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“I’m needed onsite. The planners are being difficult. They don’t seem to understand we’re not going to complete the buildings and just hand them over for people to do what they like with. This was never about bricks and mortar. This is about building a new kind of community. One where people have responsibilities as well as rights.”
This is the eco-town the Partnership is building in Cornwall. Edward rarely talks about his work, but from what little he’s said I’ve gathered New Austell has been a titanic struggle—not just because of the vast size of the commission, but because of all the fudges and shortcuts the developers have tried to force on him along the way. He suspects they only appointed him because of the luster his name brought to a controversial planning application; suspects, too, that it’s exactly the same people who are now orchestrating a PR campaign against him, trying to put pressure on him to cram in more units, water down the rules, and thus make the whole thing more profitable. In the press, the idea of “Monktowns,” austere communities of monastic simplicity, has become a standing joke.
“Do you remember what you said when you interviewed me? That I should talk to your clients about what it’s like to live this way? I’d be happy to, if it would help.”
“Thank you. But I already have your data.” He holds up a sheaf of papers. “Incidentally, Jane. Housekeeper is showing that you’ve been looking for information about Emma Matthews.”
“Oh. Perhaps once or twice, yes.” In fact, most of my nosying has been done at work, or using the neighbors’ Wi-Fi, but sometimes, late at night, I’ve been careless and used One Folgate Street’s own Internet. “Is that a problem?”
“It’s just that I don’t think any good can come of it. The past is over; that’s why it’s the past. Let it go, will you?”
“If you like.”
“I need you to promise.” His tone is mild but his eyes are steely.
“I promise.”
“Thank you.” He kisses my forehead. “I’ll be gone for a few weeks, maybe a little more. But I’ll make it up to you when I’m back.”
THEN: EMMA
At work I look up “Elizabeth Monkford” and save the images to my desktop. I’m not surprised to discover his wife looked a bit like me. Men often go for the same type. Women do too, of course. It’s just that in our case it isn’t usually physical resemblance so much as personality.
Simon was an aberration, I now realize. The kind of men I’m really drawn to are men like Edward. Alpha men.
I study the photographs carefully. Elizabeth Monkford had shorter hair than me. It gives her a slightly French, boyish look.
I go into the ladies’ room and stand in front of the mirror, pulling my bangs up with one hand and holding the rest of my hair around the back of my neck with the other so it’s out of sight. I like it, I decide. A touch of Audrey Hepburn. And it will show off the necklace.
Wondering whether Edward will like it too makes me a little weak at the knees.
If he hates it—if he’s angry—at least I’ll have provoked a reaction.
And what if he’s really angry? a voice inside my head whispers.
Yes please, Daddy.
I turn my head this way and that. I like the way this style makes my neck look more delicate. Edward can wrap one hand around it. I can still see the marks left by his fingers from the other night.
I’m still looking when Amanda comes in. She gives me a smile, but she looks tired and drawn. I let my hair fall back. Are you okay? I say.
Not really, she goes. She splashes water on her face. The trouble with working at the same company as your husband, she says wearily, is that when it all goes balls-up, there’s no getting away from it.
What’s happened?
Oh, the usual. He’s been screwing around. Again.
She starts to cry, yanking paper towels out of the dispenser to dab at her eyes.
Has he said so?
I don’t need him to, she says. When I first slept with him he was still married to Paula. I should have known he wasn’t going to be faithful.
She looks at herself in the mirror and attempts to repair the damage. He’s been going to clubs with Simon, she says. But I suppose you already knew that. Since you two broke up, Saul’s been hankering for bachelor freedom. Funny really, because Simon only ever goes on and on about getting back with you.
She meets my eyes in the mirror. I don’t suppose that’s going to happen, is it?
I shake my head.
Shame. He adores you, you know.
The problem was, I say, I got fed up with being adored. At least, by someone as wet as Simon. What will you do about Saul?
She shrugs despondently. Nothing, I suppose. Not yet, anyway. It’s not like he’s seeing someone. I’m pretty sure it’s just one-night stands when he’s had a few. Probably proving to Simon he can still score too.
At the thought of Simon sleeping with other women I feel a sudden stab of jealousy. I push it away. He wasn’t right for me.
When are we going to meet Edward, anyway? she goes on. I’m dying to see if he’s everything you say he is.
Not for a while. He’s going away tomorrow—this massive project he’s got starting in Cornwall. Tonight’s our last night.
Got anything special planned?
Sort of, I say. That is, I’m going to get my hair cut.
NOW: JANE
