Unfaithful: An unputdownable and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 9

  “It just needs a wash,” I say. “You know what it’s like. They put too much product in it. I’ll be right back.”

  I rinse it over the sink and it’s still very bad and very scary, so I grab my nail scissors and start to hack at it, hoping to transform it into some kind of cute pixie cut.

  “Oh, wow, Mom, what happened?” the children say later.

  “Nothing. You like it?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then. Can you set the table, Matti?”

  And that was my beauty day, and I couldn’t even get that right.

  I love how smart you are.

  I think about those words until my blood boils and I’m biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood. I think about them until my chest rises and falls with anger and my pulse races and my lips pucker and I’m breathing hard through my nose.

  I think about them, and then I get to work. I’d like to say what I’m about to do next is a spur of the moment thing, but that would be a lie. I’ve been thinking about doing it for days, maybe even ever since Alex died. Was I thinking about this when I locked the notebooks in my drawer instead of giving them to his parents? Yes. I’ve turned the idea over in my mind ever since, trying it on for size, weighing up the risks. But I haven’t done anything about it.

  I close my office door but don’t lock it because that would be weird and invite questions. I find myself muttering positive affirmations, which makes me sound like a mad woman, even to my own ears. It’s going to be fine. You deserve it. It’s better this way. Think of the university.

  I open the document on my computer and read it again. The Pentti-Stone Conjecture—A Simple Proof.

  It’s short, under twenty pages, and beautiful. Elegant in its simplicity and as perfect as a circle. Then I cup my hand over the mouse and select Alex’s name. I take a breath, my finger hovering over the delete button. I can still change my mind. There’s still time.

  I’m concerned that having you as co-author will lend your contribution more weight than is warranted.

  Then I think of Luis and I think about Isabelle, I think of Luis and Isabelle together, kissing, making love, and a ripple of anger travels through me, so savage it made my jaw lock.

  I love how smart you are.

  One small click, and just like that, Alex’s name is gone, leaving only mine.

  I may not be the most beautiful woman in the world and I may have a shitty haircut, but if my husband loves smart so much, he’s about to get an orgasm of volcanic proportions that’s guaranteed to blow his brains out.

  I load up the webpage of the Journal of Applied Number Theory submission form.

  How many authors does your article have?

  One. This paper has one author only. There. Not so hard, is it? I’m doing it. It’s happening. Stop thinking, Anna. I fill in the rest of the form, typing quickly so I won’t have time to think. Name, Email Address, Institution.

  Just wait until my colleagues hear that one of their own has solved the Pentti-Stone conjecture. I just hope I’m there to see Geoff’s face when he finds out. Our future will be assured. This will put us on the map. We will attract the brightest students in the country. All because of me.

  I wonder if he’ll ask Mila to take minutes.

  I have the cursor on the submit button, gripping the mouse so hard my knuckles turn white. This is it, now or never.

  “Anna, there you are. Did your friend find you?”

  My heart jumps into my throat. “June! Jesus, you scared me.”

  She laughs. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure you were in here. Your friend was looking for you.”

  I breathe in, my heart still thumping. “Okay, what friend?”

  She lifts her shoulders. “He didn’t say. I told him where your office was—maybe he thought you weren’t here. You don’t usually have your door closed.”

  “A student?”

  “No. He said he was a friend of yours. A young man with dark curly hair and nice green eyes. Doesn’t matter. I guess he didn’t find you.”

  Dark curly hair. Nice green eyes. “Was his name Ryan?”

  “Sorry, Anna, I didn’t ask.”

  She waits, like this is a concern for her too. Why would Ryan come here? And why on earth would he call himself my friend?

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. I’m kind of busy here, June, so…”

  “Oh, of course. I wanted to see if you were ready for your coffee. I made som—”

  “June, honestly, I’m in the middle of something here! I do not want a coffee, okay? You don’t have to bring me coffee and cookies every day, okay?”

  She blinks, reddens. “Well, sure. I meant well.” She leaves without looking at me, closes the door. I drop my head into my hands. Well, there’s a sign if I ever saw one. I don’t usually snap at and insult my friends, and yet I just did. What the hell am I doing? I sigh, open the browser again, ready to close the window and cancel the whole thing. It was a stupid idea anyway. What’s wrong with submitting it the way it was intended? With both authors? And showing Geoff Alex’s thesis, too? He’ll wonder why I took so long but I’ll say I wanted to put in the finishing touches, make sure it was truly ready. I’ll still be co-author on the paper, we’ll still gain a reputation of excellence. I’ll still be credited. Nothing’s changed.

  I actually feel relieved. I will go and see June immediately and apologize. Then I glance at the screen.

  Thank you for your submission. We will be in touch as soon as possible.

  I blink. It looks like I clicked the mouse anyway. Immediately, part of me wants to reach into the computer and snatch it back from the jaws of the internet. But another part of me whispers in a low voice: It’s done now, Anna. What you gonna do? Get in touch with this prestigious journal and say, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to send it because it’s not really mine?” Or are you going to stand up for yourself for once, and take what you deserve?

  I unlock my bottom drawer, retrieve Alex’s notebooks, shove them in my bag.

  I wish June hadn’t told me about this mysterious friend because instead of feeling triumph that I submitted the proof, I have a knot in my stomach. Why would Ryan come here? It probably wasn’t Ryan. Maybe June got it wrong and it was a student. Or a prospective student. Yes, that makes sense. Well, whoever it was they can come back later.

  Poor June. Her face just now, when I snapped at her... I’ll go and apologize immediately, then get on with the rest of my day. What will I do with Alex’s notebooks? Get rid of them, that goes without saying. I was going to find a dumpster for them, somewhere—it seems kind of fitting in a way—then I change my mind. I don’t want to take any risk. Instead I find a secure shredding service online and arrange to drop them off later.

  Then I pull out a hairbrush and get myself presentable for the staff meeting. It doesn’t really work. I still look like a porcupine.

  Fifteen

  At first I spent entire nights awake, my unblinking eyes staring into the dark, wishing I hadn’t done it. After all, I’d had so many other, better choices. I could have gone to Geoff with the notebooks and told him about Alex’s research. We could have published it in his memory. Maybe his family would have let us keep the prize money—they’re wealthy, they don’t need it. We could have started a scholarship in Alex’s name.

  But it’s too late now. That’s what I tell myself when I wake up in the dead of night. It’s too late now, I whisper, my heart hammering, Alex’s ghost hovering over my bed.

  It’s too late.

  I sleepwalk through my life waiting for some indistinct hammer to fall, for things to go wrong, for Luis to leave me. I picture the recipient of my submission at the journal reading my paper, then squinting with the look of someone who has heard of this solution before. Because what if Alex had already contacted them without telling me? That would make sense, right? That would be very much in character for Alex. Do I have an explanation for how this could happen? How could my student submit a work of geni
us, then die, then for the exact same work of genius to be submitted again, except this time authored by me? Do I have an explanation for that? No, Officer, I do not. Not readily.

  But as days turn into weeks and nothing happens, I begin to think maybe, just maybe, it’s going to be okay. Instead of dreading the call, I start to resent how long it’s taking before they approve the paper. I feel like I’ve crossed a threshold: I am already on the other side, drumming my fingers, waiting for everyone else to catch up. Then I worry that it’s taking too long, even though I know mathematical proofs can take months to be peer-reviewed and validated. But I also know this won’t be the case here because this proof—? Its beauty lies in its simplicity. It’s the kind of proof that someone might review and wonder why no one had thought of it before, because it’s just so obvious.

  But I don’t spend these long weeks of waiting idly. Instead, I devote them to the other part of my plan: to f. Turns out there’s no shortage of information on the internet about how to do exactly that, and I’m good at research. Over the next few weeks I become not someone else exactly, but someone better. More devoted, kinder, more patient. Happy. I make myself look deliriously happy every time he walks into a room. I ask him about his work, I laugh with delight at his success, I nuzzle his neck and tell him he’s handsome, I cook his favorite meals, I rub my nails lightly over his back when he looks stressed. I put candles out on the back deck after the children go to bed and invite him to watch the stars with me over a glass of wine; I buy sexy underwear and make love to him every night.

  And I watch him like a hawk, that goes without saying. I haven’t been able to access his texts again, but I pay close attention to his moods and take the occasional peek at his emails.

  I make notes of my progress. “I like this dress on you, it’s nice,” he said the other day, with a cheeky smile. Unprompted, he will bring me a glass of wine when I’m preparing dinner. He talks to me. And he listens. He’s become more attentive, more relaxed and flirty. I call all these things successes in their own right. I’m winning. I’m no longer a team player, I’m a winner.

  Then, this morning, five weeks after I submitted it, I receive the call from the journal to congratulate me. The solution has been reviewed and accepted and will be published next month. “Its publication will allow you to claim the Pentti-Stone prize from the Leo Forrester Foundation,” they added.

  It’s official, I have solved the Pentti-Stone conjecture.

  And just like that, everything changes. My doubts, my fears, vanish with that phone call. I don’t care if it’s Alex’s proof—it’s mine too. I put the phone down and stare at my hands, reminding myself that I came up with the final piece of the puzzle. I banish the voices in my head for good and after a few minutes of silence, I go to Geoff’s office with a grin on my face and butterflies in my stomach. June raises an eyebrow at me and I put one finger to my lips and wink at her. Then I walk in, close the door after me and lean against it.

  “You’ll never guess what happened,” I say. Then I tell him. He doesn’t believe me at first, understandably. Little old me, minute-taker-gofer-errand-loser with no ambition whatsoever suddenly solves a major math problem out of thin air.

  I pull out the chair opposite his desk. “They’re publishing it next month. I just got the call from the journal. Then an email from the Leo Forrester Foundation who want to come here, to the university I mean, and formally present the prize.”

  He looks at me sideways, squinting. “Is it the first of April today?”

  I smile. “Nope.”

  He picks up the phone and speaks to someone at the journal. He actually had to do that, assert that it was true, that I wasn’t just spinning it. Once he’s checked the facts he doesn’t speak for a long time, just stares at me.

  I was really expecting more, and I feel a stab of disappointment. “You’re happy?” I ask. “It’ll be good for the university.”

  “This is incredible.”

  “I know,” I say, relieved. I grin.

  “But you never said…”

  “I wanted to make sure. And then I didn’t get the professorship so, you know…” There. I’m a winner now, I get to indulge in these little digs.

  He sits back in his chair and plays with a pen, waves it in the air. He narrows his eyes at me. “Something isn’t right.”

  I wait, tilt my head, but his expression doesn’t change. It’s dark and suspicious and suddenly I know, and it’s like the entire edifice that is my new, winning life collapses around me. I screwed up. It’s over. I just did a very, very foolish thing, because I’m an idiot. He knows—of course he knows. How could I have been so stupid? He must know about Alex and the proof. Alex always swore I was the only one he ever told, he made me swear not to tell anyone, especially not Geoff. He convinced me he was paranoid about his work being stolen. I took him at his word and now it’s too late. I’ve made it official that I’m a thief and a fraud. I open my mouth to say something, formulate an apology, say there was a mistake and I always meant to submit it in his name when Geoff bursts out laughing.

  “What?” I ask, blinking.

  “We should be celebrating! There should be champagne!” He calls June and asks her to get everyone in here immediately, and to bring champagne and glasses. Yes, right now, he says. Yes, I know it’s not even lunchtime, he says. Then he gets up and comes round and gives me a big hug. Suddenly everyone is here and everyone is hugging me, even Mila, and everyone is poking and pulling at me and they want to know why I never said anything and how I did it and I’m laughing because they’re all talking over each other and if I’d known there’d be such a fuss I would have fixed my make-up. But I am so happy I could burst. I am happier than I’ve been in years, and this is just the beginning. And I tell them I’ll be right back and with my glass of champagne in my hand I return to my office and close the door and call Luis.

  I did it, I say. Did what? he asks, and I can hear a smile in his voice. I drop mine to a whisper, like this is too special to be said out loud. It’s a surprise, I say. But remember last year, all those nights I worked late, and this year, too? Of course he remembers. Well, I didn’t want to say anything, but I was working on an incredibly important project. I solved a major math problem. There’s going to be a prize. Half a million dollars, Luis! And it’s going to be published in the most prestigious journal in the country. Do you love me now? I almost add.

  Then June comes in holding her own glass and the bottle of champagne. “Come on, you. We’re all waiting for you.”

  “I have to go,” I say to Luis.

  “No, wait! This is wonderful news, Anna. I’m so proud of you, babe. You should have told me!”

  “I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want to jinx it.”

  “Well, I think you’re incredible.”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “Let’s go out and celebrate—you, me and the kids,” he says quickly. Then he drops his voice to a suggestive whisper. “Or maybe just you and me, what do you say?”

  I laugh. “No, bring the kids. I’d like that.”

  “I’ll make a reservation at the Confit d’Oie.”

  “Oh, yes! Do that! I’ve been dreaming of that place!”

  He laughs. June has refilled my glass and I tell Luis I really should go.

  “I love you, babe. I’m so proud of you,” he says, and my heart runneth over.

  June clinks her glass with mine and takes my arm as we walk back to Geoff’s office. “Congratulations, Anna. I don’t understand what any of this means, but I’m really happy for you.”

  “Oh, thank you, June.”

  Back in Geoff’s office, he immediately elbows June out of the way, puts one arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “Let’s get drunk after work, you and me. What do you say?”

  “I can’t—”

  “Oh, come on. Sure you can.”

  “Luis is taking me and the children out to celebrate.”

  “How lovely. Where is he taking you?” June as
ks.

  I move to extricate myself from Geoff’s grip. “We’re going to that new French restaurant over on Fulton Road.”

  “Oooh, very chic,” she says.

  “Yeah, very chick,” Geoff quips. “I was thinking the sports bar across the road. June, you want to join me? Since we’re not good enough anymore?”

  She rolls her eyes at me. “I don’t think so, Geoff.”

  “Another time, then. Meanwhile let’s have a toast. To Anna!”

  I leave at the end of the afternoon with a feeling of having reached the pinnacle of happiness. I savor every second as I walk out onto the street because I want to remember it all. I want to relive it any time I like. I want to be able to say, Remember the day I won the Pentti-Stone? It was in the fall and the tupelos had turned bright red and the air had that smell of wet leaves, remember?

  I’m laughing to myself as I swing my satchel back and forth like a child but, as I approach my car, my key already pointed at it, I freeze, the grin still plastered on my face, my hand suspended in mid-air, my finger poised over the unlock button. At first I think someone threw dirt on it. Then as I get closer I see it’s graffiti. But no. It’s not graffiti.

  Across the driver side, in big sharp letters, someone has scratched the word WHORE.

  I stand there, jaw slack, mouth open, my satchel banging against my legs, then slowly walk around the rest of the car looking for any more vandalism, but there’s none. Just that one word. I glance at the other cars on the street, walk up and down a few lengths, but the vandals picked mine, and mine only.

  “Anna?” I spin around. June is walking towards me, smiling. “Where’re you off to? Oh, wait, of course, you’re celebrating.”

  “I thought you left ages ago,” I say. “Didn’t you leave ages ago?”

  “I did, then I decided to do some shopping around here. Everything all right? You look worried.” Then her gaze leaves my face and her hand flies to her mouth. “Is this your car?”

  I had been trying to stand in front of the word so she wouldn’t see it. Now I turn with a sigh to inspect the damage. “Yes, it’s my car. I can’t believe this happened. I knew I should have parked in the parking lot.”