Chapter 5 #3
I hang my coat on the hook by the door and slip behind the counter, reaching for an apron on impulse.
Luca glances up, takes in my face with a single, careful look, and says nothing, just slides a mug of coffee across the counter with the right amount of milk and an extra shot that I didn’t ask for but definitely need.
The next hour passes in the particular rhythm that only happens at Page & Grounds, the constant background noise of conversation and coffee machines and Liv’s occasional outbursts when her design program does something unexpected.
I make three flat whites, restock the new arrivals shelf with Harper’s latest paperback, and listen to Luca explain to a confused tourist that no, we don’t have Nespresso, but we do have a very large coffee machine that can make her something else.
It’s normal. It’s fine. It’s what I need.
Then my phone buzzes in my pocket, a voice note from Harper. I press play, turning slightly so my back is to the counter.
“So, I’ve hit a wall with chapter fourteen,” Harper’s voice fills my ear, cheerful and slightly frustrated.
“The wife has just found out about the husband’s affair…
six months with his assistant, classic midlife crisis stuff…
but she only discovers it because the assistant’s best friend feels guilty and tells her at a school fundraiser.
It’s a great reveal moment, but I’m worried it’s too convenient?
Like, would the friend really do that? And also, does it make the wife seem passive?
That she only finds out because someone else tells her?
I’m trying to balance making the husband appropriately villainous, but also not making the wife too naive or too vengeful, and I’m honestly considering just setting the whole manuscript on fire and starting something about competitive knitting instead. Thoughts?”
I listen to it twice, my jaw tight, before sending back a thumbs-up emoji and turning to make myself another coffee I don’t need. My hand shakes slightly as I reach for the portafilter, grounds spilling onto the counter in a small, brown heap.
On the shelf behind me, Harper’s latest novel sits faced out, its bright cover showing a cartoon woman with her hands on her hips. I stare at it, at the woman’s exaggerated expression of shock and something in my chest twists.
In fiction, cheating husbands get exposed at school fundraisers.
Wives discover the truth in time to make dramatic speeches and meaningful choices.
The narrative has structure and, eventually, some kind of resolution, even if it’s just the main character driving off into the sunset with a better understanding of herself and a really good playlist.
In real life, you find a notification on your husband’s phone while your babies are napping.
You sit on a stranger’s white sofa while she tells you your trauma is “compelling.” You make coffee and change nappies and hand your husband the salt at dinner and pretend, for just a little while longer, that you don’t know what he has been doing.
I dump the coffee grounds into the bin with more force than necessary, watching as they scatter across the bottom in a dark, bitter cloud.
***
Clara Hayes’s office is in a narrow building two streets back from the high street, no marble, no exposed brick, no diffuser pumping lavender into the air at assault levels.
Just a small waiting room with four chairs, a watercooler in the corner, and a spider plant on the windowsill that’s grown so large it’s developed its own gravitational field.
The receptionist, a woman in her fifties with a cardigan and reading glasses on a chain around her neck, looks up when I enter and offers me tea like she actually wants to know the answer.
“Yes please,” I say, suddenly aware that my throat is dry. “Milk, no sugar.”
She nods, disappearing through a door behind her desk while I take a seat in one of the chairs, a sensible, upholstered thing that doesn’t try to swallow me whole or force me into a strange posture.
The room is quiet, the only sound is the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the occasional rustle of papers from the receptionist’s desk.
No motivational quotes. No abstract art.
No signs reminding me to “live my truth” or “embrace the journey.”
The receptionist returns with my tea, in a proper mug, not a paper cup, the steam rising in a gentle curl, and a clipboard with a single page of questions. “Clara will be with you in just a moment,” she says, her voice warm. “She’s just finishing up a call.”
Five minutes later, a door opens and a woman appears, moving from one room to another with the unhurried quality of someone who has already decided she has enough time for whatever comes next.
She’s in her late thirties, with reading glasses pushed up into dark hair shot through with a single streak of grey at the temple.
Her suit is well-cut but not flashy, her earrings small gold hoops.
Nothing about her announces that she’s important or powerful or any of the other adjectives the previous lawyers seemed determined to project.
She just looks like someone who knows what she’s doing.
“Elsie?” she says, her voice steady. “I’m Clara Hayes. Come through.”
Her office is small but not cramped, a desk with a computer, a bookshelf filled with actual books rather than decorative objects, and a small round table with two chairs set off to the side that immediately distinguishes her from every other lawyer I’ve met. A conversation table.
“Please,” she says, gesturing to one of the chairs. “Sit wherever you’re comfortable.”
I choose the table, setting my bag on the floor beside me. Clara takes the chair across from me, her posture relaxed but attentive, and waits, not rushing to fill the silence or steering the conversation, just giving me the space to begin.
“I’m getting a divorce,” I say, the words coming out more evenly than I expected. “My husband has been cheating on me since I was pregnant with our twins. They’re five months old now.”
Clara nods, her expression neutral but focused. “I’m sorry,” she says, the words simple and genuine. “That must be very difficult.”
It’s such a normal response, not dismissive, just the acknowledgment that what I’m describing is actually hard, that for a second, I don’t know what to say. Then I reach into my bag and pull out my phone.
“I have evidence,” I say, opening the locked folder and sliding the phone across the table. “Screen recordings of the messages. Photos. Dates and times. It’s all there.”
Clara picks up the phone, puts her glasses on, and begins to scroll.
She doesn’t gasp or exclaim or make any of the dramatic reactions the previous lawyer seemed to think were appropriate.
She just looks carefully, thoroughly, her expression changing slightly when she reaches the messages from the NICU but never tipping into the shock that made my stomach turn last time.
It takes nearly three minutes. Three minutes of silence while I watch her hands, capable hands with short, clean nails and a single silver ring on her right index finger, move through the evidence of my husband’s betrayal.
Three minutes of waiting while she sees what Daniel has done, the full scope of his lies laid out in timestamps and usernames and explicit photos.
Finally, she sets the phone down and looks at me directly. “This is thorough,” she says, her voice matter of fact. “You’ve done well.”
Six words. That’s all. But they settle into the space behind my ribs with a weight I wasn’t expecting.
You’ve done well. Not “this is compelling” or “that’s fascinating” or any of the other responses that made me feel like an exhibit in a particularly juicy true crime podcast. Just acknowledgement that I’ve handled an impossible situation with competence. That I’ve done something right.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice slightly unsteady.
Clara nods, then reaches for a notepad on the desk. “I’d like to ask you some questions,” she says. “About your situation, your children, your goals for this process. Would that be alright?”
The consultation that follows is nothing like the previous two.
Clara asks specific, relevant questions, about the timeline of Daniel’s infidelity, about the twins’ custody routine, about his work schedule and financial contributions to the household.
She listens to each answer fully before responding, her eyes on my face rather than her notepad.
She takes notes, but they’re brief, dates, names, key details.
When she outlines her advice, she doesn’t soften it into uselessness or dress it up in legal jargon.
“Do not leave the family home,” she says, her voice direct.
“Regardless of how difficult it becomes. Leaving voluntarily complicates things and can be interpreted as abandonment of the marital residence.”
“I won’t,” I say, the words coming out harsher than I intended. “He doesn’t get to push me out.”
Something that might be approval flickers across Clara’s face. “Good,” she says. “That’s right. Second, do not confront him. Not yet. The moment he knows you’re aware of what he has done, he could start making his own moves. The less he knows about what you know, the better your position.”
This is essentially what Adrian told me, but hearing it from Clara, from someone who’s actually going to help me navigate this process, makes it feel more real. More possible.