Something passes across his expression. A calculation. It terrifies her even more. If she can’t get to the phone, she’s helpless. Nobody would hear her scream, here. The house is large, the plot it’s on is generous. The windows are closed.
“That is the last thing I want to do,” he says. “I’m sorry, but something has happened, and I’ve been asked to keep it a secret and so I must.”
She makes another attempt to walk past him, to the phone.
He steps in even closer. He is standing way, way too close. “Emily,” he says. She can feel his breath on her face. “I said no to calling the police.”
She pushes him, lightly, out of her way and keeps going but he grabs her by the upper arm, and she braces herself. Here it comes, she thinks.
“I can show you something,” he says. “Proof. Please, look.”
He lets go of her and fumbles in his pockets looking for something. She doesn’t want to know. Toby has lied to her about Paul lying. They all want her to believe that Paul isn’t the man shethinks he is and she only wants to make sure that Paul is okay. She hobbles toward the door as fast as she can, half-running, the pain so bad it makes her cry out.
She can see the landline on the console table in the hall. She is almost close enough to reach it when he grabs her again, harder this time and he swings her around to face him. She shuts her eyes, waiting for the blow.
They’re inches from each other. She’s aware of him breathing as heavily as she is. She opens her eyes.
“Look,” he says. He holds his phone up close to her face.
“Read it!” he demands.
She tries, but everything on the screen swims in front of her eyes.
“Please,” she says.
He shakes her, just a little.
It begins, she thinks.
“I’m begging you,” he says. “Read it.”
He pulls it back a little and she makes another effort to focus and sees a text from Paul to Toby, sent on Thursday.
Meet me tomorrow night at 8 on the waterfront outside the restaurant. It’s important. Don’t mention this to anyone else and don’t let me down.
“But he didn’t turn up last night,” Toby says. “I lied to Ruth about this. I’ve broken her trust. I told her I had to help my sister last night because Paul told me to keep this a secret, but when I went to meet him, he wasn’t there, and I haven’t been able to get hold of him since. I’m worried about him. But, do you see? Paul wants this, whatever it is, to be kept a secret. So, please, don’t call the police.”
His hand is digging into her shoulder and his face is so close to hers that it’s lost its definition. Its component parts look horrifying. Big pores, nostril hair, shot veins in his cheek, the fat muscle ofhis tongue, eyes bloodshot and with pink, fleshy edges. He seems to Emily to be nothing more than an animal, a needy, dangerous animal.
She doesn’t know what to do.
How do you trust a man who lies and who is hurting you?
Ruth pulls a bottle of vodka from the back of the airing cupboard. Toby hasn’t found all her hiding places.
He won’t answer his phone.
She stands at the threshold to his office. She’s never searched in here before. She’s been tempted, but the thought of doing it always felt too close to an admission that things are wrong in their marriage. It made her feel dirty and furtive. And what if she actually found something? She was always too afraid of what that might mean.
But not now.
She opens the door. The room is narrow and snug, a desk beneath the window and bookshelves lining one wall: floor to ceiling, big monographs of impressionist artists and other academic volumes. She runs her fingers along their spines as she approaches his desk.
It has a set of three drawers beneath it.
She sits in his chair, and it’s strange, as if she’s feeling what it’s like to be him. The view from the window is pleasant. She sees rooftops and chimneys, wires and a docile pigeon. Her mouth is very dry. She takes another swig of vodka.
The two top drawers open easily. They’re stuffed with stationery, a support for Toby’s wrist, some household paperwork, and a few personal bits and pieces he inherited from his father.
