Maybe he is cheating. I can't imagine being excited to come home to this bitch.
‘Anyway,’ she says, jutting out her jaw and turning back to face the mirror. ‘Every woman knows that a man only buys presents when he’s feeling guilty.’
I consider interrupting to tell her she’s just being paranoid, that maybe he loves her. But I bite my tongue, remembering her strict orders.
‘So last night I went through his phone. I didn’t see it at first. There were loads of texts from a friend called Chad. There were so many that I thought maybe I’d go into one message to see what on earth they were talking about. I mean, I’d never heard him even mention a Chad.’ She stops for a minute to take a deep breath, her words seeming to drudge up painful memories. She closes her eyes. ‘Then I saw it.’ She opens her eyes. ‘It said ‘can't you make an excuse?’
I stare at her expectantly as she pauses dramatically.
‘So I went through the rest and I realised that Chad is a cover name for some woman he’s seeing. She wants him to come up with an excuse so that she can see him tonight after work.’
‘Are you sure...’ I don't know quite how to say this. ‘Are you sure Chad is a woman?’
‘What?’ she yells turning to face me. ‘Now you think my husband is a faggot?’
‘No! And Cheryl, no-one says faggot.’
‘Well I’m very sorry for being so politically incorrect!’ she snaps, waving her hands dramatically.
‘Look, I’m sorry but you still might be wrong.’
‘Well he just text me and said that he had a last minute client after work and so won't be home until later.’
‘Oh,’ is all I can muster. ‘But, I mean, he could be telling the truth.’
‘He’s a personal trainer Poppy. How can you just suddenly need a last minute appointment? What, you suddenly eat a doughnut and need to urgently work it off,’ she rolls her eyes.
‘Maybe. Oh, I don't know.’ I rest myself against the sink. This is just too much to take in. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘No idea. I love him Poppy,’ she says, fresh tears escaping as her voice breaks. ‘I really do.’
This is probably the first time I’ve seen her vulnerable. I have to just forget about the past and see her as a woman. A woman heartbroken over her husband’s cheating.
‘Maybe you should go and spy on him. You know, just to check. I still think you could be wrong,’ I offer.
‘Oh my goodness, you’re right! That's what we’ll do,’ she says, her face lighting up with sudden excitement.
‘What do you mean – what we’ll do?’
‘Me and you. We’re going to follow him after work and see if it is an affair,’ she says determinedly.
‘Oh. I don't actually know if I’m free after work…,’ I say hoping she’ll let me off the hook.
‘Of course you are, silly. You’re the one that came up with the idea.’ She turns to walk out, a new spring in her step. She turns back to face me smiling. ‘Thanks Poppy. You’re a good friend. I’ll meet you in reception at five.’
Oh crap.
When I get back to my desk I take the piece of paper Hugh gave me out of my pocket and scan the list of names. He wants their personnel files, which can only mean one thing. They’re the people going to be made redundant.
I go through the names, feeling sick as I see Jeremy’s name, then Paul in accounts. But then I freeze and close my eyes, wishing I haven’t seen it. That I’m wrong.
Because the name I’m looking at is Lilly Evans.
* * *
By quarter to six Cheryl and I are walking towards a park that she says she knows her husband often takes his clients to. My stomach starts churning, telling me this is a terrible idea. Either that or I need a cookie. I mean, hopefully we’ll just find him with an old man called Chad doing chin ups, but a terrible feeling in my gut tells me that we’re going to find what we’re looking for.
How will she react? Will she want to run over and confront him? And if she does what should I do? Should I just walk away and leave them to it or try and calm her down. And what if she attacks the woman? What if this is a trick and she’s planned for this? What if she’s currently carrying a knife in her bag and just wants a witness to the murder she plans to commit?
Ok, calm down Poppy. Don't let your imagination run wild.
‘There he is!’ she says, grabbing me and pulling me down behind a bush. I part the bushes in front of me to try and spot him, but I can't see him anywhere.
‘Shush!’ she snarls to me.
‘I didn’t say anything!’
‘You just did!’
‘I can't see him. Are you sure you saw him?’ I ask, thinking her poor fragile mind must be playing tricks on her.
‘Look. Over there.’ I follow her pointed manicured finger and see him in his sports gear with a woman whose back is turned towards us. She’s got medium length brown hair and a great arse. Maybe I should let Izzy train me if you get an arse like that. I try to analyse their body language for any signs of an affair but they’re just talking.
‘See,’ I say to Cheryl smugly. ‘They’re just talking.’
‘You don't see it?’ she asks, her face crumpled in agony. ‘That's his flirty face.’ She points towards him again.
I try to focus in on his face and it looks anything but flirty. If anything it looks contorted, like he’s in some sort of pain.
‘That's his flirty face? Are you sure?’
‘Completely positive,’ she nods.
God, I’d hate to think of his orgasm face. Images of this flash through my head and I try with all my might to get them out. If I don't I might not be able to sleep tonight. Or ever again.
He smiles at the brunette and closes the gap between them with one step. He leans in towards her and I hold my breath in anticipation. Please no. Don't do it. It's like a car crash – I can't help but look.
He kisses her. Oh my God. We can only see the back of her head, but I’m sure it was a kiss.
‘Oh my God,’ Cheryl says, clutching onto my arm as if she’s just been punched in the stomach.
I watch her as she struggles to breathe, her face drained of all colour. The worst thing is that I know there’s nothing I can say to make this better. Instead I grab her shaking hand and squeeze it. She looks up to me and smiles gratefully between tears. Poor Cheryl.
‘Maybe we should go?’ I offer, hoping she won't want to confront him.
‘No. I want to see what else they do,’ she says, determined.
Does she really want to torture herself? We both turn back to them as they stroll hand in hand to the ice cream van parked on the green. He buys an ice cream and licks it, offering it to her. She licks it too. My stomach turns. This is too much. Poor, poor Cheryl.
They turn to walk towards us and I do a double take, feeling the blood draining from my face. My breath gets caught in my throat and I physically shake my head, hoping my vision has blurred over and I’m wrong.
Because the woman he’s with is Annabel. Richard’s Annabel. My brother’s wife Annabel.
Oh. My. God.
* * *
When I get home I head straight for my bedroom, not wanting to face anyone. How could this be happening? Why Annabel? I’m not going to lie and say I’m shocked and that she’s a lovely girl and a close friend. The truth is that I’ve never really liked her. We’ve never seen eye to eye. We’re different breeds.
She was always the girl at school that everyone wanted to be. Popular, beautiful, clever. But in reality she was a bitch who’d trip you up as soon as look at you. I’m sure Richard would agree if he wasn’t the complete male version of her. They’re the annoying perfect couple that everyone secretly hates. I swear, even my Dad seems to find them annoying.
But I was sure that they loved each other. They’d been together forever. Since they were fourteen. Everyone called them the perfect couple. Richard will be devastated.
But then, how would he ever find out unless I told him? Should I tell him? Would he thank me for ruining his marriage? I doubt it. He’d probably just tell me I was lying, like the time I told him Henry had crashed his bicycle when it was actually me. But I was only twelve and surely I can't just let him continue on in ignorance. What if someone else saw them? What if all his friends know and they’re laughing at him behind his back? I might not be best friends with him. Hell, I might not even like him very much, but he doesn’t deserve that. Some deep down sisterly instinct wants me to protect him.
The house phone rings and a few seconds later Izzy knocks on my door. She pokes her head around the corner, the cordless phone in her hand.
‘It's for you,’ she says, holding her hand over the receiver. ‘Some Lilly?’
Lilly. Another dilemma. I consider telling Izzy to say I’m not here, but then she’d only keep ringing. She hates being ignored. I once found my phone to have 15 missed calls and three furious voicemails. I can't imagine how poor Alex copes with her sometimes.
I thank Izzy and take the phone.
‘Hey Lil,’ I say as cheery as I can.
‘Hey bitch. You’re not answering your phone. So where the hell did you go with Cheryl?’
I thought she’d notice us leave together. Nothing much gets past Lilly.