I called my brother when I left Mags’ office. Olly, unlike me, has an intrinsic sense of belonging in this world and seldom jumps to the worst conclusion.
‘We all keep things to ourselves,’ he said, easily. He was loading his dishwasher. ‘And yes, I keep all sorts of things from Tink.’
‘Such as what?’
‘Such as secrets.’
‘You just made that up to make me feel better.’
There was a long pause. ‘OK, well I have never told Tink, or anyone else, about the time Mum came into my bedroom and found me cracking one off over a picture of Samantha Fox,’ he said squarely.
I laughed for the first time in twenty-four hours. ‘That’s beautiful. But I’m talking about the big stuff, Olly, not teenage masturbation.’
‘Mate! Listen to me. Emma’s lied about her degree and something to do with her agent. It could be a lot worse.’
‘Really? You’d be OK with Tink making up a degree course that didn’t happen? Getting sacked for stalking and then fabricating a whole story about it? And what about her hiding a long-term weird and quite possibly sexual relationship with Jeremy Rothschild? You’d be happy if it was Tink?’
Olly made a noncommittal noise. ‘Mikkel,’ he called. ‘Leave him alone!’
‘The worst thing is that Emma’s gone out of her way to cover it all up. She’s removed paperwork from the cabinet, hidden it somewhere else, then told me I’m being paranoid. And she was texting someone in Northumberland the other day, trying to arrange a meet-up. She said she was messaging Susi, her old school friend, but I just don’t believe her. Not now.’
At that, Olly had stopped loading his dishwasher. ‘Did you say Northumberland?’
‘Yes. Why?’
He exhaled slowly. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing, but Jeremy Rothschild has a house up there. One of my colleagues goes there on holiday every year, they rent a cottage next door to his place. Alnwick, I think? Alnmouth maybe?’
‘Oh fuck,’ I said. ‘Oh fuck, Olly.’
I slide the key into the lock and pull the door silently behind me.
She’ll be bathing Ruby by now. I know Duck will be perched on the Victorian school chair in the corner of our bathroom, just where Ruby likes him to be. I know what the room will smell like, I see the window with its warm condensation sliding towards the rotting sill.
Normally these thoughts make my heart soar, but now I crave only knowledge. I tiptoe to the kitchen, where I take my wife’s phone out of her bag and open her messages.
It’s mundane stuff at first: work chat, mum chat, friend chat. The rumble of dread is too loud for me to question the ethics of what I’m doing. I go through each message chain methodically before moving on to the next.
Sixth down the list is a message to Jill, sent this morning. Emma tells Jill she’s nervous about seeing me later. I wish I could just tell him, she writes. I feel so bad.
Jill: You can’t tell Leo. You decided that a long time ago. None of the reasons have changed.
Emma: Oh, I know . . . But I can’t bear it
Jill: I think you need to go home and have a nice dinner together, and deny whatever he thinks he’s on to. It’ll pass. He loves you too much to blow everything up over some half-baked intelligence.
I stare at the phone. What does this mean?
And Jill, why is she telling Emma to lie to me? My heart brims with rage. How dare she encourage Emma to conceal things from me? Deny whatever he thinks he’s on to, she’s written, as if I’m some fool. What the fuck?
I continue to scroll, feverishly now, through Emma’s messages. I don’t have much time. I need to look for people she’s never mentioned – decoy names. Names like . . . Names like this. Sally.