You Can Trust Me (21 page)

“Not noticing what?”

“Well, quite apart from the effect on Hannah, there's us. We haven't had sex in weeks. Not since before Julia died.”

My mouth gapes. Will's right, though it hadn't occurred to me. I don't know what to say to him. My mind flashes back to the first time we made love properly. Not the first attempt.
That
was a disaster, thanks to me being so self-conscious and unwilling to lose control that I stopped him halfway through and ran away. No, I'm thinking of the following evening, when Will, to my astonishment, pursued me home even more determinedly than he had the night before and spent hours talking me into bed, then touching me until, for the first time in my life, I let go for long enough to have an orgasm.

“I … I…,” I stammer. Sex is so little a part of my thinking these days, even before Julia's death, it is slightly shocking to realize that I can't actually remember the last time Will and I made love—or the last time it crossed my mind that I might like to. I want to talk to him about this, but as I struggle to find the words, Will makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“Forget it,” he says.

I stare at him. This is what we always do: circle a problem with hints and snipes, but never tackle it head-on. I open my mouth again, about to insist we should talk about what he's said, but before I can speak, Will is off again.

“The point is, you have to trust me. And you have to accept what happened to Julia. You have to move on. Julia killed herself. Under all that sass and wit, she was sad and lonely.” He lowers his voice, the words firing like bullets from his mouth. “You know the real truth, Livy, is that you weren't enough to save Julia. Neither was this Dirty Blond of hers who's been egging you on.”

“He's not egging me on, for God's sake.” Anger boils inside me, all thoughts of talking about our sex life forgotten. “And it's not fair of you to say I don't trust you. I'm just—”

“Then why did you assume this Shannon person had tried to seduce me and I hadn't told you?” Will hisses. The vein at his temple bulges. His fists are clenched. I can't remember the last time he was this furious.

“I didn't,” I say. “That is, I didn't mean to. I trust you, it's—”

“Yeah?” Will snorts. “You know I've done everything I can to prove to you that I'm faithful. Years of living with the guilt of your suspicions and never
ever
being able to complain because it was all my fault in the first place.”

I suck in my breath, overwhelmed by the force of his words.

“Saint fucking Livy, but you know what? All your good deeds weren't enough to stop Julia from killing herself, because she wasn't who you thought she was. I think
that's
what really gets you.
That's
why you can't accept Julia killed herself. Because you can't stand how imperfect it makes you feel.” He storms out of the room.

I sink into my chair, hurt to the core. Why is he being so vicious? Was I really so out of order to ask him about something that mystifies me as much as him? Surely his reaction is overkill?

Righteous indignation is one of the three infallible signs of guilt,
I remember Julia saying once, a twinkle in her eye.
Along with being too nice and begging.

I sit, raw and hurting. I hear Will stomping up the stairs. I leave him for ten minutes … fifteen … then I go up, hoping we can talk again and sort things out. But Will has retreated to Zack's room and is lying on the upper bunk, his eyes firmly shut. I whisper his name, but he doesn't respond. I back away, then peer around Hannah's door. She's fallen asleep with her headphones on. I take them off and pull the covers over her. Then I creep into my own room. I'm completely exhausted, yet totally wired. I curl up on the bed and watch the seconds tick away. With every beat of the clock, the pain of Will's harsh words drills into me. Hours pass and I lie there, unhappy and humiliated. I want, so badly, to call Julia and tell her what has happened. She was never quick to judge and always able to make me laugh even in the depths of despair.

The knowledge that I can't hurts beyond tears. I have never felt so alone in my life. In the end, I guess I fall asleep at around two. When I wake, with Zack bouncing on the bed beside me, it takes only a couple of seconds to work out that Will has already left for the office, and the rest of the house is in disarray. Neither child is dressed and we have to leave the house in five minutes in order for me to drop them both at school in time.

I shout at Hannah to get ready, while helping Zack button his shirt. I shove croissants in their hands and bundle them into the car. Hannah is, at least, willing to be bundled, though she grumbles like mad that her croissant is stale, that she wanted to wash her hair, and that I'm a useless mother for not waking her at the proper time. I ignore this as best I can. I know she hates being late, a failure to comply with school rules that inevitably results in a detention. I concentrate on delivering her to school before the eight thirty deadline. We make it with a minute to spare. Then it's on to Zack's school. He holds my hand as we walk into his classroom. Next year—coming up all too soon—parents will be asked to leave children in the playground rather than taking them to their classrooms. The thought brings a lump to my throat. Will's fury is like a weight around my neck. After his anger and Hannah's disdain, the prospect of losing Zack's affectionate need for me is devastating.

I hold back my tears as I drive home, but later—once I'm safely behind closed doors—I let myself bawl. Then I make myself a cup of coffee and blow my nose. I have to pull myself together. Hannah will grow out of her antipathy to me, and Will will calm down.

As I'm thinking all this, the doorbell rings. I run my fingers under my eyes and check my reflection in the hall mirror as I pass. I look okay, if a little red-eyed. Anyway, it'll only be the postman. I open the door. To my astonishment, Martha is standing on the doorstep.

“Hi, Livy.” Her eyes are strained, belying the characteristically warm smile on her lips.

“Martha? What are you—? Hey, come in.” I smile back.

Martha shakes her head, and gestures to the car parked on the curbside. The sun is shining, glancing bright off its windows, but I can just about make out Paul sitting in the driver's seat. He catches me looking and winds down his window.

“Hi, Livy! All right?” He waves.

“Good, thanks.” I wave back, then turn to Martha. “What's going on?”

“Paul's taking me to the Apple Store at Princesshay to get a new computer,” Martha explains. “Then we're meeting Leo for lunch, then I'm straight off after that on the train to spend a few days with my mother in Scotland.…” She gabbles all this as I stare at her anxious face, feeling more and more bemused.

“I don't—”

“I just had to see you before I went away,” Martha carries on. “I promised Leo I wouldn't, but it's not right to leave you in the dark. I think if it were me, I'd want someone to say something. And … and anyway, you know how much you mean to me, Livy.” She fidgets from side to side.

I reach for her arm. This is Martha as I've never seen her, conflicted and distressed. “Martha, I don't understand. What is it?” I ask. “Leave me ‘in the dark' about what? Look, why don't you come in so—?”

“No.” Martha fishes in her handbag and pulls out a silk scarf. She shoves it into my hand. “Take this—I told Paul it was yours so we could stop off here on the way to the computer shop. I also told him I'd only be a minute.…” She glances around at the car.

“You made an excuse to come here?” I raise my eyebrows.

Martha takes a deep breath. “It's Will,” she says in hushed, fearful tones. “Leo and I blame ourselves because of that damn party we had—and the stupid business trip to Geneva.”

My chest tightens. I know what she's going to say, and all the old fears surge up, like acid in my lungs.

“I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you, but Leo let it slip last night and I've been agonizing over whether to say something ever since.” She hesitates, and the deep burn of humiliation consumes me.

“Go on,” I say.

“Will slept with that awful woman again when Leo sent them to Geneva. God, Livy, I'm so sorry.” Martha's forehead creases with frown lines, her eyes intent on my face.

I lean against the front door's frame, clutching the silk scarf in my hand, feeling sick. So Will did it after all. Despite all his protestations, all his claims, all his indignation … he went and slept with Catrina again.

My head spins. No.
No.
It
can't
be true. Leo must have misunderstood what he saw. Or maybe he mistook Will for someone else.

“What exactly did Leo say?” I ask.

Martha shifts from one foot to the other. “Not much more than what I've told you already. He … he said he saw Will kissing her good-bye, sneaking out of her room at five
A.M.
or so.”

The image sears itself on my mind's eye. I can't bear it. Martha looks over her shoulder at Paul, still waiting in the car. He is peering through the window, watching us both.

“Are you all right, Livy?” Martha reaches for my hand, but I pull away. It's irrational, but I hate her for telling me. My husband has cheated on me, and I am the last to know. Worse, it's with the same woman he betrayed me with before. That can't be discounted as a momentary lapse. And he has lied to me. If about this, then about how many more affairs?

“Oh, Livy.” Martha's voice is heavy with compassion and remorse. “I did do the right thing in saying something, didn't I?”

It takes a monumental effort to look up and meet her gaze. It's not fair to shoot the messenger. Martha is only doing what she thinks is right.

“Of course. I'm grateful.” The words rasp out; my throat is dry.

Martha makes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Look, I'll stay. Never mind Leo. I'll tell Paul there's been a change of plan and—”

“No.” I take a deep breath. “I'm fine.” My mind flickers back to Julia's Honey Hearts file and Will's name on her report sheet. She must have known he was being unfaithful, either with Catrina or someone else.
That's
why she wanted to talk to me. It had nothing at all to do with Kara's death. This thought fills me with a strange mix of despair and relief.

“Are you sure you're okay?” Martha asks anxiously.

I nod. She still wants absolution, to be told it's all right that she has brought me this terrible truth. “I'm fine, really.” I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “I appreciate you coming here—it can't have been easy.”

Martha squeezes my hand back, but I barely notice the touch. Will had sex with Catrina the day the children and I found Julia dead in her flat. The same day that I cried down the phone and he said he couldn't get back until the following evening. Selfish bastard. Bile rises in my throat. A terrible, coruscating fury.

“It's okay, I'm fine,” I repeat, releasing Martha's hand. “Go on, don't get into trouble with Leo.”

Martha gives me a long, unhappy look. “Are you sure you don't want me to stay?”

I take a deep breath, holding in my anger. “Of course, go on, go. And thank you.”

Martha backs away. I watch her walk to the front gate. She turns and waves. I wave back. Then she gets into the car next to Paul and I shut the front door.

I cross the hall in a daze. Everything I thought was true is a lie. Julia's death and Damian's claims and Shannon Walker's absence fade to background noise. All I can think about is Will and his lies. The rage inside me builds. He has made a fool of me. I took him back because his regret and his love seemed so sincere. But, in fact, I have been an idiot. It's all been a con. He has probably been shagging anyone and everyone for the whole of the past six years.

I stop pacing, letting the thoughts tumble through my head. Julia found out. Which means there must be proof for me to find too. Because I'm certain now it isn't just Catrina.

And I have to know: the who, the what, and the when. All of it. I refuse to live in doubt like I did last time. Yesterday, even after I found out that Julia had put Will on her form, I wouldn't have dreamed of going through his things, but right now, I have no choice. I have to know what he's hiding from me.

I start in the downstairs cupboard. It's been mild, and Will has hardly worn a coat for weeks. There's nothing in any of his pockets except a chewing gum wrapper. I move upstairs and go through all his suits. I spot the one he wore the night he traveled to Geneva and pat it down. I'm half expecting to discover a telephone number, scrawled in lipstick on a napkin, but there's nothing so clichéd, nothing at all, in fact. Of course not. Will would keep a number in his phone, or on his computer.

I go upstairs and switch on the main house computer. Both Will and Hannah have their own laptops, so I'm not expecting much, but it's the only bit of technology I have access to, Will having taken both his phone and his laptop to work.

I check over the machine's history—which is mostly Zack playing a Lego computer game—then rummage through the shelves and desk. I find nothing apart from Will's old work stuff. Sighing, I sit back in my chair. This is hopeless. If Will has been seeing someone, the evidence will be on his phone, as it was before, or on his clothes.

I get up and go into the bathroom. We had it redecorated last year, after my first preference—to construct a new master bath off my and Will's bedroom—proved too expensive. It's a large room, light and airy, but cluttered up with Hannah's neon-bright bottles of toiletries that range across the window ledge. At least all the plastic toys and balls that Zack has now grown out of but which still regularly get tipped inside the tub are inside the net at the end of the bath. I head over to the laundry basket and start pulling out clothes. Two of Hannah's school shirts are on top of the pile, immediately followed by a pair of her jeans and an assortment of her simple white cotton knickers—a far cry from the leopard-skin nylon panties she chose for herself. It crosses my mind that perhaps I should buy her a bra in the same white cotton. She doesn't need one, but after finding that padded thing in her bedroom, it's clear that she wants one. It doesn't really matter whether she's bothered about keeping up with the other girls in her class or whether she's just impatient to have breasts. I shouldn't dismiss her anxieties. Mum was right—I obsessed about the same thing myself at her age.