Page 63 of Unforgivable

“You’re going to be okay? You want to sleep with me in my room?” she asks.

I chuckle. “No, thanks. But don’t tell Jack how upset I am.”

“I won’t.”

THIRTY

That night Jack sleeps close, his arm thrown over my chest, holding tight. I stare at the ceiling, at the moonlight filtering through the branches.

Who are you, Jack?

I think back to how we got together. I’d left a box of painting supplies. It took ages for me to go and get it, I don’t know why. I went to pick it up maybe three weeks later, and Jack was alone, eyes rimmed red from crying. I’d never seen a man cry before. Not even my dad, after my mother died.

She left me.It was not long after I’d finished her painting, he said. She even had someone come and hang it in the living room and the next day she was gone.

He needed help to look after Charlie, I said I would. I barely left that house after that. Two months later, we were lovers.

How well did I know him? Not well at all. I was dazzled, it must be said. Jack was in another league. And I don’t mean because of his looks. I’ve never gone for looks in a man. I find handsome men intimidating. But he seemed so…grown up. Confident, successful, rich. Who did I think I was? Did I really think he picked me for my scintillating conversation? I doubt it. I was there, I was free. I was good to Charlie. I would do until another, better offer came along.

I wait until he’s snoring, then slowly push the covers off me and slip out of bed. Because one thing that’s harking at my brain is, when did this affair start? I pick up my phone from the bedside table and step quietly out of the room, grabbing my robe along the way. I close the door behind me and pad softly down the stairs.

I never go into Jack’s office these days, mostly because he’s always in there, but also because it’s a sad place. He used to keep it tidy, with his engineering books and reference books arranged neatly in the bookshelf, the desk clear, paperwork either filed or sitting in a neat pile. Not anymore. There’s an empty bottle of scotch on his desk, a tumbler that looks like it’s been here a while.

I turn on the computer, type in the password—Charlie’s birthday—and I’m in.

I open the mail application and search for Summer’s name. I know that the odds are pretty slim, why would they email each other? But I have nothing else to try and I need to trysomething. The skin around my thumbnail is dotted with speckles of blood, and yet I keep gnawing. My heart is pulsing in my throat. I expect the worst, I won’t lie, and when nothing comes up I wonder if he uses a different name for her.

I scan through the emails, my vision blurry. I check for anything that looks like it’s from her and while I find nothing on that score, there are other emails that stop me. They’re all seem to be in response to job applications, and some of them are quite positive.

Thank you for your time yesterday, Jack, we’ve been impressed by your experience and have put you on the shortlist. Expect to hear from us next week to schedule a second interview.

But then, days later, a change of mind.

Jack, upon further reflection, we’ve decided that you are not the right fit for the company.

It’s amazing how many of these rejection emails there are, and how meek his replies.I understand. Of course I understand. Appreciate your time. No problem. Let me know if you change your mind.

I keep scrolling back to the time he started looking for a job, and find an email from someone called Emily at Garner Technical Staffing, that says:

Dear Jack,

We have received some strange and disturbing emails, from a person who calls herself Jenny Smith. She alleges that you sexually harassed her when she was in your employment as the babysitter. She is in the process of filing for damages in court because you caused her to lose her job when she complained about the harassment. She also asserts that this is not the first time it’s happened with women in your workplace.

I’m sorry to bring you this disturbing news, but I’d appreciate if you could let me know the state of affairs. At this time, considering the legal implications, our management has instructed that it is not in our best interests to continue working with you.

I stare at it for a long time, my hand clasped over my mouth. There’s a reply from Jack a day later.

I am so sorry about that, Emily, I’ll try and get to the bottom of it.

And that’s all, he doesn’t explain, and he doesn’t refute either.

Jenny Smith. The babysitter.

I type her name in the search bar.

An hour later, I’ve just about forgotten about Summer. I am completely in shock at the myriads of threads from jennysmith1998443@ aol.com. Jack has saved the emails that came directly from her into their own folder. The oldest one is dated around the time I was painting Bronwyn’s portrait, and my heart breaks a little more, if that was possible, because she was right. The affair was real.

The very first email is innocuous compared to the others. It says,We should talk. I dont care she fired me. I just want to see you.