Savannah rolled over in her bed, groaning at the slant of morning sunlight that pierced her too-much-rum headache. At first she was confused. Something had happened. Then it filtered back. The woman who’d burst into her house last night. Her discovery of Jon’s marriage. Jon’s utter indifference to her calls and texts. She grabbed her phone and checked the time. Just before eight. She’d be late for work. She wasn’t going to work, she decided. She had more important things to do. She texted Jon. He’d call by on his way to the office, he replied, but couldn’t stay long.
• • •
He arrived fifteen minutes later. Disheveled, bleary-eyed, contrite. She slapped him. Right there on the doorstep. Stunned, he stepped back, his hand to his cheek.
“You’d better come in,” she muttered, surprised at herself for the slap. “I don’t want the neighbors seeing this.” The neighbors wouldn’t see anything; the driveway was too long, the hedges too high. But she wanted anexplanation. His attention. His apology. He stepped past her, eyeing her warily, and she closed the front door.
In the hall, she asked her questions. Under the stream of early-morning sun, she heard all about Susan O’Donnell, teacher of maths. Susan O’Donnell, wife of Jon. Susan O’Donnell, mother of one. That part stung more than she’d expected. Jon had always said he didn’t want kids. Just like she didn’t. And all of it was a lie. Of course he didn’t want kids withher, he already had a kid. In his real life, with his very real wife. Her hand itched to slap him again, but she forced herself to stay calm, conscious too that she’d smashed his window last night, which wasn’t a great move. Though, strangely, he didn’t bring that up.
She gestured for him to follow her through to the kitchen and take a seat at the table, and she set about making coffee, autopiloting into the routine they’d had a dozen times before.
“What about the other woman?” she asked, sitting down opposite him as the coffee percolated in the cafetière.
“What other woman?”
“She came here last night, barged in. Thought I was your wife. I don’t know her name. Tall. Brown hair, kind of a rocker look. Jesus, Jon, how many women are you seeing that you don’t know which one this is?”
“I have absolutely no idea who you’re talking about. What did the police say?”
“I didn’t call them. Not yet, anyway. She said she’d come back if I did.”
“Christ…look, I don’t think I should get caught up…I don’t want to get dragged into anything.”
Don’t want to get dragged into anything?Savannah had often heard the phrase “she saw red,” but now, for the first time in her life, it really did feel as though she was literally seeing a red mist in front of her eyes. It was blood pressure rising, no doubt, or blood in her ears, but suddenly she wanted to punch Jon in the face and then keep punching and punching.
“Jesus Christ, Jon. You don’t want to get dragged into anything? Becauseof you and your wife,I’mthe one who got dragged in. Are you actually serious?”
He stood and held up his hands in a dismissive gesture that made her blood boil even more.
She stood too and grabbed her car keys from the shelf behind her.
“Right. Let’s see how your wife feels about all this.”
“What?”
“I’m going to 26 Oakpark—theother26 Oakpark—to let Susan know what’s been going on.”
He stared at her for a moment then stepped toward her and took the keys from her hand.
“I’m sorry, Savannah, but I can’t let you do that.”
88
Maeve
Thursday
Maeve had never been less enthusiastic about anything than she had been earlier this evening walking over to Moira Fitzpatrick’s, trudging one foot in front of the other, chin dipped, shoulders down. Her beanie hid half her face, or at least, she hoped it did. Snap Maps told her there was nobody from school in the vicinity—nobody she’d bump into between her house and Moira Fitzpatrick’s over in Oakpark. But still, someone might have had Maps switched off…If she had to walk past anyone, she would die. Her mum would say she was being dramatic, but her mum doesn’t get it. For all her talk of remembering what it was like being a teen, she obviously didn’t if she was insisting Maeve go ahead with the babysitting. Maeve zoned in on Nika on Snap Maps. She was down in Blackrock, probably in Jessica’s house. And Ariana was on Westminster Road, in her own house. God, if she ever saw Ariana again. Maeve’s cheeks flamed at the thought.
• • •
Moira Fitzpatrick beamed when she opened the door, tucking a blonde strand behind her ear. She was all dressed up in a 70s-print jumpsuit, gold hoop earrings and metallic strappy heels.
“You look lovely,” Maeve said politely.
“Oh, thank you!” Moira rewarded her with an even wider smile.
“My mum has the same jumpsuit,” Maeve added.
