Claire learns that her husband, Mark, has a second family in the next town.
What? she asks, her voice low but edged with steel. Mark, whats this?
Mark leans against the gleaming black sedan parked outside their flat, its paint shining like polished chrome. The scent of expensive leather and new plastic wafts up to their thirdfloor kitchen window.
Surprise! Mark spreads his arms as if he were embracing the whole world. A gift. For us. For our anniversary. Well, almost I thought Id get a head start. Like it?
Claire walks slowly downstairs. She cant remember how she got to the landing, how she turned the heavy frontdoor. Her legs move of their own accord while a single thought drums in her head, cold and sharp as a needle: money. The very money theyve been tucking away for almost five years, penny by penny, for the downpayment on a mortgage for Emily, their daughter, so she could have a place of her own when she goes to university.
Mark, are you out of your mind? she says, pressing her hand to the cold metal of the bonnet. The car looks sleek, beautiful, foreign. We agreed. This cash is a sacrosanct reserve.
Marks grin falters a little. Well earn more, love. Im now head of department, the pays better. And driving our old clunker is just embarrassing now. Look at this beauty!
He opens the passenger door. The interior, trimmed in light leather, beckons with luxury. For a split second Claire feels the urge to sit inside, to breathe in the smell of a new life, but she pulls herself together.
Embarrassed? You were proud to drive the car that served us faithfully for ten years. And Im not ashamed of looking my daughter in the eye when she asks why we cant help her with a flat.
Emily still has two years before university, Mark waves off. Well get there. Dont be a killjoy, enjoy it. Lets take her for a spin and break it in.
He tries to hug her, but Claire steps back. Irritation flickers in his eyes; he isnt used to his grand gestures meeting a wall of ice.
Im not going anywhere, she snaps. Dinner isnt ready yet.
She turns and heads back to the stairwell, feeling his bewildered, angry stare on her back. Inside, while she stirs soup, she watches through the kitchen window as Mark still stands by the car, then kicks a tyre in frustration, hops in, and roars away. Where he drives to wash the purchase alone doesnt concern her. The bitterness in her chest is so sharp it makes her want to cry, but tears wont comejust a cold emptiness. Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of joint decisions, every big expense discussed together. Now he just drops this fact in front of her as if her opinion never existed.
He returns late, past midnight, quiet and a little remorseful, placing a bag of her favourite biscuits on the kitchen table.
Claire, Im sorry. I got carried away. But you see, its for you too, so you can travel in comfort.
I cant drive, Mark. I never planned to learn.
Youll learn! Ill teach you myself, he says, sitting beside her and taking her hand. Dont sulk. A car is just a thing. Were a family. The important thing is were together.
Claire sighs. Maybe hes right? Maybe shes overreacting? Money is just money, and her husband, standing there, is trying to make amends. She offers a weak smile, and Marks spirit lifts; he launches into an enthusiastic description of the engines power, the clever navigation system, the heated seats. Claire nods halfheartedly, thinking a wise wife should endure, forgive, support.
The next day, Saturday, Mark insists on a family drive out of town. Emily, now seventeen, squeals with excitement, fiddling with the new consoles buttons and levers. Claire sits in the front seat, trying to look pleased. The car glides smoothly, almost silently. Past the commuter estates, woods, and fields they pass a picturesque lake and stop for a picnic. Mark is cheerful, repeatedly pouring tea from a thermos, wrapping Claire in a blanket. She begins to thaw, almost believing everything is fine again.
That evening, after they return, Mark parks the car, and Claire decides to tidy the interiorshake out the mats, clear crumbs. She opens the glove compartment for wipes and feels something hard tucked behind the owners manual. Its a receipt. A plain supermarket ticket from a toy shop. She unfolds it, eyes scanning the lines, and freezes.
Space Station Building Set £78
Fairy Charm Bracelet £35
Date: a week ago.
That day Mark was on a work trip to a nearby city, about seventy miles away, saying he needed to oversee a new project. Claire frowns. Who would he be buying such pricey toys for? The set looks like something for a tenyearold boy; the bracelet for a girlor perhaps for a woman. None of his friends or colleagues have children that age. Could it be a gift for a bosss son? Why spend so much? And why say nothing?
She slips the receipt into her coat pocket. Her heart pounds with an uncomfortable rhythm. Something is wrong, false, like the whole car episodean impulsive, unilateral decision.
That night she lies awake beside her sleeping husband, staring at the ceiling, replaying the last few years. His trips have become more frequent. He used to call every evening, detailing his day. Now he sends short messages: All good, tired, heading to bed. She chalks it up to his new role, the pressure. But what if it isnt?
In the morning, while he showers, she does something shes never done in twenty years: she grabs his phone. The password is Emilys birthday. She scrolls through contactsbosses, mates, family. One name jumps out: Serena Perkins, Plumber. Claire wonders why Mark would keep a plumbers number from another town. She opens the chat. The messages are short, businesslike, yet something cuts her.
Serena, were the pipes delivered? Mark writes.
Yes, everythings in place. Kyle is thrilled, has been assembling for two days. Serena replies.
Whos Kyle? The plumbers son?
Another text: Hows the weather? Not frozen yet? Mark.
Sunny here. I miss you a lot, Serena replies.
Sunny. Thats how Mark used to call her in the early years of their romance, and to Emily when she was a baby. Then he stopped, switching to Claire or daughter. In this conversation, the word sounds warm, alive. Nausea rises in Claires throat.
She scrolls further. Can you come Saturday? Kyle has a swimming meet. Ill try to squeeze it in. Buy a honey cake on the way, my favourite. The plumber is a woman, and she has a son named Kyle. Mark is buying cakes, attending competitions, buying expensive toys.
Claire puts the phone back just as Mark steps out of the bathroom. His eyes, still damp from the towel, notice her pallor.
Whats wrong? You look pale, he says.
My head hurts, she lies. Must be the blood pressure.
The whole day she drifts in a fog, mechanically cooking lunch, chatting with Emily, answering Marks questions. One thought loops: who is this woman calling herself Serena Perkins and asking for honey cake? How long has this been going on?
She decides she must find outnot to cause a scene, but to understand, to redraw the blurry edges of her world. On Monday she calls work, says shes ill, then phones her sister in the nearby city.
Hey, Liza, Im dropping by today. Just for a few hours, she tells her sister.
Sure, come over! Everything okay?
No, just something I need to sort out, she replies.
She climbs into the hated new car. The steering feels foreign, though Mark taught her a few years back, even though she never liked being behind the wheel. The navigation still holds a few saved places: Home, Work, and several addresses in the neighboring town. One appears most often: Green Street, 15. A typical suburban block, according to the map.
The drive takes an hour and a half. Claire watches nothing, the road a blur. She cant predict what shell do when she gets therering the doorbell? Start a fight? She just wants to see.
She arrives at Green Street. A quiet, leafy courtyard, a ninestorey block. She parks the car around the corner, out of sight from the windows. Number 15, entrance 2. She sits on a bench opposite, pulls on dark sunglasses, and waits.
An hour passes, then another. Mothers with prams, elderly men, teenagers hurrying to school emerge from the building. Claire feels foolish, wondering why shes here, spying like a schoolgirl. Perhaps its a mistake; maybe the person Mark deals with truly is important for his job.
Then the lift doors open. Out steps Mark, in jeans and a plain tee, laughing with a woman beside him. The woman is a pretty blond, about Claires age, holding a boy of about ten, lighthaired, grinning at Mark.
They stroll to a playground. Mark scoops the boy up, spins him, the child giggles loudly. The three of them sit on the swings. The woman tugs her hair, chatting, while Mark looks at her with a tenderness Claire hasnt seen in years. They look like a regular, happy family on a weekday outing.
Claires breath catches. She cant get enough air. She pulls out her phone, and without thinking, snaps a photo. The picture is blurry, taken with a shaking hand, but the three on the swing are unmistakablea proof, a piece of her shattered life.
She cant recall the drive back. The world beyond the windshield becomes a smeared patch. At home she collapses on the sofa, staring at a point on the wall. The twentyyearold house she built feels like cardboard. Her love, her loyalty, her whole lifelies.
Mark returns at his usual time, cheerful, handing Emily a chocolate bar, planting a kiss on Claires cheek.
How are you feeling, love? Better? he asks, walking into the kitchen.
Claire hands him the phone, the photo still open. He glances at it, his smile fading, his face paling. He stays silent for a few seconds, eyes darting between the screen and her.
Its not what you think, he finally says.
What do I think, Mark? her voice is calm to a fault. I think you have a second family. I think you have a son. I think youve been lying to me for years. Am I wrong?
Its complicated, he stammers.
Complicated? she smiles thinly. Complicated is raising a child in the nineties on one salary. Complicated is caring for a sick mother and juggling home and hospital. This isnt complicated. Its deceitful.
Emily wanders in.
Mum, Dad, whats happening? You look strange
Go to your room, love, Claire says, keeping her voice even. Were just talking.
Mark sits, looking older, defeated.
I never wanted to hurt you.
Never wanted? she repeats. You bought a car with the money we saved for Emilys future, to ferry another woman and another child! You didnt just hurt me, Mark. You killed me. I only want to know one thing. How long?
He lowers his head, silent.
Mark!
Twelve years, he whispers.
Twelve years. Emily was five then. He started another family while their daughter was still a baby. Claire closes her eyes. She sees their life flash by: her pushing a stroller in the park, Mark swinging Emily, a beach holiday where he taught her to swim. Somewhere else, in another town, another boy, another woman, another swing.
I met Sophie on a site project. Shes an engineer. Things just tangled, he says. I didnt plan it. Then she told me she was pregnant. I couldnt leave her.
And me? Emily?
I never left you! I love you! I love them too, he pleads, eyes watery. Claire, I dont know how it happened. Im lost.
Go, she says quietly.
Where? he asks.
Anywhere, she nods, pointing vaguely. Where theyre waiting and love you. Pack your things.
Claire, lets talk. Not in a hurry. We can
Weve said everything, Mark. Leave.
He gathers a small bag, tries to say something, but Claire turns away. When the door closes behind him, she walks to the window. He slides into his shiny new car and drives off, probably toward Green Street.
Emily comes into the room, her eyes red from crying.
Mum, did Dad go forever?
Claire pulls her daughter into a tight hug, feeling the pain in her bones.
I dont know, love. I dont know anything.
They sit together, quiet, the apartment empty around them. Outside, night falls. Claire looks at the dark courtyard; the sleek black car is gone, its absence more terrifying than its presence. She is left alone, fortyfive, with a daughter heading to university and a broken life. She has no idea what comes next, but for the first time in years she feels not pain or anger, but a strange, cold calm. One chapter ends. Now she must begin writing the next, on her own.
