Page 42 of The Temp

There are a few patrons hogging the pavement as I slip out into the cool, evening air. My eyes flit around the street wildly, searching for Tom, and then I spot him, about thirty feet away near a taxi bay. He’s standing in front of a group of revellers, talking to a couple who look like they’re killing time, waiting for their cab to arrive.

I start walking. Stop. Crane my neck for a better view as the group of revellers bundle into a waiting cab. The man is about Tom’s age, maybe a bit older, late-fifties, wiry long hair but balding at the top. He looks like he’s come straight from work in his dark suit and white shirt, tie loosened, round belly hanging over his trousers. My eyes dart to the woman, who has her back to me. I know her. I’d recognise that long red cardigan anywhere. It’s the woman from the toilets who slammed the door in my face just now.

Tom is laughing at something the man is saying now and the woman is looking at her watch, shuffling impatiently on the pavement in her red stilettos, that match the colour of her cardigan. The lady in red. Wasn’t that a song? I frown, her profile looks familiar. We know them, obviously. I think they’re Linda and Theo’s friends. We met them at one of their many parties. I should go over and say hello. I go to move when a taxi pulls up. The round-bellied man opens the door, then turns and yells out, ‘Cheerio, Tom.’

I watch as the woman folds herself into the backseat of the cab. When she looks up, I see her face properly for the first time and everything stops. The rowdy group behind me cheer. A bus pulls up next to me, wheels screaming. Maybe it isn’t her. Maybe my vision is playing tricks on me. I have had two big glasses of red. That’s equivalent to about five drinks, isn’t it? I start walking fast, wishing I’d worn my flats instead of these three-inch heels. Tom has his back to me now, one hand in pocket, the other pressing his phone against his ear. I’m a metre away when the cab pulls away and just then the woman glances out of the window, giving Tom a polite nod and tight smile, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that it’s her. Mrs Anderson. Daisy’s auntie.

Chapter 39

I hear a babble of voices coming from upstairs the moment Tom pushes the front door open. There’s a faint smell of popcorn in the air, too. I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven. I’ll have to go up and tell Georgia to switch the TV off shortly, or politely ask Daisy to turn down the volume. We don’t want Mr Stanhope banging on our door, complaining about the noise.

‘Bit loud, isn’t it?’ Tom comments, picking up on my tension. We kick off our shoes in synchronisation.

‘It is a bit.’ I slip my black heels next to Georgia’s red trainers, the same shade as Mrs Anderson’s stilettos. Her tight expression in the back of the taxi loops in my mind. Our cab pulled up just as I approached Tom at the taxi bay. With the phone pressed against his ear, he ushered me into the back of the cab urgently, miming Sorry. Nick from the practice. Naturally, I didn’t want to disturb his important conversation about Mr Horsham’s glaucoma, so didn’t get a chance to quiz him about Mrs Anderson. Thinking back, Tom was chatting heartily with her companion as if she were invisible, and she did seem a bit edgy, bored, impatient to leave. Did Tom meet Mrs Anderson for the first time tonight? They do say we’ve got six degrees of separation. It could all be a huge coincidence.

‘We don’t want old Stanhope on the warpath, do we?’ Tom groans, and I agree, remind him that he’s called noise pollution at eight in the evening in the past. Wrenching up my dress, I slip out of my tights, and just as I open my mouth to ask him about Tina Anderson, his eyes slide to my thighs. Unbuttoning his shirt slowly, from the bottom up, he takes in the length of me. I shoot a glance at the upstairs landing. A sound of howling, followed by screaming travels down the stairwell. They must be watching a horror film. Tom is still undressing me with his eyes. Surely, he’s not going to seduce me in the hallway. One of the girls could pound down the staircase at any moment. Catching us at it could traumatise them for life.

‘Come here,’ he says, voice low.

What’s got into him? He’s not usually this frisky, not of late anyway. It’s that 14% volume wine he guzzled at The Stage. My eyes drop to his torso – not gym-toned by a long shot, but sexy all the same. Tom suddenly stops undressing and pulls me to him. I inhale his scent. Warm, familiar, spicy. ‘We can’t,’ I breathe, ‘not here. Let’s go upstairs.’

‘Where’s the fun in that?’ he whispers, backing me up against the banister. ‘God, it’s been ages…’

‘We can’t do it here,’ I murmur, as he gently guides me towards the staircase. ‘The girls.’ We gaze at each other, drunk on lust, and then I feel the softness of the stair carpet on the back of my thighs. Parting my lips with his warm tongue, we kiss hungrily. My eyes close, Frank’s face darts into my mind, his breath on my lips, hands on my arms, and then the TV amplifies, followed by the thump of footsteps on the landing.

‘Stop,’ I pant, pushing him off me. ‘We’ve got a houseguest, a teenage daughter upstairs.’

Tom looks at me for a few moments, breath hot against my face. ‘Yes, yes. You’re right,’ he says, suddenly snapping out of his lustful zone. We pull apart, dishevelled, heart racing. ‘Sorry, I got carried away,’ he says, to the backdrop of a loo flushing, and, with a hand through his messed-up hair, he grins and backs away slowly, fastening his shirt with one button, before disappearing into the kitchen.

Bending down, I tidy our shoes in a neat line against the wall. Above me, footsteps stomp on the landing, followed by the clamour of a door closing, drowning out the sound of the TV. It was Georgia needing a wee. Daisy’s got an en-suite.

I ruffle my hair as I study my reflection in the silver framed hallway mirror. I barely recognise the woman that is staring back at me. How can I feel thirty-five yet look like this? My skin is dry and dull. My cheeks have puffed out and my jowls seem more prominent in this harsh lighting. Turning to the side, I pinch the fat around my middle. I’ve put on half a stone since I quit the gym. My spare tyre is back with a vengeance. I joined Serval because I had low self-esteem and wanted to get into shape. I now look even worse. I’m surprised Tom still finds me desirable. Blood rushes to my face and I have to look away from my reflection.

I’ve got to sign up with another gym, find myself a decent personal trainer this time. Maybe a woman who will knock me into shape. Tom won’t mind now that he knows how important it is to me. We agreed after Frank, no more secrets. I bite my bottom lip. I still haven’t told him about Liam, though. If he finds out what happened from someone else it’ll end us. I will lose everything – my home, my family, my life. I can’t let that happen.

Fuelled with Dutch-courage, I yell out Tom’s name. There’s a shuffle of footsteps and then he appears, staring at his phone, half his shirt hanging out of his trousers. ‘Tommy,’ I say, and he looks up at me. ‘We need to talk.’

Chapter 40

‘Sounds ominous,’ Tom says, flicking the lights on in the lounge. ‘What’s this about?’ I follow him swiftly, rubbing the back of my neck.

‘The thing is,’ I begin, inhaling a faint fug of polish.

The TV flickers on. ‘Hang on,’ he says, not looking at me. Tom hits a few buttons on the remote control, settling on a football match. ‘You don’t mind if I watch the highlights while we’re talking, do you?’

Fessing up about Liam isn’t something I can do while he’s watching football. ‘Don’t worry, watch your match. It can wait.’

He smiles up at me, settling back on the sofa. ‘Only if you’re sure.’

‘I am,’ and then, ‘Feet,’ I say and he removes his size elevens from the freshly polished coffee table. Daisy must’ve given the room a once over. I’ll have a word with her about it in the morning. She’s not our housekeeper. ‘Do you want anything else to eat? We forgot the doggy-bag at The Stage,’ I lie. Tom shakes his head- tells me it’ll give him heartburn. I leave him to his football and head for the kitchen.

‘How the hell did you miss that?’ Tom’s voice booms from the lounge as I flick the kettle on. Mr Stanhope will definitely be calling noise pollution tonight. ‘It was an open goal, for fuck’s sake.’

Smiling reflectively, I lean against the worktop as the kettle rumbles and thrashes, my eyes darting around our huge, gleaming, state-of-the-art kitchen. With its sleek teal cabinets, stylish island, chic wooden breakfast bar, and forty-seven-inch screen mounted against the bare brick wall, it is breath-taking. The kind of kitchen you see celebrities posing in with their perfect families and French Bulldogs in Hello. Am I about to lose everything for one stupid mistake?

I gaze up at the full moon through the skyline windows, wishing it would purge my guilt. The kettle judders on the worktop. How did a girl like me end up with a life like this? I loved our old mid-terrace, but you couldn’t swing a cat in our kitchen. Zelda was gobsmacked when she first saw this one, said she’d kill for a kitchen like mine. The idiom sends a chill along my spine and I do a little shudder. She didn’t kill Frank. She can’t have. He got up and walked away, for goodness’ sake.

Exhaling loudly, I go to move, and just then I hear something rattling outside. I stop stock still and listen. Silence. I take a step forward. There’s a thump followed by a knock on the door – tap, tap, tap. My stomach surges. Someone’s outside. I’m about to call Tom when a thought rams into my brain. Could it be Frank? I silently recite the ominous email from KillingSteve1984, word for word – Those with blood on their hands must pay. Linda and Zelda were wrong. It wasn’t spam. F is Frank.

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