Chapter 41

The moment I walk into the lounge, Tom flicks a finger over his phone and places it next to him on the sofa, folds his arms across his chest and frowns intently at the 55-inch screen. It was his photos app. I saw a blur of faces, probably an old photo of us.

‘Good match?' I ask, sitting down heavily next to him, fingers warm from the hot mug in my hand. I peer at him as he stares at the TV screen. The lust and urgency to get me into bed has clearly gone.

‘Bit boring, to be honest.' Tom yawns, stretching his arms above his head. I follow his gaze to his phone as the light dims and goes out. ‘Left a review online.' Leaning forward, he picks up a coaster and places it in front of me, and I place my mug down. ‘For The Stage,' he clarifies, throwing me a smile.

Right, I decide very quickly to ask him about Mrs Anderson before I broach the subject of Liam. I scratch my neck as a player misses a goal and the crowd groans. ‘I was meaning to ask you,' I say. ‘You know that couple you were talking to outside the restaurant.' Reaching over, I pick up my mug of tea. Tom frowns, grabs the remote. ‘Well, the woman actually.' I take a slurp, and Tom throws me an annoying glance as he turns up the volume. He hates the sound of slurping and chewing. He passed on one of his patients to Samantha once because the poor man was breathing too loudly during his eye test.

‘What the one with Lawrence?' he says, as if Lawrence is an old friend of mine.

‘Yes,' I trill, then lower my voice. ‘Do you know her?'

Tom shakes his head, goes a bit red. Is it the heat? It is quite hot in here. I touch the radiator behind the sofa. It's still warm. ‘Not really.' How can you not really know someone? You either do, or you don't. ‘I've seen her a couple of times recently, picking Lawrence up from the golf club.'

Chewing my thumbnail, I give my husband a sideward glance. His eyes don't leave the TV. Lawrence loops in my mind. I remember Tom mentioning him now – good handicap. Could've been a pro. Bit smug, if my memory serves me correctly. Has a son who's a golf coach. Mrs Anderson must've just started dating Lawrence on the rebound. I hope Lawrence doesn't take advantage of her.

‘You'll never guess who she is,' I say, excitedly. Ignoring me, Tom leaps to the edge of his seat, eyes wide, fist clenched on his knee, and then he covers his hands over his face as another goal is missed. I nudge him with my knee. ‘Did you hear what I said?'

‘Sorry, love. Who who is?'

‘That woman with Lawrence.' Tom waits, poker-faced, then does a jittery shrug as if to say, well, are you going to tell me or not? ‘She's Daisy's auntie,' I exclaim.

Tom's face pales as a roar from the television explodes into the room. A goal has been scored and he missed it. ‘No way,' he says, lowering the volume.

Finally, a reaction. I do a little nod, sucking my cheeks in smugly. ‘She's the client who recommended her on that Friday, remember? I photographed her house. Small world, eh?'

‘Seriously?' He shoves a hand through his hair and leaves it there. ‘I can't believe it. What were the odds of that?'

‘I know,' I say, staring absently at the TV as footballers pile on top of each other.

‘Gah, we lost.' Tom starts flicking through the channels. ‘Daisy's auntie, eh? Why didn't you come over and say hello?'

‘I was about to when they got into the cab. I don't think she recognised me.' I squint at the family photograph of the three of us above the fireplace. Mum took it two years ago on the balcony of her lovely home, which overlooks the golf course. It was such a beautiful picture that we got it printed on canvas. ‘Probably too loved up with Lawrence. She was standing right next to me in the pub loos, applying lippy in the mirror. Maybe she's long-sighted,' I muse.

‘Wow, what a coincidence.' Tom leans back on the sofa and stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. ‘To be fair, I don't know Lawrence that well. He's not part of our group.'

‘Oh, I thought he was,' I say, stroking his cheek. It's stubbly but soft.

‘Nah. It's always small talk with him. I see him at the club sometimes and the Christmas dos.' Picking up the remote, Tom lowers the volume, turns to me and fixes me with a stare. ‘I really enjoyed our date night. Just me and you. Like old times.' I wouldn't go as far as that, Tom, I got pregnant almost immediately. We hardly had any fun nights out at all. ‘You and Georgia are everything to me,' he breathes, ‘I know I don't say it often enough. But if you ever…' he falters. ‘I want you to know that I'm your best friend as well as your partner.' I think Linda would object to that. ‘What I'm trying to say is.' He exhales through his nostrils. ‘I'm here if you need me. If you ever want to talk. About anything. Anything at all.' He looks at me carefully. ‘If you're in any kind of trouble.' A knot forms in my stomach. Does he know about Frank? But no, how could he? ‘In sickness and…'

I press my fingers against his lips to silence him. ‘Tom, there is something.' He frowns, narrowing his eyes. This is it. The moment I've been dreading. My heart thumps hard, cascading to my stomach. I take a breath and then I blurt, ‘I haven't been completely honest with you, and I know I should've told you this a long time ago, but I…' I glance at the ceiling, fiddling with my wedding ring. ‘There's no excuses. I've been an idiot. So much could've been avoided. If only I'd…'

‘Just tell me, Bella.' Picking up the remote control, he switches the TV off. The screen blackens in synchronisation with my heart.

‘It's about Liam,' I utter. Tom's face darkens immediately. This is going to be painful. It will crush him. I will hurt him. But sometimes we've got to do what's right and not what's best for us. ‘I met up with him. Once. Well, actually it was twice.' Tom looks at me, wordless, then gets to his feet and shoves a hand into his trouser pocket. ‘It's not what you think, Tommy.' He starts pacing, rubbing the back of his neck. I slide to the edge of the seat. ‘I shouldn't have answered his message that time. I should've deleted it. I shouldn't have let my curiosity get the better of me. I know that now.' I look up at him pleadingly. ‘But it wasn't a date.' My eyes close. ‘I had to meet him because…'

‘I know why you met him.'

My eyes snap open. ‘What?'

He snatches his phone off the sofa and starts scrolling, then hands it to me. I stare down at the lit-up screen and I know that if I was standing up my legs would buckle and I'd collapse. I glance up at Tom but he has his back to me, leaning against the fireplace as if he's doing a push-up.

Covering my mouth with my cold hand, I look at the couple in the photo. It's slightly out of focus, taken from outside through the window, but the faces are as clear as day. Liam is cupping my cheek and we're gazing at each other across the table like lovers. My intestines collapse. I think I need the loo.

‘Frank,' I manage, squeezing the phone in my hand. The prick took a selfie of us at the café in Crouch End. He must've gone round the block and come back for this shot because I watched him walk away.

‘He was showing me a few goofy photos from their trip to Monaco at the barbeque last Saturday,' Tom explains. ‘He told Zelda he'd deleted them and made me promise not to tell, and then suddenly I caught sight of this one. It was too late for him to backpedal.' I stare at Tom in a stupor, and for a split second I wish Frank was dead. ‘I think he did it on purpose, to be honest, wanted me to see it. That's why he gave me his phone.' Heat spreads through me like wildfire. ‘I asked him to send it to me. I've been waiting for you to tell me. I wanted to hear it from you.' He pauses, looks at the sparkling chandelier.

‘Tom,' I begin urgently, ‘the photo was taken out of context. I was crying, Liam tried to comfort me but I slapped his hand away.'

‘I don't care about the photo. It's what he said he overheard that's been bothering me.'

‘Did he …'

‘Yes,' Tom confirms, and I feel as if I've been plunged into an ice-bath. I can't feel my limbs. ‘He played the part to begin with, didn't want to cause any trouble and all that. But he didn't need much persuading to share your secret. Blokes solidarity and all that. Fucking tosser.' I chuck the phone onto the sofa and cover my hands over my ears as Tom rambles on and on about Liam – he's a loser – a jack-the-lad homewrecker – how could I do this to him – to us? No, no, no. Please make him stop. ‘I don't know what Frank's beef is with you, or what he was trying to achieve.' His words smother my airways. I feel as if the oxygen is being sucked out of the room. I glance up. The furniture is swaying. What's happening? Am I going to faint again? ‘But now that I know, I can't unknow, can I?'

‘Tom, please.'

‘I can't ignore that…' Tom's lips tremble. ‘That Liam is Georgia's dad.'