Page 5 of The Stranger in Room Six
The office is in the centre of town. Maybe I’ll suggest that the two of us share the sandwiches in the park nearby. That will give me time to explain the silly prank call and let Gerald sort it all out.
‘I’ve brought my husband’s lunch in,’ I tell the receptionist when I arrive. She’s sitting rather casually with her legs crossed on one side of the desk, reading a magazine.
I don’t think I’ve seen this girl before. If I had, I’d have remembered her startling emerald green eyes which match her pointy shoes; the kind that make you wonder how anyone can walk in them.
‘I’m afraid Mr Wall has gone out.’
So that meeting he mentioned must be an external one.
‘What’s your name?’ I hear myself asking.
‘Penny.’
I feel a flash of relief that it’s not Karen, although of course it wouldn’t be, because there is no Karen. Is there?
‘Well, Penny, I’ll just sit in my husband’s office until he comes back.’
I head for the door with ‘G. Wall, Senior Partner’ on it and sit at the desk, trying to get my thoughts straight. But I can’t, not without talking to Gerald.
My eyes fall to the framed photograph on his desk: one I’d taken of Gerald and the girls last year, smiling on a boat in the Scilly Isles.
My heart thuds with guilt, thinking of how I’d tried to speak to Imran earlier this morning. What kind of hot bed might that have stirred up? Thank goodness he didn’t answer.
Next to the photograph is my husband’s diary. I turn to today’s date.11.15, he’s written. There’s no client name. No location.
He’d have left early to get there on time. Gerald’s always been punctual. It was one of the endearing habits that drew me to him – that sense of security – before it became irritating.
I sit for a while and then, unable to resist, I open his filing cabinet. I don’t know this Karen’s surname but just in case, I look under ‘K’. There’s nothing.
Even so, something niggles.
Then I turn my attention to Gerald’s desk, a handsome piece of oak furniture with brass handles. I open the top drawer. It has more files, each neatly organized. I flick through them. They appear to be clients’ accounts. The same goes for the other drawers, but as I close the bottom one, I notice an envelope sticking out from a folder.
It’s unsealed and its condition suggests it’s been opened several times. Inside is a photograph of a woman with long blonde hair who is, at a guess, in her thirties. She’s smiling at the camera and has a slight gap between her teeth.
Mouth dry, I turn it over.
With love, Karen x
4
My husband keeps another woman’s photograph hidden in his desk.
My skin goes cold. I want to be sick.
I shove it back into the drawer, as if that will make it disappear, but I can still feel the tarty blonde grinning back at me.
I sit there, rocking myself back and forth, numb with disbelief and confusion. So the caller this morning was right. Gerald was – is – having an affair. When had Gerald planned on telling me? What am I going to tell the girls? What is going to become of our family?
Then the anger kicks in. How dare he ruin our lives when I have been hanging on, putting up with our mutual irritation and lack of affection, determined to keep our marriage going for the sake of our children?
Eventually I compose myself, just enough to walk past the receptionist and give a little nod. I can’t say anything in case I burst into tears. I need to hold it together for now. I’ll go home and make shepherd’s pie with crispy potato on top, the way we all like it. I won’t mention the call. I won’t rock the boat, won’t make the same mistake my mother did when she’d discovered my father’s affair. I’ll turn a blind eye and hope that this transgression, for surely that’s what this is, will pass.
It might sound old-fashioned, but it will be better for everyone. I’m not allowing my children to grow up without a resident father like I had to.
In a daze, I make my way down the high street. But as I pass Marks & Spencer, I see Gerald walking towards me.
I find myself breaking into a run. ‘I know,’ I shout. ‘I know about Karen.’
