Page 58 of The Affair
‘I can’t believe this is happening,’ she heard him mutter. Then his head shot up. ‘Who else knows?’
She hesitated.Why humiliate him further?But there’d been enough deception. ‘Jed told Brooks when he was drunk.’
‘Neil and Brooks. Who else?’ he demanded.
‘Lynne.’
Devan threw back his head and let out a harsh snort. ‘Ooh, I bet she just loved that. Me, getting my comeuppance at last.’
‘Actually, she was shocked. And disapproving.’
Devan raised a disbelieving eyebrow. ‘Who else?’
‘No one.’ Which Connie hoped was the truth.
He gave a shaky sigh, began to pace at the bottom of the bed, arms firmly crossed, head bent. She had no idea what would happen next. She felt oddly helpless, her life suspended. All she seemed to have done was swap one man’s power over her for another’s. She was finally free from Jared’s threat of exposure, but now it was in Devan’s hands as to whether or not their marriage survived. He could just walk away. Was she relieved she’d told him? She’d finally expunged her tormenting secret, certainly. But her husband’s pain was excruciating. As she watched the dying embers of her marriage, she felt nothing but overwhelming regret. She wanted to tell Devan how much she loved him. But she knew he would laugh in her face.
Devan’s expression was blank with devastation, his mouth set in a grim line. She waited for the next barrage, her body rigid. But he said nothing, just began to get dressed.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, suddenly fearful that he might be intending to confront Jared. Her husband was not a violent man. As far as she knew, he had never raised a fist to anyone. But these were exceptional circumstances: he might do something he’d later regret.
Devan didn’t reply, just bent to tie the laces on his trainers.
‘Devan?’
‘I don’t know where I’m going,’ he said, his voice hoarse and breaking. ‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing any more.’
She raced to block his path to the door, putting her hands on his chest. ‘Please,don’t go. We have to talk, sort something out.’
‘Worried I might be going to beat up your creepy toy-boy?’ His eyes were contemptuous as he pushed her aside and was gone.
25
It was the longest night of Connie’s life. Devan had taken the car, but she had no idea where he’d gone. She sat in the kitchen, nursing a mug of tea, wrapped in a thick cardigan and a scarf, but still numb with cold. She was desperate to talk to someone – Neil? Lynne? – and let out the misery that was choking her. But it was two in the morning. She cried softly to herself, on and on until there were no more tears, and then she finally dragged herself up to bed. But she knew she wouldn’t sleep, and she did not.
Around six thirty, she heard the purr of the kettle, the clink of china, the slam of a cupboard door. She struggled from her bed, aching in every limb, and went downstairs, her heart pitching raggedly in her chest. Devan was sitting at the kitchen table, fingers looped through the handle of his coffee mug, staring vacantly into space. His face was gaunt and pale, dark smudges beneath his eyes. Riley rested his tan muzzle on his thigh, as if sensing his distress, Devan’s free hand absentmindedly stroking his wiry coat. Both looked up as Connie came into the room. Riley wagged his tail but did not leave Devan’s side. Her husband’s stare barely changed.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked, not knowing what else to say to break the heavy silence.
‘Nowhere.’
She went over to the cupboard and took out a mug for herself, poured coffee from the cafetière on the table. Then she sat down opposite him. She longed to reach out, to touch his hand, but she didn’t dare. It was still dark outside, only the first faint glimmer of dawn in the sky. The kitchen felt close, the air stagnant. Connie wanted to open a window, but she didn’t move.
His eyes were on her. ‘Tell me about the sex,’ he said, a brittle edge to his voice.
‘Devan …’
He sat up straighter. ‘Don’t evade the question again, Connie. I need to know what was so bloody special that you’d go to these lengths – break up a lifelong marriage, humiliate me, destroy –’ He gulped noisily and didn’t finish the sentence.
She inwardly recoiled. ‘I’m not going to,’ she said flatly.
He raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘I see. That good, eh?’
To her horror, she found herself blushing. Hot, shameful waves of guilt pulsing across her cheeks. But her eyes seemed glued to Devan’s. Looking into them, he could surely see her naked body, Jared’s, too, hear her cries, feel the sweat, the lust, the tangled sheets, like the playing out of a tawdry porn movie.
He jumped to his feet. ‘Christ, Connie. You make me sick.’ Picking up his coffee mug, he hurled it at the wall – on which was hanging a framed photograph of them both, kissing in front of the extraordinary façade of Gaudí’s Sagrada Família in Barcelona. Sheremembered asking a couple of backpacking Japanese teenagers to take the picture. The mug shattered. Coffee sprayed on the white walls. The photograph wobbled but was unharmed.
Devan was breathing hard. He looked as shocked by what he had done as Connie did. Neither spoke as they regarded the mess.
