Page 55 of The Wake-Up Call

“I don’t think I can do this,” Ms. Ashley says, staring at the four-by-four currently parking up, with a serious-faced couple inside: Graham, presumably, and the other Mrs. Rogers. “Look at that car. Is that his car? He would never drive a car like that, but he’s driving that car right now. How is that possible?” Ms. Ashley fixes her gaze on me again. “He was always too good to be true,” she whispers, gripping my arm. “I should have known.”

I grip her hand right back, feeling a bit desperate. I want to give her a hug, but I am pretty sure she doesn’t want one from me. “You couldn’t have known. Ms. Ashley, it’s not your fault.”

“I can’t do this,” she says. “I can’t sit in the same room as them. I thought I could yesterday, but I can’t do it. Oh, God.”

They’re climbing out of the car. The other Mrs. Rogers looks as though she is vibrating with rage. She slams the door hard and stalks past her husband. She’s younger, curvier, with orange-blonde hair in a crown braid.

“Darling,” says Graham, racing after her. “Please. Talk to me. I love you.”

Hedoeslook like a nice guy. A bumbling British type. All tweed and good intentions. He’s not seen Ms. Ashley yet, I realise—she’s hidden behind one of the round box hedges. She steps out now, her arms folded, her whole body trembling.

“Which darling would that be?” she says.

It’s extraordinary to watch Graham make his decision. In one second, then two, it all passes over his face: indecision, cunning, deliberation. Not so well-intentioned now. As the other Mrs. Rogers falters at the sight of Ms. Ashley, Graham picks the life he wants to live.

“The truth is, darling,” he says to the blonde wife he drove here with. “This is all a terrible mix-up. I knew this woman once. I’m sorry to tell you... she’s quite mad.”

Ms. Ashley’s mouth drops open. The blonde Mrs. Rogers narrows her eyes, keeping her gaze fixed on the woman in front of her.

“Tell me,” she says.

Ms. Ashley doesn’t hesitate. “He married me eight years ago in Godalming. We live together in New Milton. He stays away a lot for work. We’ve had two cats, a miscarriage, eight holidays in Spain, and three days ago he told me he’d never loved me more.”

“All nonsense,” Graham says immediately.

Mrs. Rogers nods once. “In that case—no brunch,” she says, redirecting her attention to Mrs. SB. “We’re calling the police instead.”

Ms. Ashley tenses. We all wait, wondering exactly whichweMrs. Rogers means, until she turns slowly and looks at her husband.

“Bigamy is a serious crime,darling,” she says.

•••••

When the police car pulls up the hotel’s sweeping gravel drive, most of the hotel staff, Mr. Townsend, and even the Jacobses (their cheerfully waving baby included) have come to watch the drama unfold.

The two former Mrs. Rogerses stand at opposite ends of the crowd, stony-faced, as Mr. Rogers gawps in the face of the policeman currently reading him his rights.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, looking back at us all. He is giving off odious these-sorts-of-things-don’t-happen-to-men-like-me vibes, which makes me want that policeman to use the handcuffs currently dangling from his belt. “You’re having mearrested? Are you quite serious?”

“I think they’re pretty serious, mate,” says the policeman. “I know I certainly am. Get in the car.”

“This is all a terrible misunderstanding,” Graham implores in the general direction of his wives.

The policeman taps on the roof of the car. “In. Now.”

“Now, see here,” says Graham, and then—to whoops from the crowd—the policeman places one hand firmly on his head and shoves him in the back seat.

The car door slams shut. Ms. Brown flips Graham the bird as the police drive away, and Ms. Ashley yells an insult so colourful that Mr. and Mrs. Hedgers immediately scoop up the children and flee the scene before Ruby asks anyone to repeat it.

“Is it too early to get drunk?” Ms. Brown asks Barty and Mrs. SB.

“I leave that to your judgement,” Barty says. “But I will mention that we have a twenty-four-hour license.”

“Perfect,” says Ms. Brown, heading inside. “Come on,” she says to Ms. Ashley without looking at her. “I think you and I need to chat.”

As the two of them settle in at our grand mahogany bar with a Bloody Mary each, I notice my hands are shaking on the menu I’m carrying over to them. It’s just... I always try to see the best in people. To think that everyone is fundamentally quite nice really. And then someone does something this awful, and it makes me wonder how the hell you’re meant to know who to trust.

I play with my necklace, the one my mum gave me. It’s times like these that I miss my parents the most.

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