The Wife Page 12

  It’s been a day or two now since I installed the spyware app on Michael’s phone, and so far he has no idea it’s there. I need it to stay that way. Over the past few days there’s been nothing strange that’s caused me any concern, given me any reason to think something’s going on, not yet; but that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. That doesn’t mean he isn’t seeing someone, isn’t mentoring this student just a little too closely. So it’s staying there. Because I’m not letting this go. Not until I know what’s going on.

  There’ve been phone calls to fellow staff members, texts to a couple of his other students to arrange tutorials, but nothing suspicious, and no contact with this girl called Ava. No texts, no calls. Nothing. He hasn’t visited anywhere that’s made me think anything untoward is happening – he’s been to a different university building, which isn’t unusual; he went to football last night and the pub afterwards, and then he came home. Went straight to bed, left me downstairs watching some box set or other. We barely spoke this morning. I was up before him, ate breakfast alone, watched a bit of TV, caught up on the news, and by the time he came downstairs I was ready to leave for work. Now I’m checking that’s where he went, too. Did he go straight to work?

  I stare down at my phone at the very second an alert flashes up on the screen. He’s making a call. I feel my heart start to beat out another hard, heavy rhythm, because this app … it records any calls Michael makes from his phone. I can play them back, listen to them, all of them. But so far he hasn’t called her. Is he calling her now? Is he arranging another lunch? An innocent tutorial? An afternoon in a cheap hotel? I hate myself for the way my brain works now, for the shit it kicks up and makes me believe, but I do believe it. I believe he’s doing something, my husband. I believe he’s living another life outside of ours because ours is falling apart, and he can’t deal with that. Instead he’s just chosen to ignore it; to avoid the issue.

  It’s quickly become an obsession now, this desperate need I have to know my husband’s whereabouts. To see whom he talks to, whom he contacts. Every time my phone flags up an alert, every time I know he’s calling someone, I find myself burning up, my stomach contracting with nerves and apprehension. I feel sick. Anxious. Desperate to know his secret. This is what it’s come to, what I’ve become – the kind of woman who spies on her husband. But I think I have good reason. Just the thought that he could be speaking to her, right now, it turns my stomach. It makes me feel – angry? I don’t know if it’s anger I’m feeling. I think it’s more sadness. I’m sad that this is what our lives have become.

  Sitting back, I close my eyes and take a few long deep breaths as that knot in my stomach tightens once more, my fingers grasping my phone. I’m on edge, because I need to hear that conversation he’s just had. The tracker has him at work, but that means nothing. That doesn’t mean he’s making a work-related call.

  I look down at my phone, log onto the app, hold the phone to my ear as the recorded call plays out. He was calling Laurel. Something about a conference in London.

  I stop listening. Log out of the app. My shoulders sag, my breathing slows down, I have a few more minutes of respite, some short-lived relief before the paranoia and the anxiety kicks in again. Because it will kick in. It never goes away now, not really; it just lies dormant, waiting to unleash itself at any given moment.

  I glance out of the car window. The rain’s eased off, I can make a break for it; so I tuck my phone back into my bag, grab my laptop from the passenger seat and make a run for the salon’s back door.

  Once inside, I have a brief meeting with Tanya, the salon’s manager, before I make some coffee and head into my office. I spend a lot more time holed up in my offices at the salons now, way more than I used to. I used to be out on the salon floor at any opportunity. I had my own client list, people who would come only to me because they trusted me, not just with their hair but with their secrets, too. They could talk to me, about anything – family members they despised, friends they didn’t really care about and ones they cared too much for. I used to hear some eye-watering stuff; it’s surprising what people will tell their hair stylist, the trust they put in someone they only see once every few weeks. And I loved it, being out there amongst everyone, joining in with the gossip and the chatter. But now – now I prefer the solitude of my office. I like –I need – the privacy. I still go out there sometimes, as I have one or two regulars who refuse to let anyone else touch their hair, and I’d like to keep them. They’ve been good to me over the years, and their loyalty hasn’t gone unnoticed. When I couldn’t face coming into work after the miscarriage, they stuck by me. They waited. So I owe it to them to make the effort when they need me. But anything else, I leave that to my amazing team of stylists.

  I’ve just logged onto my spyware account on the laptop when a knock at the door interrupts me, and I quickly shut the lid as Tanya pokes her head inside.

  ‘Liam’s here, Ellie. You busy? I can tell him to come back later.’

  I shake my head, keeping the laptop lid closed. ‘No, it’s okay. Tell him he can come in.’

  I get up and come round to the front of my desk, leaning against it as Tanya goes back outside to fetch Liam.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, folding my arms as he closes the door behind him, a mug of coffee in one hand. ‘And will you stop getting my staff to make you coffee?’

  ‘I can’t help it if I’m irresistible.’ He smirks, but I’m not really in the mood for his humour today.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I repeat, hoping to get an answer this time.

  ‘I’m lecturing at the university. I told you, remember? At Rachel and Harry’s dinner party. I’ve got a series of guest lectures this week.’

  ‘I’ve had other things on my mind. It might surprise you to find out you’re not always at the forefront.’

  He takes a sip of coffee, ignoring my probably slightly unnecessary barbed comment, and I know his eyes are on me as I go over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the office. I can feel them boring into the back of my neck. ‘Anyway, I haven’t seen you since the dinner party.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been busy. You’ve seen Michael.’

  ‘Yes. I have.’

  I turn around, clutching the file I was looking for to my chest. ‘I assume you’ve just stopped by here to kill some time?’

  He puts down his mug and smiles slightly. ‘Guilty. Although, since I’m here, you couldn’t fit me in for a trim, could you?’

  I place the file down on my desk and walk over to him, running my fingers through his hair. ‘Hmm … this could do with some tidying up…’ I tug lightly at the hair at the back of his neck. ‘It’s grown a little out of shape. I’ll get Ola to sort you out. She hasn’t got anyone in until eleven thirty.’

  ‘Can’t you do it?’

  ‘I’m busy.’ I step away from him and sit back down.

  ‘Doing what?’ He folds his arms and leans back against the desk.

  ‘I’m just busy, Liam, okay?’

  He says nothing for a couple of beats, and then he leans right back, reaches out and flips open the laptop lid. And I’m not quick enough to close it before he sees what pops up on the screen, although I don’t think he quite realises what it is, not at first. But it’s piqued his interest enough for him to come back behind my desk for a closer look, which I try to discourage by attempting to minimize the image. But his hand covers mine before I get that chance, stopping me from doing anything.

  ‘What is that, Ellie?’

  I fling his hand off mine and try to shut the lid again, but again he stops me, grabbing my wrist this time, his fingers gripping me tight as he leans forward and looks at the screen.

  ‘Jesus Christ … you’re spying on him?’

  I manage to wrench my arm free of his grip, stand up and go over to the small window at the back of the office, folding my arms against myself as I look outside. The weather’s still dull and miserable, and those huge raindrops are back now, falling heavily fro
m a leaden sky, hitting the roof of my car with such force I’m afraid they might dent the bodywork.

  ‘He’s having an affair, Liam. I know he is.’

  Liam doesn’t say anything, he doesn’t respond, and when I turn back around he’s still staring at the laptop screen.

  ‘You’re recording his phone calls?’

  I nod, even though Liam isn’t looking at me. He’s still staring at the screen.

  ‘You’re tracking him?’

  ‘You’re stating the obvious now. You can see what I’m doing.’

  He turns around to face me. ‘You really think he’s having an affair?’

  ‘Yes. The signs are there, I just need some proof.’

  ‘And then what?’

  I drop my gaze, and close my eyes again. ‘I just need some proof, Liam.’

  ‘You know that shit’s illegal, don’t you? What you’re doing, the way you’re doing it … you’re not concerned about that?’

  ‘Are you?’

  He frowns, leans back against the desk, sliding his hands into his pockets. ‘This isn’t about me, Ellie.’

  I look up, I’m slightly angry now. He’s seriously going to stand there and lecture me? ‘I just need some proof.’

  ‘Why don’t you just follow him like normal suspicious wives do?’

  He doesn’t even hide the sarcasm, and I feel my hackles rise slightly as I push him away and slam down the laptop lid.

  ‘Come on. Let’s get you outside, let Ola sort your hair out.’

  ‘And what are you going to do, huh? Come back in here and listen to your husband’s phone calls?’

  I stare at him, right at him, I look deep into those steel-grey eyes of his. He has no right to question my actions. He probably knows exactly what my husband is up to. He could be hiding shit from me too. I can’t trust anyone now. But even if he did know anything, I don’t think he’d ever confront Michael about it. He has no reason to.

  ‘Look, forget sorting my hair out. Why don’t we go grab a coffee? I don’t have to be at the university for another hour…’

  ‘Like I said, Liam. I’m busy.’

  I’m dismissing him now, avoiding his gaze as I sit back down behind my desk and open the laptop lid. And he leaves me to it. He knows when to let things go, and I’m grateful for that. I’m really not in the mood for this conversation. Am I scared he’ll tell Michael what I’m doing? After all, he’s going to be seeing my husband later; he could quite easily let him know that I’m spying on him. But I know Liam. And I know he won’t say anything.

  Chapter 18

  The lunchtime rush at the restaurant is dying down a little now as people drift back to work or college or wherever it is they’re supposed to be this afternoon. I’m supposed to be at the spa, but I’m thinking of calling Carmen, telling her something’s come up; that I can’t make it for our planned meeting. It’s only to discuss the prospect of putting the spa out there as a possible wedding venue, nothing urgent. One of our clients, a County Durham-based wedding planner, mentioned the idea last week when she came in for a massage therapy session. She persuaded us to think about it, claiming to already have couples who would love to get married in the grounds of my newly opened business after a handful of brides-to-be had contacted her following recent visits to the spa. And I can understand why. The old building I’ve had renovated and transformed is set in acres of beautiful landscaped gardens, both front and back. I can completely see why people would want to get married there. And if the weather’s bad we also have a large, currently empty room at the back of the spa that has no real purpose yet, and rather than me using it as an extension of the café next door, maybe it would make more business sense to turn it into a fully fledged wedding venue. Fran, the wedding planner, was quite confident it would be a viable route to take, and I have been thinking about it. It just hasn’t been at the forefront of my mind, that’s all. It isn’t something we need to do right now. It can wait. There’s a lot more to think about anyway, before I even begin to put that plan into action; a lot more people to talk to, figures to look at. We’re really just at the putting-out-feelers stage at the moment, but as I stir my coffee I wonder if I should put Carmen in charge of getting the ball rolling. At the very least she can make a few calls. I don’t want Fran to think I’m not taking her idea seriously. I am. I’m not that blinkered by Michael and the prospect of our life falling apart that I’m willing to see my business fail, too.

  I glance around the almost empty restaurant. There are still one or two tables occupied, but we’ll all have to leave soon. They’ll need to close up, get ready for the early evening rush. So I finish my coffee, slide my bag up onto my shoulder and get up, pulling my phone from my pocket, dialling Carmen’s number as I walk out into the afternoon sunshine. I leave a lot of the responsibility for the spa’s day-to-day running on her shoulders, and I feel guilty about that, I really do. But she’s one of my best managers, one of my best friends, an absolute gem of a person. I trust her implicitly. She’s been with me since I opened my first salon in Newcastle all those years ago, and I can’t think of her not being a part of my team. That’s why I have to be careful not to take her for granted. But she understands that things have been difficult since – well, since everything. And she understands now when I tell her I have to miss our meeting.

  I start to walk up the steep bank that leads to the cathedral, feeling the early summer sun warm on the back of my exposed neck. I took a chance on the weather, leaving my jacket in the car, which in this part of the country can be a bit of a risk. We’ve been known to have four seasons in one day in this neck of the woods, but today we’ve struck lucky. The weather seems to be pretty much settled. The sky’s almost devoid of clouds; only a few tiny scattered ones have dared to break up the almost cobalt blue colour above me, and I slip my sunglasses down over my eyes as I turn a corner and start heading towards the cathedral. A beautifully imposing building set on a rocky headland, it looks down over the medieval city of Durham and the River Wear below. It’s another of my favourite places. I come here a lot, sometimes just to sit outside on the vast expanse of bright green lawn and people-watch. Sometimes I go inside, lose myself in the stunning surroundings, something that never fails to overwhelm me. I never cease to be in awe of this place, no matter how many times I visit. There’s a sense of calm that can take over the second you step inside, a peace – pure peace. I let nothing else invade my thoughts when I’m in there. The last time I went inside was just after I’d miscarried, when Michael started to drift away from me; and yet, at that time, I had no idea he’d continue to drift so far, seek solace with another woman. That I would become too much for him. That my questions, my need to talk, my constant reluctance to let the past go and move forward would become a barrier he refuses to break down.

  Today, I’m not going inside. I sit down on the lawn and hug my knees to my chest, watching as others file into the cathedral or wander around outside. It’s quite busy due to the sunshine. I’m not the only one sitting out here making the most of the weather; there’s everyone – pensioners enjoying a day out, coach trips full of tourists here to spend a bit of time in this beautiful city, students snatching some sun in between lectures. Students. Is she here? Ava? Even in my head I spit out her name, this woman who’s threatening everything I have.

  So far there’ve still been no calls between them, my husband and his distraction. No texts, no communication that I can see, and for a fleeting second I begin to wonder if my frequent visits to the restaurant are nothing more than a habit I now can’t find it in me to break. And I can’t break it; I can’t stop myself from going there, because the second I do they’ll turn up, I know it. The second I decide to stop going, stop enjoying my lonely lunches, they’ll arrive for one of their illicit ones. And I’ll miss it. I’ll miss my chance to gain that proof. Just because they haven’t spoken on the phone, just because the contact on that score has been zero, doesn’t mean contact isn’t happening. Maybe Michael has a burner phone, a
second phone he uses only for her. A phone he uses to set up his sordid meetings; a phone I’m unaware of. I find my skin prickling at the possibility; at my own naiveite.

  I bow my head briefly, closing my eyes, taking a long, deep breath. And when I open them I stare up at the cathedral and let a rare moment of calm flood through me. I breathe in slowly, and exhale even slower. I let my mind almost shut down, free itself of all the doubt and the pain.

  I remember the night I met Michael like it was yesterday. He’d just left university; I wasn’t long out of college. We’d both been at a housewarming party held by a mutual friend, a pretty civilised affair compared to some of the house parties I’d been to. It was all expensive wines, cocktails and Waitrose canapes, and I can’t help but smile slightly at the memory of my friend Isla and me commenting on how our own house parties had never consisted of anything more than sausage rolls, sparkling wine and lager – whatever we could cobble together on the tight budget we’d had to live on at the time.

  I remember Isla wandering off into the garden to talk to someone she’d had her eye on for a while, and that’s when I’d gone into the kitchen to top up my wine; when my hand had brushed against his as he’d reached for the same bottle. When I’d looked up and fell into those ice blue eyes, I was lost from that very second. This young, idealistic English lecturer had me in a heartbeat, but I was still wary. The constant memory of my father made me take a step back from any kind of relationship that veered too far from friendship; and besides, I had no idea if a man like him would want someone like me. Could he see the damage? Could he sense how wary I was?

  But he took no steps back. He talked to me. He asked questions, seemed genuinely interested in who I was, what I was in the process of doing – opening my first hair salon. It was about to happen. Everything was about to happen, my life was about to start, the night I met Michael.

  We sat on the stairs for most of the night, drinking wine and talking. We never really saw much of the party. He made me laugh. He made me feel calm and happy. He was different. He was the one who changed every misconception I had about men. About relationships. He changed it all.