Page 70 of The Fall-Out

Then I thought of something else.

‘Patch?’

‘What?’ He swirled the whisky in his glass, the ice cube clinking against its sides.

‘That camera. The one Zara had. What’s on it?’

‘Photos,’ he said, his face expressionless. ‘What do you think?’

‘Yes, but photos of… what? Of the time when you and she were still… and I was already…?’

He looked up at me, his immobile features suddenly slackening with what I guessed must be relief. ‘That’s right.’

‘So that’s why Zara gave it to me.’ Anger and remorse flared inside me. ‘To prove that she was right and I was wrong.’

‘Except she didn’t have to prove anything. I’ve told you now.’

With a scrape, he pushed back his chair and left the room. I heard his feet on the stairs – For God’s sake, don’t wake the kids, I thought – and then the snap of our bedroom light switch and the rumble of a drawer opening and closing.

When he returned, I thought at first he was empty-handed, and then I saw the tiny sliver of grey plastic in his hand, a gold label shining on its side. He held it out to me.

‘The memory card?’ I asked, although it was obvious that was what it was.

He nodded. ‘We don’t need it now. It’s all out in the open.’

I turned it over in my fingers, looking at it. I remembered what I’d said to Zara all those years before, in Paris: All you have left is trust.

I handed it back to him and he took it delicately, then flexed his two thumbs and forefingers around it and snapped it in half. He snapped each piece in half again, then dropped them all in the bin.

Then he stepped over to me, placed those same strong fingers tenderly on the sides of my face, and kissed me.

‘There,’ he said. ‘That’s done. I think I’ll head up to bed.’

‘I’ll join you when I’ve finished my drink.’

I waited until I heard our bedroom door close, then walked softly over to the bin and opened it. The four fragments of plastic, each less than half an inch across, lay on top of a discarded teabag. Of course, they weren’t just plastic. In there somewhere would be a microchip, possibly made of silicon, tiny transistors and resistors and other things I didn’t know the names of, metals like copper or perhaps even gold. And also, maybe, the data itself, undamaged and recoverable.

Except I wasn’t going to try and recover it. Patch had told me the truth and I was choosing to trust that.

I closed the bin and fetched my phone from the hallway where I’d abandoned my bag earlier. The Girlfriends’ Club WhatsApp had been quiet that day, as it had been for the past couple of weeks. The question of the second, secret group that might or might not exist niggled at my mind, but I posted anyway.

Naomi:

Evening all. How’s everyone’s day been? Just wanted to let you know Patch and I had a good chat tonight.

Abbie:

Evening. Just got into bed, I’m knackered. What about?

Naomi:

The whole Zara thing. Turns out there was an overlap between her and me. He admitted it.

Kate:

Oh no. Shit, Nome, that’s a lot to take in.

Rowan:

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