Milly passed through the coach, lifting water bottles to the mouths of the passengers. They gulped the liquid like they’d done a hike through the Sahara Desert.
The woman on her left thanked her.
Milly crouched. ‘I’m sorry you’re going through this. Lydia, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right. And you’re Milly?’
‘You got it. How are you bearing up?’
‘Apart from being held prisoner and Jack missing, fine.’ She smiled.
Milly offered a smile in return. ‘We’ll find Jack. You have to believe me, Lydia.’
The woman stared ahead like something was on her mind, a sudden distraction.
‘We were going on holiday in a couple of months. It was supposed to be a rekindle if you like. To make a lost connection. A patcher-upper. Things haven’t been good between us for a while. I know he’s not coming back.’
‘He is coming back. Don’t think like that,’ Milly said.
Lydia turned her head towards the young girl. ‘We did a bad thing.’
3
Lydia and Jack
‘I’ll be home late, hon, I have a meeting after work. You know how these things can drag?’
‘Really?’ Lydia pulled the blanket further up her body. She didn’t want to sound like she was nagging her husband. God knows, it seemed all they did lately was argue. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’
Jack turned, looking for his shirt. ‘Forgotten? What? What have I forgotten, Lydia?’
She turned away, pushing her head deeper into the bedding. He’d promised to take her for a meal later this evening.
Jack picked up his shirt. He waved it, hoping to shake out the creases along the back. ‘You don’t need to wait up.’
Lydia didn’t answer. She listened to the car pulling off the drive and closed her eyes.
She woke at just gone 10am, shuffled out of bed and jumped into the shower.
Lydia stood under the hot water. She and Jack had been married almost ten years. But lately, she’d had suspicions. He returned from work later and later. His phone pinged continuously. He brought flowers. Until now Jack had rarely brought her flowers.
Today, she had it all worked out. Enough was enough. Jack worked on Bond Street. He commuted daily from their four-bedroom semi-detached home in Surrey, and only brought the car when he had to visit clients. It was cheaper and much more affordable than living in London. They’d looked, but even a two-bedroom flat was out of the question.
But now, Jack had worked his way up, with an enviable wage packet and a desirable pension. His boss, Chloe, had often said she’d die without him. The company would never survive.
He had never introduced Lydia to Chloe. She’d checked her LinkedIn profile. Early fifties, the boss of a multimillion-pound company and as hot as fuck. She imagined Chloe waltzing through the office, short skirt, flaunting her bust. Jack was putty in her hands.
Lydia had no proof though, apart from the late nights, and the non-existent sex life. But today, she would find out for sure.
She turned off the shower and reached out, eyes closed, pawing for the towel. She stood on the mat, drying her body. As she moved along the landing to her bedroom and flicked on the lights, she noticed the power was off.
Click.
Click.
Nothing. ‘Damn this.’ She got her phone, unplugging it from the charger and dialled Jack’s number.
‘Hi. Is everything okay? I’m going into a meeting.’
‘The electrics. There’s been another power cut.’
‘Okay. Downstairs above the front door, you’ll find the consumer box. You’ll need to get the small stepladder from under the stairs and the furthest switch on the right, just flick it up.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it, Lydia. I have to go.’
‘Jack?’
The phone went dead.
Lydia sat at her desk. She looked out of her office window at the front of the house, seeing the row of homes with empty drives. She felt so alone. She didn’t have the confidence to speak with the neighbours. She envied Jack. He knew most of them and would often wave across the road when they’d go out together. That was seldom these days, and besides, Lydia preferred to be cooped up indoors. It meant she didn’t have to face anyone. It was almost 3pm, and an empty wine bottle sat on her left side next to the heavy brass clock. Another, already half-finished, flashed in her peripheral vision.
She fired off the email she’d been writing – the satisfaction when you’d completed another task and swoosh. The sound was welcoming – the end of her day.
They didn’t need the money, but working was a way for Lydia to keep sane. Yes, it was great at first, the opportunity to work from home, be her own boss. But the temptation to drink was always present. It started with a quick glass here and there. Then there were accusations fired towards her when Jack got home. She’d dismissed his comments, laughing them off. One glass led to two, then a bottle. Now, she’d easily polish off two bottles with a minimal hangover, still able to function, able to hide it from Jack.
An hour later, Lydia had started bottle number three.
Lydia stared at the fuzzy screen. She’d briefly nodded off. Now, the room was blurry. She blinked, focusing on a picture of her and Jack. A night out, a local restaurant, her arm held out with the bracelet Jack had brought her dangling from her wrist, capturing a selfie. Her husband wore a white jumper, his face cleanly shaven, hair forward, a wide grin. She hadn’t seen him smile for so long. His arm was placed around hers, holding her tight. God, they’d been so happy.
Lydia fought the thumping at the top of her head, the early signs that the three bottles of red wine had taken its toll. The power nap had diminished the buzz. Now she felt sloppy, fatigued.
Water. I need water. Lydia stood, making her way down the hall and into the kitchen, holding the wall either side for support. She took a glass from the cupboard above her head, filled it at the tap and gulped. Water spilt from her mouth, drenching her top. She refilled the glass, gulped again, then placed it on the draining board, upside down. That way, she could put it away later when it dried. It wasn’t officially dirty – no lipstick smudge or wine mark, so it wasn’t ready for the dishwasher.
She stood, contemplating. She knew she shouldn’t go out. Not in this state. But she’d had enough. Jack told her he had a meeting. He’d left for work in his expensive suit, fancy aftershave. She imagined boss lady clicking her fingers, her skirt pulled up high. I need to go over a few things. Sod your wife and her two bottles of wine. No, three. Don’t worry about her. I’m more important. You’re going places, Jack Hargreaves. Right to the top.
Lydia turned the lights off in the hall and slammed the front door.
She ordered a taxi which brought her to Woking station. When she’d reached London, she’d battled through the crowd of people, stepping onto the escalators, holding the black handrail tightly as it moved with her hand, waltzing through the aggressive barriers, opening and closing like the mouth of an alligator until she reached Oxford Street.
Lydia stood for a moment, composing herself. Floods of people steered around her, a torrent of unfamiliar faces with deep knotted brows, sighing and unwelcoming. She contemplated tackling the traffic by crossing the road.