Читать книгу The Harpy - Megan Hunter - Страница 12

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After the beep at first there was nothing, then a deep intake of breath, like the noise someone makes before sighing. Then there were the words, less like words than atom-­crushers, some scientific experiment altering the composition of the universe, the plastic-­wrapped chicken I held in my hand, the cooker, the sink, the radio.

This is David Holmes. I am the husband of Vanessa Holmes. I thought you should know . . .

A gulp here, or a swallow, something too guttural to hear over the phone, the inner, liquid workings of another person’s body.

Your husband – Jake, Jake Stevenson – is sleeping with my wife. He is – I found out today. I thought you should know.

He said that twice: he thought I should know. The way he said it – even with the splits in his voice, the way it was balancing, like an adolescent boy, between high and deep – it seemed significant. Well thought out, as though he knew that knowledge was important in a marriage, that it was correct. He was careful to use surnames, for everyone. To make it official. He had a serious, professor’s voice, maybe that was it. I have always had a weakness for listening to academic men, for believing what they say. I trained in the art of this at one point.

And so when I heard him say those words, the first thing I did was nod, very quickly, and put the chicken down.