Page 58 of Rich Little Liars

He smiled. That familiar smile I’d fallen in love with years ago. And for a moment, I let myself believe everything would be fine.

The following weeks were strange. Daniel had resumed his place in our bed as if nothing had happened. He was attentive in ways he hadn’t been in months – cooking dinner, asking about my work, touching me casually as he passed. All the gestures of a devoted husband trying to make amends.

But underneath the surface sweetness, something had shifted.

It started with small corrections. I’d mention something that happened and Daniel would frown slightly, tilt his head.

‘That’s not quite how I remember it,’ he’d say. Or: ‘Are you sure? Because I was there, and I don’t think those were her exact words.’

At first I argued. But he was always so calm, so reasonable, so certain of his version of events that eventually I’d find myself backing down. Maybe I had misremembered. Maybe my perception wasn’t as reliable as I thought.

Then there were the conversations about Roxanne.

‘I ran into her at the shops today,’ Daniel said one evening. ‘She asked about you.’

My stomach tightened. ‘What did you say?’

‘That you’re doing better. That we’re working through things.’ He glanced at me. ‘She feels terrible about what happened. She never meant to hurt you.’

‘She was half naked in our bed with my husband.’

‘She was kissing your husband. There’s a difference.’ He shook his head. ‘And I think you’re directing all your anger at her when really this was a failure between us. Between you and me. A failure you contributed to just as much as I did. Probably more.’

Every conversation seemed to land here. At my failure. My contribution to the collapse of our marriage. My suspicions that had apparently created the very problem I was trying to prevent.

‘Maybe you should talk to someone,’ Daniel suggested one night. ‘A professional. Just to work through some of these feelings.’

‘I don’t need a therapist.’

‘There’s no shame in getting help. And frankly, I’m worried about you. You’re still jumpy. Still suspicious. Still acting like what happened was some kind of planned attack when it was just two people making a stupid mistake in a moment they both regret.’

‘She regrets it?’

‘Of course she does. She’s devastated. She lost her only friend because of one moment of weakness.’ Daniel looked at me with what appeared to be genuine concern. ‘And I think if you could just talk to her – hear her out – you might realise this wasn’t the grand conspiracy you’ve built it into.’

‘I’m not talking to Roxanne.’

‘I’m not saying you have to. I’m just saying it might help you move past this. Because right now, you’re stuck. Obsessing over something that was never as big as you’ve made it in your head.’

I wanted to scream at him. To remind him that I’d caught them seconds away from sex, that the only reason it hadn’t happened was my accidental early arrival. But every time I tried to articulate this, he’d find a way to minimise it. To reframe it and make me feel like I was the one being unreasonable.

‘I think I’m going to go for a walk,’ he said one Saturday afternoon, pulling on his jacket. ‘Clear my head a bit. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

I nodded, not really listening, focused on the book I wasn’t actually reading. The door closed behind him and I sat in the silence of our house, turning pages without seeing words. When had I lost the ability to trust my own perceptions?

The knock came twenty minutes later.

I knew before I opened the door. Something in the nature of the knock – tentative, apologetic – told me exactly who was standing on the other side.

Roxanne.

She looked smaller than I remembered. Paler. The confident woman who’d made herself at home in my kitchen had been replaced by someone who looked genuinely nervous. She wore jeans and a simple sweater, no makeup, her light hair pulled back in a messy ponytail.

‘Before you slam the door,’ she said quickly, ‘I just want to talk. Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Please, Kelly.’ Her eyes were wet. ‘I know you hate me. You have every right to hate me. But I can’t stand the thought of you believing I’m some kind of monster when really I’m just a person who made a horrible mistake.’