Chapter 60
Sixty
Six Months Earlier
EMILY
I find the forum by accident, scrolling at half past one in the morning when Oliver is fast asleep beside me.
Oliver has always been a good sleeper. As soon as his head hits the pillow he’s off to the Land of Nod. More infuriatingly, he stays asleep, while I’ll often wake in the early hours, and then the cogs start turning, presenting me with every worry, and then some. Enough to keep me awake for hours.
My husband swears he’s sick of the lies, sick of pretending. ‘I’m tired of being someone I really don’t want to be any more, Em.’
He talks about fresh starts and clean slates . . . about building something real together. The thing that scares me more than anything is that I want so badly to believe him I might just make the wrong call.
I’d been feeding some questions into Google.
Can people really change?
How do you know if someone is telling the truth this time?
What if the version of him I love isn’t the real one at all?
I sat there with my phone in my hand, staring at the search results that mirror all my questions while my thoughts run in small, vicious circles. And then I see it.
The forum is private. Women only. The rules are strict, pinned at the top in firm, unambiguous language. No naming names. No vigilantism. No shaming victims.
I apply to join, telling a white lie that I’ve been a victim of romance scamming myself. I half expect to have to wait a good while to get accepted, but it comes through within a few minutes.
I scroll through real-life stories that start to blur into one another: the charm and the promises, the wining and dining and vows of a rosy future .
. . until disaster strikes and he just needs a loan.
A small one at first, which is usually paid off.
The money is usually siphoned away in growing increments amid pleading and more promises.
My heart starts to thump as I read on. Some posts are raw with anger, others brittle with shame. What strikes me most is how intelligent the women are.
Lawyers. Accountants. Teachers. Retired or widowed women who thought they were far too savvy to be fooled.
Heart-rending stories of decent people, some who have lost everything. To scammers. To people like me and Oliver.
Eventually, one post stops me cold. It is short and calm. Almost clinical.
I don’t fall for romance scammers any more. I identify them. Sometimes I test them.
And when I’m certain, I hand them over to the police. Revenge is definitely a dish best taken cold.
The username is V.L.
There are a number of replies in the thread. Admiration, scepticism, a few warnings that she is playing with fire. But it’s the original post that won’t let me go. It sparks a genius idea. The answer to my eternal question.
I message her before I can overthink it and get a cautious reply the following day.
I tell her only the broad strokes: my husband has a history of deception; he swears he’s changed and wants us to make a fresh start, maybe even start a family. I tell her I don’t know whether I believe him any more.
I don’t say I’ve been part of the scams.
V.L. asks smart questions—the right questions—and so we move to coffee a week later, somewhere neutral by the river. She arrives precisely on time, tall and composed in an expensive, understated way.
Her name is Vanessa Lambert.
We chat, and I find it easy to be open and honest with her. To a point. I stop well before I’m tempted to confess my own failings. Before I tell her it was me who started the scamming when Oliver and I first met.
‘You’re not here because you want revenge,’ she says eventually. ‘You’re here because you want certainty.’
I nod, and relief loosens something tight in my chest. ‘I love him. I want to believe him, and I want that honest, clean future more than anything. But I can’t move forward unless I know if I can fully trust him.’
‘And if you don’t like what you discover?’
I hesitate. ‘Then at least I’ll know.’
‘Be warned,’ she says. ‘If we go ahead with something like this, it might not end cleanly.’
‘I understand,’ I say. And I do. Or I think I do.
She reaches into her bag and takes out a slim folder, placing it on the table between us.
Inside are photographs. Floor plans. A summary sheet.
‘This is one of my properties,’ she says. ‘The Coach House. Orchard Lane. It’s coming up to rent.’
My breath catches despite myself. It’s beautiful—pale stone, ivy climbing the walls, light flooding the kitchen.
‘Why show me this?’ I ask.
‘Because temptation only works if it looks like opportunity,’ she says simply. ‘I’d rent it to you through an agent. It must be clean, with no paper trail between us.’
I stare at the pictures. ‘And then what?’
‘Then you become my neighbour first. I’m friendly and approachable. Very wealthy.’ A pause. ‘If your husband really has changed, nothing happens. He keeps his distance. You get your answer.’
‘And if he hasn’t?’
‘Then he won’t be able to help himself.’
The words settle heavily between us.
‘I don’t enjoy doing this, Emily,’ she adds quietly. ‘I don’t get a thrill from it. I do it because I’ve learned that men like this don’t reveal themselves under pressure, only when they think they are safe.’
I think of Oliver’s face when he promises me fresh starts. The way he is so persuasive. The way doubt creeps back in every time, no matter how much I want to silence it.
‘If he passes’—she smiles, faintly—‘then you get your happy ending.’
‘But if he fails,’ I say, ‘I have to walk away.’
Vanessa nods. ‘And that’s the rule you must hold yourself to.’
Later, when I tell Oliver about the house, he barely looks up from his phone at first.
‘I fancy moving somewhere like West Bridgford,’ I say lightly, scrolling through Rightmove. ‘A proper house this time. Somewhere we can buy or rent for a while. Somewhere we can stay.’
He puts down his phone and looks at me. ‘That’s more like it, Em. You’re starting to believe.’
That night, when he pulls me close and talks about those tempting new beginnings again, in a moment of madness, I almost tell him everything.
Almost.
Instead, I lie awake long after he’s asleep, staring into the dark and telling myself the same thing. Over and over.
If he’s changed, nothing bad will happen.
If he hasn’t, I deserve to know.
And somewhere deep down the thought of a quieter life takes hold. One that is bright and honest and belongs to three of us.
Finding out the truth of who he is? It’s worth the risk.
I have no idea how wrong I am.