Chapter 18 Letter
Having failed to get pregnant over the past year, I booked Stephen in for an MOT with a private health centre to check everything was in working order. He was deemed healthy with a strong sperm count. I repeat this to him often, in the hope that he will feel more manly.
The doctor suggested a medical intervention, but Stephen doesn’t believe in chemically induced arousal, so Viagra was off the table.
I tried it anyway, by putting some in his muesli.
He returned from work highly embarrassed, having been unable to rise from his chair at the end of a meeting.
I had no idea it worked so quickly, and that while it produces a physical effect, it doesn’t create the desire to go with it.
What’s the point of keeping the light on if no one’s at home?
Running out of options, I just thought, why not try nature’s own Viagra, so I hired Aimée, a twenty-four-year-old Frenchwoman, as our nanny.
I didn’t choose her for her personal charm, her ability to cook, or her nurturing nature – she has none of these – but because she is stunningly pretty, and very much Stephen’s type.
I hoped that the sight of a nubile young woman around the place would get his juices flowing, and testosterone levels would revive. But if it worked they’ve not been flowing in my direction and I haven’t seen him even glance in hers.
This evening, after Aimée has put the children to bed and grunted at me, Stephen is sitting in the kitchen and I’m feeding the dishwater its daily diet of plates and cutlery.
‘Police were around today,’ he says casually. ‘When you were out shopping.’
I scrape congealed carbonara into the organic waste bin and hold myself still for a moment. ‘The police?’
‘Yeah.’
He says no more. I wonder if that’s because it’s of no interest or if he’s gauging my response. I rinse the creamy remains from the plate and put it in the rack.
‘What did they want?’
‘They’re doing a house to house. Missing person.’
‘Anyone we might know?’ I turn, but he’s scrolling through his phone.
‘A man. They showed me a photo. Not anyone I’ve ever seen.’
‘Did they say who he was?’ I ask.
‘Jason Mercer,’ he says.
‘What did he look like?’
‘Mid-forties, close cut brown hair, mean-looking, green eyes. Said he was about six foot two.’
‘Could describe a million people,’ I say, although it’s an accurate description of the man I last saw staring up at me through thick plastic. My heart jumps and my skin tingles. ‘Why are they searching for him? Is he dangerous?’
‘They said not to approach him. He’s on the run for something and was last seen in this area.’
I feel my mouth go dry, but my head is both relieved and concerned.
He might be a criminal, which explains the break-in, but it’s not great to hear the police are already out searching for him and have Muswell Hill as his last known location.
I want to ask more, but Stephen turns to me, pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket, and says, ‘There’s something else. ’
‘What?’ I ask.
‘This was posted through the door today,’ he says. ‘Addressed to me.’
‘On a Sunday?’
‘Hand-delivered,’ he says, staring at my face now.
‘What is it?’ I say.
‘You’d better read it,’ he says.
With my pulse still racing from the revelation about Jason Mercer, I take the envelope. It is one of those you buy in packs of thirty from WHSmith’s and it’s warm from its proximity to Stephen’s armpit. I pull out a piece of ruled A4 paper and read eight short words:
Your wife isn’t who she says she is.
‘Came about an hour after the police were here.’
‘You don’t know who it’s from?’ I ask.
‘No idea.’
‘She didn’t sign it, then?’ I say.
‘Who?’
‘Your mother. There’s only one person I know who’d stoop so low as to try to drive a wedge between us.’
‘That’s absurd. My mother wouldn’t do a thing like that. What does it mean, anyway?’
‘Oh, don’t be so na?ve. She’s always questioning my background, isn’t she?’
‘That’s only because you never share anything about yourself.’
‘It doesn’t matter what I share; in her eyes, I’ll never be good enough for her little boy.’
‘She’s not going to send anonymous letters, Lalla. Anyway, she wouldn’t know what to do with a biro.’
‘That’s a fair point,’ I say, looking at the scrappy note. ‘But who else would do such an unpleasant thing?’
‘Sounds like a threat, doesn’t it?’ he says. ‘Whoever sent this thinks they know something about you that I don’t. What might that be, Lalla?’
‘Well, darling, if I was having an affair, which I’m not, I’d have good grounds, wouldn’t I?’
‘And what does that mean?’
‘You barely touch me any more, unless you’re drunk.’
He looks at me, guiltily, then looks down at his phone. ‘I’m under a lot of pressure.’
‘I know,’ I say and fill his wine glass. ‘When you make partner and we’re in our new home, you’ll feel so different.’
‘Not this again, please,’ he says. I put my hand on his leg. He stares at it like it’s unprofessional conduct. I don’t know quite why, given he’s being such a shit, but I want him now.
‘Let’s make love,’ I suggest, as it’s not escaped my notice that I’m at my most fertile this week.
‘What for?’
‘Do I need to spell it out?’ I say.
‘Let me do it for you,’ he says. ‘N. O.’
To-do list:
Go for long run
Prepare for Adams activity day
Lunchtime Pilates with Sophie
Research Jason Mercer
Bury body