I look down the street; the man turns the corner, vanishing into the dark.
Chapter Eleven
8 Days Before
Elodie Fray
It’s the anniversary of Jeffrey’s death. Every year, a dinner is held between my family and Jack’s to celebrate Jeffrey’s life. The consensus is that it would be a little morbid to host it at Kathryn’s, feet away from where Jeffrey killed himself, so we gather at my parents’ house.
The evening is always the same: we talk about Jeffrey’s charity work and his sense of humour, which was always too American for my father’s taste; we talk about his raucous laugh and his love of whisky. We don’t talk about his quick temper or the time he and my father threw punches on the Westwoods’ front lawn over money owed on a horse race, we don’t talk about how Jeffrey used to hit Jack, or that he took a gun and shot himself.
On the first anniversary of Jeffrey’s passing, just before the celebratory dinner, Jack arrived early, took two glasses from the kitchen and led me out into the garden where he produced a bottle of whisky he’d liberated from his father’s study. He said he liked the symmetry of just the two of us kicking off the celebration with a glass of his father’s favourite, since we were the last ones to see him alive and the first to see him dead. It’s become our tradition: every year we meet and share a drink before joining the others.
So, I’m outside his place now, a bottle of whisky in hand. It’s the first time I’ve left the house since the party. My family wouldn’t let me leave without calling the police, even though I begged them not to. Now, I have a crime number and a promise from the police they’ll ‘keep an eye out’。
I knock on Jack’s door and wait. I’m an hour early because I’ve got some making up to do; I’ve ignored Jack’s calls all week. He’s the only person who knows I’m a fraud and facing him means facing the mess I’ve created. But I can’t hide for ever. Jack doesn’t answer, so I use the spare key he gave me and let myself in, sliding off my shoes.
He calls my name. It comes from the first floor, so I head upstairs. Halfway up, I catch a flash of movement and turn towards it. I see them a split-second before I hear the woman moan. They’re framed through the open door of Jack’s room, tangled up in each other. Naked. He groans as he thrusts in and out of her. Her legs are wrapped around him, pale against the golden tan of his back.
I can’t look away.
I’m stuck here on the stairs, watching.
He pins her wrists to the bed and slams into her. She screams, caught between pleasure and pain.
Then she turns her head. Our eyes meet. She squeals, shocked by seeing me.
Shit.
I turn and run down the stairs.
Jack shouts my name. Then I hear him coming after me. Barefoot, I pull the front door open, but Jack’s palm comes down on my right and slams it shut. We are both breathing hard. I can smell her on him; sex and sweat and the sweetness of her floral perfume.
‘Jesus, Elodie, what’re you doing here?’
He’s furious. I can’t face him. I stare at the closed front door, the grey wood, feeling the heat of him seeping through my dress and into my skin. By way of explanation, I lift the bottle of whisky and shake it a little.
‘Stay here,’ he orders.
‘Jack …’
‘Stay here.’
I feel him move away from me. When I glance over my shoulder, I see his naked back, the bedsheet hanging loosely around his hips as he pads up the stairs.
My insides are tight. This is so awkward. I mean, I know Jack sleeps around. It’s no secret. But I’ve never seen it. Beneath the shock, there’s something else, a feeling I don’t want to inspect too closely. It tastes alarmingly like jealousy. Which is ridiculous. I don’t want Jack. He’s like a brother.
I think of Noah, and my breath catches. I haven’t been touched like that since he died. I am jealous of Jack. That is the feeling. I am jealous he has something I want, something I used to have.
I move towards the bottom of the stairs and hear the rise and fall of voices. Curious, I move up the steps and the words become clearer.
‘Who is she?’ says the woman with an Irish lilt. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘But—’
‘I told you to get out.’
I blink, taken aback by his hostile tone.
There’s the whisper of fabric and I imagine her dressing. A drawer opens then slams shut. Jack’s footfalls sound across the wooden floor. Then I hear the en-suite door opening and closing behind him. The woman mutters something I don’t catch. When I hear Jack stepping back into the bedroom, I hurry downstairs and assume my position by the front door. Jack leans over the banister and calls down to me, ‘You can wait in the living room.’