‘Are you all right?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ she mutters. ‘Sorry.’
Unsure what to do, I place one of my hands over hers. She stares at my hand, and for a moment I wonder if the gesture was too intimate. It is the sort of thing I can misjudge. But then she looks up and smiles, her eyes looking slightly wet.
‘Cheers, Helen.’
I smile awkwardly, though I’m not sure what she is thanking me for. She doesn’t say anything more. I feel my curiosity growing like an itch, a buzzing in my ear that won’t be batted away.
‘Do you mind if I … ask what happened?’
Rachel pulls her hand out from under mine and starts fiddling with her phone.
‘Oh, you know. We met at work. I was working at a music venue. Behind the bar.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway. We liked each other. I didn’t mean to get pregnant. Obviously. Who does, right?’ She laughs. I try to force my face to smile, even as I feel my jaw tighten, my leg start to tremble slightly under the pub table.
‘I did want it to be something more. But after I got pregnant, I found out …’ She rubs her thumb against her index finger, as if sifting for the right words. ‘Well. He already belonged to someone else.’
I nod, hoping my face is sympathetic. I mean it to be. I know she’s not the first to have an affair with someone who is taken. I try to affect a casual voice.
‘How did he react? When you told him about the baby?’
Rachel smiles sadly. ‘He doesn’t know.’ She sighs, tapping her nearly finished cigarette and pushing her pint of Guinness away. ‘I haven’t seen him in a while. I just … thought maybe it was better to leave it.’
I hesitate. ‘Don’t you think you should tell him?’
She looks at me, seriously. Then nods, slowly.
‘I probably should.’ Abruptly, her expression lightens. ‘Thanks, Helen,’ she says. ‘You know. For not judging.’ She takes a final drag of her cigarette, her lips pursed tightly. ‘Means a lot.’ She breathes smokily, closing her eyes again, stubbing it out. ‘A lot.’
I force a smile. ‘Don’t be silly.’ I try not to think about the fact that, actually, I was judging her a bit.
When I get home that night, I see Daniel’s trainers on the dust sheets in the hallway, where the builders have been traipsing in and out with drills and spades, preparing for the basement dig. Normally it would annoy me – how many times have I asked him to put them away? – but tonight, instead of being cross about it, I think, again, how lucky I am not to be Rachel. How grateful I should be to have a loving husband. Imagine being pregnant and going home to an empty house. The thought makes me shudder.
I put Daniel’s shoes in the cupboard under the stairs and head into the kitchen, rolling up my sleeves. I prepare some fish and roast vegetables for dinner. While they are cooking, the landline rings. I wipe my hands and snatch up the phone, wedging it between my ear and shoulder.
‘Hello?’
There’s silence for a few seconds, the click of the connection. Then a voice, faraway-sounding.
‘Mrs Thorpe, hello. I’m just calling with regards to your remortgage. Are you OK to go through a few things now, or should I call back?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The remortgage on your property. We’re just putting the final details together for the application.’
I frown. Remortgage? Then the line crackles lightly. There is a delay. It’s obviously some dodgy call centre somewhere. I know these calls all too well.
‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her coldly, ‘you must have the wrong number. There’s no remortgage application.’
‘Mrs Thorpe …’
I hang up, shaking my head, putting the handset back. Ever since Mummy and Daddy died, we’ve had loads like this. Scammers, trying to trick us into giving away details. I think poor old Mummy had got herself onto some database – suckers lists, they call them. She was forever answering the phone to people. Daniel thinks we should just get the landline disconnected.
I wash up and put away all the dishes, clean the worktops until they are gleaming, and lay the table. I mop the floor, the water in the bucket turning black with building dust. But when it’s done, I feel better. I tip the dirty water away put some music on and open the windows to air out the house.
But the light drains from the sky, the windows darken, and Daniel is still not home. I check my messages. He is working late, again. I think about calling Katie, asking if she feels like coming over. But the food is ready now, and she lives miles away. And anyway, she is probably busy with Charlie. I take a fork from the laid table, and eat my dinner alone, picking the flakes of white fish from the bones.