‘Peter? What did he want?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just the time of the meeting tomorrow. You know Peter, so forgetful.’
Then he walked away, and a minute later she heard him whistling in the garage. He was converting it to a bedroom for Elisabeth, and always hammering or drilling. But now, that traitorous whistle! He was not a whistler; that’s who she was. Though weirdly, she’d stopped whistling since Louise left. As if without Louise to witness her, the whistling side of Billie did not exist. Sometimes she hummed, but not the whistling anymore. Jack’s whistle was traitorous, and anyway, Peter would never have elicited a whistle or a giggle. And if it wasn’t Peter, why lie about it?
While her husband learned new ways to deceive, she did too. Furtively, she went through his pockets, letters, the credit card bill. She did not confront him, though at first she almost did. Louise certainly would have, she thought, then bit down hard on the thought. Where had Louise’s methods got her? Or indeed, her mother’s? Instead, she rehearsed the confrontation.
Jack, I know, she’d say calmly.
Know what?
Don’t play the fool with me. I know about…her.
She’d get her hair cut, wear her Chanel red lipstick, her new jean skirt, her powder-blue sweater with the ivory buttons. Gird herself with the only real weapons she had. She’d shave her legs to tell her husband she knew he was unfaithful. But something stopped her, and it took a whole week to realise what. She overheard him on the phone again, when he thought she was in the shower. (She’d left the water on – part of her new devious system.) The tone of his voice, liquid with sex, was pouring into the ear of the invisible recipient. She stood just out of sight, frightened. Indeed, this felt like a battle for her very life. For her children’s lives too. Just imagining them the children of divorce was enough to make her weep. Removing her wedding ring, not signing her name Mrs J. MacAlister – unimaginable tragedy. So she surreptitiously watched her husband, to not lose him. She often watched him watching something else. Television. The newspaper. She was so aware of him, the children and their demands became an unwelcome static, which she batted away impatiently. Yes, yes, yes, she said to sixteen-year-old Sam, fifteen-year-old Danny, fourteen-year-old Elisabeth, thirteen-year-old Donald, and her baby son, Willy – whatever you want, fine by me, just please shut up, okay? Can’t you see I’m busy?
Yes, she was distracted, but she had noticed that Danny had tacked a photo of his mother and himself to the wall above his bed. His little brother didn’t ask about his mother anymore, and seemed almost defiantly cheerful whenever she was mentioned. Billie had been reading Louise’s occasional letters to the boys, and sometimes pinned them to the kitchen bulletin board, but they rarely elicited comment, aside from grunts and nods. She didn’t allow herself to think about Louise much, but she sometimes wore one of the sweaters she found when she cleared out her apartment. Red with large green glass buttons and a floppy collar. It was big and saggy, and perfect for certain moods. It had a coffee stain down one sleeve; she’d not washed it, nor did she intend to. It was a staying-home sweater.
Sometimes she caught Jack staring out the window, but it wasn’t like him to look at the view. She made a careful note of his decreased appetite, but made no comment on his half-eaten dinners. She was losing weight too. She noted the extra time he took in the bathroom, and the way he’d begun to grow his hair a bit longer. He did daily Canadian Air Force exercises and spent weekend afternoons painting abstracts with vivid colours and jagged shapes, or working on the sailboat alone. He played records full blast, an eclectic mixture – Ella Fitzgerald, Kingston Trio, Harry James, West Side Story, Simon and Garfunkel. He appeared home with shopping bags full of new shirts and boxer shorts, and she bit her tongue when she wanted to remind him she usually bought his boxers.
One day, she was suddenly inspired.
‘Jack! I’ve got a great idea. Let’s invite Ernie and Bernice for the weekend. It’s been ages.’
Billie had often been jealous of Jack’s devotion to Ernie, but now she saw him as a possible ally. Jack respected Ernie. If Ernie disapproved of this dalliance, if he scoffed at it, Jack would drop it instantly. Wouldn’t he? But:
‘Not now, Billie. Maybe next month. Got too much on.’
Further proof of Jack’s affair. He was afraid of seeing his best friend. Billie was now convinced Ernie would be shocked. Disgusted. In fact, she was on the verge of phoning him herself, when she was derailed by an urgent need to know who she was. Who was this other woman? Really, it shouldn’t matter, but it preyed on her. Sometimes she felt quite nauseous with jealousy. It made her stomach clench and her brain stop. She forgot to buy milk, forgot to meet the school bus, forgot to flip over the pancakes when the bubbles stopped filling in. She didn’t have many close women friends these days – her husband, she’d hoped, was her best friend – but this was the point at which she began to look at them differently. Was Margery really just wanting to come for a cup of coffee, or was that a suspiciously happy smile she gave Jack when he walked into the kitchen? And newly divorced Karen, with her sexy walk and nice clothes. Divorced women were dangerous, everyone knew that. She phoned her mother.
‘Oh, baby,’ she said.
‘What, Mom? You think I’m just imagining it?’ She couldn’t read her tone, but some small hope rose.
‘No, no. I believe you.’ Pause. ‘I believe you.’
‘You do?’
‘Oh, Billieboo. Of course I do. He’s a good-looking man, and you’re tied to all those fucking kids.’
Billie slumped inside, but also felt irritated. And why did her mother always have to swear?
‘Does he hit you?’
‘Of course not! No!’
‘Is he a binge drinker?’
‘No. He drinks every day.’
‘Well, that’s something. Has he joined some kind of cult?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
Then came the announcement:
‘Honey, I’ll be away next Friday night, all right? We don’t have anything planned, do we?’
‘What do you mean, away?’
‘Oh, some silly staff training session down in Santa Barbara. I really don’t want to go, but it’s compulsory. All the editors and marketing people. Team-training garbage.’
‘Can I come? Just for the evening?’
‘Afraid not, sweetie. Wish you could. No spouses allowed.’
He smiled at her and gave her a hug, but now it didn’t mean a thing. Worse, it felt insulting. A patronising hug. She was a fool, an undesired woman and he felt sorry for her. She wanted to kill him and felt tears welling up. Darn it! Here they were, pouring down. She felt incontinent with self-pity.
‘Billie honey, what’s the matter? It’s only for a night. I’ll phone and kiss you goodnight, okay?’
He looked so sincere. Maybe she was wrong. Wouldn’t it just spoil things to tell him her suspicions?
‘Okay. I’m being silly. Sorry.’
‘Anyway, you’ll be busy with the kids.’
‘True,’ she said, sniffing. Willy was teething again; she couldn’t even leave him with a babysitter.
