He had started on the ironing, had already ironed a shirt of his own. Now he pulled out from the basket an orange T-shirt. It was Lant’s. She had missed it when she was ironing his clothes. She had done all the rest and packed them but she had missed this T-shirt. Alex lifted it up, looked at it.
‘Is this yours, Polly?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she lied.
‘A strange colour for you. Did you buy it in New York?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘It looks a bit big for you. Is that the fashion?’
She nodded, sick of verbal lying.
‘D’you know what that colour reminds me of?’ Alex laid the T-shirt down on the ironing board. ‘It reminds me of that man we saw at Heathrow. Do you remember? At the check-in? He was wearing a black suit and he had an orange case. Do you remember?’
She knew her face had gone red. ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘I think I do.’
‘You said it’d be easy to find. You couldn’t miss it.’
‘Did I?’
She wished he hadn’t said that. It cast a cloud over the day. While they were talking the sun had gone in. The sky was grey now. It looked like rain. Alex was ironing the T-shirt, taking special care with it because it was hers. He was better at ironing than she was. When he had finished he fetched a hanger from the hallway cupboard and hung the T-shirt on it.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you can wear it when we go out.’
She tried to smile. ‘Oh, no, it’s not warm enough. It’s for summer.’
Upstairs she folded it and put it inside the parcel she would send to Lant. Now, for the first time, she began to think of him as a human being. A person with feelings, needs, loves, pain. It must have been a huge shock to him when he got his orange case back without the money. When he knew he’d lost all that money. What had he done about it? Anything? Had he told the police? He must have. Polly hadn’t thought about the police since that first time, when she had come home on Friday evening and had thought they might be waiting for her. Maybe they were looking for her now…
But she had given the money back. Every pound and dollar and euro of it. And tomorrow she was going to send him his clothes back. Washed and ironed and neatly folded. Really, she had done him a favour. No harm had been done. All the harm had been to her and she remembered the stream of hot coffee he had poured on her cream trousers. Forget his feelings, his needs, she told herself. Forget his loves and pain. It’s all over.
And she was better. Thanks to being with Alex, she was doing better. She hadn’t acted as she had over Auntie Pauline’s library book, cutting it into pieces. She hadn’t cut Lant’s money to pieces. Or destroyed it as she had Tom’s Walkman and Abby’s watch. She hadn’t dropped it over the canal bridge as she had Louise’s bag. She had taken his money back and would send the clothes back. It would have been easier to destroy the money and the clothes but she hadn’t. If she could have told Alex everything, all of it from Auntie Pauline’s book to Lant’s money, he would have seen how much better she was now than she used to be. He would also think she had lost her mind. She could never tell him.
She dressed carefully for going out in a pale blue suit. Why did men always like you in blue? She didn’t know. But she was sure that when she went downstairs Alex would say, ‘You look lovely.’
It was strange how strong the urge to explain to him was. Only by telling him everything could she protect herself and be truly safe. Then if the police came he would know why. He and she would be in it together. I love that word, she thought, that word ‘together’. One day, when Alex and I have been together for years, then I will tell him. When we are old I will tell him. And if he finds out long before that? I must take that risk, she thought. Isn’t life one risk after another?
She went downstairs. Alex, who had finished the ironing and was sitting at the table reading the paper, said, ‘You look lovely.’
‘Shall we go, then?’
‘I want to stop off on the way home and buy things for dinner tonight. We’re going to have a special dinner.’
He was very romantic. He would probably go down on one knee. She remembered something. Two days before she went to America she had mislaid one of her rings. It had turned up next day and she had no idea why she couldn’t find it before. Now she understood. Alex had ‘borrowed’ it to buy an engagement ring the same size.
On the way back from lunch it started to rain. A fine drizzle at first, then a downpour. Polly stayed in the car while Alex went into shops buying smoked salmon, a duck, salad and fruit. He bought champagne too and a bottle of dessert wine. He would drink very little. It was mostly for her.
She thought about sending Lant’s clothes back next day. Register the package perhaps? He would go to work, surely. She could take them back just as she had taken the money. Alex began the drive home. The traffic, usually light on a Sunday, was heavy because it was raining.
‘Why do you always get traffic jams when it’s wet?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘No one knows. It’s one of the mysteries of life.’
If she had taken Auntie Pauline’s book back and told her what she’d done, her life wouldn’t have changed. Everything would have been much the same. If she’d told Abby Robinson that she was the one who had stolen her watch and had offered to pay for it, what would Abby have done? Nothing much, probably. Screamed and hit her perhaps. But Abby would have calmed down and taken the money. On the other hand, if she’d not taken Tom’s Walkman and thrown it under a truck, life might have been utterly changed. They’d have stayed together. They might have married. She’d never have met Alex. So did that mean what she did was sometimes a good thing? Lying and stealing had brought her to Alex…
They were turning the corner into their street now. He had lived in this house for four years before they met. He had laid the carpets and bought the furniture as if he was making it ready for her. It would be her home for years now. Perhaps they would live there always, bring up their children there. Alex turned in at the gate and she looked up. Parked outside the house was a car the same colour as Lant’s, the same bright peacock blue. You didn’t see that shade very often.
She looked again. What she saw made her feel sick. It was Lant’s car and Lant was sitting in the driving seat.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALEX GOT OUT, TOOK the shopping out of the boot, came round and opened the door on the passenger side for her. He always did that. She had to get out, though she would have liked the earth to open and close over her head. Alex said, ‘Let’s get inside before it starts raining again.’
She followed him, not looking behind her. He unlocked the front door. A hand on her shoulder made her spin round. Trevor Lant stood there on the path. Today he was wearing a bright red jacket. He looked her straight in the eye, the way she looked at people when she lied, but he didn’t speak to her. He said to Alex, ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked who the hell you are.’
‘I might ask you the same question. This is my house.’
‘And the woman with you is my girlfriend.’ Again Lant put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Thanks for bringing the money back, darling. That’s all I came for. You’ve still got some of my clothes but you can bring them back when you come over tonight.’
Polly tried to speak but she couldn’t. She was shaking all over. She knew she had changed colour, but she couldn’t tell if she had gone red or white. Lant said, ‘Who is this chap, anyway? Your ex, I suppose.’
‘Go,’ Alex said in a voice she had never heard before. ‘Go or I’ll call the police.’