Page 30 of Insomnia

“Julian, yes. Clever man. I’m amazed anything is getting built by him at the moment.” He flashes Buckley an amused,boys togetherlook. “From what I hear he’s got blue balls for that young thing he’s running around with. Can’t think of anything else apparently.” He winks at me. “Too young for me.”Oh god, so Michelle is right. There is another woman.My face must be a picture because he laughs. “Ah, I see you didn’t know about that. Don’t worry. His wife has a reputation for turning a blind eye.” He drains his wineglass. “So many marriages would be saved if all the ladies were better at that.”

Buckley laughs in agreement, as if he too has had to navigate mistresses and one-night stands, although I know he’s absolutely devoted to Belinda, his wife of thirty years. Suddenly I can see them at school, Parker Stockwell, a loud, good-looking, over-cocky bully and Buckley doing his essays for him in exchange for his friendship.

“Excuse me a moment.” I get up. “I just need to powder my nose.” I changed into a black dinner dress at the office and I can feel Stockwell’s eyes on me as I slide through the narrow gap between the tables. He doesn’t move his chair, forcing me to brush my body past his arm, and for a moment I imagine picking up the water bottle and smashing it across the side of his skull and not stopping until his brains are all over the table, and then doing the same to Buckley for being so weak. Men. God.

I find my way to the ladies’ room, away from the somewhat sedate restaurant area and past the busy cocktail bar. I’m annoyed at how I’ve let the two men get under my skin. I’ve dealt with Stockwell for months, throughout the whole mess of his divorce, and although I’ve never liked him, that’s also never bothered me. I don’t have to like people to do my job.

The stylish restrooms are empty and as I pee I reset myself. It’s one dinner, and when Buckley’s got Stockwell’s business I can fade into the background. Some pretty thing will turn his head before long, I’m sure. Maybe even the poor nanny. That’s what’s irritating me. He’s gone to all these lengths to get custody of his kids and now someone else is raising them. Still, it’s not my business. I’ve got my own shit to sort out.

“I wondered how long it would be before he made a move on you.”

Miranda.

I’m washing my hands when she emerges from the next cubicle, and although I know straightaway from that shrill, not entirely sober voice that it’s Miranda Stockwell, the scorned wife, she looks different. Her long hair is now dark, hanging free around her shoulders, and her makeup is heavier, vampy. I wouldn’t have recognized her.

“Miranda, what are you doing?” I’m exasperated and also concerned. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I can be wherever I want.”

“Did you follow him?” My heart beats faster as another thought dawns on me. “Did you follow me?” Her mouth twists in a bitter smile, but she doesn’t say anything.

“Look.” I use my most sensible, unfazed solicitor’s voice. “I can deal with the note on my windshield, but slashing my tire was dangerous.”

“I hear my boys have a new nanny.” She sways slightly, looking at her own reflection as if at a stranger. “I thought I might confront him. I came here to confront him. To embarrass him. But I can’t, can I? Anything I say or do—however fucking reasonable—will be one more year without my kids.”

“You should go home.” She’s standing between me and the door, and I’m willing someone to come in. “I don’t think it will go well if you speak to him.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m invisible.” She smiles. It’s a bitter, angry expression. “I don’t exist. I probably didn’t even need to change my hair.”

“Look, Miranda, I’m worried about you.”

“No, you’re not.” For a moment I think she’s going to cry. “You’re worried about what I might do.” She leans forward. “And you know what, Mrs. High-and-Mighty Emma Averell? Maybe you should be. Maybe I’ll do something crazy. Maybe I’ll makeyoufeel invisible.”

“You need to stop drinking,” I snap. “And you need to leave me alone. And I am not sleeping with—” She’s already out the door before I can finish the sentence, passing three women coming the other way, bustling into the narrow space and stopping me from going straight out after her.Fuck fuck fuck.

I can’t see her anywhere on my way back to the table. Has she left? Is she waiting for me outside? Should I speak to the police? And say what? She’s made some drunken mild threats but hasn’t actually touched me? I think she slashed my tire last weekend? It’s not exactly going to leap to the top of their priority list. I should at least tell Buckley and maybe Stockwell. I don’t need this shit on top of everything that’s going on at home.

The maître d’ is waiting by my table, and all three of them stare at me as I approach. Buckley looks embarrassed.

“Is everything okay?”

“Your husband rang the restaurant. He said he’s been calling your mobile.”

I thought he’d just forgotten I was out, but what if there’s been an accident? The terrible dread that comes at night roils in my gut and I feel nauseous. “The children—”

“Your husband said your children are fine, madam.” The maîtred’ looks apologetic. “But you have to go home.” I feel like every diner is turned my way, and I see one face clearly, the solitary woman standing between the bar area and the restaurant, her eyes on me.Miranda.

The maître d’ continues to speak, louder than I’m sure is necessary. “The police are there.” He pauses, giving me and everyone else time to hang on his final words. “They want to speak to you.”

26.

There’s a police car outside the house—the neighbors will love that—and I park quickly, and, feeling queasy, hurry inside. Chloe is wide-eyed, peering out from the sitting room. “They’re in the kitchen,” she says quietly as I go by. “What the fuck, Mum?”

What the fuck, indeed, Chloe,I want to answer, but instead I mutter something about whatever it is being just a mistake and that she should stay in there or go and look after Will, and then I see Phoebe coming down the stairs as if she owns the place. She looks at me like I’m poison and I’m pretty sure I’m looking at her the same way. My spine stiffens. “What are you doing upstairs?” I say. “In fact, what are you doing—”

“Emma.” Robert comes out from the kitchen, face like thunder. “They’re in here.”

“It’s about our mother.” Phoebe’s behind me, and between her and Robert ahead I feel like they’re guards escorting me to the executioner’s block rather than family.

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