The Stranger Within (19 page)

              Emma pulls her away from me and into the kitchen, where the food is waiting. I take a deep breath and follow, counting the hours until I can be next door with Rhys.

              The boys seem intrigued by Natalie, once again displaying the amicability they never show to me. Dillon bombards her with questions about where she lives and what she does, and she answers as best she can, letting her food go cold in her attempt to make a good impression. I feel sorry for her; it was not fair of Emma to introduce her to us all at once. I wonder if she feels as much of an outsider as I do, whether she notices that neither Dillon nor Luke have said a word to me since we sat down to eat.

              I try to distract myself with thoughts of Rhys, but all I feel is guilt. I should be thinking of James, of saving my marriage, of trying to sort out how we will deal with the boys. I should not be obsessing over a teenage boy I have no business being with. It is bound to end badly. How can it not?

              When everyone has finished eating, I clear away the plates and make coffee. I’m relieved when the boys go upstairs; it means I can also make an excuse to slip away.

“I’ve got some coursework to finish,” I say, which is at least half true. I have been so distracted lately that I’m not keeping up with my studies. James and Emma don’t seem to mind me rushing off, but I am sure I see a hint of disappointment on Natalie’s face.

              Upstairs, I close the bedroom door, sit on the bed and text Rhys. When he replies, telling me all the things he wants to do to me later, I feel a mixture of shame and longing. I delete the text, but smile at the memory of his words. Then I think of Dad, and wonder if he was ever so out of control that he betrayed Mum by sleeping with another woman. This idea scares me. Not for the first time, I am frightened of myself.

              I stand up, suddenly needing some fresh air, and as I open the door, I almost bump into Natalie. She jumps when I emerge, looking so anxious and lost that I feel another pang of pity.

              “The bathroom’s just there,” I say, pointing across the landing.

              “Oh, thanks.” She starts to pass me but then turns back. “Are you okay? You were very quiet at lunch. I hope me being here isn’t an inconvenience?” She smiles up at me. She can’t be more than five feet tall because I tower above her.

              “No, not at all. I’m fine. Thanks for asking. Are you okay? This must be nerve-wracking, meeting us all at once.”

              She nods, apparently relieved that someone has bothered to point this out. “Emma kind of sprang it on me, last-minute. I thought the two of us were going out for lunch or something, but then she told me I’d be meeting her friend, James, and his family.” She rolls her eyes. “I think she thought I’d run a mile if she gave me too much notice.”

              “Well, that probably wasn’t fair of her, but…”

              She smiles. “Yes. But I’m afraid that’s Emma all over, isn’t it?”

              My silence only stems from not knowing Emma very well, but Natalie must interpret it differently because suddenly she is opening up about their relationship, telling me she’s been thinking of breaking it off.

“To be honest,” she says, lowering her voice, “I’m just not sure we’re right for each other.” She drops her eyes to the floor.

              My first reaction is to tell Natalie to give it a chance, to speak out for Emma. I open my mouth to form the words but quickly close it again.

              “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I couldn’t help notice the boys don’t really speak to you. Emma said you and James haven’t been married long. It must be hard.” Her eyes widen. “Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t be saying all this.”

I glance at the boys’ doors. Thankfully both are closed, and there is music thundering from inside Dillon’s room. “No, it’s fine. You’re right. They’re still having trouble accepting me.”

              “It’s not easy bringing up kids, especially when they’re not your own. Kids can be conniving. Even good ones. I can’t believe they didn’t talk to you at lunch.”

              I almost hug her when she says this. Finally someone – someone other than Rhys – understands. “Thank you. Just for saying that. Thank you.”

              “Anyway, she’ll be wondering what’s taking me so long.” She turns towards the bathroom door.

              “So what are you going to do?” I quickly ask. It is none of my business but I’m curious to know.

              “Tell her tonight, I think. I’ve been putting it off long enough.”

              Only when she’s gone into the bathroom do I notice the gap in Dillon’s door, and the set of eyes peering through it.

Rhys smells of aftershave tonight – I can’t tell which brand – and I pull him towards me and breathe him in as soon as we’re safely in Mrs Simmons’ kitchen. We are in darkness, apart from the dull light of a mini key ring torch I found in the shed last time I fed Jazzy.

“I feel like a thief breaking into someone’s house,” he says.

              I jangle the keys at him. “We’re not thieves.” What I don’t say is that I, at least, am far worse than that.

              “I’ve got supplies,” he says, holding up a plastic bag I haven’t noticed until now. “Everything we’ll need for tonight.” He hands it to me and I look inside. Crisps, cans of Red Bull, chocolate, biscuits. Everything a teenager dreams of eating for dinner. It’s a good thing I had a big lunch.

              “Thanks, Rhys. I didn’t even think about food.”

              “That’s because all you need is me,” he says, chuckling at his own joke, oblivious to the degree of truth in it. He grabs my hand and kisses it. He’s not supposed to be thoughtful. Or a good listener. Or able to talk about anything. And I’m not supposed to be sleeping with him. “This place is a bit creepy, don’t you reckon?”

              I have never been inside Mrs Simmons’ house and now that my eyes have adjusted to the dark, I begin to take in the décor and furnishings. The kitchen is exactly the same size as ours but is in desperate need of modernisation. And there is clutter everywhere. Every inch of worktop space and shelving is crammed with everything from utensils to complete junk. Mrs Simmons is definitely a hoarder, and Rhys is right: it’s creepy in here.

              “Maybe it looks better with the lights on?” I suggest, not convinced. “Let’s go upstairs.” Hanging around down here, where the neighbours behind the house could spot the torchlight, is starting to make me nervous.

              Upstairs, we check the rooms. “Not in there,” Rhys says, when we find what is clearly Mrs Simmons’ bedroom. It smells musty and, like the kitchen, is cluttered with junk. “That would just be too weird.”

              We find a spare room that is not too cluttered, although it has no bed or chairs. “It’s kind of like camping,” Rhys says, making the most of it. I am grateful that I thought to stuff a thin blanket into my handbag, and spread it over the floor.

              Rhys lies on his back, and I climb on top of him, feeling an overwhelming surge of desire. Rhys is under my skin now, and this is scary. It is over in seconds, but I feel no disappointment; we have hours left to be together and this isn’t just about sex.

              “I’ve never done it like that before,” he says. “You’re amazing.”

He grabs me as I slide off him and pulls me against him, nestling his head on my shoulder. I feel amused that he finds sex with a twenty-nine-year-old woman amazing. Surely my body now cannot compare to those of the girls he has slept with before? I’m not doing too badly, but bodies do change. Especially after a pregnancy.

              This thought is like a sharp pain in my gut and I turn away from him.

              “What’s wrong?” he asks.

              “Don’t you want to be with someone your age? Or at least close to it? I’m too old for you, Rhys.”

              He pinches my arm. “I don’t give a fuck about your age or mine. Why does it matter if we both like each other? And I know you do, or we wouldn’t have just done
that
. I just want to keep seeing you, Callie.”

Of course it is that simple for him. He doesn’t need to think about the future. Or the fact that our actions will devastate lives.

              Sitting in our underwear on the blanket, we eat the junk food Rhys has brought. “Have you had a chance to speak to Dillon yet?” I ask.

Rhys raises his eyebrows. Perhaps he is surprised at my timing. “No. Not yet. Do you still want me to?”

I put down my half-finished bag of crisps. “Of course. The problem won’t just go away.”

He considers this for a moment. “No, you’re right. I will. But I’ll have to be careful. We don’t want him to suspect anything. He’s such a jerk sometimes.”

“Don’t let me come between you and Dillon,” I say. “Nothing’s more important than your friendship.”

Rhys kisses my forehead. “Don’t think about all this now. Just think of you and me tonight.”

              And in that moment, I allow myself to believe that somehow everything will be okay.

Chapter Twenty

Rhys and I only meet once more at Mrs Simmons’ house before she comes home from hospital. It is not easy to make excuses to James because he knows Debbie and Bridgette are usually too busy to go out during the week. I hate myself for lying, so I will go without seeing Rhys instead, until there is an easier way. For now, though, I make do with his text messages, which come hard and fast, full of declarations of how much he misses me.

              On Thursday evening, I drop the keys next door and check on Mrs Simmons. I have no doubt she is making a good recovery – she is a battle-axe and will probably outlive us all – but I worry Rhys or I may have left something behind. If we did, she will spot it immediately, but everything seems fine. She even thanks me, although her gratitude is delivered in a brusque manner. “Thank the boys for me,” she adds, more warmly. I don’t know how I will keep her from speaking to them and thanking them herself, but for now I have enough to worry about.

              When I get back in, James is standing at the bottom of the stairs, his arms folded and a frown on his face. This is it. He has found out about Rhys. My deceit is about to unravel. It feels as if my heart has stopped beating and I come to an abrupt stop in the hallway, waiting for him to speak.

              “Emma’s just been on the phone in tears. She says Natalie ended it with her after the lunch on Saturday and she seems to think the two of you spoke about it. I told her that’s rubbish, but she’s in a real state, Callie.”

              I breathe again. Whatever this is about, it has nothing to do with Rhys. We are safe.

              “I don’t understand. What does she think I’ve done?”

              James repeats himself before I remember. This is about my conversation with Natalie on the landing last week. But somehow things have become warped and twisted. Does she really believe I could have something to do with her break-up?

              I explain the conversation to James, leaving out the part about Dillon and Luke. “She did tell me she was planning on ending things with Emma. But I had nothing to do with it. I don’t even know the woman. Even if I had told her to leave Emma, why would she listen to me?”

              James sighs. “I know. We just don’t need this grief on top of everything else.”

And that’s when I remember Dillon’s face peering though the gap in his door. I consider telling James, but restrain myself. As with the other grievances, it’s futile to bring it up, especially without proof. No, I will deal with Dillon myself. “I’ll talk to Emma,” I say. “Clear things up. Don’t worry.”

He smiles faintly and says he needs to do some work upstairs. A few minutes later, when I’m passing his study to use the bathroom, I hear him on the phone. His voice is low and I can’t make out every word but I have no doubt he is speaking to Tabitha.

              I go outside to check on Jazzy and he runs towards me, rubbing against my leg, his fur tickling my skin. I scoop him up and cuddle him.

“What am I doing, Jazzy? How did I make such a mess of things?”

The cat looks at me with wide eyes and then tries to wriggle from my arms. I check nobody is watching from any of the windows, then step inside the shed to text Rhys. I need to see him and there is only one place we can go.

He is there waiting for me on the corner of his road, dressed smartly as I asked him to be, in dark trousers and a blue collared shirt. He has even polished his shoes and I am touched by his effort. He smiles when I pull up and rushes to open the door, sliding into the seat and planting a kiss on my lips. He has doused himself in aftershave, but this time has used far too much, and it drifts up my nostrils, making my nose twitch.

              “You look good,” I say. And he does. Older. More sophisticated. He looks the part and any doubts I have about this evening vanish.

              I drive from Rhys’ road as quickly as I can, just in case either of his parents decide they need to go somewhere. Rhys must be able to tell I’m nervous because he doesn’t say anything; he just gazes out of the window until we are almost out of Wimbledon.