I don’t want to press her into talking about Will unless she wants to, but it’s okay to ask a general question.
‘How are things between you now?’
She smiles cheerily, and my heart sinks at her happy face. ‘Stronger than ever. Thanks to you.’
I bat away the compliment because it’s not true. People often say as much, but this time, shock has switched me into autopilot. ‘You guys did the work. You get the credit.’
The session ends, and she leaves feeling brighter, but I’m left unsettled.
I get up to make a coffee and think back to the night I saw Will in the pub.
It was definitely him, but I don’t know who the woman was. Maybe the red hair was a coincidence, and it wasn’t the same woman? But it was a divey bar, not the place you’d go to unless it was super convenient, and in this case, it was the pub closest to the hospital. Exactly where colleagues would go to wind down before going home.
On the other hand, if Will is still with Suzanne, would he really be doing anything so public with another woman? And, come to think of it, they weren’t doing anything that screamed infidelity. They were just having drinks. And if they seemed a little touchy-feely, maybe it was just harmless flirting; a way to let off steam after a long day.
The facts are, I don’t have any facts. I’ve got circumstantial evidence and a gut feeling.
And maybe I’m seeing lying, cheating scumbags everywhere to compensate for not noticing the one I was living with.
How would I have felt if someone I only knew tangentially told me she’d seen Rich sitting very close to another woman in a bar? I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, is the short answer. Rich can be a flirt, but I’ve always trusted him. He’s a social animal, and flirting is just another social currency – like how Charles interacts with me. He’s always ready with a compliment and likes to tease me, but I know things would never go further.
But the problem with a man who flirts with everyone – and I’ve seen Rich fawn over the cleaning ladies and their blue rinses – is that it’s the perfect cover for when flirting evolves into something much less innocent.
Chapter 22
It’s my parents’ anniversary dinner tonight, which gives me the perfect excuse to wear my new shoes. They’re soft suede in pillar-box red with an ankle strap and four-inch heels; Rich would have hated them but that only makes me love them more. They might be too Victoria Beckham for a local Chinese restaurant so I dress them down with my favourite jeans and a white shirt.
We’ve been coming to Mr Lee’s for twenty years. I don’t understand how my parents don’t get bored. The menu never changes but even if it did, old Mr Lee would rustle up their favourites, anyway. A trip here includes Dad announcing, at least twice, that they serve The Best Ribs in London. Despite him saying iteverytime we come, it’s always delivered with the gusto of someone having a road-to-Damascus epiphany.
Yan’s already at the table with Granny Maria, and as soon as we sit down, Mr Lee junior, the manager, comes over with a bottle of champagne.
‘Why’d you order that?’ I whisper to Yan. ‘It makes the rest of us look bad.’
‘It wasn’t me, Nell.’
‘The champagne is for you, Mr Vasili and Mrs Sophia,’ says young Mr Lee. ‘Compliments of Rich Benson.’
It takes a couple of moments for this to register. And when it does, I’m not sure how I feel about it.
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ says Dad.
Mum turns to him in horror. ‘How can you say that after the way he’s treated your daughter?’
‘What? Am I not allowed to say it’s nice to have champagne?’ He reaches for the bottle and is about to pop it open when she stops him.
‘If you want to make it to our next anniversary, you won’t touch a drop. I’m going to take it home and use it to clean out Zorba’s litter tray. That’s all it’s good for.’
‘Ouch,’ whispers Yan.
‘Don’t be silly, Sophia,’ says Dad. ‘It probably cost fifty pounds.’
‘And your daughter’s broken heart is worth less? He left her on therafi.’
‘He didn’t leave me on theshelf, Mum,’ I huff. ‘I lefthim.’ I steady my voice. ‘It’s your anniversary – just drink the champagne.’
‘We could poison it and send it back to him,’ suggests Pen darkly.
‘Please don’t give Mum ideas,’ I beg.
