Valentina: A Hauntingly Intelligent Psychological Thriller (30 page)

J xx

I downloaded the attachment. I opened the attachment. It was the face and shoulders of a woman with long blonde hair
–
or rather, a wig
–
in ringlets. She was wearing a blue dress with a white old-fashioned collar. She was caked in the same dreadful orangey foundation Mikey had worn the first time I met him but her eyes were bare of make-up, her white eyelashes barely visible, her face almost unrecognisable because of that. But her canine tooth caught on her bottom lip and that, yes, I did recognise. It was a photo of Georgia Smyth-Banks. It was a photo of Wendy.

It was a photo of Valentina.

I sat down on the bed.

I got up.

I was about to be sick. The urge became a need. Heaving, I ran into the bathroom and retched into the loo. I was gasping for air, my knuckles white on the toilet seat. I stood, dipped my face under the tap and drank some cold water, let the water run then over my forehead. I gripped onto the sides of the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot, my skin grey. I looked older than I was, much, much older.

I walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. I sat on the bed and read the email again. When I had confronted Mikey about the letter, about Georgia, he had told me what a shock that must have been for me.
Jeanie called you and dropped that bomb
, something like that, he’d said. But I hadn’t told him how I’d found out. I had not mentioned Jeanie. And the only person who knew about the letter, apart from Jeanie, was Valentina.

“
No,” I said, my voice high and strange. “No.”

From the garden, I heard her laugh. I looked at the photo. I wanted so badly for it not to be her but there was no room for doubt. Her eyes were big when made up heavily in black but in the photo, without black paint to define them, they were small, almost beady.

The woman in my garden with Mikey was Georgia Smyth-Banks, his former lover. No, not former. His lover. The two of them had rekindled their relationship right under my nose. She, she had not sent someone to come and check me out. She had come to check me out herself, had come into my house not to meet me, but to meet him. Again. Disappointed with her own lacklustre husband, she had come here to seduce mine, to lure him back into her bed, her life. That
–
that was why, when he had come home early and found her here, he had collapsed. It had not been a heart attack, it had not been flu, it had been shock. She had not been shocked. She had walked slowly across the kitchen floor, put a paper bag to his mouth and told him to breathe.

And then? And then later he had gone to her. Of course. He had not left his wallet in the office. He had gone to her. That’s when it must have started. But how could he even think about doing that to Isla and me? How could he risk us and everything we had together? The Mikey I knew would never do such a thing. I did not know him. Who was he?

And what now? What the hell happened now?

I stood. My legs shook so much I had to lean against the wall for support, trace my way out of the bedroom like that. I was crying, I think, my breath was ragged, my insides in flames. One hand tight around the handrail, I lowered myself onto the first stair. Then the second. My legs were shaking too much to continue. I was not sure I could go down without falling. I gripped the handrail with two hands and stepped sideways, got two feet onto the third step. The fourth. Slowly, I reached the bottom. Mikey and Valentina
–
whoever they were
–
were still outside. I could hear the crackle of the rabbit, smell the aromatic flesh as it cooked. I reached the back door. They were chatting in low voices by the brazier, at ease with one another. Of course. They had put on their coats against the chill of the February night.

I went out, pulled my cardigan around me. It was cold. A midnight-blue darkness had fallen. Above the glowing coals, the rabbit hung from the pole, tied on by its paws. It looked like it was clinging on for dear life. One sharp knife to the string and it would drop into the fire.

“
What have you done?” I asked them. I had my phone in the palm of my hand.

They looked at me, both of them, but it was her I was looking at.

“
Why? Because you can, is that it? Because you’re free and easy and you teach yoga?”

“
Shona?” Her voice was edged with caution, her head cocked a little to one side. “What is this? Are you all right?”

I took a step nearer, held the phone out in front of me. “Because you’re not bogged down in his crappy domestic life? Because you never have to ask him to take out the rubbish, is that it?”

“
Shona.” She took a step towards me, her brow furrowed
–
the image of concern.

“
Because you and he never have to be
that couple
?” I was shouting, my voice chaos. I turned to Mikey. “Because you’ve got me to raise your child, haven’t you, while you two fuck in hotels? Like dogs shitting on the pavement
–
because they’re animals and they don’t care who steps in it?” I lunged forward, prodded him hard in the chest, stepped back, afraid of the tremor of murderous violence I could feel rising within myself. I met her eye. “Do you dress up? What do you do, fuck him on his lunch break? Because you can do that, can’t you, while I’m here looking after his child? Looking after yours too, eh? Oh God! Private yoga session? No wonder you have to take a shower before you come back. I bet you’re dynamite in the sack, aren’t you? I bet you can get your feet behind your head, you treacherous bitch.”

“
Shona, stop.” She was a metre away
–
her face still composed, almost questioning.

Mikey stood, impassive, a little behind her.

“
It’s weird,” I said. “You both
look
like human beings. Legs, arms ... the resemblance is uncanny. But you’re not ... you’re not are you? You’re monsters.” I began to laugh. My nose was running, I wiped it with the back of my hand. “What am I saying? You don’t even teach yoga, do you? I can’t get my facts straight, great journalist I am. You’re not a yoga teacher. You’re Georgia. You’re a geologist.” I pointed behind her, to Mikey, but did not look at him. “You took a job up here so you could wheedle your way back into his life and steal him back, is that right? You came to the nursery. My God, I thought ... but no, that was before he left his wallet ... that was before ... you even said you were there to check out the competition.” I dropped forward, rested my hands on my knees. I was panting. I couldn’t see. Only darkness, my feet no more than shapes. “That wasn’t a coincidence at all. You knew I was going there because he told you.”

“
Shona, listen to me.” I heard her say.

I forced myself to stand up. My head spun, I staggered, laughing, regained my balance. I was still laughing, I couldn’t stop. “You can drop the Aussie accent now, I think.” My God, I could hardly speak for laughing. “I think the time for play-acting is finished, don’t you, Wendy, Georgia, Valentina, whoever the fuck you are?”

“
Shona, stop this.” Mikey came forward now, out of the shadows, his face pale in the light from the kitchen window. He still had his drink in his hand. Sparkling Shiraz, a red you serve cold.

“
Don’t you say a word,” I said to him. “Your words mean nothing. They’re just
–
they’re just noise.” I turned back to her, seeing and hating her supercilious expression, hating her hair, her teeth, hating everything about her. I stepped forward and slapped her with all my might in the face. With a shriek, she staggered backwards. Mikey caught her in his arms.

“
Shona, please,” he said. “Let’s go inside. Let’s talk about this properly. Let’s work this out.”

I looked at him then, met his eye, saw worry. Was that all? Worry?

“
Talk about it? Aye, right, that’d be nice. She followed you here and seduced you. Must’ve been nice having someone go a bit crazy for you, turn up at your house, make friends with your wife, stalk you into having them back? Big thrill, was it, having a bit on the side?”

“
It’s not like that.”

“
Not like what? You said ...” My vision blurred. My chest hurt. I could taste snot running into my mouth, down the back of my throat. I wasn’t laughing now, not any more. “You said we were your home. Me and Isla. You said that the other day.” I lunged forward and grabbed Valentina by the chin, held it tight. But I was still looking at Mikey. “Offer you a hot date, did she? We can all do that, you know, when someone else is cleaning the fucking house.”

Mikey pushed me off her, held me back, his hand against my neck. “Look, Shona, calm down. Let’s talk about this properly, like grownups.”

“
Grownups?” My chest filled, emptied. “I’m the only grownup here. I’m the only one who knows I can’t have everything. Only six-year-olds expect to have everything at once.”

Valentina
–
my God, I was still calling her that in my head
–
held up her hands. “Shona, please, calm down and listen to us.”

Her accent knocked the breath out of me. Pure home counties, cut-glass, straight from Merchant Ivory.

I wanted to hit her. I wanted to tear her hair out, thump the white teeth from the lush mouth. I could not push aside the thought of her, naked, with him, her flesh on his, hours after, or maybe minutes before or after he had been that way with me.

“
I won’t calm down,” I said, my voice shaking. “How can I calm down? Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound? You’ve taken away my whole life. So you’re fed up with your husband, so you want mine, is that it? Or is it more? You want to trade? Red for Mikey? So he can come and look after you and your child
–
make a better job of it
than your pothead record-peddling shitty loser husband?”

“
It’s his child,” she said, stepping forward.

“
What?”

“
Zac is Michael’s child.”

She took a step nearer. In her face I saw no remorse, only something superior, almost sneering: victory.

“
Georgie, stop,” said Mikey, grabbing her arm, pulling her back.

“
But he’s mine.” I was pointing at Mikey
–
as if no one could see him but me. “He’s my home. He’s my life. He’s mine.”

“
I’m afraid he’s mine,” she said. “If we’re talking possession here. He’s my husband, Shona. In law. We’re married.”

I looked from her to him. He had covered his forehead with his hand, stepped back into the shadow
–
all I could see clearly were the ends of his shoes.

My mouth filled with a sour taste.

“
Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “How can that even be possible? When would he have time? He works offshore, for Christ’s sake.”

“
Again, no, Shona,” she said. “I really think Michael’s right. I think we should go inside and sit down and discuss this like adults.”

“
I’m fine standing right here.”

“
All right.” She tipped her chin back. “Shona? I want you to listen carefully. Michael lives with me. He works with me. We’re married. We have a son together, Zachary, who you know as Zac.”

“
Georgie, please,” said Mikey, stepping out, striding forward, taking her arm once more.

But she shook him off and walked towards me. I backed away but she followed. My back hit the garage wall. She came in close, the outside lantern catching the wet sheen of her eyes.

“
When you think he goes offshore,” she said softly. “He doesn’t. He has never been offshore, never been in a helicopter as far as I’m aware. On Saturday mornings, he takes a cab not to the heliport but to our home. 14 Fittie Place, I think you know it. On the way, he gets his other little phone out of his pocket and texts me.
Put the coffee pot on
, are the words he usually uses, since you seem so keen for information. And then? Well, we spend the weekend together doing all the things that a family does and on Monday we go together into the office where we work, as normal, and instead of coming to you, he comes home with me in my car. He lives with me, in my house, with our son, Zachary for those two weeks. Understand this, Shona: I am his wife. Zac is his child.” She smiled. “You, Shona. You are the mistress. You, not me. So I would put your moral outrage away if I were you because you are, I’m afraid
–
how did you put it?
–
the
bit on the side
.”

***

What does it mean to belong to someone, she wonders, the tip of her nose blue on her clenched face. Is it wrong to regard another person as yours? The language of love is the language of ownership, this is what occurs to her now, here in the dark. This is what strikes her as so damn ironic. She has used these possessive terms as often as the next person, in her mind, aloud, without giving them a second thought. He is mine. I am his. Oh yes, she has let herself believe, utterly, that she belonged to him. And, as she’ll tell you herself, she never even entertained the possibility that he wasn’t, that he wouldn’t, be hers alone. She never for one second doubted that he understood this as profoundly as she did, not a cerebral understanding but something deeper, down low, in the guts, where love lives. If she’s got it so mixed up in her mind, if she’s got it so wrong, then someone please explain the Valentine’s day cards that line the shelves year after year. They’re in the shops now; she saw some in the supermarket only today: Baby be mine; I’m yours; Take me home and keep me.

Love.

Ownership.

Belonging.

Inside the fairy tale cottage sleep a man and woman she loved generously and freely; two people she wanted only to love and be loved by in return. But they did not love her, not at all. And now here she is: outside.