The Affair (7 page)

K
athy passed her sister’s SUV at the bottom of the road. Julia didn’t see her; she was clutching the wheel of the big vehicle with white-knuckle intensity, staring straight ahead. Kathy knew her sister hated driving the SUV because of its size, but she drove it because she thought it was a status symbol. Robert didn’t like Julia; he always said that she was shallow.

At least Julia’s husband wasn’t having an affair.

The thought, icy as the winter weather, slid cold and bitter into her consciousness. Julia and Ben had been married for twenty-seven years, and there’d never been any doubts that they loved one another. You just had to look at them together to realize that. Kathy wasn’t a big fan of her English brother-in-law. He’d met Julia three decades earlier when she’d spent a year in London and, rather improbably, the pair had fallen deeply in love. They were a strange couple, but clearly devoted to each other.

Kathy wondered what someone looking in on her relationship with Robert would think. Would a stranger or even a friend imagine that after eighteen years of marriage, everything was fine between them, that they were still in love, or would he or she be able to tell that something was desperately wrong? What were the signals when something was amiss with a relationship?

She suddenly smiled, realizing that she was holding the steering wheel in the same white-knuckled grip as her sister. The smile faded. If—and it was still only an if—it turned out that Robert was having an affair, she was not looking forward to telling either of her sisters, especially Julia. She knew that Julia would commiserate, though she suspected that secretly her sister would be thrilled. Her opinion of Robert would be vindicated; she would be able to say “I told you so,” and would insist on dispensing unwanted advice. Sheila, her younger, unmarried sister, would be genuinely sympathetic. Kathy resolved to speak to her first.

Kathy flicked her headlights on to high beam. They picked up stray chips of ice and snowflakes spiraling out of the sky, making it look as if she were falling into the snow. She flicked the lights back and dropped her speed.

This was insane.

No, this was necessary.

She was heading into the heart of Boston a week before Christmas, right into rush-hour traffic with what looked like a snowstorm coming in. She thought about heading back and, for a single moment, considered it seriously. But if she went back she knew she would have lost momentum. Tomorrow was a day closer to Christmas and, for some reason, that date—that significant, family-orientated date—was assuming a huge importance. She had to know the truth before Christmas. Perhaps it was simply that she did not want to go into the New Year knowing—or not knowing—that she was living a lie, that her marriage, her relationship, her love was compromised, that her future was uncertain and her past unknown.

She turned the heat on at full blast. It made little difference to the temperature as far as she could see. At the bottom of the road she turned to the right, which bypassed one of Brookline’s main streets. She could see that it was solid with cars, no doubt drawn to any one of the quaint little shops that did terrific business at this time of year. Traffic was heavy, but most of it was heading out of the city. Commuters going home for the weekend.

Kathy nervously eased the big car out onto Commonwealth Ave, trying to remember the last time she had driven herself into the city at night. Whenever they went out in the evening, Robert drove.

Deep in the folds of her coat, her cell phone chirped and buzzed. Keeping her eyes on the road, she fished into the pocket, pulled out the phone, and hit the button that turned it into a speakerphone.

“Kathy?” Robert’s voice was tinny and brittle. “Where are you?”

“In the car,” she said, knowing it was an answer he hated. He knew she was in the car—he wanted to know exactly where she and the car were.

“I’ve just called home. The kids told me you’re heading into the city to go shopping.”

She could hear the incredulity in his voice.

“Yes,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral.

“Kathy, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Traffic is shit, and the weather is closing in. Forecasters are promising more snow and maybe black ice this evening.”

“I need to get a few things. I thought I’d head to Newbury Street,” she continued, ignoring his statement. Then she smiled bitterly. “If there’s a problem with the weather, I could always drop into Top of the Hub, meet you there. We can drive home in your car, and I’ll come in with you in the morning to pick up my car.”

There was a long pause. She was determined not to break into it.

“Did I lose you?” came his voice at last.

“I’m still here,” she said shortly. The traffic ahead of her was a wall of stationary metal. She groaned; she should have just taken the T. It would have been faster and safer. “Where are you?” she eventually asked.

“Still at the office. Jimmy’s coming here around seven.” There was a crackle of static. “. . . I really don’t think it’s a good idea to head into the city tonight. And if I have a few drinks with Jimmy, I might have to leave the car myself. That’ll be two cars in town. I was half thinking I might even stay overnight. He says I can crash at his apartment.”

There was another long pause. Robert obviously expected Kathy to fill the silence, but she said nothing. She turned right onto Storrow Drive. She realized she was just a few miles from where Robert had gotten the speeding ticket. Traffic was almost at a complete standstill, cars bumper to bumper, windows fogged up.

“Kathy . . .”

“You’re breaking up. I can hardly hear you,” she lied.

“Can’t you get what you’re looking for in Brookline?”

“No,” she said truthfully. “I’ll see you at Top of the Hub later . . .”

“No, not Top of the Hub . . .”

Kathy kept her eyes fixed firmly on the road, refusing to glance down at the phone’s lit screen. She took a breath before responding, careful to pitch her voice just right. “I thought you said last night you were going to Top of the Hub. . . .”

“Kathy, I’m having trouble hearing you. Listen, there was a screw-up. I phoned earlier to confirm, and they couldn’t find the reservation.”

Kathy frowned. She knew this to be the truth. So maybe everything else was explicable also. Maybe all her suppositions had a rational explanation. She shook her head; they didn’t. “So where are you going to go?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Well, look, call me when you find a place, and I’ll drop by. I haven’t seen Jimmy for ages. How is Angela?”

“They’ve separated. He wants a divorce. She says no.”

Kathy shifted in the driver’s seat, feeling trapped by the traffic. The lights of Boston burned amber and white in the distance. “Listen, I’ve got to go, there’s a cop nearby, and I shouldn’t be on my cell,” she lied again, and stabbed a finger to end the call.

If Robert wanted a divorce would she say no?

Kathy shook her head. She’d say, “Go.”

If he didn’t want her, if he’d chosen some slut over her, she certainly wouldn’t want him hanging around. But if he was going, she would make sure she’d keep everything that was rightfully hers.

 

It took forty minutes to get down to Beacon Hill. The stores were open for last-minute shoppers, and street parking was at an absolute premium. She drove around the hilly side streets, looking for a place to park.

For years, Kathy and Robert had run R&K Productions out of their home. About ten years ago, when the company started making some money, they had decided that they needed a legitimate address. It had to be close enough to the city center to impress clients; a respectable address always suggested success, Robert had told her. After all, perception was everything. They’d eventually taken a single room on the first floor of a Federal-style row house on Beacon Hill, less than a mile from the State House. When a second room had become available, they’d taken that. Now R&K Productions occupied a suite of four ground-floor rooms, an outer office, a large conference room, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom. Kathy had always thought it was an outrageously extravagant expense; Robert claimed it was good for business. And deductible, of course.

As she drove through Beacon Hill, she smiled, as she always did in this neighborhood. Why did people pay so much to live in narrow row houses that were hundreds of years old? The same reason Robert wanted to set up the company here. Location. Location. Location. And the homes were charming. When she got to Charles Street, she could see the offices; they were in total darkness. Kathy glanced at the clock on the dashboard. The amber digits said it was six forty-five. She drove around the block. There was no sign of Robert’s car.

She was . . . disappointed.

What had she been expecting? To see Robert’s car outside the office and then the door opening and Robert and his mistress coming out arm in arm? And if she had seen his car outside, what would she have done? Gone in, or skulked outside in the shadows, watching like some shabby detective in a cheap novel?

Kathy made one last drive around the block before heading toward the Charles River back onto Storrow Drive. There was one other destination she had to visit.

 

She found Stephanie Burroughs’s address easily enough. It was in one of Jamaica Plain’s historical Victorians that had been broken up into condominiums. Holding the printout she’d taken from Robert’s computer in her hand, she peered out, trying to make sense of the numbering.

“Can I help you?” The voice was querulous, suspicious. The tiny figure of a coat-bundled old lady materialized out of the shadows. She glared into the car at Kathy.

“Yes . . . no . . . possibly.” She tried her best smile.

“Well, make your mind up,” the old lady growled.

“I’m supposed to deliver a Christmas present to a Miss”—she deliberately consulted the sheet of paper—“a Miss Burroughs. I think she lives here.”

“Number eight.” The old woman turned and pointed up to the cupola, toward a brightly lit window. A fully-lit miniature Christmas tree twinkled behind the bubbled glass. “Used to be one building, but it got broken up into four units. I’m on the ground floor in number two. Stephanie Burroughs is above me in number eight. Smallest unit but she seems to like it. Did some construction there when she first moved in, but other than that she’s been a model neighbor.” The old woman drew a breath, delighted to have a captive audience. “Now, there’s a married couple in six who are quiet but they have a baby on the way. And don’t get me started what that noise is going to be like. Thankfully, they’re at the back off the building. In number four, there’s a man I don’t particularly care for. He’s a hippie.”

“Oh, so I do have the right address!” Kathy interrupted before the old woman could speak again.

“You do. But you’ve wasted a trip. She’s just gone out.”

Kathy tried her winning smile again. “I don’t suppose you know where she was going?”

Now the old lady looked at her suspiciously. “Why? You make personal deliveries?”

“This is a special delivery. I’m under strict instructions to place it directly into her hands. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“A surprise? Oh, I love surprises. Bet it’s from her boyfriend. She’s always getting flowers delivered.”

“He must be a very thoughtful man,” Kathy said evenly, choking back the panic. “If you do see her, would you mind not saying anything about the surprise? I don’t want to ruin her present.”

“Mum’s the word. I’m the soul of discretion, young woman. The soul of discretion.”

“Thank you so much. Merry Christmas.”

“And a Merry Christmas to you too.”

I
t was after nine by the time she got back, and everyone—Julia, Brendan, and Theresa—was in a foul mood. Robert hadn’t come home yet.

Julia started putting on her coat the second Kathy turned her key in the lock. “I thought you’d be back an hour ago,” she snapped.

“I went as fast as I could,” Kathy said. She opened her mouth to say more, but closed it quickly again. She knew she had a tendency to talk too much, especially when she was nervous, and she was terrified she was going to blurt out her fears to her sister. “Were the kids all right?”

“They were fine, I suppose, though they insisted on ordering takeout. I don’t believe in fast food, Kathy, you know that. You never know what you’re eating.”

“It’s not fast food, it’s—”

“It’s unhealthy. Full of salts and sugars and monosodium glutamate.”

“They only have it once in a blue moon as a treat.”

“Really, Sis? Because they seemed pretty familiar with the menu,” Julia said, voice thick with suspicion. “Brendan seemed to know it by heart. He ordered his kung pao chicken by number.”

“Should I open a bottle of wine?” Kathy asked, moving past Julia, heading into the kitchen. She knew Julia would refuse.

“No, no, I should go. Ben will wonder where I am.”

Kathy moved back down the hall and gave her sister a quick peck on the cheek. Julia smelled of lavender powder, the same talc their mother had worn. Kathy wondered if it was by accident or by design. As she’d got older Julia had come to physically resemble their late mother; she had her hair cut and styled in a slightly more modern version of both their mother’s cut, and that of her namesake, Julia Child. Like their mother and the late chef, Julia always wore a string of pearls, blue blouses, and sensible skirts. And flat shoes. Always flat shoes. She looked old, but then, she had always looked old, even as a child.

Julia stood in the door, wrapping her coat tightly around her. “You’ll be coming over on Boxing Day.” Julia turned the question into a statement.

“I haven’t mentioned it to Robert yet,” Kathy said truthfully. “But I’m sure we’ll be there.”

“It means a lot to Ben. You know he loves to see the children.”

“I know.” Kathy wanted to pour herself a large glass of wine; however, her sister had suddenly decided to get chatty.

“Have you seen Sheila?”

“Not recently.”

“Is there a new boyfriend?”

“I’ve no idea,” Kathy said, which was not entirely true. There was a new man in their younger sister’s life, someone Sheila was excited about, but was being equally secretive about at the moment. But there were always new men in Sheila’s life—each one more unsuitable than the last.

“She needs to settle down,” Julia said and sniffed. “She’s getting a little too old for all this running around.”

“She’s thirty-six. That’s hardly old.”

“I was married with two children by that age. So were you,” Julia added. “Okay, I’d better go.” She turned to kiss her sister quickly on the cheek, the slightest brushing of her lips, then she rubbed her thumb under Kathy’s right eye. “You look exhausted. You’ve got bags under your eyes. I’ll bring you some under-eye cream the next time I’m over.” She let herself out of the door and hurried down the path, her footsteps crunching slightly on the frost.

Kathy stood in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around her chest, and waited while her sister slowly and carefully backed the big SUV out of the drive. Only when Julia straightened the car on the road and revved away, wheels spinning on icy patches, did she step back and shut the door. The hallway was so cold she could see her breath frosting in front of her face.

Brendan and Theresa were in the family room, sprawled in that peculiarly loose-limbed way that only young children and teens can manage, watching TV. CBS was running a
Big Brother Christmas Special.

“Did you get your homework done?”

They both grunted.

“Any word from your father?”

“He called earlier,” Brendan volunteered, “but said he’d try you on the cell.”

“I spoke to him.”

“I hope he gets home soon,” Theresa said. “There’ll be snow later.”

“If it gets too bad out, he might stay in the city,” Kathy said, more to reassure her daughter than to repeat the lie he’d told her.

Theresa nodded without looking up. “Good. That’d be better. Safer.”

Kathy went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Robert was a good father, she had to admit. The children wanted for nothing . . . except perhaps a father. Much of the rearing had been left to her. He had so rarely been home in the early years of their marriage; he’d often gone to work in the morning before the children awoke, and had returned late in the evening when they were in bed and asleep. They only really got to see him on weekends. And even then he was invariably working. Kathy put down her glass and began to clear up the take-out bags and foil containers. She gathered up the plates and opened the dishwasher. The children had a good relationship with him now though....

She stopped and straightened. Did they? Did they have a good relationship? What constituted a good relationship? she wondered.

He bought them everything they wanted. Christmas was no longer special, because he gave them presents out of season and often came home with pieces of jewelry for Theresa and video games for Brendan. They both idolized him; how were they going to react when . . . no, not
when,
just
if.
At the moment, it was still if.

But how much time did he give them?

She began to slot the plates into the dishwasher. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent time with them, when he’d simply taken them out with him for the sheer pleasure of their company. The last movie they’d been to see as a family had been . . . She shook her head; she couldn’t remember. He’d missed Brendan’s recitals and Theresa’s games because he’d been working.

Or had he?

Again, the poisonous, insidious thought curled around the question. Had he been genuinely working, or had he been playing with his mistress? Every excuse he’d ever given her was now suspect.

On impulse, she picked up her phone where she had tossed it on the table and dialed his cell. His voice mail picked up immediately; he must have the cell turned off. She went back to her purse and pulled out the sheet of paper with Stephanie Burroughs’s details on it. Then she picked up the phone and was just about to dial the number when she realized that her number would show up on Burroughs’s screen. Sitting at the kitchen table, she spent ten minutes trawling through the phone’s menu looking to switch off Send Own Number. When she’d set it, she phoned her own home to check the caller ID.
Private Number
showed on the screen. She had a few more sips of wine, and then she called Stephanie Burroughs’s number. It rang and rang. She was just about to hang up when it was answered.

“Hello.”

The voice was crisp, professional, brusque even. There was the tinkling of a piano in the background, the hum of conversation, a clinking of glass. A bar or a restaurant.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Is this Becky?”

“No, you have the wrong number.”

“Rebecca McFeel—” Kathy began, but the phone had already gone dead. Stephanie had killed the call. “Now what exactly did that achieve?” Kathy asked aloud.

“Mom, you’re talking to yourself again.” Theresa padded into the kitchen. She went straight to the cupboard and pulled out a box of cornflakes.

“I thought you had food delivered.”

“I did. But that was hours ago. I’m famished.” Theresa filled a bowl to the brim with cornflakes, then added milk. She glanced sidelong at her mother. “Did you get everything you were looking for in town?”

“Not everything,” Kathy said truthfully. “I made a start.” She turned to look at her daughter. “What do you want for Christmas?”

“I gave my list to Dad.”

“I haven’t seen it yet.”

Theresa concentrated on her cereal.

“Would that be because I might have a problem with some of the items on the list?” Kathy asked.

Theresa shrugged, a mere shifting of the shoulders.

“But you know your dad will get them for you.”

“It’s just one or two small things,” Theresa said defensively.

“You mean one or two pages of small things. I’ll talk to your father about them.”

“He said he’d get them for me.”

“I’ll have a look first.”

“Don’t be mean, Mom. Dad said he’d get them; he had no problem with the list!” She gathered up her bowl and padded back into the family room, ignoring the no-food-in-the-family-room rule. Kathy was too tired, too drained to argue. She could hear Theresa speaking urgently to her brother, no doubt explaining how mean their mother was going to be over the Christmas presents.

They had this battle every year. Theresa would produce a list of just about everything she had seen on TV, on the Internet, found in a magazine, or that her friends had talked about. Kathy would then edit the list down to one or two big presents, plus some small stocking fillers. The trick was always to try and make sure both kids were opening approximately the same number of presents on Christmas morning. More recently, however, Theresa, who was her father’s pet, had discovered that if she asked him directly for something, he would more often than not just get it for her. Last year there had been a major upset on Christmas Eve, when Kathy discovered that Robert had bought Theresa just about everything on her list. She’d had sixteen presents to unwrap. Brendan had had eight.

Robert had promised her that it would be different this year. Obviously he’d forgotten.

Kathy tidied up the kitchen, put her wineglass in the dishwasher, and filled the coffeemaker for the morning. Robert had started to forget lots of things: points on his license, a new credit card account . . . and the fact that she was still his wife.

 

“Time for bed.”

“Ma.”

“Aw, Mom!”

Kathy crossed the floor in two quick strides and shut the TV off. “Bed. You’ll be on Christmas break soon. You can stay up late then.” She picked cushions off the floor and tossed them back on the chairs. “And, Theresa, when I call you in the morning, get up. If you miss the bus I’m not driving you to school.”

Theresa uncoiled from the chair and marched out of the room, leaving her cereal bowl on the floor. Kathy was going to call after her, but Brendan hopped up and grabbed the bowl and spoon. “I’ll get it.”

“Thanks.”

“Is everything all right?”

She glanced up, struck by the note of concern in his voice. He looked so much like his father. She’d first met Robert when he was in his late twenties, and she had worked for him before they had started dating. He’d been handsome then—still was, she supposed—and Brendan had inherited his father’s dark good looks. He was seventeen now and had had several on-and-off-again girlfriends. She’d discouraged them, trying to get him to concentrate on his studies. The problem was that Robert had already promised him a place in the company when he left school. Brendan had then decided that there was little point in breaking his back studying, inasmuch as he already had a job to go to. Since then, his grades had slackened off. Too many C’s, a couple of D’s. Before he’d talked to his father it had been mainly B’s and a few A’s.

“Mom?” Brendan asked again.

“I’m fine. Tired. Too much to do with Christmas coming.”

Brendan nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. “When’s Dad getting back?”

Kathy shrugged. “Who knows? I don’t.” Something in her voice betrayed her. She caught the frown that appeared on her son’s face and added quickly, “It’s a busy time for him, wining and dining clients. So much of the business he gets comes from networking. He could be home at any time.”

Brendan nodded. But she could tell that something was disturbing him. She opened her mouth to ask, then shut it again. She didn’t want to run the risk of upsetting her son, and maybe have him go to Robert.

“Go to bed, honey. I’ll lock up down here.”

“Good night.”

“Good night, and no computer games,” she added. “It’s late enough.”

She waited until she heard Brendan’s door click shut before she moved around the house, turning off lights and locking doors. She flicked on the porch light, then stood in the hall watching isolated flakes of snow drift past the cone of light.

She wondered if her husband was on the way home to her, or if he was going to spend the night with his mistress.