Page 38 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘Twenty-three.’

He nods sagely, as if satisfied now that something is afoot. ‘Check them all out. Obviously, it depends on their privacy settings, but see what you can find. Figure out what connects them and if anyone’s tagged him⁠—’

‘Hey, what’re you two conferring about?’ Jake asks jovially across the table.

‘Nothing!’ I protest.

‘We’re having a private conversation,’ Kian jokes, then leans towards me and murmurs, ‘So, how long till the wedding?’

‘Five weeks,’ I reply, picturing Eva that day with her emerald ring flashing and cut-out magazine pictures spread all over her table. Can I bear to ruin it all for her? Next to Jake, Trudy is gleefully detailing the ailment of an elderly chap they met in Malta. He had to see the doctor eventually. It was the size of a satsuma! The only thing they could do was drain it…

I catch Marnie’s eye and we exchange a conspiratorial smile, and then I turn back to Kian. ‘Not a lot of time, is it?’ I add.

‘No, it’s not,’ he says, ‘so get on it, Andie. You’ve got to stop her marrying this man.’

21

In the Uber back to my place, Dad is trying to achieve the impossible. While the affable driver quizzes him about his Yorkshire background, my father is simultaneously trying to answer his questions while swerving Trudy away from the subject with which she appears to be obsessed.

‘Your lovely Phil,’ she drawls, alcohol-soaked (did no one notice how much she was drinking?). ‘Such a gentleman. Bet he was a fine policeman. And now he’s running that mirror company and he paid for everyone’s dinner!’

Well, not running it exactly, and he’s not ‘my’ Phil any more. Hasn’t been for six years and if we’re going to be picky, he wasn’t then either. At least, not since he’d started booking day rooms at a hotel round the back of the British Museum.

However, tonight was the first time Trudy had met him and admittedly, Phil can come across as a pretty impressive man-about-town. ‘Yes, it was really good of him,’ I tell her, a little grudgingly, although I can’t deny his generosity. The bill must have been colossal and I hadn’t expected Phil to pay. I’d planned on insisting we split it – but the cunning fox slipped off to the gents’ and settled it before coming back to the table.

As Trudy raves on, my mouth sets in a firm line. Pleasantly tipsy when we left the restaurant, I am now stone-cold sober. Quite a trick, I decide. For instant sobriety, trap yourself in a moving vehicle with someone intent on getting you back with your ex.

‘But he’s so interesting and generous, and he obviously still really loves you, Andie!’ she insists. ‘Can’t you see it?’

‘I don’t think he does,’ I reply.

‘No, he does, love. I can tell by the way he looks at you. Sure you don’t want to take him to your friend’s wedding?’

‘Trudy, he’s not invited.’ The big old amalgam filling in my right molar shoots a dart of pain to my jaw. Dad pats my arm and gives my jacket sleeve a little ruffle, as if trying to settle a dog as it senses the postman’s approach.

‘Well, I can’t understand why not,’ she huffs.

‘It’s a small wedding,’ I say tightly.

‘No, I mean why you won’t give him another chance!’

Because, I want to spell out to her, when he said he’d run out of holiday, he was actually lying, and days’ leave were being spent in hotel rooms with Superintendent Gina Crouch. Occasionally it was a seaside jaunt, but mainly these trysts happened in London. I don’t suppose Trudy is aware that certain establishments allow bookings for that otherwise dead period between 11 a.m. and 3 p.m., ostensibly for ‘a much-needed pit stop on busy shopping days’. No, I wasn’t either. But I am now as, once it all came out, Phil admitted that this was what they’d been doing. Booking in for a little afternoon delight (of course he didn’t put it quite like that). Why hadn’t they used her flat? I could only guess that they’d enjoyed the tawdriness – not to mention the convenience – of the central London location.

Not that I was obsessed or anything, but I pored over the website for these daytime bookings, amazed by the popularity of the service. I guess shopping can be exhausting! Especially when one is purchasing saucy basques and PVC thigh boots, which I was alerted to once Phil had moved out and I found a bunch of crumpled receipts in his desk drawer. Fuelled by that perverse streak in me that’s determined to ramp up my suffering, I’d gone onto the shop’s website to examine the actual basque. The ribbed black structure was named ‘Elite Adventurer’ which seemed more befitting a scuffed caravan trundling along the M6.

Further investigations revealed purchases of several pairs of lace-top hold-up stockings (when I’d worn hold-ups Phil had complained about their ‘elastic twang’), plus something called a ‘15-piece weekend play kit’ and a door swing with a padded seat and adjustable leg stirrups. Apparently Phil had turned into quite the shopper. Yet any time I’d asked if he could pick up milk or washing powder, I’d got the beleaguered do-I-have-to? routine.

Of course I don’t tell Trudy about the door swing or play kit. Instead, I shut off my ears and focus on the dark, wet night beyond the rain-smattered cab window. It’s the kind of night when everyone seems to be striding along, heads bent as they hurry home. As I want to be, despite the loveliness of seeing Marnie and Jake and Kian tonight. The guys are staying at Marnie’s, and I picture the three of them sitting up late in her cosy living room with her thriving house plants and fair-trade rugs.

We arrive at my flat where Dad – who’s been muttering ‘All right, Trudy’ for much of the journey – takes his wife’s arm and guides her gently towards my block’s entrance. In the hallway she bounces lightly against a wall. ‘But he’s your husband,’ she announces as I let us into the flat.

‘Not any more,’ I say, and Dad mouths, Sorry!

In the living room, she flops down heavily onto my sofa and squints at the pike, as if trying to pull him into sharp focus. ‘He looks different,’ she announces, and my heart lurches in alarm.

‘I don’t think so, love,’ Dad says kindly, throwing me another look. A look that says, Let’s get her off to bed, which has my full agreement and support.

‘There’s something different about his face,’ she insists. Then, turning to me: ‘He’s the father of your children!’