Page 49 of Don't Let Him In

“I have to be honest,” she continues. “I had already thought about it. I’d been thinking of suggesting it. I’m glad you asked first, though, so I can feel at least a little bit cool about how much I like you.”

She laughs again and I lean in toward her so that my forehead is touching hers, and then I gather her hands into mine and I say, “There is no way on earth, Martha, that you like me more than I like you, because I like you so, so much. More than I have ever liked anyone in my life.”

She tips her head up so that her lips touch mine and I swear, I am not a sexual being, I really am not, but the charge that passes between us at that moment nearly explodes me in half from the inside out and it’s all I can do not to drag her up to our room, but I don’t because I have put down a £100 deposit on our six-course dinner.

She pulls away after a moment and I look at her through narrowed eyes. “This is going to be amazing,” I say. “You and me. The future. We are going to light up the world.”

“You think?”

“I don’t think. I know.”

FORTY-THREE

We get back to London on Monday morning. I drop Martha back at St. Pancras to catch her train down to Enderford. I’m delighted to see that she looks a little tearful as I wave to her through the passenger window, and I can’t help but watch her the entire way until she disappears from view. Maybe I was hoping she’d look back one last time, or maybe I just like the way she moves. Either way, I don’t move the car until a taxi behind me blares its horn at me, and then I drive slowly back to Tooting, park my car in the same quiet dead-end street, and walk back to Amanda’s apartment.

As I walk, I work on my posture, my demeanor. I try to bring myself down from the high I’ve been on for the past three days and nights, try to look like a sick man who has spent those three days and nights attached to some kind of vague laser-y thing in some kind of vague northern city-center hospital. By the time I put my key in the lock of Amanda’s door, I am probably an inch shorter, five years older. She looks up at me from where she sits on the sofa and rests her phone on the coffee table in front of her. She’s wearing a weird gray fleecy shawl over her clothes; it looks cheap, and I hate it.

“How are you?” she asks, getting to her feet. “I tried to call a couple of times, but it went straight to voicemail. Was it OK?”

I nod and sigh and sit heavily next to her. “It was OK,” I say ina feeble but stoic voice. “Kind of intense. Five hours at a time. No windows. No sunlight. No food or drink until after treatment. I’m kind of shattered, to be honest. I think, if it’s OK with you, I might just go straight to bed.”

“Oh my God, of course. Yes. I put fresh sheets on for you. It should all be lovely. I can bring you in a cup of tea, if you want?”

“No,” I say softly. “Thank you. And thank you, too, for being there for me, for getting the money, for doing all this. I am so incredibly grateful to you. I really am.”

She smiles tightly, clutches the ends of her horrible shawl inside her hands, and says, “You are welcome, Damian. Now go and get some rest.”

I smile wanly and head to her bedroom, where I lie down upon her crisp clean sheets, and I pull my phone out of my pocket. I want to look at the photos of my time with Martha in the Cotswolds. I should delete them, but I don’t want to. They’re so beautiful, so full of love, and joy, and hope. I zoom in onto Martha’s face, and then zoom in onto mine, and here I linger for a while and think how some men fade with age, some men rot like fruit, some men become florid, their features stop suiting them, their hair thins, their bodies shrink or bloat, but none of those things have happened to me. I have become better in every way.

I am about to delete the photos when I hear the doorbell ring and the slap-slap of Amanda shuffling to the hallway in her stockinged feet. And then I hear the sound of a voice at the door and it’s a voice that I have not heard for two weeks: it is the voice of my wife—Tara.

FORTY-FOUR

I jump to my feet and put my ear to the door. I can’t quite make out what’s being said at first, but then I catch Tara saying the name “Jonathan Truscott” and I start to panic. I can hear Amanda warbling; she sounds scared. I open the door a crack, just in time to see Tara push past Amanda and peer into the living room.

“I know he’s here,” she spits. “Jonathan!”

“I told you,” Amanda says. “I don’t know anyone called Jonathan. There’s nobody here of that name.”

“Look.”

I see Tara show her phone to Amanda.

“This is Jonathan. And this is the man I just watched walk into your home about fifteen minutes ago.”

I see Amanda’s shoulders crumple slightly. “I don’t understand,” she says. “That’s Damian. My husband.”

“Your husband? No. This man is Jonathan Truscott. He’s my husband.”

I know that this is the moment to make my appearance, and I know exactly what to do. I throw open the door and I say, “Amanda, get in the other room. I’ll deal with this.”

Tara looks at me in disgust. “Jesus Christ.”

I bark at Amanda again. “Get in the other room. Now.”

“No,” says Tara. “Stay.You need to see this. You need to see what this man who you think is your husband, but who is actuallymyhusband, was doing this weekend. Look!” She shows her phone to Amanda and I bundle Amanda physically into the living room, but not before I see a photo on Tara’s phone of me and Martha getting out of my car outside our boutique hotel on Friday.

Amanda stands in the living room with wide eyes, her chest heaving up and down, saying, “What the hell is going on? Is this that woman? Shall I call the police? Damian?”

---