Maggie
It’s like picking a thread. Once you’ve started, things quickly begin to unravel and fall apart . . .
A few days after the incident with the bank, Theo flew back from the States.
Filming had wrapped ahead of schedule, so he was able to come home early.
Whenever he went away on trips, he would always come home with gifts of perfume or beauty products.
This time it was a gorgeous silk scarf from a famous designer brand, all boxed up with a ribbon and wrapped in tissue paper.
‘You didn’t have to buy me this! It’s far too extravagant!’ I protest, as the luxurious silk fabric slips from the box and through my fingers, a gorgeous swathe of lilacs and forest greens.
‘Nonsense, you deserve it,’ he smiles, shushing me with a kiss.
‘I feel like a Parisian,’ I laugh, draping it around my neck and pretending to pout, hands on hips.
‘Oh la la,’ he grins, raising his eyebrows and pulling me towards him.
‘And now I’m home I’m going to sort everything out with the bank, don’t worry, just leave it to me.
You’ve got far more important things to worry about, like what are you going to pack for a beach wedding and honeymoon on a tropical island? ’
Feeling his arms around my waist and the silk against my skin, I feel like I’m in a cocoon and I let myself lean into him.
The past few days I’ve felt a bit anxious.
After I spoke to Theo on the phone, he tried calling the bank a few times from the States, but never got through.
He assured me it was fine, that it was OK to wait until he got back; he even told me he’d hidden some cash in a biscuit tin for emergencies, and to use that if I needed anything until his return.
But still, I did worry, so it’s wonderful to have him home.
‘You don’t seem very excited about marrying me,’ he says, sounding hurt.
‘Oh darling, I’m sorry, I’ve just been so distracted,’ I reassure quickly, feeling guilty for making such a fuss about the bank when our wedding is just weeks away. ‘Don’t be silly, of course I am!’
I feel him relax. ‘Good. And I’m going to take care of everything,’ he smiles, giving me a kiss, as George the cat miaows around his ankles, before suddenly yelping. ‘Ow, the little bugger just bit me!’
‘What?’
As we break apart, I catch a flash of George’s ginger fur flying into the bedroom.
‘He bit me!’ Theo is saying again, pulling up his trouser leg, to show me the marks on his ankle. I stare at it, aghast.
‘George did that? Are you sure? But he’s just the softest thing—’
‘Absolutely, I’m fucking sure.’ Theo is pissed off now, his good mood turned to a scowl. ‘I’m probably going to need a tetanus shot.’
‘I’m sure it will be fine, he’s had all his shots. Let me get some antiseptic cream.’
I quickly hurry into the bathroom, opening the cabinet, rifling through the different bits of medical kit I keep for emergencies.
I still can’t believe it. George bit Theo?
It’s so out of character, it’s almost laughable, but of course I mustn’t do that, he’s furious enough as it is.
And then I spot a twenty-pound note on the floor.
It must have fallen out of his pocket when Theo went to the loo.
It’s neatly folded up with a couple of receipts.
I pick it up. I’m already formulating my joke about him throwing money away when I hand it back, so I don’t know what makes me unfold it.
I just have a feeling. Before I even spot it’s a bill from a fancy restaurant in London and it’s dated four days ago, when Theo was in LA, I can feel myself pulling a thread.
Cocktails, a bottle of expensive red wine, two main courses and a dessert to share.
Along with the receipt from his credit card. And now it all starts unravelling.
I’m not sure how I make it through that evening without saying anything about the restaurant bill.
I keep thinking about bringing it up, but after George bit him, Theo was in a foul mood and I didn’t want to make things worse.
I could just imagine him, twisting it all round, accusing me of snooping, asking me what I was insinuating.
Making me feel guilty for nagging or criticizing him, like I’m the one in the wrong.
Tangling me all up in knots with his explanations and reasoning, then stonewalling me until I’m the one apologizing and trying to make things right between us. Because that’s what’s always happens.
I learned pretty quickly it’s better not to say anything at all.
Except the next day I find myself at work in the art gallery, unable to think of anything else.
All day, while customers drift in and out, I sell a painting, eat lunch, and talk to a customer who’s interested in a small bronze, I turn it around and around in my head, trying to think of a perfectly reasonable explanation, but being unable to.
By the time I turn the sign to closed on the door I’m tired and confused and feel like I’m going mad.
I really need to talk to someone. By someone, what I really mean is, I need to talk to my friend George.
Only problem is, we’re no longer friends after we had that stupid argument.
Though to be honest, it wasn’t just that; things haven’t been the same between us since the engagement party.
Theo made it clear he didn’t want me talking to George and afterwards I didn’t want to make things worse or cause an argument, so whenever George tried to call me or leave messages about us getting together I’d say I was busy and could I call him back later?
Only, I’d never call him back, just send a quick text with yet another random excuse. In the end he stopped calling.
I feel terrible about it. I miss him. But I don’t know what to do about it.
I feel so torn. My wedding to Theo is just weeks away, he’s going to be my husband, and yet George is my oldest friend.
I would always turn to him first in an emergency.
Sitting in the back office, I think about the events of the past few days, compounded with my feelings from the last few months.
If this isn’t an emergency, I don’t know what is.
I pick up my phone, pluck up the courage, and video-call him. And when he immediately answers, his familiar face filling the screen, and says, ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ and gives me one of his smiles, I promptly burst into tears.
Ten minutes later it’s all come blurting out. About the call from the bank. The receipt from the restaurant. The moods. The doubts. The feeling in the pit of my stomach that won’t go away. The fact that in just a few weeks I’m supposed to be marrying this man.
‘You tried to warn me at our engagement party, you thought something wasn’t right, but I wouldn’t listen, I was an idiot.’
‘You weren’t an idiot, you were in love,’ says George kindly. He’s been nothing but sympathetic and supporting, listening to me as I tell him all about everything that’s been going on. ‘I just wish you’d told me about all this sooner.’
‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I say for about the hundredth time, but he shushes me.
‘OK, so let me get this straight, you’ve remortgaged the flat, taken out a business loan and put all your life savings – and inheritance – into a joint account with a man who says he was in America last week working, but was actually having dinner for two in a restaurant in Mayfair?’
Put like that it brings me up short.
‘It could’ve been a business dinner. He’s trying to woo lots of investors.’
‘So why didn’t he tell you he was in London?’
‘Do you think he’s cheating on me?’ My stomach lurches. Suspecting it is one thing, saying it out loud is quite another.
‘I don’t know what he’s been doing—’ George breaks off, and for the first time ever I see he looks worried. ‘And you’ve never actually met any of his friends or his family?’
‘He’s an only child. His dad died years ago and he’s had to put his mum into a care home. That’s why he sold his house in LA, to move closer to her.’
‘But you’ve never visited her.’
‘She’s got dementia. He says she wouldn’t like me to see her like that.’
‘That’s handy.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Can you remember the name of the care home?’
‘Um . . . it’s the one not far from me . . . Greenacres . . .’
‘OK, let me call you right back.’
‘George?’
But he’s already hung up.
I sit at my desk, a cold dread creeping over me.
I’m trying to keep the feeling of panic at bay.
Don’t jump to conclusions. There’s always a logical explanation.
You’re getting married in two weeks. I fiddle with my engagement ring.
At this point I’d be an idiot if I wasn’t seriously questioning that decision.
Is Theo even the kind of man I should be marrying?
I try to imagine breaking it off, being on my own again, and I feel such a sense of loss.
Theo’s a lot of things, but he’s not a cheater, I tell myself firmly.
He’s not a liar. He’d never do anything to hurt me.
He loves me. We’re investing in our future.
My phone starts ringing. It’s George video-calling me. I pick up.
‘They have no record of any resident called Mrs Stratin.’
‘She could have a different last name,’ I counter.
‘No one called Theo Stratin has ever visited see his mum.’
‘Maybe you spoke to a new member of staff,’ I suggest, but even I feel I’m reaching.
‘Visitors have to sign in and out. There’s no record.’
‘Maybe I’m getting mixed up, maybe the home is called a different name.’
‘Or maybe he’s lying, Maggie.’ George’s face is deadly serious. ‘And if he’s lying about that, what else is he lying about?’
Dominoes. It’s like a line of dominoes. If just one thing I thought was true is a lie, then everything starts toppling. My chest tightens. I feel suddenly faint. George is still talking to me, but my mind is miles away, racing back to Theo.
‘I need to speak to Theo,’ I blurt. ‘I need to find out what’s going on.’
I’m suddenly desperate to see him. To hear his explanations. To make all this go away.
‘I can drive up from London, it’ll just take a couple of hours. I’ll jump in the car, wait for me.’
‘No, it’s OK.’
‘I’m serious, Maggie, it could be dangerous.’
I snap back to see George, his face sombre. I’ve never seen him look so worried.
‘I won’t say anything until you get here,’ I say, but I know I’m only saying it to appease him. ‘I’ll meet you at my flat.’
‘OK, I’m jumping in my car now. My phone says I’ll be there in just over two hours.’ He pauses, his eyes meeting mine. ‘I don’t want you confront him until I’m there, promise?’
‘I promise,’ I fib.
Twenty minutes later I let myself into my flat.
I walk up the stairs. Heart racing, but determined to remain calm.
All the way over I’ve rehearsed what I’m going to say when I walk in.
In my head are a list of questions. I need to stick to the script, to not be thrown off course by Theo, who is a master in twisting around a conversation so I’m always in the wrong.
I’m right, I know I’m right, I whisper to myself as I climb the stairs. Scrunching up my hands into fists by my sides. Feeling my nails digging into the palms of my hands.
The flat is silent. I walk into the living room.
He should be home by now. Earlier he’d texted to say he was at the supermarket getting ingredients.
He was cooking dinner tonight. A new pasta recipe he’d seen in a magazine.
I hadn’t wanted to alert him, so I’d acted all normal.
Or so I thought. Because as I walk through the living room and kitchen I notice his trainers are gone from the rack in the hallway.
Somewhere in my body a pulse starts beating.
George appears mewing for attention, winding his way around my feet. I pick him up, squeezing him tight, but he doesn’t want to be squeezed tonight; he’s not looking for affection, he wants feeding. I’m hungry, Mama, he says in cat meows.
In a minute, I tell him, in a minute.
No music playing. No sound of the TV. No overheard conversation on the phone as he talks to another investor about the business.
Or the estate agent. Or a work colleague in some faraway destination.
Or the carers at the nursing home asking them to take the phone to his mum so he can tell her goodnight.
Thoughts begin tumbling.
Were they real? Was any of it real? Was it just all for my benefit?
My chest constricts, squeezing the air out of my lungs.
I can’t breathe. I must breathe. I continue through into the bedroom.
It’s in shadow, the blinds are down, but in the dim light I see the doors to his side of the wardrobe are thrown open and his clothes are gone.
Nothing but empty hangers. Never has anything so mundane been so powerful. He’s gone. Left. Cleared out. Vanished.
Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart in my chest beats loudly in my ears.
I race around the flat, frantic now. Drawers have been emptied.
Some of my jewellery’s gone: a pair of diamond earrings I’d got for my twenty-first, a pearl necklace I’ve never worn that isn’t real.
What else has he taken? My dad’s watch. Suddenly I remember he took it to be fixed but never gave it back.
I feel myself choke up, then a flash of disbelief.
He’s even taken the silk scarf he bought me, together with its box.
I start to sob as everything implodes. Thoughts galloping away from me.
All my money’s gone. There’s no joint account.
Most likely there’s no business venture, or mum in a care home either, or house he sold in LA.
It’s all gone. Or it never even existed.
It was all just a fabrication. My knees buckle and I grab on to the kitchen counter.
I feel like I’m going to throw up. He told me he loved me.
He told me he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me and I believed him.
Bile rises in my throat and I sink to my knees as George the cat circles around me, meowing and meowing and meowing and meowing.