Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 7

  “Sure.”

  I motion for him to follow me out until we’re safely out of earshot. I stop, put my hand out. “Do you have your phone with you?”

  He cocks his head and gives me a small smile. “My phone?”

  “You know…” We’re alone but I check my surroundings anyway. Then I lean closer. “You took a photo of me last night,” I whisper. My stomach churns just saying the words.

  “I did.”

  “I need you to delete it please.”

  He lifts his chin and stares at me for a moment. “And what if I don’t?”

  My heart races. “You have to. I never gave you permission.” As if that ever meant anything to anyone.

  “Maybe I like to look at it.” He winks. “Maybe I—”

  But I’m very close to him now, so angry that my nostrils are flaring. “You’d better delete that photo right now. I wasn’t kidding when I said I never gave you permission. There are laws. I’ll have you arrested or fired or whatever it takes.”

  He raises both hands in surrender. “Okay! Wow! Hold your horses there, lady! I was just kidding!”

  “And I can’t take a joke, so give me your phone.”

  He turns around and walks back in the direction of the admin office. For a moment I think he’s just left me there, abandoned the conversation. My heart is pounding as I try to figure out what my next move is. But as I get to the door, I see him rummaging through a backpack on a chair by his desk. He pulls out his phone, taps the screen and walks back to where I am standing. I am so relieved it makes my legs wobble.

  “Ryan?”

  He turns around. A woman standing at the photocopier makes a face. “It’s stuck, can you take a look?”

  “Sure, give me a sec.”

  When he returns he holds up the screen to show me. “Done.”

  I narrow my eyes at him and reach for the phone. He hands it over. I flick through the camera roll. The last few pictures are of a dog in a park, a golden retriever with a red bandanna tied loosely around its neck. I scroll down quickly, my hands shaking. There’s a blur of people, an older couple in a restaurant, him with his arm around a woman, a red-haired girl, both of them grinning, more pictures of the dog, sun setting in a park that looks vaguely familiar. Him—Ryan—with his arm around an older man’s shoulders. A family resemblance. His dad, I suspect. After I’ve scrolled all the way up to the beginning, photos dated from over a year ago, I hand it back to him.

  “Thank you.”

  He smirks. “You want to catch up for a coffee sometime?”

  “No.” I turn around to walk away.

  “Anna?”

  I stop, spin around. “How do you know my name?”

  He gives an exaggerated eyeball roll. “Jeez, paranoid much? You told me.”

  He sneers at me, like a cocky teenager. Did I really almost have sex with this man? What on earth was I thinking? I have a family. I have children, for Christ’s sake. I blame Luis. Luis who can’t keep his penis in his pants. Luis who lied to me about where he was at the time I needed him most. Luis who suddenly drinks out of tall-stemmed wine glasses and eats olives stuffed with yak cheese off handmade pottery.

  Ryan puts his hand on my arm but I shrug it off while pretending to pull the strap of my bag farther up my shoulder.

  “You don’t need to be embarrassed. About last night,” he says.

  “I’m not,” I blurt. I feel myself blush crimson. I’m not embarrassed, I am humiliated.

  There are more people around now, students, staff, professors, and I wish he would shut up. My eyes dart around like ball bearings in a pinball machine, frantically checking to see if anyone is listening. “Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

  “If you say so. Want to be friends? I’d like to be friends.”

  “Sorry. I really don’t have time for that.” Then I add, “But if you mention… anything about last night, I’ll deny it.”

  I march out and this time he doesn’t call out to me or try to stop me. I can still feel his hand on my skin. Like a burn.

  I have a class that morning. Calculus. First years. I teach it on autopilot, distracted by everything going on in my life. Alex, Geoff, Ryan. Luis. When it’s over I walk out and run into Geoff. Again. I’m beginning to wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. Maybe he prefers to have all our conversations in corridors.

  “What happened to you last night? I went looking for you everywhere. I thought we could share a cab home.”

  I almost blurt that I left early, claim a headache, then remember my handbag hanging on the back of the chair.

  “Yes, sorry, I got sidetracked in conversation.”

  “Yeah, I saw that. That guy, right?” He smiles. “You two seemed to have a lot to talk about. Then you both disappeared!”

  I feel a blush creep up my neck. “Right. Anyway, Geoff, I really have to go.”

  “Sure, sure. You have time for a chat after work?”

  “Why?”

  “No particular reason. I just want to see how you are. I imagine Alex’s death must have hit you pretty hard.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t.” I am already walking away when he speaks again.

  “Okay, next time then. I’m worried about you!” he shouts to my receding back.

  Twelve

  One week later, and I barely think about Alex anymore. It’s a terrible thing to say, I know that. And when I do think of him, it is with anger. It’s the thought that he used me just so he wouldn’t have to write the paper himself that makes my chest vibrate. His death? I don’t know. Maybe it hasn’t really sunk in. Maybe it never will.

  At this point, all I think about is Luis. Like I’m stuck on a loop. Luis and me, Luis and I, Luis and some other woman. The idea that Luis is having an affair—by now I have convinced myself of this fact—is obsessing me. Whenever he’s out of the house I rummage through his things, his pockets, the drawer of the small desk that is unofficially his in the corner of the living room. The family computer that also is unofficially his and on which he keeps his email account. Carla came up with the password to that computer, and it’s scribbled on a Post-It note sticky-taped to the bottom of the screen: chez-les-sanchez.

  I trawl through his emails, fingers in my mouth, other hand on the mouse, scrolling, reading, scrolling, reading, until my eyes bleed. Nothing. Nothing unusual in his appointment book either, not even a squiggle or a code word that I can detect among Luis’s organized, neat, everything-spelt-out entries. I pore over his cellphone bills, looking for a repeated number, an unusual one. I call the ones I don’t recognize—Hello, is this the aquarium?—but they’re all legitimate numbers: art supplies stores, 3-D printing, packing and transport; Perry Cube Gallery, recycling plants. Although it’s not to say he didn’t meet her at one of those places, obviously.

  One day I surprise him at the studio for lunch. Salt and pepper calamari with creamy horseradish, his favorite. I don’t find him in flagrante delicto, which I take as evidence that it’s all in my head. He seems pleased to see me, so that’s even better. We eat lunch on the couch in front of the giant nest. And he serves it on those pretty plates.

  “Where did you get those?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Can’t remember. Probably for one of the open studio shows.”

  And really, the more I try to catch him out, the more innocent he seems, the more I tell myself I’m being paranoid. It’s my imagination getting the better of me, and a thousand other clichés. I convince myself that the whole Alex thing got me rattled and that I’m not thinking straight. But then the suspicious voice inside me pipes up: You know he didn’t get takeout from the deli that night. He lied to you.

  And every time I think of that lie my blood boils all over again. I spend hours awake at night thinking of all the things I do for my family, and that I do them with joy and gratitude. I clean, I cook, I send the kids to private schools plus ballet and drama and coding camp for Carla and soccer and fencing for Mateo, date nights with my husband once a month—did we go l
ast month? I can’t remember—sex once a week at least. And yet, somehow, it’s never enough. I’m never enough.

  June has brought me coffee in a real cup and saucer, and a plate of cookies. She has done this every day this week bar one. The other day I finally asked, “What have I done to deserve this?”

  “That day, when the associate dean shouted at me, you were very kind. I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “Oh, really? Well, if that’s the case, I’m thrilled he snapped at you. I hope he snaps at you lots more,” I said, which made her guffaw.

  “So, how’re you feeling this morning?” she asks now.

  “I’m okay, June, thank you.” I bite off the edge of a cookie. “Ginger?”

  She nods, gives me a small satisfied smile. “With cinnamon.”

  “Wow, they’re amazing,” I mumble, mouth full, catching a stray crumb trying to escape.

  She laughs. “You said that yesterday. And the day before.”

  “What can I say, you outdo yourself every day, June, and every day I love you a little more for it.”

  She claps happily. “Great! And it’s a new recipe I wanted to try.”

  I nod, shoveling the rest of the cookie in my mouth. “It’s a keeper.”

  “Fabulous! Well, I’d better get back to it.” She’s at the door when she stops, turns and says, “Alex’s parents. His father, I mean. He called. I’m sorry, but he wants us to Fedex anything of Alex’s that is still here. Would you… is it all right for you to bring me anything you might have?”

  My skin prickles. “What things?” I ask.

  “Any personal papers, I guess. Did he have some textbooks, maybe? In his drawer?”

  She starts to walk towards it and I spring upright. “I’ll do it,” I blurt.

  She stops, startled. “Only if you want to, otherwise I can.”

  “Thank you, June, that’s very thoughtful. But it’s fine. I’d like to. And, anyway, there isn’t much.”

  “Whatever you have. I’ll send it off this morning.”

  “Of course. Give me a minute. I’ll bring them out.”

  She walks out and I go to his little desk and sit down. It’s an old wooden desk that someone from resources found god knows where, in some dark basement by the looks of it, and had brought up. We’re so broke now, we can’t even afford new desks. I run my hand along the top of it and bits of dust stick to my palm.

  I open the first drawer and lift out two textbooks. I shake out the pages, but nothing falls out. I riffle through an almost empty drawer and gather the tidbits, junk mostly, he left behind: a biro, an eraser, a ruler and a hole puncher, of all things. I put them in a large envelope and put that on top of the textbooks. In the other drawer I find a notebook filled with squiggles and dark drawings and daggers dripping with blood over names that make no sense to me. I shove it in the trash can. I can’t see there’s anything there to bring joy to anyone.

  I’m actually relieved but I don’t know why exactly. I don’t know what I thought I might find. But whatever it was, it’s not there. Then I go to my own desk, and unlock the bottom drawer. That’s where we kept his special notebooks, the ones I was supposed to bring along the day he died, but forgot. I stare at them. Nine large black spiral notebooks. They were his favorite type, he said. He liked the paper. He wouldn’t use anything else.

  I rest them on my lap, run my fingers along their edges. I open one at random. The proof. The only copy. I hesitate, glance at the door to make sure no one is watching, then slip them back in the drawer and lock them up again. I don’t know why I do that. Maybe because his parents won’t know or appreciate what they contain, and I need to think carefully about what to do with them.

  I give June the pile.

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. You look tired. Can you go home early?”

  “Actually, I have to go home early. Big day today—it’s Luis’s opening night at Perry Cube.”

  “Oh, good luck with it. I hope it goes well.”

  “Thank you, June. I sure hope so, he has been working so hard.”

  I am reapplying my lipstick in front of the mirror in the living room. Propped on the mantelpiece is the invitation for tonight’s opening. One side displays a detail of The Nest, the largest work in the exhibition. On the other is the time and date and the usual blurb.

  You are invited to the opening of Without Us—An Exhibition by Luis Sanchez at Perry Cube Gallery.

  Luis has been at the gallery all day but he’s returned to get changed. He comes downstairs now, dressed in black jeans and a black shirt and a gray tie. “You look very handsome,” I say, straightening his tie.

  “Thanks, babe. I’m nervous as hell. Look how sweaty my palms are.” He shows them to me before rubbing them on his thighs.

  “They’re going to love you,” I say.

  “You think?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I’ve finally started to believe I really was paranoid, that there was a simple explanation for why he wasn’t at the studio that night. But since I never mentioned I was there, I just haven’t been able to bring it up. And now it’s well and truly too late, too weird, and it would display my lack of trust. “You’re so jealous sometimes, Anna. Why can’t you trust me?” he’d say, like he has said every other time.

  He puts his arms around me and hugs me close, but not the way I would have liked. I want his hug to be, like, let-me-rip-those-clothes-off-your-sexy-body; instead, I get a soft pat-pat-on-the-back before he pulls away. I stand there, one hand on my hip.

  “Notice anything?”

  He takes a moment. I sweep one arm over my body to show my outfit. He laughs. “Yes! You look beautiful.”

  I’m wearing wide pants and high heels and a yellow puff-sleeve shirt. I bought the outfit at Beachwood Place yesterday. I spent hours in there, choosing the right look. Now I catch sight of our reflection in the mirror and there’s no doubt we still make a beautiful couple after all these years.

  Carla stomps down the stairs and stops in her tracks at the sight of us. “Wow, you guys spruce up nice. Where you off to?”

  For a moment I think she’s forgotten this is her father’s big night, and I’m about to tell her off but then I catch the grin on her face.

  “Ha ha,” I say. “Very funny.”

  She holds out a small package wrapped in pretty crêpe paper. “There you go, Dad. I just wanted to say congratulations. I love you.” Luis takes the present and she puts her arms around his neck and briefly rests her head on his shoulder and I think to myself, There’s no way he’s having an affair. He wouldn’t jeopardize his family. He loves us too much. Carla pulls away while he unwraps his present. “I’d say break a leg, Dad, but you don’t have to because I know you’re going to knock ’em dead.”

  He’s holding a beautiful book bound in leather, adorned with colorful birds. He opens it and caresses its thick, cream-colored blank pages. A luxurious sketching book.

  “It’s beautiful. Thank you, sweetheart.” He kisses the top of her head. “Maybe not dead, if that’s okay. I need them to live long enough to write glowing reviews. Maybe even buy a piece or two.”

  She nods. “Not dead then, just their socks off.”

  I reach out to her and wrap my arms around her. “Has Matti finished his homework?”

  “He’s doing it now,” she says.

  “And don’t let him play Xbox tonight please, okay?”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “And don’t go to bed too late. Both of you.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “And I love you.”

  “Yes, mother.”

  “Okay, go away.”

  She giggles, quickly disentangles herself from me, plants a kiss on my cheek and runs back up the stairs.

  I’m so happy tonight. For Luis, and for me. It’s the kind of thing I live for, this feeling that we are joined at the hip, meeting the world together, showing it what we’re capable of. Tonight feels like we�
��re about to embark on a great journey together. Luis’s first major exhibition at one of the most prestigious private art galleries in the country, and me by his side.

  But then, as Isabelle, the pretty, millennial-type curator, keeps bringing people over to Luis who absolutely have to meet you, Luis and Perry, the gallery owner, a small, bald man with thick-rimmed glasses, gives a speech that tells of the exceptionally beautiful works that have become Luis Sanchez’s signature, never failing to bring to our attention the urgent issues we confront today, something shifts in my world.

  At first, it’s not even a shift, more like a hairline crack quietly creeping up in my line of vision. Maybe it’s because red dots begin to appear next to every artwork, too quickly to keep count. It dawns on me just how many people are here, and who they are: not just art buyers, but serious collectors. They represent institutions and private collections and they have traveled from all over the country to admire—and acquire—Luis’s art works. This has never happened before, and I experience something so unexpected that it takes me a while to recognize it: fear.

  Of being left behind.

  I used to think that the reason I held the family together was because I was indispensable. I work, I pay the bills, I support my husband in his career. Not for the first time, it occurs to me that my own prospects of success have passed me by. Suddenly, I am just an ordinary math teacher and Luis has chiseled his way into a bigger future while I wasn’t paying attention. Could that be because I work long hours in a small, airless office then come home and put on a load of laundry? I make lunches for the kids to take to school and keep everyone to a regimented schedule of ballet lessons and soccer practice. And now, Luis has met his destiny and he doesn’t need me anymore. My husband doesn’t. need. me. anymore.

  If only I’d been better at forging a career, become someone he could be proud to be seen with in public. Suddenly I feel like I never reached my potential, and now it’s too late. That I am a disappointment to everyone. Don’t be silly, says absolutely no one, especially not my mother.