Читать книгу The Affair - Colette Freedman - Страница 16

CHAPTER 10

Kathy 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.”