Page 55 of The Girlfriend

Cherry stopped the car in a quiet corner, where no one else was around, but where she could still see the clubhouse.

She got out and started to walk toward the entrance.

Pushing open the large double doors, she stepped inside.

It smelled of beeswax and money, and the carpet was thick and plush.

As she walked along, she noticed wooden boards hung on the walls listing winners of tournaments.

She stopped and read their gold lettering, rows of names going back to 1875.

Then she saw his name. Mr. Howard Cavendish, 2015 winner of the Winter league.

It was paired with a Mrs. Marianne Parker.

They also won in 2014, 2012, and 2011. Wow, quite a couple.

They disappeared for a while, but then she saw them listed again in 1995.

It was a long gap and Cherry wondered what had happened; maybe they’d been off form.

The most recent winners also had their photograph displayed, and Cherry’s eyes were drawn to one of Howard with Marianne.

She studied it, looking for something of interest. He had his arm around her rather broad shoulders and both were smiling at the camera.

“Can I help you? ”

A middle-aged man, dressed in a blazer and pale chinos, had stopped beside her.

He was the kind of man who knew everything about his golf club, a man who would have very strong ideas about who should be a member and the etiquette involved. She was glad she’d worn one of the suits from her days at the agency and she gave him a disarming smile. “Are you the club secretary?”

“Yes,” he said expectantly, clearly waiting for her to tell him who she was.

“I was just wondering if you could give me some membership information, a brochure or something?”

His suspicion receded slightly and she was handed a glossy brochure, then had to listen to a sales spiel.

After a few smiles and complimentary comments about the course, she managed to escape.

She made her way back to the car and sat inside, wondering what to do.

Howard spent a lot of time here, she knew, and she wanted to find out why.

She opened the brochure and dialed the number printed on the inside cover, disguising her voice.

“Oh, hello, I’m meant to be meeting a friend of mine, Marianne Parker, today, only I’ve forgotten what time we said, and I can’t get hold of her.

Could you possibly tell me our tee time?

Two o’clock? Oh, my, I’ve missed it, haven’t I?

I’ll have to catch up with her later. I’m so sorry to have bothered you.

” She hung up before he asked her any more.

So Marianne was here. It might be worth waiting a while.

Chucking the brochure on the seat, Cherry settled back.

After about an hour, she saw a woman, who looked like the woman in the photo, exit the clubhouse.

Cherry narrowed her eyes, feeling certain from her build, her brown hair, that she was Marianne.

She watched Marianne talk to a female friend she’d come out with; after a couple of minutes, they embraced and went to their separate cars.

Marianne got into a BMW, a new convertible in silver.

Cherry waited until she drove off and then carefully, cautiously, followed.

Marianne headed back into town, along the A3, and Cherry made sure she stayed at least two cars behind all the way.

They crossed the river at Battersea Bridge and then headed north toward Kensington; the roads got busier and the drivers more erratic, the farther into town they went.

Cherry almost lost her a couple of times.

When they reached Swiss Cottage, Marianne turned off toward Hampstead into what were residential streets.

Audis and Range Rovers jammed up against one another in quiet exclusivity.

Then the BMW slowed and pulled into a space outside a three-story, redbrick Victorian terrace home.

Cherry stayed back and watched as Marianne locked the car and made her way up the path to the storm porch and into the house.

Cherry waited a moment, wondering what to do next, but there was nothing more to see.

She was just starting to pull away when another car came toward her from the opposite direction.

Alarmed, she quickly reversed and parked back against the curb.

The other driver slid into a space just a little farther up the street, undid the belt, and climbed out.

Keeping her head down, Cherry watched as Howard went up the path to Marianne’s house.

Howard! She waited for him to ring the bell, but her eyes widened as she saw him take out his own key and let himself in.

Cherry stared at the shut door in excitement and let out a little laugh.

So that’s what he was up to! And for some time, judging by the years of photos of them together.

Cherry thought about the woman she’d just seen.

She was a brunette to Laura’s blond complexion, and more sturdy, more ruddy-cheeked.

Cherry wondered what it was like knowing your husband’s mistress was not as pretty as you.

Must be even more of a punch in the gut.

She slipped the car into gear and drove away.