“Please!”
Venetia slipped soundlessly through the bifold doors to the kitchen as Rory walked into the hall. She turned the handle of the back door as Rory arrived in the living room. She pulled it quietly behind her and crept around to the side passage. Letting herself out through the side gate, she stopped only to sneak a look through the living-room window. Rory had his back to her; Aimee was on the couch.
“See you tomorrow,” Venetia whispered, before slipping down the drive.
But she never saw Aimee again.
37
Susan
Monday
As soon as Jon leaves for work on Monday morning, I start to dig, with a visceral need to know who he’s seeing. It’s like pressing a bruise, but I need to know everything about her. Opening our joint credit card account on my phone, I scroll to the drinks from the Marker Hotel, the charge I spotted on Friday. The next few transactions are all mine. Then another charge at the Marker Hotel, one I missed on Friday, this time from two weeks ago. Again, about the price of two drinks. Which doesn’t tell me anything concrete and doesn’t tell me who she is, but still. It’s nowhere near his office so it probably wasn’t work drinks, and surely he’d have mentioned if he was going there with someone else? Apart from an occasional night out with his friends, Jon does three things: works, runs, hangs out here with Bella and me. I’d remember if he said he was going to a bar, wouldn’t I? This day two weeks ago. Monday. I try to work out what we did that evening, to hook on to any memory, but I can’t. Every day is the same. Every evening’s the same. Bella’s bedtime routine, then collapse in front of the TV. I keep looking. But there’s nothing else. And it’s not surprising—the Marker Hotel charges are blips, no doubt. Jonwould use his own credit card for anything he doesn’t want me to see. His statements are all online, his access via the app on his phone. Is there any way to get into his account? Do I know his passcode? Did I ever? I remember he used to keep a spreadsheet with all his bank account details and codes…would he still have that? We each have our own laptops, and he brings his in and out of work, but there’s also the shared computer, the one Jon used to use for personal admin. I don’t know if it will even function, but it’s worth a try.
Bella’s getting heavy in my arms now so I pop her in the sling and go through to the den. The PC sits on top of a tall stack of Ikea bookshelves. It’s heavy to lift, especially with Bella in tow, but I manage to get it down and on to the floor, then the monitor too. The power button is dusty but depresses easily.
Five minutes later, I’m in a folder marked “Taxes and Finances”—one of Jon’s. There are dozens of spreadsheets here, dating back years. I can’t remember the name of the one where he kept track of his account details, but I’ve seen it before, back when we pored over finances, applying for a mortgage. Bella stirs and I kiss her head. The noise of an engine pulls my attention to the window. Jon couldn’t be home, could he? But there’s no one there. Back to the files. And there it is. Fin17.xls. I click in. Worksheets for every bank account, diligent notes on what each one was for. And on the final worksheet, his list of codes, including his eight-digit Bank of Ireland login and his six-digit PIN. I sit back for a moment. If I do this, it’s crossing a line I can’t uncross. But then Jon’s the one who crossed a line first. My phone is in my hand before I can think too much more, and I’m entering the numbers. Will it send him a message to say a new device has logged in? I don’t know. But he won’t know it’s me, so what’s the worst that can happen? Ten seconds later, I’m in. And then I’m in his credit card, and it’s all laid bare.
38
Susan
Monday
Hundreds of euros. Lunches in One Pico and Chapter One. Places we never go. Not big expense-account work meals but intimate lunches for two. Drinks after work in dimly lit wine bars. Dinner in Susie’s, a tiny Michelin-star restaurant off Grafton Street. We’d gone there on our first wedding anniversary, and swore we’d go every year, because, as Jon said, it was named for me. We never went back. But now, it seems, he has. Tickets for Cineworld in the city center and the Light House Cinema in Smithfield, two places I’ve never been. Morning purchases from Vanilla Pod—coffees and pastries? They certainly weren’t for me. I’d remember. I sit for what feels like hours, scrolling through his credit card statements. More drinks, more dinners. Chez Max. Trocadero. L’Gueuleton. All city-center restaurants, none close to here. None close to people we know. Then a charge to Boodles. Not a restaurant, a jewelry store. Of course. The bracelet. The fucker. Bella whimpers in the sling and I kiss her head and keep scrolling. None of this tells mewhohe’s seeing, and I’m hungry now for information, desperate to know more. Could I cross-check his nights out with messages on my phone, photos in my gallery, my online calendar,to jog my memory? I pick the Marker night, this day two weeks ago, and check my messages. A long thread with one of my teacher friends about TV recommendations. Both of us sitting in, comparing notes onRipleyandThe Bear. Jon was working late, according to one message from me, time-stamped 9:05 p.m. God, it’s so obvious now. Nobody works that late—people come home and log back in if needed. How could I have missed all this? Because nobody believes their own spouse will cheat, that’s how. In my gallery, there are photos of Bella. I can see that I sent a picture of Bella to Jon at ten and told him I was going to bed. His reply was “night night, love you x and kisses to Bella.” Was he with someone else when he wrote that? That level of betrayal makes me feel sick.
Numb now, I cross-check another credit card entry—a coffee-shop debit on a Saturday at the end of June. I have no idea what I was doing that day and my messages give me nothing useful either. Then I remember Google Timeline and the email I ignore every month, telling me where I’ve been. Clicking into my June email, I scroll to the last Saturday of the month and see that I drove from home to the supermarket, and home again. Exciting times. Then it strikes me—if Jon gets a similar email, won’t I be able to see where he’s been going? That would involve somehow getting into his email, which is pretty indefensible. Then again, I’m already looking at his credit card, having broken into his online banking, so…I don’t, however, know his email password. And I don’t know if he has Google Timeline, if his location is being tracked. That gives me another idea—Greta has been telling Jon to download an app called Strava, to track his runs. Maybe I can see his runs on her phone? She’d let me look, I think, without it raising suspicion. Which begs the question, why don’t I just tell Greta and Leesa what’s going on? But the thought turns my stomach. If I tell them, it sets things in motion…Another thought keeps nudging in—what if we split and Jon tells people I used to be afraid I’d hurt Bella? Would he get full custody? Even if my counselor and GP spoke up, explained that I was never a threat, it would look bad. And my sisterswould be horrified. Would other people find out too? Would Bella find out when she’s older? Shame floods my body.Slow down.Deep breaths. I shut down the catastrophizing part of my brain and get back to investigating. My mind is whirring now, thinking about location tracking. Google Timeline, Strava, Snap Map, Find My Phone. And the Airtag on Jon’s keys. I can almost see the lightbulb going on above my head. I don’t need to break into his email, I can just check his AirTag. It doesn’t show historical data, but it does show current location. It’s not linked to my phone right now, but I’m pretty sure I can set that up as long as I have his keys. I check my watch. Only nine hours to go till he’s home.
• • •
It’s Monday afternoon when it happens. I’m upstairs, staring at Jon’s side of the wardrobe, contemplating going through his pockets. Bella is downstairs, asleep in her bassinet. Suddenly, she bursts into a loud cry. Not the whimpering awake she usually does. A loud cry of shock. I’m down the stairs in seconds and in the living room, scooping her up. Her face is red and creased with rage and, even when I hold her close, rocking and shushing, she howls. What on earth could have caused this? Can babies have nightmares? Tummy pain? She’s never had colic, she’s not teething yet—or maybe she is? God, there’s nothing like new motherhood to make you feel lost. I sit and lay her down on my lap to check her forehead—warm but not hot—and her tummy—rounded but soft to touch. Just as it always is. Not that I’m any kind of expert, but it feels normal? Then I notice her arm. Four bright red marks on her skin. Four bright red marks that look like fingerprints. I stare. They can’t be. Yet now that I’ve seen them, I can’t unsee them, and they look very much like someone has gripped her arm and squeezed. My head snaps up, scanning the living room. Jon’s not here, is he? And even if he was, he’d never grab her arm like that. Then…what caused the marks? Surely I didn’t do it when I was trying to comfort her? Gently, I rub her arm. The marks look less angry now. Fading intoher skin. I stare, waiting for them to disappear. Willing them to disappear. It couldn’t have been me. Could it?
Bella is calm now, and I place her gently back in her crib. The marks have all but gone. Itwasme, wasn’t it…Trying to comfort her, I managed to hurt her. My own baby. Christ, I’m a useless mother. I put my head in my hands and stand there, rocking for a moment, trying not to cry. It was an accident. But do other people do this? Hurt their babies? I need to book another appointment with my counselor. I need to sort my thoughts, sort what’s real from what’s not. I need to— The doorbell rings, startling me, stopping my spiral.
On my way out to answer, I ready my stock “we’re fine, thanks” response for the power-supply reps who regularly call. But the man on my doorstep isn’t trying to sell me anything—it’s Felipe, Venetia’s husband.
39
Susan
Monday
Felipe steps back from the door when I open it, giving me space. He looks uneasy.
“Susan, hi, I hope you don’t mind me calling to you like this, but I wanted to apologize for the way Venetia spoke to you when you visited on Saturday and to check you’re doing OK.” It comes out in a rush.
“Oh. Gosh, no need to apologize. She’s grieving. I understand.” Something strikes me then. “Wait, how did you know where I live?”
“Ah. Your address is online. People shared it, I’m afraid. You didn’t know?” He looks anxious now.
“Oh, I knew,” I tell him with a sigh.
“Could I…could I come in for a minute?”
Still on edge, I want to say no and I grapple unsuccessfully for a polite way to do it.Politeness gets women killed, I hear Greta’s voice in my head, and my brain clicks into gear.
“The baby’s just nodded off, so we might talk here, if that’s OK.”
