late Feb.’
‘Aww.’ She smiles at my bump for a moment, then looks back at my face. ‘Well, look, you’re very welcome. We’d love to have you, and the bump.’ She smiles again. ‘Bring a friend if you like.’
‘Thanks. I’d love to join,’ I say and out of the corner of my eye I see Jake parking the car outside so I start to usher her towards the door. At the hall table, she stops.
‘Oh wow, is that your wedding?’ she asks, picking up the photo and running a finger over the glass.
‘Yes,’ I say. What else can I say?
‘What a beautiful picture,’ she says. ‘You both look so happy.’
‘We were,’ I say. Outside, I hear Jake walking up the path. ‘We are! Anyway, here he is now…’ I pull open the door. ‘Hi, darling.’ I widen my eyes at him to show I’m as surprised as he is at our unexpected visitor. ‘This is Sarah. She lives down the road. Sarah – my husband, Jake.’
Sarah steps back to look at Jake, then leans into him and gives him a showy kiss on the cheek. ‘Mwa. Even more handsome in real life,’ she says with a laugh, wiping her thumb against his cheek to remove a smudge of lipstick, then she’s off down the path. ‘Bye, Taylor! I’ll let you know when the next meeting is. Byee!’
I’m smiling when I close the door.
‘What was that all about?’ says Jake.
‘That,’ I say, puffing up a bit, ‘was my invitation to join a book club. I think I’ve got a new friend.’
When I look back, it seems Jake was away more than he was home in those days. I can’t imagine why I didn’t just tell him I wanted him to spend more time at home. It seems so obvious now, but it didn’t occur to me even to question his work then; to ask ‘is this really necessary?’ Maybe it was necessary. Maybe it wasn’t – but I didn’t want to make an issue of it. The truth is, I was walking on eggshells with him at that point and I didn’t want to smash the lot of them.
Anyway, after Sarah had invited me to join the book club, Jake and I spent the weekend together. I don’t recall what we did – maybe some sort of preparation for the baby’s arrival, or maybe we just had a lie-in and did some Christmas shopping. The point is, they weren’t perfect, but they were innocent days; days before everything fell apart. I can’t look back at photos from that time now.
Jake left again the following Wednesday.
‘Look after yourself,’ he says as he throws his bag into the trunk. ‘Go back to the walking club.’
‘Be good,’ I say to him and the weight of the words hangs heavy between us.
‘I’m back late on Saturday,’ Jake says. He slides into the car in that graceful way of his, and my smile doesn’t falter as I lean in to smooth a piece of his hair that’s escaped a heavy gelling.
‘Bye,’ I say, waving as the car recedes down the street, leaving nothing but a lingering smell of petrol exhaust. I turn back to the house and a cavern of emptiness hits me in my chest. I still get that feeling sometimes now, if I’m home alone, early in the morning. That day, though, it feels as if the emptiness inside me might actually physically explode, and I have to lean against the doorframe for a moment while I catch my breath.
I was in a bad way back then. Neither Jake nor I saw it at the time but, looking back, I guess I could have been depressed. I’ve read a lot about it since what happened and, as I said, I think I was. I’m not making excuses, just saying.
But that morning I don’t question it. I go back into the kitchen: it’s silent bar the whir and occasional shudder of the fridge. The scent of Jake’s cologne still hangs in the air, mixed with the morning smells of eggs, toast and coffee. His cup, cutlery and plate sit unrinsed on the counter. Four days he’ll be away this time. Not long, but it includes half a weekend, and before I can get my defences up, the thought thunders in like a runaway train: why does he need to be away on a Friday night? A Saturday? It’s his fault I question these absences now. I used to trust him. In my head, that ever-recurring snapshot of me picking up his mobile phone; of me clicking on the last conversation in his WhatsApp and finding a sex chat with ‘her’. My heart thuds at the memory, as it did that day. His denial. His tears. My trust broken.
Why did I look?
I take a deep breath and give myself a pep talk as I put the dishes in the sink, squirt detergent onto the sponge, and wash the plates by hand, carefully removing all traces of the coffee and food that’s touched Jake’s lips: It doesn’t mean anything. You’re going to have a great week, I tell myself. He’s learned his lesson. He won’t do it again.
But a smaller voice persists: Once a cheater, always a cheater, and I squash it back down, visualizing it spiralling down the sink with the dishwater.
Jobs done, I turn to face the kitchen and sigh again. It doesn’t help that I have no friends to distract me. You can’t cut people away from their natural habitat and expect them to pick up just like that in a new place. Even while I’m thinking this, I’m denying it: as cabin crew I’d been constantly moving and never felt lost. Maybe that’s the problem: here in Britain, I’ve lost more than just my friends and family. I’ve lost my identity.
And then there’s the reality of what life’s actually like in Croydon. Not in my head, but down on the cold, hard ground. My previous experiences of life in London, staying at smart hotels within a stone’s throw of the city lights, were galaxies away from the reality of life in a street of two-up two-down red-brick terraces. I laugh out loud at my own naivety – a bitter laugh that echoes through the empty house like the cackles of a witch. I wonder when the book club is. What number did that Sarah woman say she lived at? Twenty-six? I make a small detour to walk past her house on the way to the park: peeling paint, a messy front yard, and drawn curtains that prevent me from seeing inside.
*
At the park, I see Simon at once. He’s taller than most of the others, his red beanie easy to spot. He gives a little wave so I make my way over to him.
‘Hey, how are you?’ I ask. ‘Good week?’
‘Up and down. Up and down. Father had a turn this week. Been in hospital.’ He sighs then smiles, his eyes peering intensely into mine through heavy glasses I can’t decide are geeky or cool. ‘I shouldn’t burden you with this. He’s out now. All’s well. Looking forward to the walk?’ His voice is reedy, thin.
‘Of course.’ As I say the words I spot the woman from last week in the blue jacket: Anna Jones. My heart skips.
‘I’m just going to register,’ I tell Simon, and head towards her. As I get close, I catch her eye and smile.
‘Hey,’ I say. ‘How are you?’
‘Good. You?’
‘Yeah, good, thanks. I was just going to sign in. Have you?’
‘Not yet.’
We walk together over to Cath, where I watch her write her name. At least I can admit I know
