She almost confessed then. She longed to, in her head. But how did she start? The lie had made her too ashamed—she couldn’t bear for anyone else to know what she’d done, and she was afraid of what Izzy would think of her. She looked at Izzy’s face, open and kind, and forced a smile. “Really, there’s nothing.”
Izzy studied her carefully, then acknowledged she was being pushed away. She looked hurt. “Fine,” she said quietly, and in that word, Laura felt a door close between them. It was awkward then, and she heard herself making excuses.
“Suppose I should be getting back. Haven’t fed Moses yet.” She knew Izzy was aware she was just making stuff up. It was feeble and depressing, and she suddenly had to get out of there. Usually, when they said good-bye, they had something in the future to look forward to:“See you tomorrow.” “Meet you for lunch, Tuesday.” “I’ll give you a call about yoga.”This time, there was nothing.
“See you soon,” Laura eventually went for as she briefly kissed Isabella’s cheek and then walked down the path and looked for a cab. She hesitated before looking back, as she was unsure of what Izzy’s expression would be. Then, when she did, meaning to smile and reassure them both, she just caught sight of the front door as it was closed shut.
* * *
The house was cold when she got in, and dark. She switched on the heating and went to make herself some tea, but when she got the milk from the fridge, she saw a half bottle of wine and poured a glass of that instead. She knew drinking wasn’t going to help with her melancholy mood, but what the hell. She debated over whether to make anything to eat and then decided she would, for Howard too, as it was his first day back after a work conference. He hadn’t texted her to say he’d be late.
Having something to do made her feel a little better and sheswitched the radio on and started a Bolognese sauce. By the time she heard the elevator come up from the den, dinner was ready. She decided that instead of the dining room, they could eat in the kitchen tonight. It would make a change and would be good for them to sit somewhere different, somewhere old habits would not take hold. She was just setting the table as Howard walked in. He stopped when he saw what she was doing.
“Hi. Hungry?” she asked brightly, her hands full of spoons and forks.
He looked across at the stove.
“It’s spaghetti Bolognese.”
Howard nodded and went to wash his hands at the sink.
“Can I get you a drink?”
Howard tensed. “Will you stop?”
“Stop what?”
“This stupid pretense.”
Laura smiled, genuinely confused, which seemed to irritate him more. Then she noticed how cold he was, how angry.
“I never had you down as being so . . .”
“What?”
He hesitated. “Spiteful.”
She was startled to find how much he could still hurt her. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a letter, then put it on the breakfast bar. She looked at the envelope. It was addressed to Marianne Parker. She instinctively recoiled.His girlfriend’s letters? Why is he bringing them home?Then she looked closer, frowning. The handwriting . . .It’s mine.She slowly drew the envelope toward her.
“Open it. Although, of course, you already know what’s inside.”
She pulled out the notepaper—hernotepaper from her writing desk—and unfolded the letter.
Dear Marianne,
I’ve been wanting to write this for a while, but it’s never quite seemed the right moment. And then I realized there never was going to be a right moment. What was I waiting for? You to do the decentthing and get your bloodsucking proboscis out of my husband? I’m sick of being ignored, taken advantage of. You are a vile human being. You just take what you want without any thought to the effect it might have on others. And you do this with seemingly no conscience. I hope you’re punished for this, that the worst things happen to you and your family. I hope you suffer some horrible accident. It would be karma if it were disfiguring.
It would be justice.
There, I feel better now. Some things just have to be said.
Laura Cavendish.
She dropped the letter like it was corroding the skin on her fingertips. “I didn’t write this.”
Howard pulled a face.
“I promise, I didn’t.” But it looked like her handwriting. Then in a rush, she knew. Her mind grew stricken as she tried to work it out. How had Cherry done it? How did she know what her handwriting was like? How had she managed to forge it so well, and when had she gotten the notepaper? She saw Howard watching her.
