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He grabs his clothes from the bathroom floor, gives them a quick sniff. They are not too bad – all he’s done is drive and sit about today – so he puts them back on, all except the socks, which he throws in the wicker laundry basket.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he puts the oven on high and unwraps the pizza. While the oven warms up, he cracks open another beer and wanders through to the living room, switches on the telly and flicks back and forth through the channels. Finding nothing of interest, he returns to the kitchen and slides the pizza into the oven. He is hungry actually. Starving. It’s quarter past eight.
As he waits for his dinner to cook, he feels again the uneasy sense of being an uninvited guest. He wonders how long it will take him to think of this as his home instead of Naomi’s place, himself a visitor.
Two hours later, he has eaten the pizza, drunk another beer, put his plate in the dishwasher and is sitting in front of the news with a cup of instant decaf coffee. It is getting on for half past ten. Naomi has been longer than she said she would be. But then if her friend is upset, she won’t want to leave her.
At quarter to eleven, bored of the television and finding himself a little antsy, he texts her.
Everything OK?
No reply.
He stands up, wanders around the living room. Notices that the photograph of Naomi and Tommy has gone from the mantelpiece. On the sideboard next to a candle in a jar there is a smaller framed photograph of Naomi with what looks like the woman who answered the door that night. Cheryl, yes, of course. Cheryl is holding Tommy in her arms; the two women are grinning at the camera. Tommy is younger here, much smaller. A larger photograph shows Cheryl and a blonde man with a really tiny Tommy, what looks like a couple of months old. They are smartly dressed and holding him between them. That must be Harry, he thinks. Or was it Henry? It looks like a christening or something. Did Naomi say they were Tommy’s godparents? He can’t remember, but it would make sense – not like she has anyone else, apart from Jo. Whatever, they look so happy in this picture. What a shame things appear to have gone wrong between them. Poor Cheryl, he thinks then. Hope she’s OK.
A key rattles in the lock and he feels a mix of joy and anticipation swell his chest. Naomi is home. Now their life together can start, truly start.
The living-room door opens. But it is not Naomi. It is Cheryl. And… is that the man from the photograph? It is, he’s pretty sure.
‘Hi,’ Sam says, confused, holding up a hand.
But the woman’s eyes widen in what looks like fear. She takes a step back, bumping into the man who Sam is convinced now is the man from the photograph. Harry.
‘What’s going on?’ It is the man who has spoken. ‘What are you…’
‘I’m…’ Sam begins, but a shallow simmering of fear has started in his gut. ‘I was waiting for Naomi. She said she was meeting her friend, Cheryl?’ Perhaps Naomi managed to reconcile them. Perhaps she has invited them back for a nightcap and is just parking the car.
‘I’m Cheryl,’ the woman says.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Sorry. I know that. I recognise you from… the other night. Is Naomi with you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ the man says, pushing in front of Cheryl, his tone a little aggressive. ‘What’s going on?’
Cheryl raises her hand. ‘Harry, it’s OK. This is… you’re Sam, aren’t you? Naomi’s boyfriend? Has she gone out?’
‘Husband actually. And yes, she—’
‘Husband? She never said.’
‘No, well, we’ve just got married.’
‘Right. Wait, why would Naomi be withus? We thought she was here.’
‘Here? No. She said she was withyou. She said…’ Sam glances at Harry, back at Cheryl. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We… we just got back from our honeymoon this afternoon and she said you’d called her and you were upset so she was going to have a drink and a chat. I stayed to look after Tommy. Obviously.’
‘Upset? Upset about what?’ Cheryl looks across at Harry, frowns, returns her gaze to Sam.
Sam throws out his hands. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just what she said. She said you and Harry had split up or had a fight or something.’
‘What?’ Harry’s face creases with incredulity.
‘There must be some sort of misunderstanding,’ Sam says, beginning to feel flustered. ‘I can try and call her? I’m sure she’ll be able to tell us what’s going on.’
He pulls his phone from his pocket and dials. As he waits for the connection, he is aware of Harry muttering to Cheryl, his face turned to her so that Sam cannot hear. The call goes straight to voicemail.
‘Voicemail,’ he says flatly, pocketing the phone. ‘No reception maybe. I’m sure she’ll call back in a minute. There’s obviously been a mistake. Maybe I wasn’t listening properly. I was really quite tired when she left.’ He pushes his hands into his pockets, unsure what comes next. Really he wants them to leave, but politeness stops him from asking them outright. He still has no idea why they’re here.
‘So,’ he says after a moment, ‘you said she was supposed to be here. Were you meeting her here?’ But even as he asks the question, it sounds ridiculous. It is after eleven at night.
