Chapter 52 Unfaithful
With term now ended and Aimée about to depart back to France, I’m looking ahead to trying to manage Christmas preparations and fulltime childcare while investigating Stephen’s potential infidelity.
This requires multitasking, which is why I’m clicking away at an Excel spreadsheet as Cait sits opposite me, talking at length to Sophie about prison as if it’s a magical fairyland where wonderful things happen and you make friends for life.
We can hear the children fighting over their Jellycat cuddly toys in the playroom, and the air is beautifully scented with Dettol, as Purdy has not covered herself in glory.
Sophie loudly refrains from accepting my offer of wine.
She’s trying to mend things with Paolo, and being sober is part of their negotiations.
I understand, in return, he has to stop being so Italian, which seems fair.
‘What’s that thing on your leg?’ Sophie asks Cait. I haven’t asked as I know what it is, and most people would wear wide-legged trousers to hide it, but not Flame.
‘It’s a requirement of the bail,’ says Cait, proudly. ‘I’m not allowed out after seven p.m.’
‘No serious partying for you,’ I say. ‘Shame, as it’s Christmas party season.’
‘I don’t care, as long as I’m with the girls.’
‘I expect they see you as low risk, as you don’t have any more husbands to kill,’ I say, and continue to tap away, although Cait and Sophie do go a little quiet.
Hollis’s revelation about Stephen has been playing on my mind somewhat.
On the one hand, I know he’s just trying to drive a wedge between us.
On the other hand, he did have me followed for three weeks, and Jason Mercer might have seen something.
I asked Hollis for evidence and he said he didn’t have any, which wasn’t helpful, so I thought I’d try to see if I could find any.
I’m tabulating our sexual intimacy from my diary to see if there are gaps where he’s likely to cheat, hence the Excel spreadsheet.
All I’ve found out so far is that we do it less than we used to, but I’m sure that’s true of all marriages.
‘Are you having any therapy?’ says Sophie.
‘I don’t need therapy. I need to find out who killed Owen.’
I look up from a dispiriting tally from October and give Cait a conspiratorial look.
‘How are your wedding plans going?’ says Cait.
‘It’s off,’ says Sophie. ‘I mean probably. We’re negotiating. It’s brought out a lot of hidden anxieties – on both sides. Complex thing, merging families – love and grief.’
Cait nods sympathetically.
‘Like a motorway junction,’ I say. ‘The issue is that everyone’s going different speeds.’
A shriek emanates from the playroom and Sophie has to go to check on the children as no one else moves. Cait comes round the kitchen island and stands at my shoulder, so I shut the laptop.
‘What have you found out?’ says Cait.
‘I found details of a meeting between Mercer and someone called MonkeyWarrior in a notebook in his car,’ I say, as I know Cait needs something to keep her conspiracy theory alive. Otherwise, she might just realize I’m the missing link.
‘Wow, that’s a lead!’ she says eagerly.
‘I’m going to go check it out. If Jason Mercer was working for some syndicate, this might be the connection.’
‘Can I come?’ says Cait excitedly.
‘I’m not sure you should,’ I say, pausing a moment to find a way to dissuade her. ‘I mean, if it turns out to be Owen’s killer, he’d know your face.’
‘But I want to do something,’ she says, her body tense.
‘Let me find out more first.’
After Sophie and Cait depart, I return to my sex spreadsheet and tally the columns.
The evidence of a serious problem with Stephen is staring me right in the face.
The weekly average for sex over the last seven years has shown a chronic decline, even discounting time either side of my pregnancies for the sake of statistical integrity.
In our first year together we were averaging 3.
1 encounters per week – which is impressive.
By our third year, it was down to an acceptable 2.
3. By our fifth year, a lacklustre 1.4. That we’ve dropped off is no surprise – the unstable chemical compound finds stability. Lust becomes duty. Life takes over.
More noticeably, the last twelve months have shown a severe falling off. I’d presumed this was due to the bereavement and other stresses, but it could also indicate extracurricular interests.
There are also certain days when the overall frequency of sex drops off completely.
I have cross-referenced with our calendar to account for absences and other issues (death of fathers, surgery, children, holidays, urinary infections, guests staying in next room to ours), and there is still something to note.
For instance, in the last twelve months, we’ve never made love on a Sunday or Friday.
Stephen goes to the supermarket on Sundays and the gym on Fridays, but it may be more than that.
It upsets me to find out that we’ve entered into negative equity. In the last twelve months, we had sexual intercourse less than once a month, and for the last few months it is probably not even statistically true that we have had sex at all.
Currently, I’m more likely to die of a shark attack than have sex with my husband.