

‘Good.’ I feel guilty. Eva normally likes a chat as soon as I get home. ‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No, thanks. Call me when you’re done. I want to tell you what Charlotte said.’

Charlotte only reaches Eva’s shoulder in height yet somehow manages to bring her down every day. They’ve been friends since primary school, despite my efforts to break them up. Just hearing her name makes me waver, assessing Eva’s face. But then I think of the letter, my body tensing with resolve. ‘See you in half an hour,’ I say, making for the kitchen.

‘OK, Mum.’

I make a cup of tea whilst waiting for the laptop to wake up. It’s slow and old, but it’s the only one that doesn’t talk to the others and doesn’t have child safety blocks on it.

With the letter hidden on my lap, I enter Holly’s name into a search engine.

Holly Waite, Bath, UK, is an osteopath and a make-up artist. She could be either of them, or neither. I look up Stone’s Storage instead. It exists, seems innocuous enough, but then storage is storage.

I bend my neck to read the first of the men’s names. Andrew Lawley. I’ve never heard of him, which is odd because I thought I knew all of Max’s friends. He’s a very sociable, open sort of person. His mantra is to treat people the way you’d want to be treated yourself. I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned that I adore him but it probably should have been the first thing I told you about me.

I type Andrew Lawley, Bath, UK and tap my teeth together as an image appears. His eyes are deep-set, his hair bushy – set away from his head as though you could lift it off. I don’t hate or love his face; it leaves me neutral.

He runs his own IT company, based in an attractive Georgian square in the city, several streets away from the Montague Club.

I sip my tea, thinking of the club’s unwelcoming, unmarked door. I’ve never really given it much thought before. I know it opened in the mid-nineteenth century, a lavish gentlemen’s club for the landed gentry. Gradually, it evolved into a private members’ club, attracting businessmen and professionals, allowing women to join in the eighties.

Max doesn’t go there very often; maybe once a month, if that. I don’t need to know everything about him, not on the business side of things. We’ve reached a point where I smile and nod when he talks about fixed-rate mortgages, just like he does when I tell him about the Moonies.

I’ve never even set foot inside the place. I’m not into private clubs. I don’t like private schools, either, or anything exclusive. It irritates me that some people can’t cope unless they’re on the top tier, looking down on the rest of us. But these days, the Montague is full of entrepreneurs, according to Max: excellent for networking. He arranges most of the members’ mortgages, so I can’t argue with that.

He started going there during his teens with his dad. So he could easily have been there in – I look at the letter on my lap – December 1990.

Upstairs, a door closes and then the pipes whisper as Eva comes out of the bathroom. I wait for her to return to her room and for everything to go quiet again.

I take a closer look at Andrew Lawley’s picture. How old is he? I guess at fifty. Max is fifty, but a lot better looking. Maybe this guy is slightly older. Either way, they’d have been about twenty in 1990.

So, I’m doing this? I’m taking a stranger’s word for it? Why don’t I just show Max the letter – confide in him like I do with everything else, and ask him outright?

I don’t answer myself – not yet, anyway. Instead, I look up the next man. Daniel Brooke. The moment I type it, a light goes on in my head.

Brooke Prestige Cars is a large dealership in the city centre. Everyone knows it. You can’t sit in traffic in Bath without having to look at one of those window stickers.

I’m surprised, though. I had no idea Max knew him.

I find Daniel Brooke’s photo on the company website page and again, he looks about fifty. Unlike Andrew Lawley, I have an immediate reaction to this man. His hair is spiky, cropped short like an army cadet, and there’s the hint of a smile on his lips as though he thinks he’s smarter than you.

The front door rattles and I jump. I’ve completely lost track of the time. Quickly, I grab the letter and stuff it into my bag and I’m just deleting the history on the laptop and slamming down the lid when Poppy enters the kitchen.

I can smell the chlorine from here. ‘Hey, Mamma Mia,’ she says, going to the fridge, the back of her sweater wet where her hair has dripped onto it. ‘What the—?’ She spins round, her face like a screwed-up newspaper. ‘Who drank all the juice?’

She’s scrappy, like me. You shouldn’t typecast your kids. We all know they’re their own people, but still, we look for ourselves in them and I always see myself in Poppy.

‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ She stamps her foot.

I should say something. She’s always shouting and I’m sure our elderly neighbours can hear her. Yet I’m too busy watching Max, who’s just come in with an armful of swimming bags and coats, as though he’s taken five twelve-year-olds swimming and not just one.

‘What’s all that lot?’ I’m glad of the distraction. I wasn’t sure how I’d be with him.

‘Sasha left her things,’ he says, dropping the bundle onto the table. ‘I’ve texted Marie to say we’ve got it. It’s no biggy.’

He’s so easy with it all … Sasha … Marie … I couldn’t pick these people out in a line up, but then he’s been taking our girls swimming since they were toddlers. I’m happy not to be involved. There are parts of my daughters’ lives that are nothing to do with me because they fall under his jurisdiction. It’s the way we’ve always done it: fifty-fifty, right down the middle. That’s how partnerships are supposed to work.

‘Everything OK?’ he asks, catching sight of my expression.

I’m still sitting at the table, chewing a thumbnail. ‘Yeah, I was just doing some work.’

‘Think I’ll take a quick shower then. It’s always so bloody hot in that pool.’ He loosens his tie, unbuttoning his tight shirt, arms bulging.

I try to imagine what the swim mums think when they look at him, maybe mistaking his friendliness for something else … subtly checking out his frame, his heavy eyelids and long eyelashes, weighing up whether the lack of height would be a problem.

He works out most days. And in all honestly, I like it. I like having a man who others find attractive; a man who is strong and capable.

Capable of what?

As he draws close to me, pressing a kiss onto my lips with a flutter of his cartoon eyes, I feel mistrust for the first time.

‘What’s wrong?’ He frowns.

‘Nothing. Just tired.’ One of the benefits of being middle-aged is that you can use this line to cover pretty much anything and no one ever questions it.

He kisses me again. And then he’s off, upstairs, whistling an empty tune.

Just before lights out, I tap on Eva’s door. She’s in bed, duvet drawn to chin.

‘Hey, lovely.’ I sit down on the edge of her bed. ‘Sorry we didn’t get to talk. It’s been one of those days. Do you want to tell me about Charlotte now?’ But she’s already sleepy, the nightlight casting a peach glow over her face. ‘OK, then. You get some rest.’ I nudge her hair from her eyes, kiss her cheek. ‘Night, night. Love you, sweetheart.’

In the doorway, I turn back to gaze at her. She looks just like she did as a baby and I regret the time that’s passed so quickly. Closing the door softly, I think for the thousandth time how my mum would have loved watching her grow, turning into a woman; Poppy, too. Yet life has a way of taking your beautifully drawn-up plans and red-inking them.

In our bedroom, Max is undressing. He takes off his T-shirt, swapping it for a pyjama top which fits snugly over his chest. I feel a familiar swirl of pride and lust, followed by that nasty mistrust again. I hate this. I’ve never hidden anything from him before.

Just ask him. Give him a chance to explain that it’s a huge mistake. A terrible lie.

I practise it.

Max, hon. Do you know someone called Nicola Waite? Did you rape her in 1990?

I can’t do it. If he lies, I’ll know. He gets a look, a tension around his mouth when he fibs. I have a strong radar for these things and have called him out on it before, on little lies like whether it was him who tracked mud through the house.

On something this big, he wouldn’t be able to hide it. We’d both know the truth and it would hang between us. Maybe I don’t know him as well as I thought I did, but I know me. This letter, this accusation – if endorsed – would destroy our marriage in an instant.

My life. Our girls. Our home. Everything ruined.

Switching off the bedside light, he spoons me and I breathe heavily, pretending to have fallen asleep in record time. Within minutes, he loosens up, his limbs slipping away, softening.

I can’t confront him about the letter yet. I need more time, more information.

Drawing up my knees, I curl into a ball, my body tight. Sometimes, before you do something really big, it helps to make yourself small. That way, if it all goes wrong, you’re not an easy target. That’s what I’m thinking as I fall asleep.

Priyanka

There’s a reckless part of me that I struggle to contain whenever I arrive at Tadpoles. It’s the same sensation I used to get when the opening chords to a brilliant track boomed through the speakers and I would spill my pint in the race to the dance floor. The same excitement, the same burst of energy where I don’t know what to do with myself. You could say I’ve swapped partying for parenting and I’m more than happy with that. Look what I’ve gained.

Turning off the stereo, I jump out of the car, locking it over my shoulder. I can see Beau waiting for me behind the wooden gate, holding up a single red rose, and it’s all I can do not to run to him.

On my way across the car park, I catch up with a mum whom I see most days, wearing a velvet blazer and ballet pumps, even in a frost. She probably knows me as pink hair, Doc Marten boots.

‘All right, bab?’ I’m thirty-six and haven’t lived in the Midlands since I was twenty-one, but sometimes I still talk like we did at school: me cocker, me duck, bab. It’s not something I seem to have much control of, breaking into it like a nervous comedy routine.

‘Hi there.’ You can tell she’s itching to get away – eyes already fixed on the other blazers queuing to collect their treasure. She’s probably worried I’ll try to make friends and is making a mental note to come five minutes earlier tomorrow to avoid me.

I’m at the wooden gate now, at the back of the queue. Ballet Pumps has slipped away. ‘Hey you,’ I call to Beau, waving at him.

‘Hello, Mummy.’ He holds the rose higher so I can see it.

This is the bit where I struggle the most to rein it in. I want to grab him and throw him up to the sky and catch him again.

‘Nippy, isn’t it,’ I say to the dad next to me. ‘Wish I’d brought me cardi.’ He’s on his phone and looks at me in surprise as though he didn’t know I was there. He doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing here or which child is his. I’m not like that. Even when I’m not with Beau, I’m with him. I won’t have to use a GPS tracker when he’s older; I’ll know where he is.

I’m at the front now. The nursery assistant introduces me to a new colleague who’ll be looking after Beau from now on. She’s petite – on my eye level – and her name’s A-na-ees, although it won’t be written like that. As a teacher, I have to come up with quick ways to remember names. Spelling it phonetically helps, so long as I don’t write it that way on school reports.

‘Is this for me?’ I bend down to talk to Beau, who glows with pride as he hands me the rose.

‘It’s chocolate,’ he whispers, tapping his nose to indicate a secret.

I inspect the rose. It really is chocolate: red foil on a green stick.

‘My boyfriend works for a chocolatier,’ A-na-ees says.

‘Well, lucky you. What a result!’ I lift Beau and kiss him, propping him on my hip. He’s only three, but it won’t be long before he’s taller than me – no joking.

‘I love your hair,’ she says.

‘Thanks. I do it myself.’

‘Really? It looks so professional.’ She clocks the butterfly tattoo on my wrist, her gaze falling to the neon laces in my Doc Martens.

‘Mummy colours her eyes too,’ says Beau, touching my nose stud. He always presses the emerald, as though he thinks it’s going to fall off.

She looks confused. ‘I wear coloured contact lenses,’ I explain. Today, my eyes are violet, one of my favourites.

‘Oh.’ She clasps her hands together. ‘That’s so cool.’ I can see that she doesn’t know what to make of me.

‘I like to mix things up. Keep everyone on their toes. Isn’t that right, Beau?’

He nods. ‘Mummy knows if Daddy hasn’t looked at her today.’

We both laugh and I can see Ballet Pumps watching me out of the corner of her eye. I set Beau down because he seems to weigh more than he did this morning. And then we go, Beau skipping alongside me, telling me about finger painting and sausages for lunch.

In the car, I strap him in and turn the music from Kiss FM to ‘Wheels on the Bus’. Beau kicks his feet and gazes out of the window with his big brown eyes, curls catching the sunshine. Sometimes, I can’t believe that he almost didn’t make it. He’s the most beautiful boy on the planet and I’m so lucky to have him.

‘Hello!’ I call out, setting Beau’s day bag and my pile of school books on the table. There’s a letter in the rack, sitting there on its own. It’ll be from one of my nieces in Leicester.

I push it into the pocket of my tunic and call again for Andy. ‘We’re home!’

He’s going slightly deaf and says it’s because he’s fifteen years older than me, but I think he’s too young for it to be age-related. More likely, he gets absorbed in what he’s doing. He always seems to hear me when I say I’m in the mood for sex, or can’t manage the rest of my chips.

Deaf or not, he can surely feel Beau, who’s thundering down the hallway, floorboards juddering. Anyone would think they’d been separated for years, not a handful of hours.

I poke my head around the study door. Beau is perched on Andy’s lap, telling him about the chocolate rose and how much his new nursery assistant likes my pink hair. ‘Well, what’s not to love?’ Andy says. ‘Everyone loves Mummy … We do, don’t we?’

‘Aww, stop. You’ll make me blush.’

In truth, I can’t get enough of hearing things like this, as the only woman in the house. Growing up, I was the youngest of five – little Pree – and I’m used to being the one who everyone looks out for. Of course, the flip side is that no one thinks you can cross the road without supervision. My mum still rings to ask if I’m eating properly and when I’m coming home.

‘So, how was it with Saffron?’ Andy asks, setting Beau down.

‘Not great. He’s permanently excluded.’

His face falls. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, my love.’

‘It’s OK.’ I reach my hand out for Beau, who trots forward happily. ‘He kept pushing his luck. It’s like he wanted it to happen, but I didn’t even get a chance to say bye.’

I teach RPE – religion, philosophy and ethics, plus PSHE – personal, social, health and economic education. My parents think that because I teach subjects consisting of letters, they aren’t substantial, like maths or science. It’s a running joke in my family. They also think I teach in a rough school and have to wear a body vest, just because it’s a state school and all boys.

Yes, we have our challenging students. Saffron was one of them. Yet, somehow, I always managed to get on with him. He used to say that I was one of the few people who didn’t talk down to him. To be honest, it’s difficult to talk down to anyone when you’re five foot one.

‘Have you got much more to do?’ I ask Andy. He looks so tired – his hair stuck on end where he’s been ruffling it, his eyes sunken and dark. The light in here doesn’t help. I click on a lamp.

He shrugs. ‘Just an hour or so.’

He works from home most days, only going into the office when necessary or if he feels like it. It’s his company after all, so he gets to choose.

I turn to go. Beau has already taken off, running upstairs to start the bath.

‘Wait a sec.’ Andy taps a computer key, then moves stiffly towards me. ‘Sorry about Saffron.’ He draws me to him, my head reaching the middle of his breastbone. I sigh, inhaling the comforting scent of stale aftershave on his jumper.

‘It’s fine … really.’ My mind moves to Beau. I don’t like him running the water on his own. ‘Tea will be on the table for six,’ I call over my shoulder and then I’m gone, bounding up the stairs.

Beau has steamed up the bathroom. He’s pouring in bubble bath as though we have an endless supply and has emptied his entire plastic bucket of toys into the water. There are animals and Lego everywhere, bobbing in a primary-coloured stew. I crouch down to undress him, something crunching in my pocket, and I remember then: the letter.

I set it on the windowsill and help Beau into the bath. And then I sit down on the closed toilet seat to open the envelope. It’ll be from Surina, my sister’s little girl. She’s always sending me adorable notes like this. The day she grows up and stops will be a sad one.

As I read the note, I’m so certain it’s from Surina I don’t even absorb the words. I’m still wondering why she’s writing like this.

Then I start to skim-read, racing ahead. Everything’s getting confused and a strange dislocation seems to be happening, as though I’m watching myself and Beau from a great height.

‘Mummy, look!’ He’s standing up, pouring water from a cup in a torrent, droplets spraying over the side of the bath.

I read the letter again, slower this time. I don’t know who any of these people are. I’ve never heard of them. The blood rushes to my ears, making them buzz so loudly I can’t hear Beau’s water cascading. I grip the towel rail and the floor tiles start to shimmer beneath me: a black and white chessboard.

The bathroom handle turns then, making me jump, as Andy enters the room. Hastily, I crumple the letter into my tunic pocket.

‘Thought I’d finish early and help with the bath, so you can—’ He breaks off, looking at me in concern. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Just Saffron,’ I say, catching my breath.

‘I knew it would be bothering you.’ He holds open the door, ushering me out. ‘Go. I’ll see to Beau. Get yourself a cup of tea and then we’ll make dinner together.’

‘OK.’ I hope I don’t sound as unresponsive as I feel. Leaving, I glance back at Andy, who is carefully crafting Beau a large bubble beard.

Downstairs in the kitchen, I pull a bottle of vodka out of the freezer and pour myself a splash, staring at the butterfly tattoo on my wrist.

I take the letter from my pocket, smoothing it flat on the table, thinking for a few minutes, and then my mind is made up. I don’t know what kind of sick person would write a thing like this, but it can’t stay here. Creeping through to Andy’s study, I feed the letter into the shredder, which gives a conspiratorial whir as it swallows it whole.

Stephanie

‘Oh, my God! Steffie Chivers?’

I lower my reading glasses as I look up. A woman is staring at me over the reception desk, out of breath from taking the stairs.

‘I don’t believe it! You haven’t aged at all!’ She hitches up her leggings with a wiggle. ‘We were at school together – Shelley Fricker …? Used to have long hair?’

I gaze at her, pursing my lips.

She smiles. ‘Don’t you remember me, Stef?’

No, I don’t. Leave me alone.

The door to the consultation room opens and one of our new specialist endodontists appears, talking to his client – a tall lady in a beautiful rose trench coat.

‘Do you have an appointment?’ I ask Shelley Fricker.

She gapes at me in surprise, denied the expected Midsomer Norton camaraderie. A poky town ten miles away, everyone knows each other’s business there.

‘Yep, two o’clock,’ she replies. ‘Gotta get in and out quick to pick up the kids. You got kids, Steffie? You don’t look like you do, mind. But then you always were immaculate, like a Barbie doll.’

Her voice is so loud, everyone in the waiting room is looking at us. I’m embarrassed: this is the Circus – a ring of historic townhouses, a renowned masterpiece of Georgian architecture – not a fish market.

I stare at my computer screen, pretending to be looking for her booking in the system, even though it’s right in front of me. ‘Ah. Yes. Please take a seat. Mr Fitzpatrick will be right with you.’

She leans over the counter towards me. ‘I’ve never been in a building at the Circus before. Fancy, innit? Makes the dentists down Norton look a right dump! You worked here long then, Stef?’ She rubs her nose vigorously with the palm of her hand as though it’s itching.

We get NHS referrals from time to time; that’s why she’s here. If I ignore her, she’ll soon get the message.

I keep my eyes on the screen. The endodontist is heading back to his room, smiling at me. I return the gesture fleetingly, in case Shelley Fricker thinks it’s for her. She’s waiting for an answer to her question. Thankfully, the phone rings and I turn away. ‘Hello, Chappell and Black, how can I help?’

When I hang up, she’s still there, rubbing her nose. ‘You turned fifty yet? I did, last month … I honestly can’t believe it: you look exactly the same, Steffie!’

I’m not Steffie. No one calls me that anymore. I’m not Chivers, either. I’m Brooke.

Standing up, I smooth my skirt flat, tugging my cardigan straight.

The new endodontist has reappeared from his consulting room and is handing me a client file. I take it with a little nod and go to the filing cabinet, ensuring that Shelley notices my elegance. Maybe then she’ll realise we’re not from the same drawer after all.

I take longer than usual with the paperwork, running my tongue discreetly over my teeth. I always wear a red lipstick, and black clothes more often than not. I don’t like to stand out, but nor do I like to be dismissed.

All of which Shelley will have taken in. And sure enough, when I turn around, she’s moved away, hovering in the corner by the fish tank.

I sit back down at my keyboard, acrylic nails tapping soothingly as I type. I love working here, where everything is clean and orderly. I’ve been Chappell and Black’s main dental receptionist for ten years and in all that time, I’ve never seen anyone from school … until now.

It feels as though someone’s outed me, but I’m not sure from where or what. The thought troubles me and then I’m distracted by Shelley, who’s going into the treatment room.

As she hitches her leggings again, she glances sideways at me, grinning as though we’ve both been given after-school detention.

I look away.

I’m listening to the radio on low as I wait for Georgia. I like old soul – Marvin Gaye, Otis Redding, Gladys Knight – back when things were graceful, dignified. I’m the first to admit that I’m old-fashioned. I overheard my sister-in-law telling someone at my wedding to Dan that I looked like an eighties throwback. I could have killed her for saying that, but I never let on that I heard. Besides, she got it wrong. If anything, I’m a sixties girl.

I tap my nail on the wheel to a Randy Crawford song, watching the girls approaching down the school driveway, muddy legged, hockey sticks over shoulders. True to form, Georgia’s last, looking at her phone, not concentrating on where she’s going. She has splashed through two puddles already and has a giant leaf stuck to her sock.

She doesn’t look up until she’s right on top of the car, checking she’s not getting into the wrong one.

‘Hello, darling,’ I say, as she opens the door.

She chucks her sports bag and rucksack onto the back seat and clambers in beside me, smelling of cold air and perspiration.

‘Did you have a nice day?’ I start the engine and pull away. I’m a slow driver. I can’t understand people wanting to dash around like maniacs. It’s so stressful, and stress is so ageing. I make a conscious effort not to encourage wrinkles and don’t even laugh unless something is really funny, which isn’t often in the normal run of things.

‘Whatever,’ Georgia says into her collar, slumping in her seat.

‘Sit up straight, please.’ I turn on the windscreen wipers as a handful of raindrops hits the screen.

‘Why? Not as if it matters.’

‘What doesn’t?’ I’m not sure what she’s referring to.

‘Me sitting up straight. I’m in the car, I’m knackered. It’s only me and you. Who the hell cares?’

I gaze at the rain on the windscreen, watching the wipers go back and forth. ‘I care. Posture’s important.’

‘Oh, right.’ She stares at her phone, her face glowing ice-blue. ‘The queen has spoken.’

Silently, I count to ten. She’s thirteen, so I’m trying to be understanding.

I hated being thirteen. I started my periods that year and never told anyone at home. My mother would have cried at the extra expense. Instead, I stole sanitary pads from my sister’s room and when she ran out, I used toilet paper.

‘Do you have much homework?’ The traffic is moving, at last. I turn down the stereo to hear her answer.

‘Fuck knows.’

My mouth falls open. I don’t know how to respond. I’ve never heard her swear before. ‘Georgia …’

‘Don’t start.’ She turns away, putting as much of her back to me as her seat belt will allow. ‘And do we have to listen to this crap?’

I turn off the radio obligingly and we travel the rest of the way in silence.

Parking the car outside our garage, I leave Georgia to sort herself out and assemble her things, a memory suddenly appearing as I approach the house.

I’m in the school toilets. There is blood in my knickers and I’m petrified, trying to breathe. There’s a voice on the other side of the door, telling me that everything’s all right. A huge sanitary pad snakes along the floor, underneath the cubicle, edging towards me. It’s gathering dust on the dirty floor, but still, I’m glad to see it and I say thank you.

Don’t mention it, Stef. Any time. We’re all in the same boat, eh?

That was Shelley Fricker.

It’s dark in the hallway. I’m always the first one home. Dan won’t be here for an hour, enough time for me to clear up and get the dinner ready for when he returns.

I wait to see if Georgia’s coming inside, but she’s still in the car, looking at her phone. I leave the front door ajar and turn on the table lamp. There’s a cluster of envelopes on the mat, which I take through to the kitchen.

I always do the same thing each night: pour a small G&T and rest before having to deal with my two eldest girls and Dan. They all come home in a noisy rush. Without my quiet time, I don’t think I could face them.

Georgia’s the only one who knows about this – gives me space and respects it as though it’s a church service with candles and prayers. She may be going through a difficult phase, but she’s still my girl at heart.

I fix my drink and prise off my heels as I sit at the kitchen table, tutting at the amount of junk mail. I almost don’t spot the little envelope nestled between pizza flyers.

Using my thumbnail, I tear it open. As I begin to read, the front door slams; Georgia has come inside at last.

I listen. She’s stomping upstairs. Turning back to the letter, I sip my G&T. I’m only halfway through when my skin starts to goosebump.

What on earth is this? I stare at the signature. I don’t know a Holly Waite, nor any of the other names. What does this have to do with me? If Dan were to see this, he’d hit the roof.

Suddenly the front door slams again, making me jump. ‘Hello?’ Dan calls out. ‘Stephanie?’

Panicking, I hurry to the cupboard, reaching for my mother’s old cocoa tin. Dented, worthless, it was one of the few personal items I kept when she died. She used to hide things from my father inside the tin.

I’m just shutting the cupboard when Dan enters the room. ‘Hello, darling,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t expecting you home yet.’

He approaches, his hair spiky and hard with day-old grooming clay, raindrops trembling on his coat. ‘I said I’d be back before six.’

‘Did you?’

‘Don’t you ever listen to me?’ He says this jokily, almost as a whisper. Often, his voice is so quiet I have to stop what I’m doing to hear him.

As he kisses me, I picture the letter inside the tin, but can’t say how I feel about it. I always need a long time to think, even about small things like what to wear or cook.

Breaking away, he tosses his smoothie container into the sink. Every morning, he blends a blueberry and hemp smoothie – a green concoction with kale and ginger that makes Georgia roll her eyes and imitate a gagging motion.

‘Did you have a good day?’ I ask.

‘Yep.’ He smiles. ‘Sold the new Panamera Porsche.’

‘Oh, well done!’

‘I knew I was—’ He breaks off, scowling up at the ceiling. ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Georgia’s music is blaring, a signal that she knows quiet time is over with the return of her father. Sometimes I think she does it purely to aggravate him. Their relationship is very much a work in progress. ‘What the hell …?’ He leaves the room, coat fanning behind him, feet pounding up the stairs.

I hope a fight doesn’t erupt. There always seems to be someone shouting in this house, and it’s never me.

Finishing my drink in one go, I start preparing dinner, thinking again of the letter inside the tin. No one will ever find it there; the most humble domestic items are always overlooked, especially by men. No wonder witches flew on brooms. Growing up, my mother’s cocoa tin felt magical to me – a surprise weapon of sorts, an unlikely source of power. The secrets that went inside there never came out.

Jess

I’m normally the first one up, and this morning at five o’clock there are no other contenders. I’ve barely slept and my eyes feel gritty. Reaching in the dark for my dressing gown, I sneak as quietly as I can into the hallway and down the stairs. When the girls were babies, I had to retreat silently after night feeds without their hearing me or they would cry out, knowing I had left them. I know every creaking floorboard in our house and can navigate my way like a criminal.

Familiarity makes crime easier to commit. I read once that 90 per cent of victims know their rapist prior to the offence. Does that mean that Max knew Nicola Waite?

It’s the question I’ve been asking myself all night, so much so that I was worried I’d say it out loud.

In the kitchen, I shut the door and then, as an extra precaution, push a chair in front of it.

I start the laptop to give it time to warm up and make a coffee while I wait, taking the letter from my bag and reading it through again, this time my eye lingering not on Max’s name but on pregnant and father.

Raising the window blind, the garden is starting to awaken with first light, berry-purple clouds above the chimney tops. Autumn’s my favourite season, but I’ve a feeling I’m not going to enjoy this one.

I search for Priyanka Lawley first, the laptop whirring wearily. You’d think it would be easy to find people these days, what with privacy being dead, but that’s not the case. The only people who are easy to find are those who want to be found.

The laptop’s still whirring, waking up. I sip my coffee, nibble my fingernails.

So, does Max know Nicola Waite? If I said her name, would he panic, drop whatever he was holding, the blood draining from his face?

If he knows her, then he must know who Holly is, or was. What if he changed his mind about helping Nicola with the pregnancy and decided to be involved, maybe behind the scenes – cheques in the post, that sort of thing? He’s a nice guy, isn’t he? If something went horribly wrong that night at the Montague Club, perhaps because of a misinterpretation or accident of some kind, he’d have tried his best to make it good … wouldn’t he?

The search results appear. Priyanka Lawley isn’t an easy find. There are several LinkedIn entries, which I can’t get into, and a YouTube page for someone in North Carolina. I doubt that’s her.

I try Stephanie Brooke instead.

There’s so many of them, she could be anyone. I explore the top entries, but none of them are Bath-based.

I tap my teeth together, thinking. And then I type: Nicola Waite, Bath, UK.

Her name’s popular, especially on Facebook. I check out a few of the searches but they’re too young for it to be the Nicola Waite from the letter, who must have been at least in her forties when she died.

I delete the history, close the laptop, hide the letter in my bag again and sit all hunched, taut, just the way you’re not supposed to sit if you don’t want to become a stiff old lady.

There’s not much to go on. The only thing I can really do is show up at the addresses given in the letter. Do I have the guts to do that? There’s only one way to find out.

When Max gets up, I’ll ask him to drop the girls to school. I’ll make up something about being needed at work extra early. He’s good like that – always willing to put himself out to give a helping hand.

Ironically, it’s exactly that kind of supportiveness I’ll be counting on to help me determine whether he’s a rapist who kept his past hidden for the past sixteen years of our otherwise happy marriage.

It’s a nice house, I’ll give them that. Priyanka Lawley. 32 Walden Way, High Lane, Bath.

The letter is in my coat. I know where it is at all times. Not like my car keys or phone or specs. This letter is like carrying a burning coal in my pocket. You’ll never forget it’s there.

I think about memory a lot, since my mum became ill. Just seeing her, so vague and lost, makes me wonder whether it matters who or what we remember. Living in the now is supposed to be more important, although Mum doesn’t really have that going for her, either.

Turning off the car engine, I swivel in my seat to look at 32 Walden Way.

It’s a typical Victorian terrace house, with no front garden to speak of, nor back. I know that because Poppy’s friend lives on the parallel road. The street is steep and narrow, with cars parked either side. Once you get started on that uphill run, you have to really put your foot down to avoid meeting another car. The place must be full of speeders, like balls on a bowling alley.

There’s bunting in the garden and those solar lightbulb fairy lights that everyone has, plus a blanket box with a puddle on top and a silver birch tree with jam jars hanging from it.

And then I spot the Scandinavian Yule goat in the window. It’s unmistakable, even though it’s a mess of straw and red ribbon. Eva and Poppy made the same mess, under the careful guidance of their Swedish key assistant, except that theirs didn’t stand the test of time. Maybe this one won’t, either. Maybe it’s not even a year old, made only last Christmas by someone small.

Something about that makes me very sad. It’s not just that there’s a child indoors, and maybe more than one. It’s the fact that our children have passed the same way before, attending the same nursery. And now because of the letter in my pocket, our lives are crossing again.

Suddenly, the front door opens and I slide down in my seat. Someone’s coming out: a woman and child. I sink lower.

They’re getting into the car outside the house. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as the woman bends to fasten the child’s seatbelt, her back to me. I take in the green parka coat, the pink hair, the Doc Marten boots, and then she’s facing my way and fear squeezes my chest.

They take off down the hill. I follow them, allowing a car to come between us. I don’t need to tailgate them. I know where they’re going.

I almost cry out at the sight of Tadpoles, an old church-turned-community centre at the end of a road I have no need to go to anymore, but that was part of my life for six years. The car park’s always full of leaves and acorns, squirrels bounding along the walls. I pull in tentatively, hoping no one recognises me – or worse, doesn’t, and thinks I’m loitering. I don’t want anyone to ask me what I’m doing hanging around here. I’m not sure I can answer that myself.

The woman in the parka with the pink hair is over by the wooden fence, saying goodbye to her little boy. She’s squats down to talk to him – unconcerned about her coat getting wet or dirty – and hugs him, his face disappearing. Then she jumps up, ruffles his hair and off he goes. She’s chatting to someone, laughing with another mum. I don’t remember it being that sociable here, or my being sociable, for that matter.

She doesn’t hang around. She’s already on her way back to the car, checking her phone, waving her keys, still laughing about something.

She doesn’t look like someone who got the same letter as me. I can’t laugh like that since reading it. I think my face would crack.

Do I have the wrong person?

I wait for another car to pull away and then I jump out, following her across the car park to the Audi by the wall. The roof is already covered in leaves and she’s only been there five minutes.

‘Excuse me,’ I call out.

She’s opening the car door, but turns, smile at the ready. Her hair is short, tucked behind her ear one side and longer on the other. Dusky pink, her roots are black and grey. ‘All right, bab?’

The Midlands accent throws me, and the over-familiarity. I could be anyone.

I can’t think straight. I’m distracted by her eyes; they’re indigo. ‘Hi. I …’

‘Sorry. Gotta shoot or I’ll be late. Catch you later.’ She’s turning away, getting into her car. There’s a heap of exercise books on the passenger seat. Teacher.

I knock on the window, wait for her to lower it. ‘Are you Priyanka Lawley?’

‘Yep, that’s right.’ The gears crunch as she finds reverse. She has a butterfly tattoo on her wrist and a nose stud that gleams as the light hits it.

I don’t know what I’m doing – what to say. My phone’s ringing in my bag. I should answer it, but I can’t let her go. That’s all I know.

‘I need to talk to you.’ I glance over my shoulder as a dad comes up behind me, getting into the next car. I lower my voice. ‘It’s important.’

Her expression darkens. ‘What do you want?’ she says, turning off the ignition.

My heart’s pounding so hard, so fast. My phone stops ringing. For a moment, everything’s silent. No cars moving. No parents hurrying. Just us.

I force myself to focus. ‘I’m Jess Jackson. I got a letter about my husband. I think you got one too.’ This sounds like a question, but it isn’t. I know she got the letter because she can’t even look at me. She’s clamping her hands between her knees, staring ahead. She’s wearing a flowery dress and leggings. The laces in her boots are neon. All around her, on the seats, the floor, the side pockets, are sweet wrappers, coffee cartons, plastic toys. The detritus of an ordinary life with ordinary concerns – like I used to have.

‘I need to go,’ she says quickly and starts the engine again, the charms on her keyring jangling in her haste.

‘Please. Wait!’ I call after her, but she’s pulling away.

As she leaves, I feel something troubling shifting inside me, slowly surfacing, a buried relic rising. It was so deep, I didn’t even know it was there.

I don’t know what it means; I’m too busy watching her car turning the corner. I remember then that I’m on my way to meet a new investor. I have to get going too.

Following in her wake, I’m clamping my teeth so hard as I drive, my jaw aches.

The traffic’s heavy through town and the sun is harsh on the fancy golden tarmac as I pull into Moon & Co’s courtyard car park. Going into the office, I take off my puffa jacket, wondering what Priyanka Lawley must have thought of me in my boyish clothes, stalking her. She didn’t ask me how I knew she’d be there. That would have been the first thing I’d have wanted to know, especially outside a nursery.

It doesn’t really matter what she thinks. The most important thing is finding out what Max did or didn’t do. If she wants to pretend nothing’s wrong or has changed, that’s her choice. Everyone’s going to respond differently, in their own way. I appreciate that. But she’s lucky I didn’t break the door down at her house and push the letter into her husband’s face and ask him about it right there and then.

Max is lucky I haven’t done that to him too. I’d do it, you know. The way I feel right now, I’m capable of that and more.

Sitting down at my desk, I glare at the picture of Max and our girls on my desk. I’ve not even thought about that – about his relationship with them and how this affects it. How can I think about that yet?

Oh, perfect. My colleague – bland, kind old Mary – is on her way over. She’s going to ask me if I’m OK and I’m going to have to lie and fake it because that’s what civilised people do at work.

Max has done this. He’s put me in this awful situation … But Mary doesn’t say that at all. She’s going to the potted rubber plant in the corner to water it.

Clicking through my emails, they’re a blur. I can’t concentrate with the family photo beside me. Checking that no one’s watching, I open my top drawer and place the picture inside, face down.

I don’t want to look at him until I know how I’m supposed to feel, and the truth is the only thing that’s going to help me decide that. It seems clear to me what I have to do then: find it.

Priyanka

I don’t let myself think about her until late in the afternoon. I have learned over time to put on different hats, compartmentalise. When you teach, lines and boundaries are the most important things. You can look attractive, but you can’t flirt. You can be friendly, but can’t be friends. You can comfort, but can’t touch. You keep what’s in here very much apart from what’s out there.

During afternoon break, I have a pile of books to mark so instead of going to the staff room in search of caffeine and someone to chat to, I find a quiet classroom and sit in a pool of sunshine, closing my eyes for a moment. And that’s when I allow myself to think of her.

Pale, thin-lipped. I guessed who she was the minute she appeared – knew that her energy was out of place in the Tadpoles car park. She was there because of the letter, a real flesh-and-blood person manifesting from the ink of those dreadful words. I should have known that an accusation like that wasn’t going to die in the shredder.

I didn’t like leaving her there, as though she were a wounded bird about to be crushed by tyres. She looked distraught, unhinged even, and I was worried that she might follow me to school. So I was relieved to get to St Saviour’s without glimpsing her in my rear-view mirror.

I didn’t sleep last night, but couldn’t let her know that. She wanted an acknowledgement – a small nod, or a huge breakdown – that we were both feeling the same thing: shock, fear. And I’d have liked to have given her what she needed; a moment of my time, the promise of a text message at least. Yet I sensed that even eye contact would have sparked something I wouldn’t have been able to handle.

I’m sorry if something traumatic or catastrophic may or may not have happened thirty years ago, but I care more about what’s happening now, about what I could lose.

We’re complete strangers. I saw her glance at my butterfly tattoo, trying to get my measure. She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know that I will do anything to protect Andy. I don’t believe he’s capable of doing what the letter said he did, but I know that allegations like this ruin lives. I did the right thing by destroying it.

Great. Now the bell’s ringing and I haven’t marked a single book.