Cuckoo (aka Claire, Darling)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Back at home I stalk up and down the kitchen area like a restless caged animal. Sukhi has tried to call twice but I can’t speak to her, to anyone. My fists are clenched and my eyes keep involuntarily darting to my laptop, which I have turned off and stuffed beneath the sofa in an attempt to dampen my urge to scroll up and down Lilah’s Facebook page, endlessly comparing myself to her.

As though that’s even possible, with her perfect body and perfect personality and perfect life. Why did I go to that house? It’s only exacerbated my self-torturing imagination, setting a scene for this long-standing affair that I can see even more clearly in my head now. The front door where they stumble in together after a few too many drinks at the local gastropub, Lilah giggling as she trips and Noah catching her before she falls. The front of the house where she’ll pose for her Instagram photos before an event, Noah proudly leaning against his car to snap a picture. So many scenarios that before I could tell myself were just self-torture. Now there is at least an element of truth to them.

Despite my good intentions earlier, seeing the beautiful house Noah is living in has sent me spiralling down a hole of self-pity and I fish the rest of the bottle of white out of the fridge. I pour it lazily into the nearest receptacle but realise too late that I’ve poured it into Noah’s lettered mug. I stop drinking, shove the mug away and swig from the bottle instead– the mug was just slowing me down, anyway– but find it empty. I grab my keys and purse and head out to stock up. It’s going to be a long week. I’m just stepping into the corner shop when my phone vibrates. I hastily unlock it, but it’s only Sukhi.

In Clapham, fancy a drink?

I squint at the message, dithering. I look at the wine shelves with a new sense of longing, then back down at my phone. I think of Georgia, and with a sigh, I find myself replying, Sure. The Falcon?

See you in ten.

‘God, Claire, are you alright?’ Sukhi asks, wide-eyed. It’s only then I realise that while she is in post-work drinks attire, her blazer stripped off but smart-casual day-dress and brogue combo intact, I am still in a mucky tracksuit, which I can’t remember putting on. I’m not even sure if I have used deodorant. I pull a face at her in response.

‘Jesus, stay here, I’ll get you a drink… Do you want a Coke?’ she asks, her brows furrowing slightly.

‘Wine, please,’ I tell her, without looking up.

She ushers me into the seat beside hers before half-running up to the bar. I lean on the sticky pub table, wondering how long I need to be here before I can make an excuse and leave, go home to research more about Lilah.

Sukhi quickly returns, a small glass of white in one hand, a grimy glass of water in the other. ‘I figured if I can’t convince you to have a soft drink, I can at least try to keep you from being sick later,’ she tells me solemnly, pushing the glass of water in front of me. I don’t tell her how much I’ve already been drinking since I last saw her. Instead, I hold up the water to her gratefully and toast, ‘To cheating fucking liars!’

She grins at my swearing, then holds up her own glass of Coke. ‘Fuck toasting him. To friends ,’ she says pointedly, and the word lights me up from the inside out. Friend.

‘So, how have you been today?’ she asks, sipping her drink.

I frown, trying to work out how to share my feelings– and what I’ve done– without sounding like a psychopath. ‘A bit all over the place,’ I settle for, before draining the water and switching to the wine.

‘I mean, obviously. Who can blame you? I’d be a wreck,’ she tells me.

Sukhi gets me. Sukhi understands me. It’s okay for me to feel like crap, the love of my life has been living a secret double life. It’s okay for me to be wearing stinky old trackies out in public. If anyone deserves a breakdown, it’s me. ‘And I am a wreck,’ I confide, taking a slightly bigger gulp of wine before continuing. ‘I just keep thinking about that girl and comparing myself to her, you know? Like, why me? Why is he doing this to me?’

‘Oh, hun,’ Sukhi says, nodding along sympathetically. ‘You mustn’t think about the other woman, you’ll drive yourself into a dark place and make yourself feel so shit comparing yourself to other people. It’s not her that’s the issue anyway, it’s him. He’s the one who lied, who betrayed your trust.’

Betrayed my trust? ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that,’ I mumble into my glass.

‘It’s easy to get so caught up in thoughts about the other woman because you have no history with her. It’s easy to be angry at her. But the real betrayal is from your partner: he is the one you should be directing all your negativity towards,’ Sukhi says.

I’m frowning, drinking to avoid having to answer right away.

‘I know it hurts to think of him wronging you, but that’s what’s happened. He’s not been stolen away from you, he’s turned his back on you. Don’t get it twisted. And remember, it’s his loss.’

‘But why?’ I half-wail, my glass now drained. Sukhi’s glass of Coke is still nearly full, so I glance quickly at the bar and hope she doesn’t notice.

She does. ‘I don’t think you should drink any more today, Claire,’ she says gently.

I ignore her. ‘Why would he do this to me? I thought he loved me,’ I say, and my eyes are now openly streaming. Some guys must be staring because Sukhi glares over my shoulder and shouts, ‘Take a picture, why don’t you?’ and throws up a finger.

I hear a couple of jeers and then she rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to me. I refuse to look behind me, not wanting to see anyone drawing amusement from my pain. The cruelty of strangers feels too much to bear, on top of everything else.

‘Some guys are just shits,’ Sukhi tells me, and it takes me a moment to realise she’s speaking about Noah and not the guys behind me.

‘But Noah isn’t like that,’ I argue. ‘He’s perfect .’ I drop my head into my hands in dismay.

‘Nobody’s perfect, Claire.’

But he was. He is. He has cherished and protected me. He’s taught me how to believe that Mother, the school bullies… they were all wrong. That I matter, and my feelings matter. It’s the same way Sukhi makes me feel: safe and appreciated. I wonder if I would have been friends with her at school. I think, sadly, probably not.

‘Hairy Clairy, Hairy Clairy!’ Laura was singing in a stupid high-pitched whine, her rabble of mean girls flicking bits of torn paper at me as I walked down the school corridor, holding my backpack up as though it could shield me from their words. Their cruel cackles echoed in my ears. The paper might not have hit its target, but their viciousness did.

‘Do you have as much hair down below as you do on your arms, Hairy Clairy?’ one of Laura’s hounds asked, glancing quickly to her pack leader for approval. Laura smiled her crooked smirk, and the girl’s grin widened.

‘Nobody would know, she’s such a virgin,’ Laura replied with an exaggerated grimace, miming wiping tears from her eyes.

‘Little Hairy Virgin Clairy!’ one of the pack shrieked. At this new nickname, they burst into such loud laughter I felt like my eardrums might split. My face was burning hot and at this point I just wanted to get away, to escape it. So I said goodbye to any pride I had left, and ran. I tore down the hall and they chased after me, singing, ‘Little Hairy Virgin Clairy!’ until they couldn’t run anymore for laughing so hard. I managed to hold my tears in all the way home, but as soon as I was through the front door they came, streaming down my face, and I collapsed on the floor, clutching my backpack and sobbing.

‘Claire, darling, is that you?’ Mother warbled from her bedroom. I quickly patted my eyes dry, stood up and tried to straighten myself out, but she was already sticking her head round the door and peering at me with curiosity. ‘Are you crying, Claire?’ she asked. Her voice was gentle, and for a moment I thought I saw the side of her that so rarely came out, the kind and nurturing side.

‘What happened, sweetheart?’ she drawled, coming into the room properly and draping herself over an armchair, peering at me with her head tilted as though I was a fascinating TV drama she couldn’t look away from.

‘Nothing, Mother. Just some girls at school, it’s no big deal.’ I tried to brush it off, swung my bag back onto my shoulder so I could lock myself in my room and forget, but I could see the glint in her eye, the love of drama emanating from her as she leant towards me.

‘What girls? What did they say? Shall I go to school, talk to the head?’ she demanded loudly, embracing her role as the heroic mother, the pained guardian of a bullied young schoolgirl.

The thought of Mother at the school causing drama in front of Laura and her friends made me want to drown in a hole of shame. ‘No! Mother, no, please. It was nothing serious, just some teasing!’

‘Well, if it’s just some teasing, why are you so upset? What were they teasing you about?’

I stayed silent, staring at my shoes.

‘Claire, darling, what were they teasing you about?’ she repeated, but her voice had dropped lower, her pretence of being a worried mother gone. Her mask slipped and she reverted to her usual self, the one that expected to receive whatever she asked for.

‘They made up a song,’ I mumbled, knowing she wouldn’t drop this until I told her everything.

‘A song. A song about what?’ she asked, and I felt that she’d almost lost interest, eyes on her nails now, which she was now examining carefully.

‘They… they were calling me a hairy virgin,’ I admitted, the words like salt on my tongue. I was flushing so furiously I thought I might have a fever, sick with mortification.

I waited for a moment, too afraid to look up, and then Mother burst into peals of loud, heartless laughter, ringing in my ears as cruelly as Laura’s cackles had earlier.

By the time Sukhi drops me at my front door, I’m swaying. It takes me two tries before I get the key into the lock, and I give her a thumbs-up as I wobble through the doorway. She waves at me and the taxi pulls away, taking her back to her own un-messy life.

I stumble into the flat and any resolve I had earlier in the day cracks. I fish my laptop out from its pathetic hiding place, booting it up and heading straight for Noah’s page as my first port of call.

One new update. A new status, posted this afternoon.

Looking at growing the family…

My heart judders to a painful halt.

Beneath is a photo of a litter of puppies, and he has tagged Lilah. My vision goes hazy for a moment, the wine now tasting like acid on my tongue. Does he have no shame? What family ? I am his family. His family is me, here in this apartment that’s filled with memories and a year’s worth of commitment .

A second account is tagged and I click onto it. It appears to belong to a dog breeder, as it takes me through to a page called Rosie’s Rottweilers. I can see their most recent post was advertising the latest litter of pups– this must be the photo Noah shared– but note that they aren’t ready to go to new homes for months.

I roll my eyes, scrolling back up the page. ‘Months!’ I slur angrily at the screen. Rosie’s Rottweilers are premium breeders and trainers of pedigree Rottweiler guard dogs. Our dogs are trained by fully licensed security personnel from birth to be sound defence dogs for the family. We are particularly popular with celebrity clients and high-value clientele. Please email with any training or pup requirements. N.B. Prices start at ￡10,000.

I blink. Ten grand? Noah is spending ten grand on a dog? It’s not even a German Shepherd! Is this a joke? Why would he do this? There are so many dogs that need homes in rescue centres – why would anybody fork out that kind of money for a pet?

I close Facebook and head to Google, searching for Rosie’s Rottweilers. I find the official website and start reading up. It looks like these dogs are bred for people with a lot of money who need to feel safe or have their mansions and treasure troves protected. I shiver at an example video, which shows a huge bear-like dog they claim is only nine months old biting someone. On command, he closes his jaws around the man’s carefully padded arm. He shakes at it violently, ripping at the protective layer so forcefully that the man is sent stumbling forward, struggling to hold his position. Finally, the trainer calls the dog to stop, and it instantly releases its hold, saliva dripping from its jaws.

I wonder if they’ve been burgled recently.

I think of that lovely house, nestled on that fancy street, where my fiancé’s double life exists along with all the secrets he’s hiding.

I wonder what in that house it is worth paying ten grand to protect.