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I wipe my nose on my sleeve. “I didn’t believe you, when you first told me about his affair with the babysitter. I really thought Jack would never cheat on you.”
“Yes, well…” she pulls back to admire her work. “He’s just a man. Tell me about Summer. How did she come to work for you?”
“She came to the gallery, she applied, that’s it.” I mean, it’s not really, there’s the small detail of her watching me…how did she put it? Hack that lock like I was trying to kill it. But I don’t bring that up.
“I see. Was she qualified?”
“Bruno really liked her.” I snort a laugh. “He pressured me into putting her work into my exhibition too. I’m such a pushover, honestly. Even she says that.”
“What’s the work?”
“It’s the photograph, the black and white one of a man’s back, with the poem underneath. It’s about her boyfriend Dexter supposedly, I’m not even sure he exists.”
She stops cutting my hair. “I remember that photograph.”
“Really? According to the best art reviewer in town, it’s the low point of the exhibition.”
“So it’s Summer’s…Wow. That is so interesting. Did you notice…” She lets the question die.
“What?”
She shakes her head. “No, nothing.”
I turn to look at her. “Tell me.”
“The freckle.” She touches her own shoulder.
“No? What freckle?”
“Top left, near the shoulder blade?”
“What about it?”
She holds my shoulders, makes me turn around. I lift my legs, so my feet are inside the bathtub. She resumes cutting my hair. I can barely feel it.
“It’s shaped like a star. Just like…the one Jack has. I don’t know.” She takes a breath. “I think that’s a photo of Jack. I really do.”
The room tilts. I press my fingers against my eyelids. A photo of Jack? Lying down in bed? It’s just a freckle, for Christ’s sake. What is she saying? It’s just a coincidence. It has to be. “She didn’t know him until they met at the opening,” I say, but then I remember the email from Jenny Smith, dated more than a month ago.I saw her today, that bitch your fucking.
Oh God. And something else snags at the edge of my brain.I met you on a Friday afternoon…That’s when we have our openings, on Friday afternoons. Which is when I first saw Summer.Carrie Saito, photography. Domestic Scenes.She’d brought her portfolio, I barely glanced at it. It was a busy night. Gavin wasn’t well, he wasn’t here. Somebody had to serve the drinks, Charlie was at a sleepover. I asked Jack to help me.Do I have to? Can’t Bruno do it?Bruno owns the place. He’d never tend bar. Jack did it in the end, reluctantly. He stood behind the trestle tables draped with white linen cloth and refilled glasses of champagne and wines for the guests. I have an image of Summer talking to him at the bar; It was a hot day; shewore a short red dress that left very little to the imagination. Jack handing her a glass of champagne. I didn’t think anything of it, why would I?
I had to stay back and clean up afterwards and Jack left, but when I got home he wasn’t there. I was warming up dinner when he came back an hour later.I went for a drive.
I found my love on a Friday afternoon…
How did it go after that? Something about being in his arms, never letting him go.
“They’ve been screwing for months?” I whisper. I’ve made it sound like a question.
“Maybe I’m imagining it,” she says. “About the freckle.”
“Oh my God. I don’t think you are.” I can’t breathe. I push her away with my arm. “Stop, just stop.” I turn around, try to get up but the room is spinning. I rest my forehead on the heel of my hand. I have to think. He’s been cheating on me for months. She applied for the job because of him, why? Did she want to see me up close? Laugh at me? Is that what they do behind my back?
I get up but she’s crouched in front of me, holding my hands.
I pull away from her. “Leave me alone.”
“Where are you going?”
