Skeletons (8 page)

‘God, I’m so sorry. That must be rough.’

‘I’m trying to decide what to do.’

Sean looked confused. ‘Do?’

‘I can’t just let it happen.’

Sean held up his hand. ‘Oh no, no, no, no, no.’

Jen couldn’t help it, she smiled. ‘If you don’t think I should do anything, just say so, really –’

‘Rule number one, don’t put yourself in the middle of other people’s relationships.’

‘Rule number one of what exactly?’

‘No idea. But it makes sense.’

‘You think I should just stand back and let it happen?’

Sean shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know, but do you want to risk it all coming out into the open? Have your mother-in-law find out?’

‘No. God …’

‘Maybe he’s having a midlife crisis –’

Jen interrupted. ‘He’s seventy-three.’

‘OK, well, an old-life crisis, then. What I mean is, awful as it must be, perhaps it’ll burn itself out, he’ll realize he’s made a big mistake.’

‘It just doesn’t seem right, that’s all.’

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Judy on her way back from lunch. Heels click-clicking on the shabby-chic wooden floor.

‘Anyway, never mind. Forget I said anything.’

She was grateful that Sean noticed Judy, took the hint.
She busied herself with the computer, printing off his receipt.

‘Leaving us already?’ Judy said as she got to the desk, her coat half off.

‘Too much of a good thing,’ Sean said.

Jen swiped his card. She didn’t know what she had been thinking about, really, confiding in a near stranger.

Sunday lunchtime came round again all too quickly. This was always the case, obviously, but this particular weekend Jen barely even noticed Saturday whizz by, so preoccupied was she with hoping the next day would never arrive.

They were heading over to Twickenham. Only this time she wasn’t looking forward to a cosy family lunch; she was dreading seeing her in-laws. It felt as if there would be a whole subtext present that hadn’t been there before. She
couldn’t deny that she was curious to know if Charles was acting any differently around Amelia – furtively, like a man with a secret – but, at the same time, she didn’t think she could bear to see it, if he was.

There had been Christmas shopping, she could remember that much. Stupidly they’d gone to Westfield – thinking it would still be reasonably quiet, as it wasn’t yet November. Of course it had been packed with shoppers, the lights and
tree already in situ, a red-suited Father Christmas ringing a bell and ho, ho, hoing all over the place.

They had braved M&S and bought a cashmere-mix sweater for Amelia, and a similar one for Elaine. The rest of the afternoon was spent trailing around, deciding not to go into various shops because they looked too crowded, and – for Jen, anyway
– slowly losing the will to live.

‘How about a pashmina?’ Jason would offer up a random suggestion every now and then.

‘For who?’

‘For
whom
?’ he’d said with a smirk, because he knew it would wind her up.

She hadn’t felt like playing. ‘Who for?’

‘I don’t know. Any of them.’

Jen had a list in her pocket with the names of all Jason’s uncles, aunts and cousins they had to find something for, as well as the rest of the family. ‘None of them want a pashmina/a foot spa/a bathrobe,’ she would say huffily
in response to whatever generic item he had suggested. Jason had never been a great present buyer in Jen’s eyes. Not for want of enthusiasm. ‘We need to find something more personal.’

‘For all twenty-two of them?’ Jason had said, dragging his feet like a sulky toddler.

Jen loved Christmas – she always had. Every year she spent December in an excited state of anticipation, planning and scheming, hiding presents at the back of cupboards, stockpiling treats. What she couldn’t bear, though, was Christmas in
October – even Christmas in September, in some stores. In fact, hadn’t Harrods opened its festive department at the end of August last year? She was sure she could remember seeing Santa sweating in a surprise late-summer heatwave. Red-faced and angry, necking back cans of Diet
Coke.

There had been no joy in wrestling through the sweaty, frantic throng. There hadn’t even been a restaurant or cafe they could retreat to that didn’t have queues halfway out of the door, apart from the champagne bar – and that was out
of the question, obviously, although tempting. Afternoon glasses of champagne didn’t fit into their tight Christmas budget. Plus, to Jen, it had felt flat without the girls. They had both tried to get excited, but it was all show and she had
realized pretty swiftly that they were only doing so in an effort to make the other one happy. She’d wondered, briefly, if this was how it was going to be from now on. The two of them tiptoeing around, trying to pretend that everything was the same as it had always been. A lifelong
game of make-believe. It was too depressing to contemplate.

Eventually, they’d decided to cut their losses and give up early. Jen had ended up spending the evening shopping on the internet, even though that really had no fun attached to it at all. Ordering a beautiful gift felt no different from
ordering groceries.

She woke up on Sunday morning with a sinking feeling. She pulled the covers over her head and tried to go back to sleep, but it was hopeless. As soon as her mind was distracted by something, she knew she might as well get up, because no amount of
lying there would make her drift off again. She looked at the clock on the bedside table. Seven fifteen. Great. So much for a lovely lazy weekend lie-in. She knew that Jason wouldn’t thank her for being disturbed this early, even if she brought him a cup of tea. She crept out of bed
and across the bedroom, feeling for the door handle in the dark.

She sat at the kitchen table, nursing a mug, willing the day to be over. She couldn’t even think about lunchtime. Couldn’t imagine sitting through the meal watching Charles acting as though this was any normal day. Although she
supposed it was, for him.

‘Did I tell you Dad asked us to pick up a bottle of wine on our way?’

She jumped as she realized Jason was standing right there behind her. She hadn’t heard him get up, had no idea how long she had been sitting there staring off into space. She felt momentarily panicked. She hadn’t told Jason she had
met up with Charles earlier in the week. She hadn’t felt she could mention it without giving away the fact that everything wasn’t quite as it should be. Without blushing, or tripping over her words, or – God forbid – spilling out her suspicions and shattering his world. She hated
secrets, and this was why. What if Charles had said something? Would Jason think it was odd that it had apparently slipped her mind? Be non-committal, she thought. Don’t give yourself away.

She looked across at him. ‘When did you speak to your dad?’ she asked, trying not to sound too interested.

‘Yesterday. He just called to check we were still coming.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right.’

‘Are you OK? You look a bit …’

She seized on that thought like a heroin addict finding contraband in a methadone clinic. ‘Actually, I feel awful. Migraine. I’ve been sick a couple of times.’

Jason was all concern. ‘That’s what you get for feigning an illness to skive off work,’ he said, putting a cool hand on her forehead. ‘It’s payback.’

Jen nodded in what she hoped was a pitiful way. ‘I think maybe I should go back to bed for a bit.’

‘I’ll call Dad and tell him we can’t come.’

‘No, you go.’ Jen already knew that neither Poppy nor Jessie could make it to Twickenham that weekend. She
hated to think of Amelia up to her ears in roast beef and gravy, with only her
faithless husband for company. ‘They’re expecting us, it’s not fair to let them down.’

‘If you’re sure you’ll be OK. I’ll make it a quick one.’

She was relieved. She didn’t think she could keep up the pretence for the next few hours with Jason worriedly watching over her. By the time he got back, she could claim to be on the mend. It could be the fastest migraine in history.

‘What do you think Cass is short for?’ Jen said casually to Neil, at work the next day. She was foolishly hoping he wouldn’t quiz her on why she was asking. Just shootin’ the breeze, wondering idly about the derivation of
certain names, no reason.

‘Cassie? Or Cassandra, probably. Or Casper, if it’s a bloke.’

‘Cassandra. That would be good. It’s unusual.’

‘Who are we talking about?’

‘No one.’

‘Oh, right. How about Cassiopeia? Cassidy?’

‘Mmm, maybe.’

‘Cassius? Caspian?’

‘It doesn’t matter, really.’

It was strange with Neil, he could sit there in silence all day but, once you gave him a topic, set him off on a path, it was sometimes hard to get him to stop. She couldn’t really tell him it was only the girls’ names she was
interested in, because then he would ask her why. She would have to suffer him burbling on for a while. Now he seemed to be googling the answer. She inhaled deeply.

‘Cascada? Cascata? Cassia? Cassta? God, there’s all sorts on here.’

Jen couldn’t think how to get him on to another track.

‘What’s your wife’s name, Neil?’ she said, in a fit of
inspiration. ‘In all these years, I don’t think you’ve ever told me.’

‘I must have.’

‘No. Pretty sure you haven’t.’

‘Well, that’s –’ he said, and then mercifully the phone rang. Neil sprang into professional mode. ‘Hello. Reception. How can I help you, Mrs Richardson?’

Jen busied herself double-checking that the rooms that had been vacated that morning were clean and ready for reoccupation. She was desperate to be alone to think.

‘I’ve agreed a late checkout for Mrs Richardson tomorrow. One o’clock,’ Neil said, when he eventually got off the phone.

This was another habit of Neil’s. He would invariably spell out all the details of any interaction he had with the guests – regardless of whether you were standing right there, listening to every word of his conversation, or not. For him
this passed as repartee. Jen had clearly heard him say, ‘So, just to confirm, you’re fine to stay in the room till one tomorrow, Mrs Richardson,’ about ten seconds before.

‘Fine.’

‘Because we have a couple checking into a standard double who aren’t going to get here till the evening. I double-checked.’

Jen knew this too. She had heard him tell Mrs Richardson the exact same thing, after he had gone through the future bookings on the computer.

‘Right,’ she said, and tried to look as if she was absorbed in what she was doing.

It was either famine or feast with Neil.

‘What were we talking about?’ he asked.

Jen acted like she didn’t remember. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Nothing important. I’m just going over the housekeeping report, actually.’

She tried googling both Cass and Cassandra – the most likely of all the names Neil had offered up in her opinion – Richards while she was at work, when Neil was on his break, but people kept coming over and it was a strict rule at the hotel that
no personal business be conducted on the computers at reception. When one of the new junior staff she was meant to be training looked over her shoulder and asked her what she was doing, she knew she had to give it up.

‘I’m just checking no one’s been using the computer for anything other than hotel business,’ she said, somewhat unconvincingly, exiting the page as quickly as she could. ‘I like to go through the history every once
in a while, just to be sure.’

The junior looked taken aback. ‘That sounds a bit draconian.’

‘Hotel policy. I don’t make the rules.’

Truthfully, Jen had no idea what she was intending to do once – if – she tracked Cass Richards down. She just wanted to do something, anything, because she felt so powerless. It was out of the question that she was going to ignore what she had
seen and let Charles destroy the family – she knew that much. She thought, maybe, if she could find out a bit about Cass, then that might help her decide on her next move. Maybe she could get in touch with her, and tell her Charles had a loving wife
and adoring family that he was risking by being with her. Maybe, even though she was having an affair with a married man, she would have some sense of decency under there somewhere and do the right thing. She knew that wouldn’t solve the bigger problem of
Charles, of whether this was who he really was – a man who cheated on his oblivious loved ones – but it would at least remove the immediate threat. That was what Jen was telling herself, anyway.

There was no harm in finding out who Cass was. It would satisfy her curiosity to a certain extent. And then she could decide what to do with that information, if anything, later on.

She didn’t want to use the computer at home, because it felt both wrong and foolish to leave something on the history that her unsuspecting husband might stumble across one day – like those people who secretly get off on eating a whole
packet of Jaffa Cakes in one sitting, but then hate themselves for it, so they leave the wrapping right there on top of all the rubbish in the bin, subconsciously hoping their partner will find it. So, at lunchtime, she took herself off to an internet cafe on Charing Cross Road, bought a
coffee and a sandwich, paid for forty-five minutes’ access, and settled down.

The cafe had the air of a sixth form common room. Handwritten notices adorned every spare inch of the walls, advertising rooms to let or help with computer skills. There was a distinct aroma of unwashed clothes in the place. The funk of forty
thousand rucksacks. Her coffee tasted of dishwasher soap.

There were various people called Cass or Cassandra
Richards on Facebook and Twitter but they were too old, too young or on the wrong side of the world. There were several who had no details, not even a
photograph on show. There were a couple of others whose pictures may have been Cass when she was younger, but it was almost impossible to tell. Jen kept going. There were Cassandra Richardses working in Woking and Hull, but one gave horse-riding lessons and the other worked in the refuse
department of the local council, and neither of those seemed right. Although what she had to base that feeling on, she didn’t know. There was one who lived in Coventry. Jen racked her brain. Had there been any clues when they’d met?

She couldn’t remember Cass having had a Midlands accent, but she had barely said a whole sentence and, even if she didn’t, that didn’t mean anything. You could be brought up in London and then move to Coventry. You could go off
and become an officer in the refuse department at Hull City Council, for that matter.

She had already used up twenty-eight of her forty-five minutes. She needed a strategy. Concentric circles, she decided. She would start by checking out all the Cassandra Richardses in London and then, if none of them came through, widen out the
search from there. One-sixth of the country’s population lived in the capital. Good odds.

She rushed through the list, discarding as many as she could on the grounds of age, nationality, anything. She was left with three that seemed to merit further investigation. She pored over any details she could find about the first – listed as a
systems analyst in Barking. She
wrote down the number of her office. She would decide what to do with it later. The second had a Facebook page that Jen was denied access to. She was a member of a sailing club in Westminster, and had taken part in
their annual race. On their website there was a picture of her with a trophy. A smiling, pretty, athletic-looking black woman who had come in second place. Jen scored her name off the list.

The third seemed to be very gregarious. She had a Facebook page, a Twitter account (Jen scrolled back – no mention of meeting up with her lover at his office recently – in fact, most of her tweets were pictures of her two dogs) and a blog where
she wrote about baking. On the blog she mentioned her husband and three children. Jen didn’t even want to think about what Cass might be doing to her own family, as well as the Mastersons. She also talked about her weight and her futile attempts to exercise and resist the call of
home-made scones. ‘Scales still hitting sixteen stone four!’ Jen read on one recent entry.

Next.

So, after all that, she was left with the systems analyst in Barking and a phone number. It could be her, it was possible. It just hardly felt inspiring, that was all. There were probably countless more Cassandra Richardses she had missed. Or she
may have disregarded the right one for the wrong reason. Or Cass might live in Wales or Cornwall. Or she might be called Cassiopeia. Or she might have absolutely no presence on the internet, although Jen wasn’t sure that was possible these days. She started to pack up her things. She
would call the Barking number
and see what she could find out. After that, who knew? Maybe this was someone’s way of trying to tell her she should leave well alone. Not that Jen believed in that stuff – fate and karma and spirit guides – that
was much more Jessie’s arena. At this point, though, she was prepared to accept anything.

There were a couple of minutes left on the clock, but she didn’t have the heart to start a whole new search. She was about to close down the screen when she thought maybe she should hit ‘images’ for the hell of it. She clicked
on it and, just like that, there she was. ‘Cassandra Richards’ brought up a picture – several times, actually – dotted among various other Cassandra Richardses, some of whom Jen recognized already from her trawl.

It was her, there was no doubt about it.

Jen clicked on one of the pictures and then gasped as she saw the text beneath it. It was a spread from a regional magazine. One of those pages of photographs from some kind of social gathering, a charity event or the opening of a new bar. Jen
had never understood them. Who was looking at them? How crucial was it to anyone to see what the people from their local car dealership wore to a party? Cassandra stood next to a man, both smiling at the camera, glasses of champagne in their hands. ‘Cassandra Richards, Senior Property
Agent at Masterson Property in Brighton, and Andrew Burford from the London Head Office’ the caption declared.

The girl who was working behind the counter came over to tell Jen that her time was up.

‘Two more minutes,’ she said, waving the girl away. ‘I’ll pay.’

She tried to take it in. Cass was a senior member of staff at Masterson Property. Charles’s company. Of course, that made sense, in a way. He had to have met her somewhere. But it also made it far
more complicated. Even if they ended their relationship, they were still going to see each other. There were no guarantees.

Jen scanned the page again, looking for a date. It was right there in the top left-hand corner: 9 May 2011. More than two years ago. Cass was already working for Charles two years ago.

She was going to be late back to work. She printed off the page, paid for her extra time, and left.

Jen raged the whole afternoon, swinging between anger and confusion about what it all might mean. Had Charles been seeing Cass all that time? Did that mean it was serious? More than just – she used ‘just’ in the loosest possible
sense, meaning it only comparatively – a fling. Of course, they might have worked together for years and their relationship had only turned into something else more recently. She hated not knowing.

A wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what Charles had turned out to be. A snake in the grass. She often found herself thinking in idioms when she was stressed. Better late than never. He who laughs last laughs longest. It takes two to
tango. Her mind would throw one out for every occasion. She usually had the sense to keep them there, to not let them out of her mouth.

She was crashing pots and pans around the kitchen, trying to take her frustration out on the dishwasher, when Jason appeared and unravelled himself from his
scarf and jacket. He always arrived home from
work a mess after his bike ride, but today, because it was raining, he looked like a rather mangy otter, freshly dragged from the river. Jen tried to ignore the lake that was forming around his feet.

‘What’s up with you?’

She gave him a hug to hopefully demonstrate to him that he wasn’t the cause of her mood, and to give herself a moment to think. Now they were both dripping. She could have gone straight from her kitchen and won a wet T-shirt competition. If
what they were judging you on was how wet you could get your T-shirt, and nothing else, that was.

‘David. He’s trying to change all the rotas. He thinks it’s not fair that some of us always get to do the most popular shifts.’

In reality, it was Jen who had the final say on the shifts each receptionist worked. David had never been anything other than sympathetic about the fact that Jen wanted her hours to fit around her family. Even now she had no children at home, he
was still happy to let her cherry-pick. She made a mental note to be extra nice to him, to make up for her slander.

‘He’ll never do it. He won’t have the guts.’

‘Well, he’d better not,’ Jen said, getting into her role.

It was frightening how easy she was finding it to lie to Jason. Alarming how readily she could justify to herself that she was doing it for the right reasons. Jason would be devastated if he learned the truth about his father. He idolized him. As
did the rest of the family, for that matter. If she had to tell a few white lies to protect them, was that so
bad? At least until she found out for certain exactly what it was Charles was guilty of. A petty, impulsive crime of passion or a
premeditated, cold-hearted, calculated felony.