Page 19 of The Fall-Out

He turned back to his phone and, after a couple of seconds, I did too, avoiding my social media and instead flicking through random news articles. The emotion of the day had left me utterly drained, and I realised I didn’t even feel particularly hungry any more – I wanted to get in the bath with a scented candle and a book and wallow for an hour, then go to bed.

But I also needed to talk to Patch – and not just about his mother. About Zara, and her reappearance in our life. I thought of her black scarf, rolled up in my handbag – a physical reminder of her, still smelling of her, as if she was right here with us in our kitchen.

If I closed my eyes, I could see them together again – Zara and Patch. Not only how they’d been a few hours ago, their faces tilted upwards to get the best angle on Zara’s phone camera, but how they’d been back in the beginning, the unassailable, beautiful couple.

Patch was mine now, I told myself. We had our home, our children. We were a unit. We were the unassailable ones now.

But what if that changed?

The chime of the doorbell made me jump and I realised I’d been staring at my phone, not really seeing the images on the screen, for ages.

‘Food’s here,’ Patch said, springing out of his chair to answer the door.

‘I’ll grab some plates.’

I sorted the table while Patch levered the lids off plastic boxes, releasing their fragrance into the warm air. Even though I knew I’d regret it when the twins woke me at five a.m., I poured myself another glass of wine.

I waited until Patch had started tearing into his chicken madras, then said, ‘Zara looks well.’

‘Probably got a picture in an attic somewhere going all wrinkly,’ he replied.

I forced a laugh. ‘It’ll be Botox, more likely. And fillers, and face cream that costs eighty pounds a pop. Was it weird, seeing her?’

‘Not really. Funerals are like that – you see people you haven’t seen for years and then you don’t see them again until the next person carks it.’

Casually, he spooned more curry on to his plate, tore off a chunk of naan bread, dunked and ate. But I noticed that he wasn’t quite meeting my eyes either – instead, he was looking sideways at his phone, face down on the table next to him. As I watched, I saw a faint glow appear round its edges as the screen lit up. Patch saw it too – the involuntary movement of his hand towards the device told me that.

‘Someone texting you?’ I asked.

‘Dunno.’ He licked his fingers, then flipped the phone right way up. I could see an alert from WhatsApp on the screen. ‘Yup.’

I paused, a samosa halfway to my mouth. Ask him. Don’t ask him. It’s okay to ask. It’s mad and controlling to ask.

I asked. Actually, I didn’t need to ask, because I already knew. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’

He nodded, chewing. I put the samosa back on my plate.

‘Why did you give her your number?’

‘I didn’t. She already had it – it hasn’t changed since before.’

‘What does she want?’ I tried not to sound needy, jealous and controlling, but failed on all three.

‘Don’t know, do I? I haven’t read it,’ Patch responded casually.

‘Okay. Look, I’m done here. Will you put the dishwasher on before you come up?’

He nodded, still chewing. I picked up my wine glass and climbed the stairs, my legs leaden with exhaustion and my heart just as heavy.

EIGHT

DECEMBER 2009

I don’t know whose idea it was to have a party on New Year’s Eve. Quite honestly, it could have been any one of us – we were all young enough not to know that it’s categorically the worst night of the year: a night that over-promises and under-delivers, inevitably ending in drunkenness and despair.

It was probably Zara. Lately, when Patch was in town, she’d been very keen to bring him along to gatherings – to Kate’s housewarming, of course, but also to Rowan’s baby shower, which seemed a bit random. And when the Girlfriends’ Club met up on Wednesday evenings, Patch would often turn up towards the end of the night, have a drink with us and then go off somewhere else with Zara, Andy occasionally joining them.

‘It’s like she wants to show him off,’ remarked Abbie.

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