I went to the bathroom. My face was red and blotchy, my lips cracked and sore from the cold. I opened the cabinet to find a comb and noticed a new little row of condoms neatly placed alongside the razor blades. Mitch didn’t like condoms. It was ‘like having a bath with your socks on.’ He had marched me off to family planning shortly after we met. I now wondered if he had taken Jan, Shirley, Felicity, Gabriella and Natalie to similar clinics.

Mitch lay prostrate on the sofa, feet up, flicking through television channels as I stood in the doorway, holding up the gold chain. I didn’t intend accusation; I wanted an explanation.

‘Oh, that’s Trisha’s. I must remember to give it back to her. She popped round this morning before work and asked me to get it mended. Look, the locking link is coming apart.’

He took it from my hand and pointed at the dysfunctional clasp on his sister’s pendant. He leant across to kiss me and explained that he knew a good jeweller who did repairs. Mitch didn’t hesitate but then he was always plausible. It was all part of the charm.

At around 6pm, Mitch uncorked a cold bottle of Riesling. He put Carol King’s ‘Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?’ on in the background. He was good at romance.

As I started to cry again, for something much greater than emotional distress for Roger and Crystal Pennington, Mitch and I lay down on the sofa and made love. For a short time my doubts didn’t seem important. We were together, and having him near was all that mattered.

8

Rebecca

There was a message from Oliver when I got back to my flat on Saturday morning.

‘Hi. Hope you’re okay. I’m still in shock. Give me a call. Not sure what’ll be happening at the gallery after Christmas. It’s Oliver by the way.’

There was another message from Mum saying that the Christmas tree was up and they were all looking forward to seeing me. I decided not to tell her yet about Roger as she would most likely use it as an opening to interweave her own neurotic appeals for attention with less-than-enthusiastic enquiries about my state of mind.

The shower flickered into life as I stood, naked, waiting for the warm water to soothe my worries. Mitch was still on my skin, the smell of him clung to my body. I tortured myself by wondering why we weren’t still desperate to share the shower space. When had things changed?

Once out, wrapped in only a bath towel, I decided to call him.

‘Hello. Mitch’s phone.’

The flat was freezing. I refused to turn up the heating. My breath cut vapour trails through the room and I shivered as my hair dripped cold water droplets against my skin.