He wasn’t Harry but I realized he could have been. If Harry had answered the phone while Emma was in the house, he would’ve spoken just like that man, in a low, deceitful voice, desperate not to be overheard, but desperate, too, to speak illicitly. Privately. I shuddered. This was the reality. There was little difference in the end, when you boiled it right down, between this tosser who was calling strange women and asking to meet up for sex, and Harry, the man I thought I’d loved. Both were liars and cheats and bastards.
I reached into my bag and brought out the whistle I’d bought. I blew it as loudly as I could, right next to the mouthpiece.
Probably not the answer he was expecting, but hey, you can’t always get what you want.
CHAPTER 39
Emma
It was the hesitation that did it. Who hesitates when they’re saying their own name? Harry was in the shower when she called; he was about to drive down to Birmingham for a meeting and I was working from home. When I returned to the phone and realized the caller was in such a hurry to end the call, my sixth sense was on high alert.
Harry came downstairs. “A woman called Jenny Leonard called you,” I said. “She’ll call back later.”
“Who?”
I repeated the name. “Don’t you know her?”
“Never heard of her,” he said easily. “What did she want?”
“No idea.”
He shrugged. “What are you up to today, honey?”
Now it was my turn to hesitate. “I’m not sure. This and that. Plenty of work to be getting on with.”
“Don’t work too hard,” he said, hugging me close. “There are two of you to think of now.”
* * *
• • •
The second he left the house, I withheld my phone number and called Harry’s office. I hadn’t called him on his office number for years; I’d always called him on his mobile when he was at work.
“Hello, Harry Sheridan’s office.” The woman on the phone sounded young and educated. Cheerful. My stomach tightened with nerves. What was I doing?
“Hello, could I speak to Mr. Sheridan, please?”
“I’m sorry, he’s out of the office today on business. Can I take a message for him?”
I thought fast. “Is that Ruby?”
“No, this is Sarah Armstrong.”
“Oh, I wondered if Ruby was around. I wanted to ask her something.” I had absolutely no idea what I would say to her; I just needed to hear her voice.
“Ruby no longer works here,” Sarah said. “I’m Mr. Sheridan’s PA now. Can I help?”
Interesting, I thought. He never told me that.
“No,” I said. “No thanks. I’ll call him tomorrow.”
She started to say something, but I ended the call and called Human Resources.
“Hello,” I said, then lied through my teeth. “I’m Susan Forrest and I’ve just interviewed Ruby Dean for a job. I forgot to ask her start and end dates with you. Could you let me have them, please?”
The man who answered the phone sounded very young. I knew most of the staff working at Sheridan’s and tried to remember what Harry had said about HR. And then I remembered there was an intern who’d started working there in June.
“She’s not on our records,” he said. “She was employed through an agency. I think it was Mersey Recruitment; that’s the agency we usually use. I’d have to ask Finance for the exact dates.” He hesitated. “I’m not meant to give out information like that over the phone.”
I had a strong suspicion that I’d get more out of this young man if he didn’t speak to anyone else first.
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” I said. “I can call Ruby later, but I know she’s driving at the moment. She’s on her way to London for a couple of days. I just wondered if you can remember when she actually left so that I can complete this form.”
“Oh, I can tell you that. She left on Friday, June twenty-first.”
“Okay, that’s great. Thanks.” I ended the call before he had time to realize he probably shouldn’t have told me anything, and sat at my desk thinking things over.
She’d left her job on the day that she left home. The day I’d discovered I was pregnant.
I don’t believe in coincidences.
CHAPTER 40
Ruby
That evening I thought I’d go crazy if I stayed in any longer. All I could think about was hearing Emma calling to Harry in their house. His wife, his home. That was his reality now. It always had been. I should have known that. I needed to do something before I had a drink to forget. I knew that wouldn’t work, either. I’d just dwell on it.
I looked out of the open window. The sun was setting and the air was still. I needed to get out. I pulled on my shorts and trainers and ran downstairs. On the floor by the front door was some junk mail and I picked it up to take it out to the recycling bin. I wasn’t expecting any mail; in fact, I didn’t think I’d get anything there at all, as nobody knew where I was living now and all of my bills were paid online. I riffled through the pile as I walked to the bin in the alley. Among the leaflets and flyers was an envelope with my name typed on it. There was no address or stamp; it must have been hand-delivered.
I opened the envelope, thinking the estate agent must have sent a receipt for the deposit I’d paid, though I couldn’t figure out why it had been hand-delivered. Inside the envelope was a card. I pulled it out and frowned.
It was postcard-sized. On one side was a photo. A photo of me. It was taken last summer in my garden at home; I recognized the red halter-neck dress I was wearing. I’d bought it one lunchtime last year for an awards evening for Tom’s work and I’d worn it for his birthday. We’d invited some people round and had a barbecue in the garden. I hadn’t seen this photo before, but I thought it was taken at that party. I was sitting on my own at a table in the garden, with a glass of white wine in my hand. I could see the bubbles in the wine and the glass was frosted with condensation. It looked as though I was midconversation with someone but I couldn’t see who. I was smiling and looked happy. Carefree. I couldn’t remember feeling like that at home, yet that smile looked genuine.
I was confused. I hadn’t realized anyone had taken a photo of me that day. Who had sent me this? I turned over the postcard and saw, written on the back of the card, a message, in a computer font that looked like handwriting. It said, Thinking of you.