As she relocks her door, a gust of wind blows her tumbling, glossy hair out of place.
The women’s hands fly up as Aoife stops and very gently rearranges her hair herself.
It’s at that moment she looks up at my window and our eyes lock. I almost pull away but a warm smile breaks across her features at the sight of me. I do not pull away from the window. Instead I wave, and find her beam is contagious, feel my own spreading across my face. She gestures to her getup, a comically unsure look appearing on her perfectly made-up face. Without thinking, I bust out a chef’s kiss hand gesture and I watch her cackle before giving a wavering thumbs-up. Even people like her get nervous, I guess.
The women draw her focus back, ushering her into the waiting car without creasing or smudging anything, artists packaging up their masterpiece and sending it to a viewing.
The passenger doors slam and the car pulls away.
I sink back into my seat and focus back on my screen. Suddenly another noise issues from the street below my window. It’s the distinct rumbling sound of an old-fashioned motor as a London black cab pulls up. More action on the street.
I rise again, curiosity piqued.
Below, a man I have not seen before thanks the driver and gets out with a carry-on bag.
The cab rolls away as the man extends his bag’s handle and wheels it along the street. He’s in his late thirties, with dark-brown hair, tidy little thin-frame glasses, and a strong jaw. He is in good shape but clearly jet-lagged. A long flight, I guess.
I watch to see which house he will go into. He stops suddenly outside Aoife’s, searching for keys in his pocket.
I didn’t consider Aoife might have a boyfriend who isn’t famous, and there’s definitely something about him, with that tidy, gentle, intellectual look. Though I’m not sure I could see her going for someone as buttoned-up as he appears to be.
He walks on past Aoife’s, on past Arabella’s, before he stops and lingers at Pam’s gate.
He could be a friend of Pam’s: a son, perhaps, though she didn’t mention having kids with the man she had lived with.
The man looks up at Pam’s front door, seems momentarily baffled, then shakes his head and opens the next gate. Number 15. I watch, confused, as he mounts the steps to Marina and Chris’s house, slides his key into the door, and enters.
My eye catches the gold wedding band glinting on his finger as he turns back to lift his suitcase over the step, then shuts the door behind him.
I relax into the cushions again.
Is this man with glasses Chris, Marina’s husband? If so then who was the blond man in the video I lost?
I knew there was something wrong with what I saw. Suddenly I feel a wave of vindication. I’m not going crazy; my instincts do still work after everything.
I’ve stumbled upon an affair.
I know what it feels like to have your relationship shattered and splintered apart from inside.
But I need to fact-check. I think of Pam. Then suddenly recall Greg talking about Pam, and how she suggested he not tell me whatever it was he wanted to tell me.
Then I think of Matt.
I tap out a quick message and send:
Coffee?
Three dots appear on the phone screen. I wait for his response:
It’s 6:30! You drink coffee
at 6:30? Maybe a drink? 15mins
at Cantina Bianchi?
Maybe I need some company now. Maybe I’ve spent too much time on my own.
I reply:
