The Question: A bestselling psychological thriller full of shocking twists. Jane Asher
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it alone. It was like an itchy patch of skin she kept fiddling with and picking at; worrying at the inflamed place until it would break open to reveal the ugly sore underneath. How long had the affair been going on? And did John think he loved Ruth, or was it a short-lived sexual encounter that had already begun to fizzle out? Either way, Eleanor wasn’t at all sure how she would react when she finally made her move; if indeed she ever did make a move at all. She had considered more than once doing nothing, returning to Surrey and pretending nothing had changed, that she had never heard Ruth mention the yellow tie, and never seen her in Nottingham Place.
But she knew that wasn’t possible. Never again would she be able to look John in the eye, never again hear him tell her of his evenings in town or his nights in the flat without being aware of the possibility that he was lying.
On the Thursday she made sure she got back in good time to the country, unsure as to whether John might be returning that evening, and wanting to see that everything was looking as normal as possible for his homecoming, and that she herself was calmly ready to tackle the awkwardness of having to face him for what was in effect the first time since the weekend. Their Spanish cleaning woman, Carla, given the extra time allowed by three days completely alone in the house without the coming and going of Eleanor, had tidied and polished more than usual, and Eleanor spent some time rearranging things, opening up windows and scattering signs of life about to make the house feel more as if it had been inhabited as normal during the past three days.
She didn’t know whether to feel angry, relieved or disappointed when John’s call came at six o’clock. It wasn’t as if it were anything new, of course, and many times over the years she had been rather pleased to have another night on her own in front of the television when she had been expecting to cook for John and spend the evening with him. But this time she found herself listening wryly to his call and realising that she had no way of knowing now whether what he said to her contained a word of truth.
‘So I’ll stay up till tomorrow darling, and leave a little early in the afternoon. Are we still on for the drink with Amanda, or didn’t you fix it?’
‘No, I haven’t called her. Any problem today? Any particular reason why you’re not coming back tonight?’ Is Ruth feeling a bit randy? Hasn’t she had enough this week? Eleanor mentally interpreted the conversation on both sides as it continued.
‘No, not really. Just a bit more on than I thought, that’s all.’ It’s not her. It’s him. He wants to spend another night next to her: to play with her firm, high breasts, to kiss her unlined, smooth face.
‘Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then, about fourish as usual. Have a good evening.’ I hope she gives you a heart attack as she f—as you make love.
‘Yes, OK. Thanks, darling. Have a good evening yourself. I’ll see you tomorrow.’ He’s thanking God he’s got one more night away from me, you tired old bag.
As soon as she had put down the receiver, she knew she would go up to the flat again the next day. It felt like her last chance; once he had come back and spent all weekend at home she knew she would weaken into either saying something too soon and give him the chance to cover up the truth, or she would do nothing and let the suspicions fade away into a permanent, grumbling misery. The flat seemed like the best bet for a final throw: at the office they were used to his wife appearing with no notice; they would be too practised at their deceit. The flat she virtually never visited except when with John after an evening out together. If Ruth was seeing him there with any kind of regularity there was a good chance of her being caught.
No – of course! she suddenly thought. How could she have been so stupid? It wasn’t during the day that she would catch them – it was now, this evening, at night. He had rung with his excuse – bastard – and now knew his wife was safely at home as usual. Now was the time they’d be together, and now was the time she’d catch them.
She threw a jacket over her brown long-sleeved dress, picked up her bag and quickly locked up the house, catching the dog’s reproachful glance as she walked out through the kitchen.
‘Oh Christ, I haven’t fed you, have I, George? Never mind, I’ll do it when I get back. Be a good boy.’
She installed herself in her usual discreet parking place from where she could clearly see the front entrance to the flats, and waited. After ten minutes she began to feel impatient, and looked at her watch. Seven forty-five, she muttered quietly to herself. On a hardworking day he’ll stay at the office until seven thirty or eight, and reach the flat about eight fifteen. Give it another ten minutes or so.
But then a sudden quiver of something like frightened excitement ran down the inside of her belly as a thought struck her. Or does he? Has he been getting back to the flat far earlier than I’ve ever known? Has he been ringing me after he’s eaten, or made love, or lain in the bath with her, or whatever they like to do together when they first get there after work? Telling me he’s just got back, when they’ve been relaxing there for an hour or so with their drinks and their self-satisfied, smirking, knowing looks into each other’s eyes?
Anger ripped through her body and jolted her muscles into sudden, intense action. She almost leapt out of the car, slammed the door shut and ran over the road towards the building, not bothering, for the first time in her life, to lock the car, and intent on only one thing. To find them. Together. Now.
Too impatient to wait for the lift, she half ran, half walked up the stairs to the third floor, getting out of breath by the time she reached the second-floor landing, but refusing to let herself stop and rest until she had reached the flat and discovered what she felt sure was the lovers in their lair. She went straight for the door and inserted the key without hesitation, still fired by the furious indignation that had possessed her since she had left the car.
But once more the flat was empty.
This time she didn’t bother to look around or to search. She felt completely out of her depth, outwitted by a pair of conspirators, who, even now, she felt were watching her somehow, and laughing at her. Almost tearful in her frustration, and reluctant to return to the loneliness of the car, she began once more to walk slowly down the stairs, anxious to put off the decision of what to do next or where to go, and trying in some small way to recapture the relative serenity she had found the last time she had walked slowly back down from the flat in the warm, dark silence of the stairwell.
The door of the first-floor flat was ajar once more as she passed it, but this time there was no sound of a television, and the quietness surrounding her was deep and total and made her feel uneasy. She found herself missing the cheerful sound of the audience laughter that had reassured her those three days before. Once again, her footsteps creaked on the old floorboards of the landing, and she could hear her breath still escaping in little pants after the effort of the climb up.
As she started to go down the final flight of stairs she heard the sound of the door behind her being pulled further open. Almost as if she could feel it through the back of her neck, Eleanor sensed something extraordinary was about to take place. It seemed as if she knew exactly what she was going to hear just a split second before it happened, and it was almost calmly that she paused on the stair to listen, as the quiet, hesitant voice spoke gently into the twilight of the landing.
‘Ruth, dear, is that you? Is that you, Ruth?’
Eleanor turned round quickly just in time to catch a glimpse of the same grey-haired woman she had seen before. She thought she saw a flash of something like anxiety in the hooded eyes behind their gold-framed glasses as they looked into hers for a fraction of a second, but as Eleanor moved back up onto the landing and towards the door, it was closed quickly and firmly against her.
She stood outside it and considered. She wasn’t sure why she felt so certain that this woman was the key to answering the questions that had been plaguing her for three days. She could see, even in the state of suspicion and unease that clouded her normal logical practicality, that there were alternative explanations. Yes, it was possible that here was another coincidence: that this woman knew another Ruth; or that