Alex plays football on a Tuesday night and won’t be home until half past seven, and Nathan arrives home at six. I have one hour until he walks in. I climb the stairs slowly, my limbs feel heavy and stiff. In our bathroom, I close the door and run a bath. There’s a twinge in my lower back when I bend to put the plug in. Age has crept up on me, inched its way into my bones and fibres, thinned my hair, and stolen the rosy hue from my skin. I turn the taps on: the hot on full and a trickle from the cold. I undress and climb in whilst it’s still running. The heat stings, but I force myself to lie back, inhaling against the burn as I submerge my body to the chin. I take the flannel and rub soap vigorously on to it then scrub every inch of my body, face, back of my neck, between my legs, around my breasts and throat. I rinse and scrub again. Soon my skin is tingling and pink. I rub soap on to my legs and shave from ankle to knee, under my arms and along my bikini line. When I’m done I place the razor back in the pot on the side of the bath and climb out and dry myself thoroughly.
At my dressing table, which is antique and ugly, with dark wood, carved detailing, and an array of tiny drawers with faceted glass knobs, I slowly remove my hairpins and drop them one by one into a shallow china dish. I unwind my bun and brush from root to tip in long sweeping strokes. My hair hangs to the middle of my back. It’s been this way since forever. I often fantasise about hacking it off, cutting away chunks of it until it’s short and boyish. Nathan would be devastated and the thought of his reaction gives me a thrill.
I apply concealer to the dark circles beneath my eyes and a blemish on my jawline. Then foundation, a lick of brown mascara, and a hint of soft pink blusher. Nothing too much. Nothing unnatural. I dress in his favourite cashmere sweater, the colour of sea-glass, and my mid-length taupe skirt. Navy ballet pumps. No tights. The string of pearls he gave me for Christmas three years ago. The last thing I do is position the black velvet Alice band he likes then smooth my hands over my hair to tame the flyaway strands. As I do, I hear the front door open and close. Perfect timing. I congratulate myself.
I wait, hands clasped in front of me, facing the bedroom door. I picture him placing his bag down, hanging up his coat, dropping his car keys into the bowl on the hall table. I listen as his footsteps move through to the kitchen. The tap goes on. I see him filling a glass and drinking. I hear the glass on the drainer as he upends it after rinsing. There is quiet as he dries his hands on the freshly washed tea towel I hung over the edge of the sink less than six hours ago.
Then his footsteps on the stairs.
Across the landing.
The door opens and I smile. ‘Hello, darling. How was your day?’
He kisses my cheek and walks into the room, undoing the knot of his tie. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Glad to be home though. You look lovely; a sight for sore eyes.’
Nathan has become better looking with age. He has a full head of dark hair speckled with only a handful of fine grey strands. His skin is clear and even and any wrinkles he has are delicate creases rather than deep furrows. His teeth are straight and, although he’d deny it, were whitened by a London dentist a few years ago. He is slim and attractive in a traditionally English way, with good posture, confidence incubated by his private education, and sharply tailored clothes. He has always dressed well. It was one of the first things I noticed when I met him, how clean he appeared, how crisp his shirt was, how neatly trimmed his nails were, and, of course, how soft his hands were compared to the weather-beaten skin I was familiar with. People describe him as handsome now. It’s not something we would have called him back then. In the old days. Back then he had an awkward manner and no swagger. Back then, in the old days, we liked boys with a swagger.
I unzip my skirt and step out of it, remove my sweater and lay it over the arm of the chair. I slip my Alice band off and rest it on the bedside table then unhook my bra and take my underwear off while he drapes his tie over the chair and unbuttons his collar. When I’m naked he lies me back on the bed. The sheets are soft and fresh, changed yesterday, a Monday job. He kisses me from head to toe. His lips linger softly, softly, and make my skin crawl. He moves between my legs. My thighs. My waist. His hand strokes rhythmically. I breathe slowly and focus on relaxing my body. I used to try and think of Cam, but it wasn’t enough to make it anywhere near enjoyable. I am one of those women for whom sex is a chore not a pleasure. But I’m good at pretending. I’ve had years of practice. I detach myself. Go through the motions. Arch my back. Ease my hips upwards. Moan. But not too loudly. Don’t want to be off-putting. He responds to my noises with greater urgency. I twitch and twist. Scrunch my fingers into his hair. Clench and unclench the muscles in my stomach and around my pelvis as I fake a climax.
Nathan moves away from me and smiles, drunk on the false knowledge he pleased me.
‘Thank you. That was lovely. I’ve been desperate for you to come home all day.’ As I recite my lines I stare at the shaft of evening light that strikes through the ceiling.
He smiles and leans over to kiss my forehead, before manoeuvring himself to sitting on the edge of the bed. He circles his arm and grips his shoulder, wincing slightly as he manipulates the joint. I get out of bed and dress in the green sweater and taupe skirt then sit back down at my dressing table. I reposition the Alice band then lick my finger and wipe beneath my eyelid to remove a smudge of mascara.
‘Supper at seven?’ he asks as he stands behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder.
‘Yes.’ I pat his hand and smile. ‘Shepherd’s pie tonight.’
‘Delicious.’ He squeezes my shoulder. ‘I love your shepherd’s pie.’
Chapter Four
Nathan
I knew from that first moment that you were the one. My sister was right: when you know, you know.
I was back in Cornwall. At Trevose. A holiday of sorts before I left for Paris. The noise and squabbling politics of the law firm were getting on top of me. Until you’ve worked in an environment like that you cannot understand how irritating other people are. My colleagues were vacuous and lacked discipline. They were inexplicably convinced of their own self-worth when all they really wanted to do was spend money on cocaine and strip clubs. I needed some space. Needed to escape London and breathe in some unpolluted air. So there I was, in the kitchen I grew up in, and out of the blue I was hit with an overwhelming urge for a crab sandwich. I recalled Newlyn had both a fishmonger and a bakery, and given it was only a short drive away, that’s where I headed. I’m not a godly man but, to this day, I believe a greater power was in charge of me, making decisions, leading me to you.
I parked near the Tolcarne Inn and walked down Creeping Lane towards the harbour with a vague recollection of where the bakery was. It was exactly where I remembered. Pleased with myself, I pushed open the door and the bell jingled lightly. As I walked in, you looked up and smiled. It was in that instant I knew.
It makes me cringe to recall how I stood there, mute, my mind blank, a shameful pink blush inching up from my collar to cover my cheeks. You were exquisite, long hair plaited loosely, blemish-free skin which glowed, a neat pixie nose, petite but well proportioned. You reminded me of a sun-kissed china doll.
‘Hi,’ you said.
One word. Like a note of music.
Hi.
Was I supposed to reply? Say hi? Or hello or good morning? I opened my mouth, but my tongue was tangled in humiliating knots.