Page 5 of The Stranger in Room Six

The phone rings again within seconds.

‘Right – I really am reporting you,’ I’m about to say.

But he gets in first. ‘Just me.’

My husband always uses that phrase on the phone. It irritates me beyond measure, though I can’t pinpoint why.

‘I believe I left my sandwiches behind.’

My husband wants to talk about sandwiches when a stranger has just called to say he’s having an affair?

The girls and I are always teasing him for his frugality, but his request brings life back to normality; to an ordinariness which, a few minutes ago, I’d been whining about, and yet now feels decidedly comforting.

I’m about to tell him about the prank call. He’d know how to deal with it. Gerald is good at that sort of thing. But his voice interrupts my thoughts.

‘Can you leave them at reception? Sorry, dear, I’ve got a meeting to go to.’

Then he rings off before I can say goodbye.

Dear? That’s not what my husband usually calls me. He’d said it with such warmth, too.

Of course Gerald isn’t having an affair. He isn’t like that.

And nor am I.

Carefully I rip up Imran’s note into long, tidy strips and put them in the bin.

‘Be grateful for what you have.’

That’s what my mother had told me after Gillian, my first, was born and I couldn’t stop weeping. ‘You and Gerald have a child together now. Children need security and your husband can provide that.’

Now, as if on autopilot, I put the breakfast things away, make the beds, slip into my spring coat and leave for Gerald’s office. It’s not far, just a brisk twenty-minute walk into the pretty Hertfordshire town where we’ve lived since the beginning of our marriage.

Despite my earlier conviction that the call was a hoax, I still can’t get those words out of my head. ‘They’ve been seeing each other for years.’ That was impossible. Surely.

When my father left us, my mother would mutter how ‘the quiet ones are the worst’.

But just because Dad had been like that, doesn’t mean Gerald is the same, does it?

Gerald may be what you call a quiet man, but he’s also steady and dependable.

In fact, isn’t that why I accepted his proposal so eagerly?

Besides, it wasn’t as if I could marry the man I really wanted …

The office is in the centre of town. Maybe I’ll suggest that the two of us share the sandwiches in the park nearby. That will give me time to explain the silly prank call and let Gerald sort it all out.

‘I’ve brought my husband’s lunch in,’ I tell the receptionist when I arrive. She’s sitting rather casually with her legs crossed on one side of the desk, reading a magazine.

I don’t think I’ve seen this girl before. If I had, I’d have remembered her startling emerald green eyes which match her pointy shoes; the kind that make you wonder how anyone can walk in them.

‘I’m afraid Mr Wall has gone out.’

So that meeting he mentioned must be an external one.

‘What’s your name?’ I hear myself asking.

‘Penny.’

I feel a flash of relief that it’s not Karen, although of course it wouldn’t be, because there is no Karen. Is there?

‘Well, Penny, I’ll just sit in my husband’s office until he comes back.’

I head for the door with ‘G. Wall, Senior Partner’ on it and sit at the desk, trying to get my thoughts straight. But I can’t, not without talking to Gerald.

My eyes fall to the framed photograph on his desk: one I’d taken of Gerald and the girls last year, smiling on a boat in the Scilly Isles.

My heart thuds with guilt, thinking of how I’d tried to speak to Imran earlier this morning. What kind of hot bed might that have stirred up? Thank goodness he didn’t answer.

Next to the photograph is my husband’s diary. I turn to today’s date. 11.15, he’s written. There’s no client name. No location.

He’d have left early to get there on time. Gerald’s always been punctual. It was one of the endearing habits that drew me to him – that sense of security – before it became irritating.

I sit for a while and then, unable to resist, I open his filing cabinet. I don’t know this Karen’s surname but just in case, I look under ‘K’. There’s nothing.

Even so, something niggles.

Then I turn my attention to Gerald’s desk, a handsome piece of oak furniture with brass handles.

I open the top drawer. It has more files, each neatly organized.

I flick through them. They appear to be clients’ accounts.

The same goes for the other drawers, but as I close the bottom one, I notice an envelope sticking out from a folder.

It’s unsealed and its condition suggests it’s been opened several times. Inside is a photograph of a woman with long blonde hair who is, at a guess, in her thirties. She’s smiling at the camera and has a slight gap between her teeth.

Mouth dry, I turn it over.

With love, Karen x