I don’t remove my hand. Sometimes, all they need is a little push. He looks down, toward my chest, and I note him clocking the necklace that shook free when I leaned forward. He doesn’t say anything as he fingers it. The charm with the small “A” inscribed on it.
For a second, I don’t breathe. His face is very close to mine.
The kiss, when it comes, tastes like wine, just as my first with Freddie tasted like beer. Can’t really fault him on that—I’ve barely touched mine and he’s consumed most of the bottle. It doesn’t matter. This is the outcome I hoped for, and I lean into it and flick my tongue against his. Another little tip I learned from one of Marcie’s magazines.Sometimes, they like it when you take the lead.
And so, now, I do. I pull Jack to his feet. And we go upstairs to bed.
Thirty-two
It was underwhelmingin the end, as it so often is. Some drunken fumbling from Jack. Convincing sighs of pleasure from me; I discover it doesn’t take a lot to convince a man of his competence in the bedroom. To his credit, Jack was tender. Afterward, he asked if I was all right, and he smoothed the hair away from my face, looking at me with such intensity I wanted to bask in it.
Then he ruined it. He went downstairs, ostensibly to check that the door was locked, but when he didn’t return I crept down and pressed my eye to the crack in the door to the sitting room. He was slumped on the sofa, tumbler in hand. I probably should have predicted that outcome. I crept back to bed and now lie in the dark, stewing. I’m annoyed that he’s downstairs. All I can think of is the chest, and how I am going to get to it.
I must fall asleep in the end, because when I wake—with the weak sunlight streaming through the curtains—Jack is snoring next to me. I check the time. He’s late for work.
I shake him gently by the shoulder—like a mother waking her slumbering child—and he jolts, eyes snapping open. I can smell him. Thattang of sour alcohol. I don’t know what time he came to bed, but it must have been late, because I woke at one point in the early hours and the space next to me was still empty. Perhaps the glass of wine was a mistake—I should have known he’d struggle to stop at one—but hindsight’s always twenty-twenty and it expedited the development of the relationship, so I can’t say I regret it. He took me into his confidence last night in the same way Freddie did in those early days of our relationship: a slow baring of the soul, revealing the grittier, darker details of his life. Trusting me with those details. I want to harvest them all. I snuggle closer to Jack as he passes a hand across his face, reaches for his phone.
He swears when he sees the time.
“Fuck. Why didn’t you wake me up?”
I pull away from him. His tone is so short, it extinguishes last night’s glow instantly. I don’t appreciate being spoken to like this—not when I went out of my way last night to cook him dinner. Not when I laid the table so beautifully and had to endure yet more eulogizing about his dead wife. But I’m nothing if not adaptable. I widen my eyes in surprise and distress. “I only just woke up,” I say in a voice that is too high, too girlish, flecked with hurt. “I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry’s not going to help me now, is it?” he snaps, and pulls up his messages. He taps out a WhatsApp message—I read it over his shoulder.Hey, sorry, something’s come up. Going to be half an hour late. Start the meeting without me.
Oops. If I’d known he had a meeting, perhaps I would have held off on the wine. Then again, maybe not.
He doesn’t speak as he rises, pausing only to rub a hand over his face again, but I can sense his anger and I don’t understand it. Not after how special last night was. That’s worth being a few minutes late for a meeting, surely? I’d have quit my job at the magazine if Freddie had asked me to.
Jack’s shower lasts only two minutes this morning, and does little towash the hangover away. When he reenters the bedroom, he clutches the doorframe, breathing heavily with his eyes closed.
“I’m sorry, Iris,” he says, grimacing as the sun breaks through a cloud, a beam catching the side of his face. He’d look angelic if he wasn’t so obviously struggling. “That was uncalled-for.”
I’m still smarting, but I remind myself thatperfectAlice had endless patience, endless forgiveness, and I swallow. “It’s OK. I’m sorry you’re late for your meeting.”
“They’ll survive without me for a few minutes.” He smiles, wincing again, and his voice softens. “Listen, last night was really nice. Thank you for making such an effort. I shouldn’t have had the wine, though. I feel appalling.”
I do feel a little guilty for encouraging him to drink, but we might not have crossed that final barrier between us otherwise, so it fades. It’s not lost on me that his relapse helps me to position myself as Alice did at the start of their relationship. And just like her, I can help him to get the assistance he needs. Maybe I’ll message him later, suggest coming with him to AA. I bet that’s what she would have done, and I do love a group setting.
Jack dresses fast today. Almost as soon as he puts his shirt on, it becomes damp with sweat. Before he leaves, he kisses me swiftly on the cheek, though I wish he didn’t; he’s still damp from the shower and sweat drips from his forehead onto mine. As much as I love every part of him, even I have my limits.
He exits in a flurry of huffs and puffs. I get up as soon as he’s left the room and take a long shower, scrubbing hard at my forehead, then dress quickly. The door slams downstairs, and I am finally alone.
I don’t bother to clean up after Jack’s bender last night, though bottles litter the living room. There are things to achieve today, and cleaning is not one of them. My eye is drawn to the chest in the corner of the room. I’d barely noticed it before, had assumed it was some pricelessantique that looked pretty but held no function. Now that I know it contains details of Alice’s life, it takes on a whole new significance. Last night was only the first step. A necessary one, but men are fickle creatures. Once you’ve slept with them—given in to that primal urge to conquer—it’s all about holding their attention. Keeping the excitement alive. Marcie knew that. That’s why she never went past second base, despite the rumors that said otherwise. As a woman, you relinquish a portion of your power the moment you give in to sex. Last night, I wanted to sleep with Jack. It was important to me, to gauge how much he wanted me, but I’m aware of the power I need to reclaim.
I know I can’t become complacent now that we have crossed this first hurdle. Not after what happened with Freddie. I always learn from my mistakes.
And that’s why I need Alice. She’d played it right. She’d secured a proposal, after all, that ultimate promise of commitment. A trip down the aisle.
I try to raise the lid. It’s so old that the wood groans with the pressure, but it doesn’t give. Not an inch. It’s then I see the old lock. Rusted with age, but still holding fast. I release a scream of frustration. She is so close I can almost touch her, and yet I’m being thwarted by an item that is at least a hundred years old.
—
I spend therest of the morning searching for the key. I turn the house upside down and find a few more items that can only have belonged to Alice, but nothing that resembles what I’m looking for. In the bathroom, I find a pack of sertraline prescribed to an Alice Reynolds and a tube of Vagisil. I wrinkle my nose at that. A pack of hair ties—always useful. I keep the bottle of lime, basil, and mandarin bath oil because it looks expensive, and I’ve never been one to turn down a freebie. If I can smell like her, too, Jack won’t be able to resist me.
With nothing else to go on, I revert to my original plan. And for that, I will need to return to the dull domesticity of last night. I turn my attention to Jack’s mess. There’s no sign of Martha today, so clearly that particular job falls to me. Irritating on more than one level: Aside from the cleaning, it means I don’t have access to a key. She came to find me at the end of her shift yesterday, just as I was browning the meat for the stew, with her hand outstretched. Reluctantly, I handed the borrowed key back, inwardly cursing her for reclaiming it.
Jack must have forgotten to dig out the one he promised me, and I keep an eye out on my search for the chest key, but there is no sign of either of them.
