Unfaithful Read online

  ‘I can’t believe she’s gone,’ I sighed. ‘All those things I took for granted,’ I said, staring out of the window, lost for a moment. ‘The things I complained about. The attitude, the bickering and demands for attention. “Mum, can you test me on my biology, can you give me a lift to Hampstead?”’ I did a fair impression of Dylan and Serena laughed.

  ‘You miss being a taxi service?’

  I didn’t want to admit how crushed I’d been feeling over the past week. How every afternoon, at about the time Dylan used to come home from school, I’d become so mournful that I would cry. How I would sometimes say her name out loud, to pretend that she was just out of sight in her room, or how I’d lie on her bed, like a cat stretched out in the sun, remembering all the good times we’d had as a family, only to curl up in a ball, sobbing when I realized that those days were over.

  ‘I miss everything,’ I said simply.

  She nodded, but I wasn’t quite sure she understood. Serena wasn’t an empty nester yet, although her twin boys Max and Christian were boarders at Charterhouse, so she did have some idea.

  ‘Darling, the holidays come around quickly,’ said Serena, summoning the waiter. ‘No sooner have the boys gone to school then they are back again. Honestly, I like to think of it as the best of both worlds.’

  I bit my tongue. I knew that Max and Chris still came home most weekends and family holidays – skiing and winter sun breaks were all already planned. There was an ominous feeling to our summer vacation this year; Dylan accompanied us to the Ibizan finca on the west coast of the island. I couldn’t fault the villa, which had views over Es Vedra, but Dylan seemed restless, finding any excuse to sunbathe or head out to a bar.

  I had mentioned a girls-only shopping trip to New York a few weeks earlier and she did perk up at that one, but really, I guessed it was the best I could hope for. At eighteen they were gone. Gone. I was sure that Ibiza family holiday had been our last.

  ‘And how’s Robert?’

  I did my best to focus on Serena.

  ‘Working like a lunatic,’ I shrugged. ‘I’ve hardly seen him since the holiday, to be honest.’

  ‘But look at how well he’s doing.’

  There was a slight reservation to her tone.

  Serena was old school money. She’d always respected wealth, believing that it was useful to pay for private schools and parties and upkeep of the country house. But the likes of her parents’ – the Cotswolds hunting set – were sniffy about the Euro and Arab billionaires who sunk their spare change into Robert’s projects and by reflection, our success was not quite kosher.

  ‘It’s so good to get out of the house though,’ I said, forcing myself to think positively. ‘You know I wonder,’ I said, allowing myself to think aloud. ‘Now Dylan’s has gone, maybe we should even move further into town.’

  Serena looked sceptical.

  ‘Would Robert ever sell Highgate?

  She knew how much our house meant to my husband. It was influenced by the great American architect Frank Lloyd Wright. During the planning of the house, Robert sat alongside his architect for months and even made a week-long research trip to Illinois to see the great master’s work. I’m sure it was one upside of Dylan’s departure for him – to see his house as the show home he had always envisioned, now the detritus of teenage life had gone.

  ‘Maybe he’d move,’ I said. ‘If it was another project.’

  ‘Perhaps you should suggest it to him. He could certainly find the right property.’

  That bit was true. Robert spent his life finding and developing properties, mainly in central London for super-wealthy clients with very specific and expensive needs. If anyone could find a suitable property in Chelsea or Marylebone, it was Robert. And it could be just the thing to focus his mind back on the family. On me.

  Serena looked at me with sympathy.

  ‘You don’t look terribly convinced,’ she said.

  ‘It wouldn’t fly. Robert’s been talking about moving out, not in. A country pile, somewhere for the weekend.’

  ‘Come to the Cotswolds,’ she grinned.

  ‘I’m sure it’s lovely, but I want to feel more connected, not isolated.

  The waiter took our order. Two chicken salads. Two diet Cokes. No wine although I desperately felt like it. Not in front of Serena. I was here to look serious.

  I took a deep breath.

  ‘What I really want is to get back to work.’

  There was an uplift to Serena’s brow, as I knew there would be. I thought of Robert’s reaction – ‘the world’s changed, Rach’ – by which he had meant it had changed beyond my recognition and skillset. But I knew I could still do it.

  ‘Look, I know I’ve been out of the game for years, but I still know books, and I’m still good with organization and handling people. I’m behind on the tech stuff, obviously, but I’m a fast learner and I’m keen …’

  Serena was holding up both hands, a smile on her lips.

  ‘Alright, alright,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to convince me.’

  My shoulders dropped with relief. I had spent weeks – no, months – rehearsing this conversation in my head and had expected to have to argue much harder to get Serena onside.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, my voice soft and quiet. ‘I need this. Dylan leaving – it’s just hit me hard. She’s only just gone and already I feel driftless. Robert’s so busy it doesn’t seem to have affected him, and that only makes me feel worse.’

  I gulped hard, surprised by my honesty. Serena was one of my oldest friends but she was also one of the toughest. She rarely showed any vulnerability herself – and as her friend, you avoided revealing your own frailties.

  ‘How soon were you thinking of starting?’

  Her very matter-of-factness gave me a shot of confidence.

  ‘The moment something comes up.’

  Serena looked thoughtful.

  ‘Something might be going at Edelman. Ginny Lane – editor in the literary fiction division – is pregnant. I say pregnant, but she had the baby a few days ago. It came at twenty-eight weeks can you believe. Baby’s fine but it’s left the team on the back-foot.’

  ‘Won’t they just get by without her?

  Even when I was there – back in the Nineties glory days – when an editor went on maternity leave their workload, their authors were just spread around the team until they came back. Unless, like me, they didn’t.

  Serena shook her head. ‘No – they’ve got to get someone in. We’ve just launched a new imprint – Emerald – and three Edelman editors have moved across. It’s left them too stretched.’

  ‘It sounds perfect,’ I said, allowing myself to feel giddy. Edelman was where I started, where I’d spent all of my working life. By the time I’d left I was a respected editor with a huge word-of-mouth hit under my belt. I was someone, not a no one.

  ‘Of course, it’s not my division,’ she added. ‘You’d need to convince Ian.’

  ‘Ian?’

  ‘Ian Sinclair. MD at Edelman. I think you’d left by the time he arrived. Can be prickly, snobbish, but if you get him onside …’

  Serena looked at me and gave a sly smile.

  ‘What are you doing on Wednesday night?’

  I shook my head. I still hadn’t taken a breath.

  ‘How do you fancy going to a party?’

  Chapter 4

  Robert’s overnight bag was packed and standing by the front door when I came downstairs. His silver Rinowa – the perfect cabin size roll-on, a Christmas gift from three years ago – was as familiar a sight in our front hall as Dylan’s Converse trainers used to be. As long as I’d known him, he was always away on business, but his latest project – the redevelopment of a Grade 1 listed mansion in Regent’s Park into twenty-four super-prime apartments – was keeping him busier than ever. This month alone he had been to Moscow for a week and Abu Dhabi for three days. Usually, before Dylan had gone, I wouldn’t give a second thought to my husband going away, because the truth was, I enjoyed it. I liked cooking Dilly’s favourite suppers while she did her homework on the breakfast bar. I liked baking – chocolate cakes and key lime pies – without the pressure of everything being scrupulously cleared up before my husband, ever the neat freak came home. I liked curling up in the media room with my daughter and binge-watching Friends, enjoying the nostalgia of one of my favourite shows, secretly thrilled that Dylan loved it as much as I did. I even joked that we were like Joey and Chandler in our matching La-Z-Boy chairs and when Robert had installed deluxe velvet recliners, it wasn’t too far from the truth.

  But now I hated the thought of him going away. The house seemed bigger, darker, when I was the only person in it. I hated locking up the house at night, turning off the television and climbing into our cavernous emperor sized bed alone. I hated the way the regular noises of our home seemed louder and more sinister – the distant bark of a fox in the cemetery seemed wolf-like without Robert or Dylan in the house, even the soft gurgle of the boiler sounded otherworldly. And although I told myself that our home was safe, secured with a state of the alarm security system, my imagination had gone into overdrive about what could happen to Swain’s House – gas explosion, armed raiders, spectral invasions – and how I would deal with it alone. Most of all, it was a reminder that Dylan was not there to keep me company. Sometimes I wondered if, in recent years, I had been looking after her, or she had been looking after me.

  Robert was flipping through his phone, elbows resting on the granite tops, when I walked into the kitchen.

  He was wearing his favourite bespoke suit, the first made-to-measure he’d ever ordered when he’d pulled off a big deal a few years ago, and the blue shirt that always made him look like he had a tan, even in winter. My husband was a handsome ma
n, with dark eyes like two chips of coal, and symmetrical features. He was not model good-looking, but he was the model of success, so much so that he reminded me of the watch adverts, where you were saving your investment for another generation.

  ‘I made you coffee,’ he said, glancing up. ‘Had a new blend just delivered. Limited edition. It’s good.’

  ‘I can smell those shades of morello cherry already,’ I smiled, eyeing the cup. It was a standing joke between us that he could pick out the subtleties in any coffee where I thought it all tasted exactly the same. Given the choice, I would still go for a strong mug of builder’s tea, but Robert was so proud of our state-of-the-art drinks machine, I tried to join in with his fun.

  ‘Where are you off to today?’ I asked, taking a sip.

  ‘Paris.’

  ‘I can’t keep up,’ I said, perching on the bar stool beside him.

  ‘Neither can I.’

  I fumbled round for something to say. It was something that was happening to me a lot lately, especially with my husband. I’d just run out of conversation.

  ‘What have you got on?’ I asked finally. ‘In Paris, I mean.’

  He shrugged. ‘Back to back appointments all afternoon, some big dinner for the mayor tonight and lunch tomorrow with an interesting Kuwaiti.’

  ‘You mean rich.’

  ‘A potential investor.’

  He smiled, not even trying to hide his excitement. This was what my husband lived for. The deal. He loved making contacts and sniffing out interest. He loved the back and forth of negotiation, the competition of beating others to a prize. I’d seen him minutes after closing a big transaction and he’d be giddy, high, as if he’d actually been loaded full of class A drugs. I’m not sure if it’s because the professional success validates him – Robert didn’t go to university and you don’t have to dig very deep to know he has a slight chip on his shoulder because of it – or because he just loves business, in a way that actors have to act or an artist feels lost without a paintbrush in their hand.

  ‘Any chance of you nipping into Fauchon?’

  Fauchon eclairs were Dylan’s absolute favourites and although I tried to curb my sweet tooth, I loved it when he brought a box home. It sugared the pill that he was having a big, busy life while I stayed at home.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  His phone beeped before he could reply and as he stood up and slipped on his jacket, I felt the swell of panic at the thought of being left alone again.

  ‘Car’s here,’ he muttered.

  He stepped across and gave me a peck on the cheek. ‘What are your plans?’

  He hadn’t noticed that I’d had my hair cut and coloured the day before, or if he had, he hadn’t said anything.

  I’d been meaning to tell him about my lunch with Serena all week, but there had never seemed to be the right moment. I certainly hadn’t mentioned the party.

  ‘I’m meeting Serena later. ‘We’re going to the launch of BCC’s new thriller imprint,’ I said as lightly as I could.

  I wasn’t ready to tell him about a potential job opportunity just yet. After all, it would probably come to nothing.

  ‘A big night out?’

  ‘Hardly. You know how book launches go: half an hour of canapés and chat, speech from the publisher, clap-clap, everyone goes home.’

  ‘Sounds more fun than the reception I’ve got to go to tonight at the Hotel De Ville,’ he smiled.

  ‘I wish you weren’t going,’ I said honestly.

  He pulled the cuffs of his shirt below his jacket.

  ‘It’s only one night.’

  I picked at a loose cuticle around my nail and it stung as it ripped away from my skin.

  ‘I was thinking …’ I hesitated before I continued. ‘Maybe we should get a cat.’

  ‘A cat.’

  I looked up at him.

  ‘Cute, fluffy things. Can be selfish, prone to wandering, highly independent.’

  ‘We’ve already got one teenager,’ he grinned.

  ‘Come on, what do you think?’

  ‘Rach, I’ve got hives just thinking about it.’

  ‘Since when have you have a cat allergy?’

  ‘You remember what I was like when I went around to the Fishers’ house. Sooky the Persian was almost the death of me.’

  ‘His name was Sooty, she’s Burmese and your itchy eye was hay-fever.’

  I stopped and reminded myself I didn’t really want a pet either. It was just something that someone on Mumsnet had suggested when I had typed ‘empty-nest’ and ‘lonely’ into a forum, but I thought it was at least worth a discussion.

  Robert’s face softened in sympathy.

  ‘It’s not always going to be like this.’

  ‘I know.’

  I wasn’t convinced. My husband seemed to be working harder and harder, not slowly taking his foot off the gas. And why should he? He wasn’t even fifty and according to last month’s issue of the Property Gazette – Robert had been the cover star and it was now framed and hung up in our guest loo – his latest development, Regent Place, was going to catapult him into the highest tier of developers. Who was going to give up when they had only just arrived?

  He took a step towards me.

  ‘Maybe next time, you can come? I’ve got an overnighter in Milan in a couple of weeks if you fancied it. I can get Petra to sort something out. Opera, ballet, your call. Maybe we could get in at La Scala.’

  I knew he’d prefer to take a client out to watch AC Milan but I appreciated the offer.

  There had been a time, many years before, just after we had married, that I’d loved joining Robert on a business trip. It wasn’t Moscow or Dubai in those days, but Manchester, Newcastle, Glasgow. I had my own big, busy career back then, but Fridays were my days for lunching agents or authors and I’d sometimes slip off early after those meetings, catch the train to wherever Robert was having his, and we’d have a meal in the city’s best restaurants, keeping an eye on the price of drinks, but nevertheless wanting to spoil ourselves. We’d walk back to a hotel we couldn’t quite afford, have sex in the room, in the shower or on one particularly risqué occasion in the loos by the ground floor bar. We’d sleep in late, order breakfast in bed, make love all over again, then wind back to London feeling happy, successful and in love.

  Yet more recently, I’d spent a trip to New York shuffling around Bloomingdale for three hours on my own, waiting for Robert to come out of endless meetings, worrying that I was so far away from home, away from Dylan – even though she was on a school trip to Florence.

  But maybe next time we’d have more luck.

  ‘I’d better shoot. The car’s waiting. Say hi to Serena for me,’ he said, disturbing me from my thoughts. ‘We should do something soon.’

  I was going to reply but Robert had gone, padding into the hall, looking for his shoes.

  ‘Back tomorrow evening?’ he said as I heard the front door open.

  No goodbye. I hurried out into the hall, just as the door clicked shut. And I stood there, listening to the car’s engine until it faded and was gone.

  I felt the butterflies flutter up in my stomach as I pushed through the glass door into Soho’s Ham Yard Hotel. The party was in the basement, a fashionable open space with an orange juice machine that ran from floor to ceiling, a bar that stretched across the entire room and a cinema annexe which was set up for a presentation for the new imprint.

  I hovered at the top of the stairs, looking down on the party, and tried to locate Serena, but even with this bird’s-eye view she was nowhere to be seen. My hand clenched around my handbag strap, nails digging into my palm and as I took a deep breath, I told myself I could do this.

  After all, this used to be my life. Book parties just like this one, where the crowd was a moveable feast of new names and faces and the wine flowed freely. Back then, the tightness in my chest was anticipation, the notion that anything could happen. I’d always had the feeling that I would meet my future husband at a book launch; it seemed so impossibly romantic. I had in fact met Robert in Po Na Na’s, a Moroccan-themed club on the Kings Road, but I still felt my stomach fizz at the sight of a crowd.

  ‘Found you!’

  I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see Serena grinning at me.

  ‘What are you doing, creeping around up here?’

  ‘Looking for you,’ I smiled.