The Divorce Club (19 page)

The door to his room stands ajar. I push it
open with the tip of my fingers and hold my breath, expecting the
hinges to squeak. When they don't make a sound, I switch on the
bedside lamp and peer around. The room's neat and tidy, the bed
made, any traces of clothes or baggage stacked away. I scan the
wooden surfaces for his phone, but don't see it, so I start opening
and closing drawers without actually expecting to find it. In my
head, I've made up my mind already. It must be him.

I'm checking the last drawer when footsteps
thud outside. Sam's usually not the quiet kind, but she doesn't
weigh this much either. Even though I feel I have every right to be
here, searching through his things, my heart jumps in my throat.
The footsteps move past, then stop. What's Jamie doing in front of
my door? I barely have time to ponder when he returns and the
door's thrown open. Pressing my back against the dresser, I hope to
somehow blend in with the furniture. His gaze locks on me and his
forehead creases with surprise.

"I was looking for something." It's the
stupidest excuse I could've come up with, but it's also the only
one. I just hope he won't press me for details.

"Holy water?"

"No." I hide my shaking hands behind my
back.

Jamie cocks an eyebrow and inches closer.
"What is it? I'll help you search."

"It's probably not even here."

I laugh and walk past when he grabs my arm
and stops me in mid-stride, his lips brush my ear as he whispers,
"Are you sure?"

He's making a move again. I hesitate as my
brain kicks into motion. I can't let him think I was rummaging
through his things. "Actually, I was looking for a Band-Aid because
I cut myself while skinning the potatoes."

He takes a step toward me, frowning. "Ouch.
Let me see." He sounds so sexy. For a moment, my legs feel frozen
to the spot and my knees turn to jelly. If I show him how easily he
can make me lose my composure, there's no way he'll ever fall in
love with me.

"It's just a tiny cut. I might've something
in my suitcase." It costs me all my willpower to turn on my heel
and walk away without throwing a glance back. I close the door and
count to thirty as I listen for his footsteps in the hall, then
tiptoe to the kitchen where I find my daughter setting the
table.

I take the glasses from the sideboard as I
ask, "Is Jamie here?"

"I don't see him. Do you?" Sam says.

Her remark annoys me, but I won't let her
attitude daunt me. "You were in here with him all the time, weren't
you?"

She nods.

"Did you see him use his phone?"

Sam peers at me and shakes her head again.
Just because she didn't notice it doesn't mean he didn't do it
under the table.

"Did he carry a phone with him?"

"Why are you asking?" Sam puts down the
napkins, brows drawn. "Are you trying to save your minutes?"

"No." I shake my head and smile, hoping she
hasn't inherited my obsessive personality to the extent that she
won't drop it. "Mel's waiting for my call and I was just wondering
whether we have reception here."

"Why don't you just ask him?"

"You're right. I should do that." I nod and
turn to the door when I notice him standing there, staring at me.
How much did he hear? Sam might be easy to fool because she's a
teen and holds zero interest in adult matters, but Jamie's mind's
too sharp and his curiosity is worse than that of an old lady.

"We have reception. If your phone doesn't,
then there's something wrong with it," Jamie says.

"Thanks." I put on a fake smile, only now
noticing the strong aroma of roast chicken. My stomach rumbles,
reminding me I haven't eaten a proper meal since last night's
dinner. But the way Jamie regards me I doubt I'll be able to
swallow a bite. Why can't I just confront him? Maybe because we're
in the middle of nowhere and it wouldn't be safe.

"Dinner's ready," Jamie says.

I nod and take a seat, unsure whether to help
him as he takes the chicken out of the oven. He seems quite
confident, maneuvering the dishes as though he's done it a few
times before. Greg couldn't even figure out how to unload the
dishwasher, or so he pretended.

"Would you like some help?" I ask.

"No, I'm fine," Jamie says.

He lights a few candles and we sit all
together like I imagine a real family would do, but I can't tell
for certain because it's not something Greg was ever keen on. Even
for Christmas, he made a point of watching TV during dinner and
disappear as soon as his plate was empty, leaving it behind on the
table.

"Wine?" Jamie asks.

I smile. "Sure."

He fills my glass and makes a brief toast.
"Santé!"

"Santa?" Sam asks. "Like the chubby guy that
brings gifts on Christmas?"

"No," I say. "Santé is the French word for
cheers. It means, to your health."

She raises her goblet of water. "The French
are a funny bunch."

Outside, darkness has descended. I fight the
impulse to draw the curtains because I don't want to spoil the
relaxed atmosphere. Leaning back, I watch the scene before me with
mixed emotions: Jamie carving thin chicken filets, Sam smiling as
she hands him her plate, the candles barely flickering. It's so
beautiful and perfect that it can't be real. And it isn't, I remind
myself. Not least, because he's married to someone else and it's
only a matter of time before he disappears like all men do when
things get too boring because the hunt is won.

"Jamie, what's that kissing thing the French
do?" Sam asks.

I shoot her a warning look, hoping she gets
the meaning. "Sweetie, is that appropriate dinner
conversation?"

Sam shakes her head. "No, not the deep French
kissing. The pecks on the cheek." I gawk. How does she even know
about French kissing? She wasn't supposed to learn that before
turning twenty.

"The French are famous for this custom of
greeting each other by kissing on the cheek," Jamie says. "It's
done between family, friends and even men, and varies from one kiss
to five with the average being two."

"Really? Why don't they just shake hands?"
Sam asks.

There's my opportunity to change the subject
so I use it. "They do. Shaking hands is reserved for strangers or
older people."

Jamie stares into my eyes and smirks. "The
real question is, to kiss or not to kiss?"

I sense a hidden meaning here. I smile,
sweetly. "They're to be saved for the special people in your life."
Like Chloe.

We hand around the potatoes, topping it all
off with a mayonnaise dressing because Jamie swears it's the right
way to eat a roast dinner. I'm not sold, but I give it a try and am
surprised to find the mayonnaise gives it a funky twist.

"This is absolutely delicious." I'm not even
saying this to flatter him. "Chloe's a lucky girl."

Jamie drops his fork, the clattering of the
metal against china echoing like a gunshot through the silence. I
stare at him, knowing I should say I'm sorry, but the problem is I
don't feel guilt. Somehow, I'm eager to remind both of us there's
another woman in his life, even if he doesn't want to acknowledge
it. If I were to run away from reality, I fear my heart would jump
in with both feet, eager to let down its guard. Jamie seems like a
good guy, but he's a man just the same, and his species only brings
trouble upon the female population.

"Sorry, greasy fingers," Jamie says. I know
he's lying from the tight lines around his mouth.

"Do you have a computer?" Sam asks.

"We're supposed to be on holiday," I say.

Jamie shakes his head. "Sorry, mate. No
computer."

Sam groans. "Well, can I watch TV then?"

"Sure." I shrug even though I'd rather not
see her go and leave me alone with Jamie.

"If you don't mind watching French channels."
Jamie gets up and waits until Sam follows carrying her plate. I
shouldn't allow her to eat alone in the living room in someone
else's house, but I'm not keen on the drama, so I keep quiet.

Jamie returns a minute later and takes his
seat, regarding me. His probing gaze makes me nervous. "What?"

He downs the wine in his glass and pours
himself another one before he speaks. "There's something going on
in your life. Why won't you tell me what it is?"

I shake my head, instantly knowing what he's
talking about. My attempt might've been thorough enough to fool
anyone who didn't pay much attention, but Jamie's observation
skills go beyond what I'm used from men. Would he tell me if I
asked straight away whether he's my stalker? Do I even want to know
the answer? If it's him, then I'm stuck with a maniac in an
isolated cottage. Admitting I know his plans might not be the
brightest idea. "Let's finish dinner," I say, hoping he'll agree to
drop the topic.

"Okay." He takes a deep breath. "I won't push
you, but I honestly wish you'd tell me. No one can help you if you
don't talk about it."

His lips curl into a fake smile. It's obvious
he's not happy to back off, but he resumes eating his dinner. After
we finish, he gets up and starts cleaning the table.

"Want some help?" I ask, standing behind him.
He turns and flicks soap bubbles at me. I laugh. "Stop it."

"Or what?" His eyes glitter, challenging. I
scoop a handful of water and drench the front of his shirt.

"You didn't!" He shakes his head. "You're
going down."

I hold up my hands because I don't fancy my
clothes smelling of lemons. "No. I surrender."

"You're lucky you gave up because somebody
was about to take a bath." The glint in his eyes flames up again.
Is he having dirty thoughts? I wish I could read his mind.

"No! You wouldn't dare." I grab the sprayer
and arm myself, aiming for his head. "Don't make me use this." His
wet shirt sticks to his burly chest. I can't help but stare because
I haven't seen one of those in a long time, which makes me feel
even more like the ugly duckling admiring the school hunk.

Laughing, he raises his hand to grab the
nozzle. I spray water all over the place as I hang on for dear
life. "Truce!" I shout. "Please."

Jamie lets go. "Truce." Grabbing a paper
towel, he wipes off my face.

"I'm a big, soppy mess." My shirt clings to
my skin too, but it doesn't look half as good. Not least because my
flesh-colored bra peeks through, and that's not a sexy sight.

He blows a bubble my way. "Who knew washing
dishes could be this much fun?"

I laugh and wipe a patch of bubbles off his
cheek. The air's laden with something. Tension. Hesitation. My
stomach clenches.

The door bursts open and Sam appears, eyes
narrowed. "Mum, you have soap all over your hair. You look like a
raccoon with your smeared mascara. And, Jamie, you're soaking wet
like a drowned rat. What are you two? Five years old?"

"We're washing the dishes," Jamie says. I've
no idea how he can stay so cool when my heart's racing.

"Uh-huh." Sam rolls her eyes. "What's next? A
water balloon fight? I should get paid for babysitting you
two."

"How much do you charge?" Jamie asks.

"I'm going to watch some more TV. Don't make
me bring out the mop." Sam slams the door behind her.

I was wrong. Jamie can't be my stalker
because there's nothing creepy about him. We finish cleaning up the
kitchen and I retreat to the privacy of my room. In spite of the
turmoil inside my head, I fall asleep as soon as I hit the pillow.
My mind feels groggy like it's wadding through water when I wake up
with a jolt. I try to make sense of the faint sounds I'm hearing: a
scratching followed by muffled bumping.

Nothing's more frightening than being in an
unknown house in the middle of nowhere at night-time. I daren't
breathe as I slowly push the sheets aside and stand, struggling to
gain my balance as my eyes adjust to the darkness. The closed
shutters filter the moonlight. Shadows dance across the wooden
floor. Investigating strange noises has never been my favorite
pastime because I'm not the courageous type, but my daughter's next
door and I need to make sure she's well.

I open the door and step into the cool
hallway, halting in my tracks to listen. It's quiet again; the
strange scratching slash pounding has stopped. All doors are
closed. Slowly, I move from window to window. Nothing stirs. I
should wake Jamie, then again I'm not comfortable entering his
bedroom after he caught me last night. He might not even be in
there. Or worse, what if he's naked? He might think I'm a
pervert.

What if something happened to Sam? The
thought hits me with full force, settling in the pit of my stomach
like a knife and leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. Jamie's been
too nice and attentive that it's started to raise red flags in the
back of my mind. My anger flares up, the compulsive need of
overprotection kicking in. I stomp down the hall to Sam's room and
yank the door open, ready to punch and shout.

The furniture's bathed in darkness. The
contours of a slim shape are visible beneath the covers, but that
doesn't calm me. He could've heard me and might be hiding. I switch
on the light and pull the sheets aside. Letting out a startled
yelp, Sam sits up and blinks against the sudden brightness. Her
eyes are hooded, her features drunken with sleep. The picture
somehow doesn't register with me.

"Where is he?" I hiss, searching under the
bed. No one's there, so I move to the small wardrobe and look
inside.

"Mum? What're you doing?" Sam sounds scared;
her voice is thin and whiney.

"I know he's here." The haze clouding my mind
begins to dissipate and I take in my daughter's shape, wide eyes
filled with fear, her hands clasped around the sheets as though
she's regarding a mad woman, which I probably was a minute ago.

"I heard a thud. Is everything okay?" Jamie
asks from behind me.