“It was you,” I whisper. It makes sense now. Her insistence that she take my number, her faux concern for my well-being. Now I know where Serena’s conviction that Jack and I were sleeping together came from. Martha’s been feeding her information about me all along. I thought I might have made a friend here. The rejection is painful, and I want to lash out. To hurt her in the way she has hurt me.
Martha’s eyes are wide. “Please—please don’t tell Jack. I can explain.”
“Get out,” I say quietly, and, for the first time in a long while, I feel the power in being entirely myself. Cold, hard, unforgiving. “Right. Now.” I bare my teeth in a snarl.
“Please, Iris.”
“Out!” I roar. Her face flushes red and she looks like she wants to say more, but her shoulders sag. She collects her bag and scurries out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Thirty-nine
I regret it themoment I hear the door close. Kicking her out like that. An unattractive loss of control that compromises me and everything I have been working toward. I shouldn’t have revealed that side of myself. I should’ve at least mined her for the information she does have before dismissing her so definitively. I can’t believe she played me like that. Reeled me in with biscuits, kept me sweet by feeding me details of Jack’s past, all so she could report back to Serena. Now I don’t know whom to trust.
I feel as though I am going mad. So many moving parts, so many different accounts. And even if Martha was lying, I am sure that Jack is, too, about something. I’ve become very good at sniffing out lies since Freddie.
For lack of any other leads, I try the chest again, but it’s still locked, and all the frustration that I have suppressed erupts. I aim a kick at the old wood but only succeed in stubbing my toe so hard I grit my teeth in pain. I need air. I need to get out of this house.
But when I go through to the hallway to collect my key, I find it’s not there. I’m always so careful about where I leave it—in the little bowlatop the radiator cover as you walk in. I always like to have an exit strategy, just in case things go wrong. You can never be too careful. But it’s gone. And I have a very good idea of who has taken it.
Hestilldoes not trust me. That much is clear. I don’t know what more I can do to convince him. Trust is a difficult thing. Once it’s gone, it’s nearly impossible to rebuild. It was just the same with Freddie. That lack of trust drove me to depths I did not think myself capable of.
Now the plan comes to me fully formed. A risk, but the time for caution has passed. I must get to the truth. I still have my phone, so I log in to my Facebook profile: the one that bears my own picture. There are limited details about my life on there. I’ve never had friends to tag me in pictures, but I prefer it that way. That way, I can control the narrative.
I find Catherine’s Facebook profile and tap out my message.
Hi Catherine, it’s Iris (staying with Jack). I’m sorry to get in touch out of the blue, but I’m worried about him. His drinking is getting out of control again. Is there a time you could meet today? At the house? He’s out until 7.
It’s not a complete lie. Jack’s promise to go to AA was evidently a platitude. I can smell him when he comes home at night. That stench of alcohol that I associate with my mother.
The reply comes ten minutes later.
I’ll get a train up this afternoon. Be with you at 5.
I have the whole day to perfect my persona, and it is so effective—that look of calm concern, when underneath I am still reeling—that, when Catherine enters the house, she takes one look at me and pats me gently on the arm.
“Thank you so much for getting in touch. I can’t tell you how nice it is to know that someone is looking out for him.”
I nod reverentially. “Of course. I’d do anything for him—Jack.” And I would. I really would. She gives me a strange look. A cross between pity and alarm.
“Come through,” I say, and I lead the way to the kitchen. I bustle around, making a show of my familiarity with my surroundings. Allow silence to settle between us, so that—when I break it—she will hang on my every word. I take my time—asking only if she takes milk and sugar—and I am sure I succeed in appearing like the perfect hostess.
Finally, I set the tea down between us and take a deep breath.
“I think it’s all getting to him,” I say. “He’s been drinking earlier and earlier. I suspect it’s because of her. Alice, I mean.” I pause, allow this to sink in. Cracking the door open, so that when my questions come there will be nothing suspicious about them.
She nods slowly. “Well, yes. That makes sense. It was all so sudden. I thought he was doing better—he was going to work at least—but I suppose grief does hit you when you least expect it.”
“Yes. I have to confess”—I lean forward as though I am taking her into my confidence, confessing some innate failing of mine in that way that people do when they are trying to form a connection—“I’m not entirely clear on what happened to Alice. Jack mentioned something about cancer, but I was under the impression that she went into remission. Is that right?”
“Is that what he told you?” Her voice is sharp. “That she died of the cancer?”
“Well.” I look down. “He implied it, yes.”
She’s shaking her head, face very white. “Alice didn’t die of the cancer. That’s just what he’d like to believe,” she says quietly. “She died by suicide. It rocked the whole family to the core, as you can imagine. I don’t think any of us saw it coming.”
“God, I am so sorry, Catherine. I had no idea.” The news rocks me, too. Jack’s web spans before me, endless mistruths, misrepresentations. This woman has no reason to lie to me. Jack’s been playing me. The real question is why he would lie about something so important. Particularly to me.
“It was terribly sad, yes,” Catherine is saying. “I’m not surprised Jack turned back to drink. I tried to get him to come and live with me in Dorset, but he insisted he’d be OK.”
