Page 78 of We Live Here Now

77

Freddie

The drive up the lane with a slight beer buzz doesn’t take the edge off the frustration of not having the time to reinforce my worries with Paul. As soon as Joe was on his way back to Sally, I’d begun to tell Paul that this calmer and happier Emily was only a show for visitors and that behind closed doors her moods were entirely different, but his phone rang and it was a sick parishioner who needed a visit.

Still , I think as I drive. There’s no rush. The bees buzz behind my eyes, impatiently contradicting me. Of course there’s a rush. Every day the noose of debt gets tighter and I get closer to losing my kneecaps. The road is full of gray slush, the snow melting into dirt. I wish Emily weren’t being so nice. So much like her old self. Maybe she isn’t thinking of divorcing me after all. I can’t decide if that’s a disappointment or not. How far down the road of setting up her suicide am I?

Setting up her suicide. I’m so weak. I have to laugh at how I sugarcoat things even to myself. Plotting her murder, that’s what I really mean. I have to be honest, at least with myself. The truth is that I’m thinking about killing my wife. If I gave her enough sleeping pills, it wouldn’t even hurt. She just wouldn’t wake up. I wouldn’t want to hurt her. God, I’m so tired.

I pull up at the postbox to empty it of any final demands and credit letters that I’m not even going to open before I throw them on the fire. The dread makes me stare at my phone for a moment, the temptation to have just one go on the PokerPlayUK app that I’ve deleted and added back so many times now. I shove my phone into my pocket and get out. If I’m really considering doing the unthinkable to get myself out of this mess, I need to stop now.

There are three bills waiting for me in the box, and I screw them up and stuff them into my pockets, but there’s something else.

A white A4 envelope neatly addressed to Emily.

A business envelope, and it feels like there’s a fair amount of paperwork inside. She has filed for divorce.

I look more closely and see that it’s come from the company Mark works at. What the hell is Mark doing sending paperwork to Emily? It’s not like they’ve even ever been close. Is he somehow advising her on how to get the best out of this awful financial mess? Moving her pension somewhere out of reach maybe?

I open it as carefully as possible but the paper still tears, but nothing I can’t tape up and pretend it came that way. I pull out the documents, immediately recognizing them as paperwork for a Jersey account— Why the hell does Emily have a Jersey account? —and then look at the short note written in Mark’s busy scrawl paper-clipped to the front.

The 150k is all there. We’re done. Destroy the film of me and Cat. Get out of your friendship with Iso.

I stare for a very long time, totally confused. What film of Cat and Mark would Emily have? One hundred and fifty thousand pounds. Why would Mark give her all that money for it? The obvious truth slowly sinks in as a chill wind cuts through me. Mark is fucking Cat. Emily knows and has blackmailed him. Now she has a hundred and fifty thousand pounds hidden away. The truth dawns on me. She’s got a get-out plan for herself and is going to leave me in all the shit.

That fucking bitch.