The Other Half (26 page)

“I don’t believe you’re playing squash tonight.”

“Of course I am!”

Maggie detected the note in his voice that came to Nathan’s when he was caught doing something he shouldn’t be. “If that’s all you’re up to, surely it’s easy enough to rearrange? Just phone and tell him you can’t play.”

“I can’t get ahold of him.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have his number.”

The tension made Maggie’s throat so tight that she could barely breathe. Jamie’s unwillingness to come home underlined how right she was to distrust him. Presumably he was planning on seeing whoever he was messing around with.

“Jamie, I’m not a fool. Of
course
you’ve got his number. You must call him all the time.”

“I do not.” Jamie paused. “He’s out at a meeting all day.”

His lies were so blatant that Maggie was insulted. Jealousy was eating at her, but she didn’t want to confront him over the phone. “Ring his mobile.”

“That’s the number I don’t have—he changed it recently.”

“Leave a message at his work.”

“He’s not going back to the office—he’s heading straight to the club.”

Maggie found it hard not to scream. “Simply don’t turn up, then. Phone reception at the club and tell them to explain.”

“I can’t do that, Pete’s my friend.”

“And I’m your wife, Jamie. Your
wife
. Or had you forgotten that?”

“Of course not.”

“Say it’s a family crisis. If he’s such a good friend he’ll understand.”

“What? He’ll understand that my wife’s been to see some stupid counselor who’s put a whole load of ludicrous ideas into her head? That’s a crisis, is it?”

He was doing it again, turning his shortcomings into her failings. “Stop being an arsehole.”

“C’mon Maggie.” His tone became soothing. “This is a bit melodramatic, isn’t it? Why do we have to talk right now? Can’t it wait till I get back?”

“No, it can’t. You won’t be home till midnight—if your recent Thursday nights are anything to go by—and I don’t want to sit up waiting for you. Anyway, this isn’t the kind of conversation that’s going to be over in a couple of minutes. And you’re hardly likely to be happy talking till three. Heaven forbid, you might miss some of your precious beauty sleep.”

“Can’t we talk on the weekend? We’ll have much more time then.”

How was she going to convince him this was serious? What was he doing that was so important? “Jamie. I. Need. To. Talk. Face-to-face. Now. If you don’t come home at a reasonable hour, then you might just find me and Nathan not here when you do.”

“Okay.” At last he seemed to get the message. “I’ll be there.”

*   *   *

So, for the first time in months, Jamie was back by seven.

“Daddy!” Nathan ran downstairs to greet him. He was half dressed in a white vest and underpants—Maggie had been poised to put him into the bath.

“Wa-hey!” Jamie took off his coat, dropped his briefcase, and scooped Nathan up in his arms.

Nathan tugged his father’s hair as they mounted the stairs. “Read me a story!”

At the top, Jamie set him down. “I’ll read to you in the bath,” he offered.

Maggie was standing on the landing. Jamie caught her eye for a split second, then looked away.

“Come with me.” Nathan dragged him into his room to choose a book.

Doubtless Jamie’s glad to have an excuse to put me off for a while longer, Maggie concluded. Yet it tugged at her heartstrings to see the two of them together.

Forty minutes later Jamie had finished putting their son to bed. As she stood in the kitchen, Maggie fondly imagined Nathan tucked under his duvet in his room above her, all clean and pink and shiny. She heard Jamie descending the stairs to join her.

God, give me strength, she prayed, leaning against the stove for support. How shall I start this? If our recent conversations are anything to go by, I’ve been doing an appalling job of steering things the right way.

“So what’s all this about?” he said, entering the room and standing away from her.

“I’ll come straight to the point.” Her heart was racing. “Are you having an affair?”

“
No!
” he exclaimed without the slightest hesitation. “What makes you say that?”

Maggie drew breath. “Where do you want me to start? It’s a cliché, the way you’ve been acting. Out till midnight a couple of times a week ‘working late’ or ‘playing squash.’” She imitated his voice with acid sarcasm—a manner she was adopting more and more. “Forgetting to call me from New York … what do you take me for? You’ve not been at the office or meeting Pete these last few months, have you? You’ve been shagging someone else.” She spat the word.

Jamie said nothing.

“Haven’t you?”

“That’s crazy.”

“Is it?” In some ways she was desperate for him to say this. There remained a massive part of her that didn’t want to know, or better still, didn’t want it to be true.

“You’re imagining things.”

“Oh?”

“Of course you are!”

She was far from convinced, but relieved all the same.

Jamie continued, “You’ve been spending too much time on your own cooped up here.”

Bloody hell! He was doing it again. It was
her
fault.

“Let me get this straight.” Jamie was sounding more assured. “What are you talking about? A few late nights and the fact I forgot to call you one day when I was abroad on business?”

Although she was tempted to leave the conversation there, Maggie was damned if he was going to get away with putting a spin on what she was trying to say. “That’s only the obvious stuff,” she said, struggling not to lose her temper or worse—cry. “What’s really made me wonder is how you’ve been toward me.”

“And how’s that?”

“Cool. No, more than cool, cold. You’ve barely touched me since earlier this summer.”

“Jesus, Maggie, who’s counting? Can I help it if I don’t feel like sex at the moment?” Jamie shrugged. “You know I’m not up for it when I’m under pressure—never have been.”

That’s not true, thought Maggie. Until a few months ago, our sex life was fine. In fact it was often more than fine, it had been great. “You’ve never been like this before. Not even when you were badly overworked in your last job. We’ve had the odd patch where one or the other of us hasn’t felt much like it for two or three weeks, I agree, but this … It’s been ages. And anyway,” she felt they were focusing on sex, when the real issue ran far deeper, “that’s not all. I wouldn’t mind about that if you still talked to me.”

“Jesus, not this one again. I talk to you the whole time! I’m talking to you now!”

“You know what I mean. Oh, yeah we talk in passing. We touch base about day-to-day things—who’s going shopping, who’s collecting Nathan from soccer—but we don’t talk, properly, just me and you. Other than to argue.”

“Hmph.” Jamie snorted, though he seemed to relent a little. “Well, I’ll try talking to you more.

She pounced. “Will you come to Relate, then? The counselor says it’s not too late for you to join us.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve told you! I just don’t want to, okay? Fuck, sometimes I feel so
got
at! I’m simply trying hard to earn money to make a nice home for us, working every hour God sends, and here you are, accusing me of who knows what exactly.”

Maybe he’s telling the truth, Maggie thought, and it’s merely his job causing all this friction.

“Look, it’s not my thing, therapy,” he was saying. “You should appreciate that. In fact, I’m rather surprised it’s yours.”

“It wouldn’t be, in the normal scheme of things,” Maggie continued. “But you simply don’t get it, do you? This isn’t just about me and you, is it? It’s about Nathan. It can’t be good for him to have parents who are at each others’ throats the whole time.”

Jamie appeared to have another touch of remorse. “I’m sorry. I guess I have been pretty wrapped up in my own stuff recently. It’s only—you know what it’s like—I’ve never had so much professional responsibility before. I’ll make more of an effort, I promise.”

“You will?”

“I will.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at him. She knew it took a lot for him to say this; perhaps he wasn’t quite such an arsehole after all.

He smiled back, wanly. Yet it was a smile just the same.

“Shall we have a glass of wine?” she asked, realizing they were both standing there, in the middle of the kitchen.

He let out a long breath. “I think we deserve it.”

“We certainly do.” Then she, too, relented a little, went over to him, and kissed his cheek.

It seemed to work. “Oh, Maggie,” he sounded sad, “I don’t mean to be horrible to you, honestly. It’s sometimes with the demands of my job I get so stressed … and I suppose I take it out on you.”

“I know,” she said.

“Come here.” He reached out and pulled her to him to hug her.

She snuggled into his crisp white shirt and inhaled his familiar scent. “Are you hungry?” she asked, remembering they’d not eaten.

“Not really…”

And before she knew it, they were kissing—properly. A thought flashed through her mind that perhaps he’d been doing this with someone else. Ugh. She shoved it away. Gradually, she found herself becoming aroused despite her upset—or maybe because of it. What she really wanted was to be intimate with him again—and it seemed he must want it as well. They grabbed a bottle of wine and the corkscrew, and went upstairs to bed.

*   *   *

In the middle of the night Maggie woke in need of a drink of water. She got up quietly, but on her way to the bathroom she was hit by a sudden, dreadful impulse. She still couldn’t shake off her conviction that Jamie had been going to see someone else that evening, even though they’d made love so passionately. The thought of his infidelity sickened her yet again.

She filled a glass of water, gulped it down, refilled it, and left it by her side of the bed. Jamie stirred but didn’t wake. Then, as if sleepwalking, she glided down the stairs. Mesmerized, she picked up Jamie’s briefcase from the hall where he’d put it down when he’d come in. She carried it into the kitchen, turned on the light, and laid it on the oak table.

Click. Click.
She opened the catches.

There it was—his mobile. She hated herself for doing it, but she had to know. She had a
right
to know.

We’ve only just been making love, for goodness’ sake, she shuddered. Is it really possible he was planning to see someone else earlier? That he was going to have sex with her?

Maggie looked down at the object in the palm of her hand. So small and neat, so innocent looking. What secrets did it hold? She had a similar model—a BlackBerry—and knew how it worked. She pressed the menu, scrolled down until she had what she wanted displayed on the screen.

Call history.

Her heart was in her mouth. She wanted to know; she didn’t want to know.

She looked for the outgoing call icon. There it was,
0207,
she read. Inner London. Not Jamie’s mate, Pete, then: he lived in Wimbledon. She read on,
924,
and tried to remember what part of London the code represented. Someone she knew had the same one. Ah—Jean. Her place was in Battersea. But it wasn’t her number. As far as Maggie could remember, they didn’t know anyone else who lived around there. She was petrified now, yet couldn’t stop. She looked up at the clock. It was five past four, but she didn’t care. She pressed
Dial
. Within seconds the phone was ringing at the other end.

Three rings, and an answering machine clicked on. Whoever it belonged to was obviously asleep or hadn’t had time to wake up and take the call.

“Hi, this is Chloë,” said a voice Maggie recognized. The sound made her retch. “I’m afraid neither Rob nor I can get to the phone right now, so leave your name and number after the tone; we will get back to you as soon as we can.”

Maggie ran over to the sink and retched again. She felt hot and cold and sweaty all at once. She puked into the stainless steel bowl, but all that came up was a pathetic remnant of the wine she’d drunk earlier, diluted with water. She thought she might faint. She sat down at the kitchen table, head spinning.

Chloë … Chloë … Chloë …

It fits, she realized. Chloë’s strange behavior when I went to meet her a few weeks ago. Her refusal to give me work. The fact that she’s a colleague of Jamie’s. Didn’t Jean even say he went in to see her once, months ago? He claimed he was introducing himself to all the features editors at UK Magazines—I bet he was. How long has it been going on? Jesus, could Chloë have been with him at the conference in New York?

No, she tried to persuade herself. I’ve got it wrong. Didn’t the answering machine mention a “Rob”? Who’s he? It sounds as if Chloë is living with someone too.

Then an image of Chloë flashed into her mind. The overt sex appeal. The hourglass figure. She had long suspected this was more Jamie’s type. And she must be ten years or so younger … How hackneyed. How
obvious.

Maggie closed her eyes, as if to shut out the truth. She shuddered, then remembered.
That’s
who Chloë reminds me of.

If she had any remaining doubts, this made her absolutely sure.

Beth.

The woman before her, who Jamie had been so in love with. She’d seen a picture of her once. She’d insisted Jamie show her in the hope it would make her feel better, but it had merely increased her jealousy, because she couldn’t see any physical resemblance between them.

Jamie … Jamie … And we were making love only a few hours before …

Maggie was still so shocked that she was numb.

Eventually, she slipped the phone back into her husband’s briefcase and made her way upstairs. Then—at a loss as to what else to do—she returned to bed. Again Jamie stirred but didn’t wake.

She edged herself as far away from him as she could, and curled into a tight, protective ball with her back to him. She lay like that for the rest of the night, unable to sleep, unable to move, unable to do anything.

34

When Jamie got up the next morning, Maggie pretended to be asleep. Then in slow motion, she showered, helped Nathan to dress, and took him to school. When she returned home she reached up into the top of the wardrobe, pulled down two suitcases, and began to fill them with clothes. She didn’t stop until she’d finished packing.