She was haunted by images. His limbs flashing white on top of a woman. She couldn’t see the woman’s face but she was young, voluptuous, not thin but beautiful. Her hair colour changed from auburn to blonde to brunette. She made noises of pleasure. Oh yes. Stay with me. And he stayed with her, in whatever hotel they were holed up in – or maybe her flat, maybe she wasn’t married – instead of coming home to his crazy pacing wife. She should try to sit down. Watch TV, like a normal person. She’d once heard one of the neighbours, Chantal, joke about how she loved it when Terry, her husband, stayed out late. It’s great, I can watch my trashy telly and binge on ice cream. Elle could hardly comprehend how it would be to wish your husband stayed out more.

Of course he stays out. Who’d want to come home to you?

Oh shut up, Mother, shut up, I don’t need you now.

Was that a noise? She ran to the window, not caring if anyone saw her. Her breaths were strung out like beads. Yes, a car. It was slowing. But it wasn’t his. She knew the sound of the Jaguar’s engine, its tyres. This was a smaller, cheaper car. And two strangers were getting out. The doorbell rang – the light, uplifting chime she’d chosen for this very reason, to get over her phobia of people calling to the door. Except now it was appropriate to worry. She knew that already, somehow.

She felt her way to the door, not caring that her hands were marking the expensive silk wallpaper. For a moment, she just stood there. If she didn’t open this door, life would not have to change. Everything could stay as it was, a woman waiting for her husband to come home.

It rang again. She opened it, and a gust of cold air blew in. Across the street, she could see a neighbour staring through a crack in her blinds. Nosy.

The woman – dressed in a cheap trouser suit – said, ‘Mrs Sullivan? Mrs Patrick Sullivan?’

And she said, ‘Yes. That’s me.’

Suzi

Suzi

Nick sighed. ‘I don’t know. Are you sure you should be racing about the place, after yesterday?’