The Party Page 9

  ‘Yes,’ I reply cautiously, peering past her to see if Carrie’s car has left yet. There’s no sign of the little blue Fiat she turned up in last time.

  ‘Hiiiiii,’ she says again, extending her hand to me. I don’t shake it. ‘My name is Helen Faulkner. I’m from the Marsham Echo.’ A journalist.

  ‘Oh no, no, thank you.’ I go to push the door closed but it seems that she’s somehow wedged her booted foot in the gap between the door and frame. ‘Take your foot out of my door.’

  ‘I just wanted to speak to you, Rachel. I can call you that, right?’ she soothes, biro already in hand.

  ‘No, you can’t. Get off my doorstep.’ I push the door harder on to her foot, relishing the tiny wince that crosses her features.

  ‘I heard about what happened to you, at the party on New Year’s Eve – don’t you want to tell your side of the story, Rachel? Only, no one seems to know what really happened that night, so I thought you could put things straight … tell us what you know and give us your version.’ She staggers as I manage to dislodge her foot, slamming the door firmly in her face. ‘Here’s my card.’ A small white square card rattles through the letterbox, Helen Faulkner’s name, email and telephone number typed neatly across it. ‘Call me when you’re ready to talk, Rachel. Only, maybe don’t leave it too long, the story is already out there. People are already talking.’

  I stay silent, leaning against the door, the small white card on the mat the only thing marring my vision. I hear the tap-tap-tapping of her heels as she marches back down the path towards the main road, waiting until the sound dies away and I am sure she has left. I slide down the doorframe, sinking on to the doormat, in much the same position as I found myself that awful morning.

  So, people are talking about what happened. The police have spoken to everyone at the party and found nothing. Aaron has told the police that he wasn’t at the party – but Liz told me he was there. Ted says I was slurring and staggering, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have let myself get in that state. I can reach only one conclusion from the things I’ve heard today. Someone is lying.

  10

  SEPTEMBER – THREE MONTHS BEFORE THE PARTY

  I deleted Aaron’s friend request as soon as it arrived on my phone the other night – but another now sits blinking at me on my laptop screen. Sighing, I take a sip of wine and angle the laptop to show Amy, where she sits across the kitchen table from me, Thor laid on her feet.

  ‘Yikes. He’s keen,’ she says, as her eyes scan the screen. ‘Some people just don’t know when to take “no” for an answer.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ I turn the screen back to face me and click on to his name. ‘He hasn’t got many friends … or even many posts, it’s like he only just set it up.’ Creepy. The guy is definitely creepy.

  ‘So just ignore it.’ Amy shrugs, reaching down to pet Thor. The thin, silver bracelets that line her arms jangle as she moves. ‘If you don’t accept it, and just leave it on your account waiting to be dealt with, at least that way he can’t send another one. Let’s look at Ted’s account instead.’ She waggles her eyebrows at me suggestively.

  ‘Oh, shhhhh,’ I laugh, a little buzz of anticipation rippling through me as I type in his name. Angela moved out a month after the barbecue, moving straight in with Devon, the yoga instructor. It turns out Ted’s instinct was right all along. I had told Amy about the row Gareth and I had in the kitchen on the day of the barbecue, and I had even told her about Ted coming to check on me in the bathroom. I told her he kissed me, but that’s all. She doesn’t know about the rest of it, all the other times we’ve been together since then and what we’ve done together. ‘Here. Happy families, pre Devon.’ Amy gets up and comes to sit next to me, peering at the screen, filled with photos of Ted, Angela and Sean together on various days out, faces squashed together as they all huddle in.

  ‘Ugh,’ Amy says, a sour tang of wine on her breath, ‘the before pics … before Angela ran away with that stringy yoga dude. Imagine what their bedtime looks like.’ Light-headed with wine, I snort with laughter at the thought of Angela and Devon tying themselves up in knots in bed, before Aaron sneaks into my thoughts again and I sober quickly.

  ‘So, you reckon just ignore him then?’ I ask, closing the lid of the laptop. I reach for the wine and top both of our glasses up, even though I already feel a little tipsy after that one glass.

  ‘Yeah, I reckon.’ Amy raises her glass to me before she takes a sip. ‘He’s a bit of a weirdo, but he’s harmless, right? Just ignore it, and if by chance he does ask you why you haven’t accepted, just tell him you don’t really use that account. No harm done.’

  We move out into the garden, carrying our wine and a few snacks. September has brought with it a cool breeze and sunshine, and I sigh with pleasure as the warm sun strokes its way across my bare arms. Amy’s right – he’s harmless.

  My good mood fades when Gareth stomps into the house, two hours later than expected. The dinner I cooked is wizened and dry from being kept warm in the oven too long, but I slide on an oven glove and pull it out, ready to dish it up to him anyway.

  ‘How was your day?’ Make an effort, Rachel, he’s probably just tired. I sit across the table from him and watch as he wrinkles his nose at the congealed mess on the plate, resisting the urge to tip the food over his ungrateful head. There is a permanent frown etched into his forehead recently, and I can tell today has been another tough day as his hair sticks up on end, as though he’s been running his hand through it all day. A sure sign that something is wrong.

  ‘Fine.’ He takes a bite of dried-up chicken pie, ignoring his phone as it pings with a message alert on the table next to him.

  ‘You’re late back. Everything OK?’ I watch him as he shovels the terrible, dried-up food into his mouth, a shrunken pea whizzing off his plate and disappearing somewhere underneath the kitchen unit. His phone buzzes on the table next to him again. ‘Shouldn’t you get that?’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Rachel.’ He slams down his knife and fork, leaving half of his meal uneaten, and scrapes his chair back, getting to his feet and grabbing the phone. ‘Just leave it, OK? Just mind your own bloody business.’ He marches from the room and a few seconds later I hear the door to his study slam shut.

  Closing my eyes, I rest my head on my arms on the table, the thud of a tension headache starting to thump in my temples. Is this it? Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives? I have no idea what is making Gareth behave this way, but I know that he’s driving me towards Ted more and more with every bad mood, every curt response, every time he swears at me. Getting to my feet wearily, I start to clear the table, my mind turning Gareth’s behaviour over and over in my mind, when a ping alerts me to a message on my own phone.

  Thursday, 10 a.m.? West Marsham woods. I have the morning off.

  I smile, my spirits lifting immediately. Ted Durand wants to see me. I haven’t saved his number in my phone for fear of being caught, but by now his number is as familiar to me as my own, more so even.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, careful not to put anything else that could incriminate us. If anyone (read, Gareth) sees the text I can pass it off as someone who isn’t Ted, a running buddy maybe. My lips twitch with a tiny, secret smile and the weight of Gareth’s … what? Anger? Disappointment? Whatever it is that I seem to have done to annoy him lessens slightly. I can make it to Thursday.

  On my way to bed, I pause outside Gareth’s study. There is a chink of light showing under the door and I tap lightly hoping he’ll let me in. Maybe now he’s had some time to himself he might be in the mood to talk. There is no response, so I press my ear tightly against the door, listening hard, feeling like a spy in my own house. I hear the low murmur of Gareth’s voice and guess he’s on the phone, maybe replying to whoever was so insistent at dinner.

  Or maybe Gareth is having an affair? Maybe that’s why he doesn’t seem to want you around lately. Maybe he’s saving all his good humour for someone who actually deserves it.

  I shak
e my head, and press harder against the wood of the door, trying to hear what he is saying. It sounds as though Gareth is pacing, and I draw back slightly in case he throws open the door, making his words even more indistinct. After a moment, it goes silent and I start to tiptoe away towards the stairs, when the door flies open.

  ‘Rachel!’ Gareth looks startled to see me. ‘Did you want me?’

  ‘No …’ I say, my heart thumping at almost being caught, ‘I just wanted to see if you were OK, that’s all. Sorry, I’ll leave you – I know you’re busy.’ Turning away I take a step towards the stairs but Gareth lays a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Wait, before you go …’ he hurries back into the office, returning with two slips of paper in his hand, ‘can you give these to Robbie? I saw the email the school sent out about high ability pupils with his name on the list and I thought he might like these as a treat.’ I look down to see two tickets to Robbie’s favourite band – tickets that have been like gold dust.

  ‘Wow – how did you get these? Rob will be thrilled.’ I didn’t even realize that Gareth knew which bands Robbie was in to.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Gareth gives a wan smile, ‘look, Rach, I have to get on. I’ll be up in a bit.’

  ‘OK.’ I nod, and he leaves me there in the dim light of the hallway, the two tickets burning a hole in my hand.

  As I slide under the covers, my feet searching out the cool of the sheet, I wonder what it could all mean – one minute Gareth is stressed out, rude and abrupt, not caring if he hurts my feelings, and then the next he does something so completely unexpected, so sweet that makes me think, there you are, the man I married, and it’s like an invisible cord draws me back to him again.

  My phone buzzes on the nightstand next to me, and I almost don’t check it, my head is so full of trying to decipher what Gareth could be so stressed about, and trying to unravel the guilt I’m feeling about Ted – every time Gareth does something thoughtful, the weight of my betrayal hits me like a wave of disgust, harder and harder each time – but then I think maybe it’s Ted and perhaps I should just text him back and cancel our meeting. I roll over and grope in the dark for my mobile. A message request icon flashes up on the screen, illuminating the room with an eerie blue glow. Tapping on it, my breath sticks in my throat.

  ‘Aaron Power has sent you a message request. They will not see you have read this message until you accept it.’

  Fuck. I feel a bit queasy as I open the message, careful not to tap the accept button just yet.

  ‘Hey, Rachel. I sent you a friend request but you don’t seem to have accepted it yet. Just wanted to say it was lovely seeing you the other day. Perhaps we could get together for a drink? For old time’s sake. ;).’ Winky face. A winky face, for fuck’s sake. What are we, fifteen? I press the accept button and start to tap out a reply. Maybe if I’m just honest with him he’ll get the hint.

  ‘Hi Aaron. Sorry, I don’t really use this account.’ Thanks for the tip, Amy. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t accept your offer of a drink either.’ I pause for a moment, thinking how best to word what I want to say.‘I’m happily married, and I just don’t think it would be appropriate, but thank you. Rachel.’ Happily married. I flick the phone on to silent and flip my pillow over to the cool side. Closing my eyes, I will sleep to come, trying to ignore the bitter taste of lies on my tongue.

  Days later I am at the supermarket, meandering along the aisles, picking things up and putting them down again. I’m not in the right frame of mind for food shopping, occupied as I am with Gareth and his still erratic mood swings, but I have a rare afternoon free of clients, and we have nothing in – an eighteen-year-old boy eats a lot, even if his father isn’t there for dinner every night. Gareth also decided to spring it on me this morning that he’s arranged a works dinner party for tomorrow evening. I am leaning over the edge of a large freezer, trying to decide whether frozen prawns are a better bet than fresh, when a tap on my arm startles me and I nearly upend into the freezer fully. Straightening up, I turn to see the last person I wanted to bump in to.

  ‘Aaron. Hello.’ I realize I am clutching a sweaty packet of frozen prawns as though my life depends on it, before slinging them back into the freezer. Aaron looks far more together than I feel right now – I feel a bit discombobulated, caught on the hop, while Aaron looks fresh from a catalogue page in a crisp white shirt and chino style trousers.

  ‘Rachel! Nice to see you.’ He leans in to kiss me on the cheek and I have to resist the urge to pull away. His aftershave is strong and sickly, making my stomach flip and not in a good way.

  ‘Yes.’ I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘Doing your food shop?’ Aaron peers into the trolley and I feel exposed and vulnerable by his prying eyes, even though all I have in there so far is a large bag of salad, a tube of Pringles and some wine.

  ‘Looks that way,’ I say brightly, inching the trolley forward slightly. ‘Well, I should go,’ I gesture towards the trolley,‘lots to do, you know?’

  ‘I do.’ He smiles, and I am reminded of a shark circling its prey. ‘I’m just grabbing some lunch, on my way back to work.’ He raises an eyebrow and I feel as though I’m missing something, like he knows something I don’t.

  ‘Well, see you then.’ I place both hands firmly on the trolley and start to push it away from him, but his hand shoots out and he grabs the end, stopping me from going anywhere.

  ‘Why don’t you want to go for a drink with me, Rachel?’

  I flounder for a moment, giving a little cough to buy myself some time.

  ‘It’s nothing personal, Aaron.’

  ‘So why not then? We’ve got history together, Rachel, you know that.’

  ‘History?’ Surely, he can’t think that a couple of pints in the student union bar over twenty years ago amounts to history? I barely spoke to him, he was just on the fringes of our friendship group. I know he worked for Gareth for a bit, but I had barely anything to do with him then either, not if I could help it.

  ‘Yeah, history.’ He smirks, small, white teeth showing through his fashionable hipster beard, and I shudder inwardly. ‘Come on, it’s just one drink. You don’t even need to tell Gareth about it. Or, I could just book in to come and see you for a treatment.’

  The thought of him laid out on my massage table makes me feel more than a little uncomfortable. ‘Look, Aaron, I’m flattered, I really am, but I’m married … to Gareth, for goodness’ sake. You know Gareth, your old boss? It’s really not appropriate. Please, I need to go, I have things to do.’ I glance anxiously over my shoulder, hoping that someone else is nearby, but the aisle is deserted, clearly no one is in great need of frozen food this afternoon. My fingers shake slightly, and I grip the handle of the trolley tight until my knuckles go white, my pulse starting to throb in my temples.

  ‘Shopping for the dinner party?’ He relaxes his grip on the trolley but still stands barring my way.

  ‘Excuse me?’ My mouth goes dry – how does he know what I’m shopping for? As far as I know Gareth only arranged it with the guests a couple of days ago.

  ‘The dinner party. Tomorrow night. I’m guessing that’s what you’re shopping for.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’ I turn back towards the freezers, trying to disguise my anxiety from him by pretending to be engrossed in the frozen fish. I pick up the packet of prawns again.

  ‘Well, Gareth invited me, of course.’ A smug grin slides across his face as he realizes that I know nothing about his invitation. ‘We’re all invited. Well, two of our most important clients, plus the senior management from the office.’ Our clients? Realization dawns and I have to swallow down the dread that washes over me.

  ‘You … Gareth gave you a job again? You’re back at the office?’ Oh God, that’s the last thing I need. I was so relieved when he left the last time, so thankful that I wouldn’t have to avoid his creepy gaze every time I went to the office, that it never even occurred to me that he would come back.

  ‘That’s right.�
� Aaron beams at me. ‘So, I’ll see you tomorrow, about eight o’clock? We can have a drink together then, although it’s not quite the same, is it?’ I say nothing, but my palms feel damp against the plastic of the trolley handle. Aaron steps closer to me, leaning down to whisper in my ear, that sickly aftershave filling my nostrils again. I swallow hard, fighting back nausea.

  ‘You might want to throw those back in the freezer. To be honest, I’m not too keen on fish. Especially the cold kind.’

  11

  JANUARY – TWO WEEKS AFTER THE PARTY

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind taking me? I’m happy to drive myself if you don’t feel up to it.’ Gareth hefts the suitcase into the boot of the car and walks round to the passenger side to let himself in.

  ‘I said I didn’t mind. It’s fine.’ I slide in to the driver’s seat and fiddle about with the settings, attempting to inch forward so my feet can reach the pedals. I’m trying not to be anxious about the fact that Gareth is going away for a week to look at property in Croatia, leaving me alone in the house with Robbie. He offered to cancel the trip, but I told him not to. Having him gone gives me the space I need to carry on my own investigation, even if the thought of being alone does terrify me. The thought of letting people into the house terrifies me even more, and I still haven’t booked any clients in for treatments since before the party. ‘Have you got everything?’

  ‘Yep. Will you be OK?’ Gareth eyes me carefully as I reverse out of the drive on to the main road. ‘If you need me just call and I’ll try and come home.’ Try. Just that one little word changes the whole sentence structure and tells me that he didn’t really mean it when he offered to cancel his trip. I should imagine he’d be relieved to get away from me, to get a break from it all.

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ I bite the tip of my tongue in lieu of crossing my fingers. The truth is, I am anxious about being here alone. What will I do if he knows where I live? What will I do if he breaks into the house while I’m alone to do it all over again? I did try to voice my concerns to Gareth, but he just looked at me oddly and told me that wouldn’t happen. So, I am settling for driving Gareth to the airport in his car, which I will then park on our drive thereby making people think that Gareth is home. It was the best idea I could think of, to make me feel safer.