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Petra sits sipping prosecco in the passenger seat, and she is still sipping when we pull up in the car park of Owen’s flat block.
She straightens beside me. Owen’s car sits in front of us; the same car listed on the print out. ‘The little knob is home, then,’ she slurs, craning her neck. ‘Shall I come in with you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, no, it’s fine. You stay in the car.’ Although there is a part of me that wants her to see; wantseveryoneto see. He would hate that. As Chloe said, he’s a manipulator. He wants everyone to see him in a perfect light. But I want to do this alone. Stand in front of him, at last, unafraid and alone.
I open the car door. ‘Are you going to be OK?’
‘Me? Absolutely,’ smiles Petra. ‘I’m going to listen to a podcast and drink my prosecco. But if you need me, Millie, you just shout, yeah? I’m right here.’
I nod.
‘And are you sure you’re going to be OK?’ she asks.
‘Of course.’ And I hope those words seep into my soul, like warm wax, harden to a truth. Because I don’t feel like I’ll be OK at all. I have to confront him – Owen. This time last year, I would have given anything for him to justlookat me again. Now I’m about to walk up to his front door. To call him out. To face him. See him exactly as he is for the first time.
I walk up the path, legs shaking, kneecaps feeling like they’re held together with blancmange and jelly. A little yellow light beams inside, through the frosted slot of a window next to the communal front door. My heart thumps as I press the speakerphone. It rings inside, a two-beat chime that repeats and reverberates through me.
It’s going to be OK. I have every right to be here, I don’t even need to accuse him. I can simply say, ‘You were there the night my emails were sent, and I believe you did it. What do you have to say to that?’ But you know – less detective-y.
The speakerphone crackles.
‘Hello?’ I say. Silence. ‘Hello, it’s me. Millie.’
Silence again.
Then a door squeaks inside, somewhere out of sight, in the lit-up hallway.
And then—
Chloe.
Oh, God. I had not planned for this. I was never expecting Chloe. They’ve brokenup.I have spent the last few months begging Chloe to believe I had nothing to do with the email being sent, had not been having an affair with Owen, didn’t want him back, and here I am, on his doorstep on a Friday evening, while people go to their homes for the weekend for baths and a takeaway. To pubs. To clubs. To friends’, like Jack has, for his leaving dinner.
Chloe stops on the other side of the door when she sees it’s me. She looks pin-faced – flushed. Her hair is tied back and she has her sleeves rolled up. Like I’ve interrupted her doing something. Cleaning?
She opens the door. ‘Millie?’
‘I .?.?. I .?.?. Sorry, is .?.?. I wasn’t expecting you to be here.’
Chloe looks haunted at the sight of me. ‘He isn’t here. I was collecting some of my stuff.’
‘Oh. Right.’
‘He’s at the gym,’ she says tonelessly. ‘What did you want?’
‘I just wanted to talk to him. Tell him I know it was him. The emails .?.?.’
‘What .?.?. what do you mean?’
‘I looked through the registration logs of that night,’ I say. ‘The car logs? And Owen was there, when the emails were sent. I’m going to tell IT. Make a formal complaint; finally .?.?. I don’t know. Hold him to justice—’
‘Millie, don’t do that.’
And I feel sad then, looking at Chloe. Because I would’ve laid down in front of a bulldozer for Owen. Because it’s what he does. He makes you think you’re lucky just to getlooked atby him. And even though their relationship is over, even though she talks about him like she hates him, she’s still trying to protect him. Owen the bloody king Kalimeris.
‘I’m sorry, Chloe, I really am, for everything that’s happened to you, but I have to.’
