Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Read online

  I take a moment to get my bearings and I have to check maps on my phone to get it right. I start walking, turn right on West Huron, left on Detroit Avenue. There are still lots of people around, which is good I think, as it makes me less conspicuous. After about a mile I turn onto West 38th, then Franklin, and finally I’m outside her door.

  The light is on inside. I stand in the shadows for a while, watching. She walks past the window. She’s holding the phone next to her ear and I wonder if she’s talking to Luis. She laughs, throwing back her pretty head, and rests the tips of her fingers on her throat.

  Suddenly she turns around and looks right at me, and my heart skips a beat. She knows I’m here. I could go home. I should go home. There’s still time.

  But I don’t.

  She says something into the phone and hangs up slowly, her eyes not leaving mine. She walks out of the room and the front door opens, throwing a triangle of light onto the porch.

  “What are you doing here?” she says. It’s so rude, so devoid of any semblance of innocence that for a moment I am lost for words.

  “I want you to stay away from my husband.”

  Twenty-Seven

  My pillow feels damp against my cheek, and it’s not just my pillow. The sheets around my chest also feel cold and wet, like I’ve sweated all the water from my body into the linen. I put a hand against my forehead. My hair is stuck against my skull. I’m so dehydrated I don’t think I could swallow right now without tearing my throat. I press the palms of my hands against my eyes. The pain is like needles inside my brain, like having shingles behind my eyeballs. It’s borderline unbearable.

  This is a bad, bad hangover.

  I open my eyes, squint at the daylight and feel as if I’ve rubbed salt into them. I pat the space next to me and find that Luis isn’t there; the day feels half gone already, like ten or eleven in the morning. I try to remember how I got myself in this state but can only catch shreds of images as they flash past.

  I’m running down the street, getting rained on.

  I’m soaked, sitting at a bus stop with my arms around my torso and I don’t think I’m waiting for a bus. My hands are cold and I don’t know where my gloves are.

  I’m inside a bar because I don’t want to go home yet. The room is small and dark and on the walls are dim lights shaped like scallop shells and the mirrors behind the bar are etched and a man in a black suit plays jazz on the piano and is this what they call a speakeasy?

  I drink a Scotch cocktail that tastes like smoke and I love it so much I get another and another and another. The bartender says he’ll call me a taxi because I have to go home now. He hands me a paper napkin and I use it to blow my nose. I don’t want to go home because I’m angry with Luis. I’m so angry with Luis I want to punch him.

  My head hurts so much I can’t think. I push the sheets off me and press my fingers against my temples. Something rattles in the kitchen, metal against metal. Luis must be down there. I’m trying to remember why I was so angry with him and when it comes to me it’s like I’ve been punched in the chest. It propels me upright, gasping, eyes wide open, heart thumping behind my ears.

  Isabelle is pregnant.

  I remember now. I went to see her after June and I left the bar. I walked all the way to her house. She looked surprised to see me but then her face slowly morphed into something else and she turned triumphant.

  I was shaking, my teeth chattering. “Come on in,” she said. The house was warm. She was walking barefoot on the rug and I remember thinking, That’s a nice rug, gold and red and velvety, the kind of rug that would feel pleasant and soft under your toes. I must get one like that for the living room. Then I told her again to stay away from Luis, stay away from my husband, and it didn’t sound threatening at all. I sounded silly and hollow. Words that have been said so often they’ve become a joke. When did anyone ever stay away from the husband after being told to do so by a screeching fishwife?

  She did what I might have done myself in her position.

  She laughed at me. “You don’t deserve him,” she said. Then she too reverted to type by adding, “You don’t understand him.” And it was my turn to laugh.

  I don’t know exactly what happened after that. I know that I yelled until my voice was hoarse. I know that I cried and begged, I think; yes, I’m pretty sure I begged. At one stage she left the room and I lifted the glass bubble vase of giant white daisies from the side table and dropped it on the floor. The flowers scattered at my feet and the water pooled onto the pretty rug, but the vase was still intact.

  Then the memory melts, fragments go missing, like burn holes that start in the middle of a lit photograph and grow outward, leaving scorched misshaped rings in their wake until there’s nothing left.

  I close my eyes, press my fingers between them. I do my best to concentrate, will myself to remember, and slowly a memory comes into focus. I see Isabelle put the flowers back in the vase, hear her voice right next to my ear, like she’s shouting at the side of my face.

  He loves me, she’s saying. He adores me, he longs for me when he’s with you, did you know that? He can’t stand you. He says you’re boring and dull, that you have nothing in common. I can give him the life he deserves, the life he should have had a long time ago. You have no idea how talented he is. He is wasting his life with you. He loves me, and I’m carrying his child.

  She put her hand on her belly then and stopped speaking, breathless.

  Everything went still. Like there was no air left in the room.

  “What did you say?” My voice was so soft, it was barely audible. I stared at her, my eyebrows knotted with shock, my mouth distorted in pain. I was begging her with my eyes. No. Please no, say it isn’t so.

  “I’m pregnant. We’re happy. He’s so happy, or haven’t you noticed? Have you really not noticed how fucking happy he is?” Then she fiddled with the necklace at her throat and smirked.

  And I lunged at her and yanked it off and she wasn’t smirking anymore.

  I gulp cold water from the bathroom tap, gallons and gallons of it. Then I wipe my chin with the back of my hand and lean with both hands on the vanity, staring at myself in the reflection. My eyes are bloodshot and the skin below them is bruised and papery. I glance at my hands and I don’t understand why they look this way, why there are purple welts slashed across the soft pads of my palms. I open and close them into fists and wince with pain. My heart is hammering. I feel horribly sad, like someone has died.

  I let the shower get as hot as possible and turn my face up to it, letting the water sting my skin. I stand there for a long time, crying, not crying, remembering, not remembering.

  I see myself running, I’m bumping into people as I run past them. It’s late, it’s dark, it’s raining. I’m out of breath and that’s when I sit at the bus stop, breathless, and hug myself. I am standing in my kitchen in my wet clothes, in the dark. I look out to the backyard and the light is on in Luis’s shed and I think it’s late and he’s in there. But he’s not because I remember going into my bedroom and staring at Luis who was sleeping peacefully. I remember my whole body shaking and I couldn’t make it stop. I took my clothes off and left them on the floor. I slipped between the sheets and pressed myself against his back, every square inch of our bodies skin to skin. I could feel the beat of his heart and wondered if it matched mine. If our hearts were beating in unison. Then I felt like I’d dropped down an inky black abyss and suddenly I am dreaming, and in my dream he has his lips close to my cheek, just next to my ear, and I could feel his breath, like a feather. And he whispered, I would do anything to keep you. And I was wishing so hard that it wasn’t a dream, even though I knew it was.

  As I turn the shower off, I remember something else, a vague memory of Isabelle leaving the room and I wonder if she went to call Luis. I can only imagine what she might have said if she did. She knows. And by the way, she’s certifiably crazy, she’s insane, you don’t know what she did to me. You need to come and muzzle your wife, L
uis.

  I didn’t go straight home after, I know that much. I went from bar to bar to bar, or maybe just the one bar. And I walked a long way. I remember that.

  I enter the kitchen with a heavy heart. I am so not ready for what is about to happen and I’m already feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes.

  “Well, hello you!” Luis says, laughing, and the first thing that pops into my head is not, Hey, how strange, why isn’t he upset? It’s, How could you not notice how happy he is lately?

  Oh, but I did notice. I just thought it was because of me.

  He stands there, one hand on the kitchen sink, the other on his waist, checking me out, trying not to laugh. Why is he amused? “That was quite a bender, babe! And what exactly did you two get up to last night?”

  So he really doesn’t know. She didn’t call him after all. He didn’t go running to save her from crazy old me.

  I pull out a chair, sit down, rub both hands down my face. “Sorry I came home so late, I hope you weren’t too worried.”

  He grabs the pot of coffee and pours a mug full. He hands it to me. “There you go. You don’t look so good, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  I try to smile, take a sip of the hot drink.

  “You could have called you know? Didn’t you get my texts?”

  Texts? I try to remember the last time I looked at my cell but I can’t. “Sorry. I didn’t check my phone.”

  He raises a hand. “All good. Once I spoke to June I stopped worrying.”

  Oh god. That’s right. June called me at one point. I only picked up because it was her. I was in a bar, she said Luis was wondering where I was and he’d called her. I asked her to say we were together, make up some story, tell him I’m in the bathroom.

  “Sounds like you two were having a fine time. She promised to put you in a cab later. I went to bed after that. You got home okay, right? Obviously?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I didn’t tell the kids, just so you know.”

  I sit up. “Tell them what?”

  “That their mother was out on the town, partying till all hours. I don’t want to give them any ideas.” Luis returns to the sink and that’s when I notice the tools on the kitchen bench.

  “You’re fixing the tap?”

  “Yep, I got inspired this morning.” He organizes his tools and, without turning around, he says, “Was anyone else there?”

  “What do you mean?” A drip of coffee rolls down my chin and I reach for the kitchen roll.

  “Just that you were out so late, I thought maybe the whole team went out to celebrate after your big talk. You, Mila and the guys. How did it go?”

  I close my eyes. My big talk indeed. I drop my forehead in my hands. “It was okay,” I say, cringing at the memory. Should I tell him now, about Ryan? That would be the smart thing to do, tell him before he finds out. Before Ryan blackmails me or uploads his photo to the internet. Maybe he’s emailed it to that nice journalist from the New York Times who’s writing an article about me: And what does Dr. Sanchez, Winner of the Forrester prize for the Pentti-Stone conjecture like to do in her spare time? See page 12 for photos.

  I can’t believe I can’t even win a prize without screwing it up. I cross my arms on the table and drop my forehead on them with a groan.

  “What happened?” he asks. For a moment I think he’s asking about Isabelle. I look up at him from under heavy eyelids. He’s facing me now, leaning back against the sink. He refills his mug with coffee. He’s asking about the talk. Of course. I can’t tell him. I just can’t. He’ll want to know how the heck a photo of me naked almost ended up in my PowerPoint presentation. More to the point, he’ll want to know how it came to be in existence.

  “It was okay.”

  “You sure? You don’t sound so sure.”

  “It could have been worse.”

  “So it was just you and June last night, then?”

  “Yes, just me and June.” I push my chair back. “I should go to work.”

  “Can’t you take the day off? I can’t imagine you’re going to be much good over there!” He holds up one hand, shows me three fingers. “How many? Go on! Can you even count anymore, Ms. Math Teacher?”

  “You’re so funny, Luis, you should have been on the stage.”

  “That’s what you always say.”

  Roxy gives a little bark at my feet.

  “Did you walk her?” I ask. A reflex.

  “Not yet. But I will. You go, babe.”

  I grab my leather jacket from the hook near the door. It’s still slightly damp from last night and I vaguely consider getting another coat from the closet, but I don’t. I slip the jacket on and grab my bag from the chair where I left it last night. I go to Luis; I want him to kiss me, to feel his lips on mine once more before he finds out and it all goes wrong.

  “I love you,” I say.

  I already have one hand in my jacket pocket and my finger gets stuck in a hole in the lining. My fingertip brushes against something and I wriggle it out just as Luis grabs my face with both hands and kisses me on the lips. I raise my hand and glance sideways at it. It’s a chain so thin it may as well be made of a spider’s silk thread, with two thin diamond baguettes set a little off center.

  Twenty-Eight

  The young man who serves me in Starbucks does a double take. “Rough night?”

  I give a rueful smile but don’t reply. I pay for my coffee, grab my cup and walk out.

  I’m late, obviously, but I didn’t have a class this morning so I knew there was no need to rush. I did miss a couple of meetings, however.

  As I walk down the corridor at work I think people stare at me, bringing their fingers over their mouths to contain the snigger. No, they’re not. I’m being paranoid. Why would they do that? A group of students from my third year class, six or seven of them, walk up towards me and I’m convinced they’re staring right at me with narrowed eyes and barely suppressed sneers. One of them bumps into my shoulder.

  I don’t feel well. I walk into my office and close the door. I take the necklace out of my pocket, hold it loosely, twirling it between my fingers. I can still feel the thumping of my heart as I realized what it was earlier, when I was kissing Luis goodbye. I immediately shoved it back in my pocket and put my other hand behind his neck. Just the thought that he might have seen it sends spasms of horror through me.

  I don’t remember how it got there but there’s no mistaking the fact that it fit exactly in the red welts on the inside of my left hand. As if I’d grabbed it and pulled hard, so hard that it almost broke the skin.

  “I thought this might help.”

  I snap my head up and in one quick motion I’ve opened my drawer, dropped the necklace into it and slammed it shut. June blinks in surprise.

  “Sorry, you gave me a fright,” I say, laughing. She’s brought me the usual cookies and a cup of coffee. I glance at my own takeout cup. She follows my gaze.

  “Oh, well, you look like you need two of those anyway.” She smiles, puts down her offerings on my desk and takes her usual chair. “You okay?”

  I rub my hand on my forehead. “I’ve had better days.”

  “I’m not surprised. You were on quite a mission last night.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She laughs. “You were knocking them back, that’s what it means.”

  “Oh, yeah, that sounds about right.” I press my fingers against my eyes. “Thanks for covering up for me with Luis.”

  She waves a hand. “That’s all right. It’s what friends are for! What did you do, anyway?”

  “Nothing, why would you ask that?”

  I must have said it more abruptly than I’d intended because she recoils slightly. “No reason. I just thought you might have…” She shakes her head.

  “Might have what?” I snap.

  “Relax! I thought you might have been with some guy, that’s all. You told me you were in a bar, you didn’t know where exactly. You said you’d done somethin
g bad and you didn’t want to go home yet.” She laughs again, but I wince and my heart misses a beat or two.

  “God, no. Just like you said, I got drunk, June, no big deal. I’m paying for it.” I laugh. I could tell her, I went to see Isabelle and we had a big fight. But my old friend, the old feeling of doom, gives my stomach a sharp twist. I take a sip of the coffee, try to laugh but end up coughing and sending splatters all over my computer screen.

  “So if it wasn’t a guy, what was it? What did you do that was really bad?” She smiles, arms crossed over her chest.

  “Nothing,” I say, too quickly, wiping my monitor with the edge of my sleeve pulled over my hand. I laugh, a cackle of noise. “I just wanted a night out by myself! I’d had a pretty rough day. I was upset about Ryan, you know that. I can’t tell Luis about Ryan. I just ended up… Okay, fine, I drank too much. What are you going to do, arrest me?”

  She tilts her head at me. “Oh, okay. We don’t have to keep talking about this if you don’t want to. I should go, we both have work to do.” She gets up.

  “Thank you, June, for covering for me. I mean that. I owe you one.”

  “That’s okay,” she says. “It’s what friends are for, right?”

  It’s the first of two final year math exams for freshmen. I walk down the middle of the room and pass out the papers, then I sit at the front desk and spend two hours trying not to think.

  When it’s over, I gather the tests and take them back to my office. June pops her head in asking if I want to go to lunch. I tell her I’m busy, but thank you. I point at the pile of exams and mutter something about having lunch at my desk. “Thank you very much, June,” I say again, because I just don’t have a lot of buffer right now. I can’t afford to put anyone offside, June least of all. I didn’t bring lunch, that goes without saying. I should go downstairs to the cafeteria later and grab a sandwich.