‘It’s tiny,’ he retorted, prompting his brother to toss a pillow at his head.
‘OK, one minute.’ Charlotte dashed into the upstairs hallway, meeting Dom on the landing. ‘Spider,’ she mouthed, waggling her hands in suitably spidery fashion. He pulled a face and scurried into the master bedroom.
Opening the hallway cupboard that housed bed linen, spare towels and other sundries, Charlotte located a recent purchase: a bug-catching battery-operated device that sucked the little horrors into a tube for easy (and humane) disposal. Back in the boys’ room — and relieved to see Incy Wincy hadn’t vanished, otherwise Alastair would never sleep — she passed the sucker-upper to Robson with a wink. Grabbing him by the waist, she lifted him high enough to position it, push the button and … whoosh, it shot up the tube.
Charlotte tucked the boys in again and perched on the end of Alastair’s bed. His thick auburn hair, so similar to Dom’s, stuck up in spiky tufts. Robson’s, damp at the ends, framed his cheeky, freckled face. Her chest swelled with pride at her two clever, funny and affectionate boys. Whatever happened, she would always put them first. Not a tiger mum, but a lioness protecting her cubs.
‘Night night,’ she said, reaching over to switch off the bedside lamp.
‘Don’t let the bugs bite,’ said Robson, and she left the room to the sound of giggles.
Chapter 5
Ruth turned the card over again, then placed it back on the table.
‘Well, what do you think? Pretty damning, eh?’ Charlotte stirred two sugars into her double espresso. She rarely took sugar or drank strong coffee, but sleep had been as elusive as a pair of matching socks for the boys. By the time she’d knocked back her brandy, cleared up the kitchen and dragged herself upstairs, Dom was already in bed, reading the news on his iPad and grumbling about some politician or other.
Charlotte had washed her face, brushed her teeth, and contemplated fetching the card from her bag and tossing it in his face. But that wasn’t the way to handle it. Quite how she should handle it plagued her through the night, between sporadic bursts of sleep incorporating vivid dreams with stampeding horses, screaming babies and a faceless woman shrouded in a silver cape.
‘It doesn’t look good,’ Ruth agreed, ‘but there might be a plausible explanation.’
‘Like what?’ Charlotte eyed her friend sceptically. While Dom didn’t actively dislike Ruth, and vice versa, they couldn’t be described as close. Dom thought Ruth was flighty and didn’t hide his disapproval — at least from Charlotte — at her propensity for younger men. He’d even hinted when the two of them went on nights out together about his fear that Charlotte might snag a toy boy herself. Oh, the irony! She didn’t so much as flutter an eyelash at the men who flocked around Ruth, vying for her attention and plying her with drinks. OK, Charlotte was only human, and not averse to the odd compliment, but taking it any further? No, she would never cheat on Dom. But was he cheating on her?
‘Well, maybe they worked together on a project or something, and she was just saying thank you.’ Ruth shrugged, her expression sheepish. As explanations went, it was lamer than a one-legged donkey.
‘Right. So what’s with the “written in the stars” bit? Is this woman a part-time astronomer, or astrologer?’ Charlotte was never sure which was which; not that she had any interest in identifying star formations or reading hokey horoscopes. ‘And signing off with “big kisses” isn’t the usual way of addressing a colleague.’ Again, her rudimentary French had led her to Google Translate the expression. Technically, it meant ‘lots of love’, but still…
‘You don’t seem that upset, hon.’ Ruth drained her coffee and gazed at Charlotte. ‘Which either means you don’t really believe Dom is guilty of anything, or—’
‘Or what? That I’m not bothered if my husband is playing tonsil hockey with another woman?’ Charlotte hadn’t allowed herself to conjure up images of Dom and the French-speaking tart (her current title) getting beyond the basics. ‘I’m still in shock, Ruth. Short of finding a pair of size ten skimpy knickers in his pocket, I can’t imagine anything much more damning.’ It was true, however, that Charlotte didn’t feel a sense of boiling rage or an urge to weep uncontrollably. Until she got to the bottom of it, size ten or otherwise, she needed to remain cool, calm and collected.
‘Look, you have two choices,’ said Ruth. ‘One, tear up the card and forget all about it. You’ve never had reason to doubt Dom before, have you?’
Ruth had once confessed that she found Dom a bit boring, which hadn’t exactly been what Charlotte needed to hear two weeks before their wedding. Still, friends were supposed to be honest, and she’d put it down to too many margaritas and a teeny, tiny tinge of jealousy. They’d joked in the past about who would get married first. Ruth maintained she’d land a loaded octogenarian with an insatiable appetite for sex and a dodgy ticker, leaving the way clear for her to date men still wet behind the ears and maintain a luxurious lifestyle. Ten years on, Ruth remained resolutely single but comfortably off, thanks to her successful vintage clothes shop and a substantial inheritance from her grandmother.
‘No, I haven’t had reason to doubt him.’ Charlotte had cast her mind back over the years, searching for any forgotten clues that might show Dom had been playing away. She could only think of a couple of occasions. Once, he’d come home reeking of perfume, but it turned out the girl at the department store fragrance counter had gone overboard spraying testers as he shopped for a gift for Charlotte’s birthday.
The other time was when she’d heard him murmuring in French in the study, a few months ago. He’d blushed when Charlotte barged in, before showing her the language app on his phone. She hadn’t been entirely sure, though, why he felt the need to learn French. They’d holidayed in Provence when the boys were little, getting by with ‘Bonjour’, ‘Merci’ and ‘deux verres du vin rouge’; the latter upgraded to ‘une bouteille’ when the stress of two tired toddlers became too much. ‘So, what’s the other choice?’ Not that Charlotte needed to ask.
‘Confront him. Show him the card and ask him what it means. If he rubs his nose, he’s guilty as sin.’ Ruth believed in body language, convinced that every tugged earlobe, scratched head and sideways glance was a sign of something amiss.
Charlotte tugged her own earlobe, but only because the cheap pair of earrings she’d worn recently had left her with itchy patches. ‘I will. I just have to find the right moment.’ Preferably when the boys were out of the house, and she could catch Dom unawares while he unwound with a drink. She prayed that he wouldn’t scratch his nose or, even worse, launch into a tearful confession before packing his bags and heading off to Miss Big Bloody Kisses.
Ruth left a short while later, after Charlotte had promised to let her know how things went. Her parting words were: ‘If the bastard admits to anything, make sure you know where the loot’s stashed.’
Charlotte had always left the financial planning and major bill-paying to Dom, but she knew he kept a bulging folder in the filing cabinet, filled with details of all their investments, pensions and insurance policies. The thought of divorce, dividing up their assets, even having to sell the house made her blood turn to ice. And the boys — how would it affect them? She pictured their innocent little faces, crumpled in confusion as everything they knew to be safe collapsed like a poorly constructed Lego house.