Only by the time the clock read three, she still hadn’t arrived.
The next thing he knew after that, it was after seven, and the other side of the bed still lay empty.
* * *
Emma
I spent the night curled up in a Cakery armchair. Well. In the armchair, pacing the floor, opening and shutting the fridge door in a vain search for comfort food.
Once it was six o’clock, I gave up on pretending to sleep, freshening up as best I could using a sink and paper towels, then changing into a clean chef outfit without thinking too hard about wearing the same underwear two days running. After confirming that wire icing-nozzle brushes make a poor toothbrush substitute, I stuck on the coffee machine and collapsed into a chair.
Thank goodness it was Sunday so the shop was closed. If Nita spied me here, I’d tell her I wanted to get some admin done. Either that, or I was hiding from my husband, having just discovered that he was in love with my sister.
Cooper messaged me at seven:
Are you ok???
I thought of a dozen different responses, including turning my phone off and sticking it in one of the ovens, but if I wanted time and space to get my head straight I needed to put him off coming to look for me.
Yes, so sorry – ended up dozing off in the armchair!
He replied a couple of seconds later:
Ah yes. From what I remember it’s a perfect chair for napping. Coming home soon?
My fingers trembled as I typed out a reply:
Nita’s invited me in for breakfast. See you at church?
A much longer pause, that time:
Might give it a miss this week. Need to get back in gear for work tomorrow.
We signed off with brief pleasantries, and I embraced a wave of relief that I had a few more hours to think.
By think, I of course mean obsessively go over every interaction I’d had with Bridget about Cooper, or Cooper about Bridget, or both of them together, and then go over them all again while comparing them to every interaction between Cooper and me.
I went online and scrolled through the photos Ben had taken at our wedding, and in the weeks since, hunting for clues. But in the limited number of pictures containing both of them, the vast majority of which also included me, along with various other members of the family, I couldn’t find any.
Surely if it had been that obvious, one of my sisters – I mean, the loyal, morally upright sisters who loved me and had my best interests at heart – would have said something.
I stared at my phone, tears plopping into my coffee cup, heart feeling as though it were cracking in two.
Another message. To the SisterApp, this time. From Bridget:
Hey. I won’t be at church or lunch today. Short version is that me and P split up last night. I’ll share the long version when I’m ready. Please don’t tell Mamma yet, I’ve told her it’s my stomach again. I love you.
I put down my mug, bending over double as my conversation with Bridget the day before surged back into my head.
Once I’d stopped crying in Dad’s bedroom, I’d found her in the kitchen washing up, asking if she’d come into the study so we could avoid interruptions.
‘We need to talk about you and Cooper.’ I stood, leaning against Dad’s desk.
‘What?’ Bridget’s face capsized in on itself. Her hands gripped together so tightly her knuckles cracked.
‘Let me rephrase that.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Youneed to talk about it. Now.’
‘I can’t talk about it! That’s one of the worst parts. Well. Not the worst, but still totally horrible. If I say anything to you, I’ll lose you. So it’s this massive secret slithering inside my head like a python, squeezing my brain so hard I can’t think straight, and I can’t even look at you any more. Or talk to you about anything else. There’s nothing to talk about anyway. Outside of what’s in my head.’
