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22. EARLY SUMMER 2013

But Catherine is wrong. Robert has done nothing but think of her. For hours. Unmoving. Sitting at his desk when everyone else has gone home, his head on fire with thoughts of his wife. The package had sat unopened on his desk all afternoon and then, just when he was about to leave, he had picked it up.

He had his jacket half on, ready to go home to Catherine, when he tore it open. He had, like her, been looking forward to an evening together and that’s what he was thinking of when he opened the envelope. He had frowned and slipped out a fan of photographs, thoughtless, not really registering what he was looking at. A quick glimpse. There was something else in the package too. A book. The book Catherine had burned. The Perfect Stranger by E. J. Preston. He opened it to the first page: “Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental…”

And then he had sat down and taken his jacket off.

He went through the photographs again, this time giving them his full attention, studying them one after the other. There were thirty-four in all. He picked up the manila envelope they’d arrived in and studied that too. The handwriting on the front. But he didn’t recognise it. Delivered by hand, it said in the corner, with Robert’s name written in fountain pen, not a biro, a fountain pen loaded with royal blue ink. Then he had stood up to catch his assistant before she left.

“Where did these come from?” he had asked. She had been surprised by his tone, stopped doing what she was doing.

“Someone left them with reception.”

“Who?”

“I’ll find out,” she said and picked up the phone with Robert standing over her. She turned to him.

“It was a man. An old man. Lucy said he handed her the envelope and told her they were for you. He didn’t say anything else. She said he looked a bit, well, rough. She thought he was a tramp but he was polite and he didn’t hang around, just left the envelope and walked out.”

“Thanks, I’ll see you in the morning,” and he’d dismissed her.

He is still sitting at his desk, the photographs spread before him like a Hockney collage: small images pieced together to reveal a bigger picture. But Robert cannot see what that bigger picture is. What he sees is Catherine. Catherine on a beach fingering the ties at the side of her red bikini with Nicholas nearby, smiling at the camera. Catherine asleep, peaceful. Another with her propped up on one arm, her breasts pushed together, beautiful, spilling over the top of her bikini, her smiling face resting on her hand. Who is she smiling at? Catherine and Nicholas sitting in the shallows, Nicholas looking out to sea but Catherine looking directly at the camera. She looks sexy, swelling with it, and their little boy, five at the time, sitting at her feet.

The photographs have been taken over a series of days, not just one day, but several. More than several? He tries to remember. Nicholas is in most of the beach scenes. But there are other photographs too, where Nicholas does not appear. But was he there? In the background? He must have been nearby. Was he in the same room? Was he in the next room? Alone? Was he asleep? What did he see? What did he hear? In these other photographs Catherine is wearing underwear, not a bikini. Knickers and bra. Definitely not a bikini. Lace. Straps that slip off shoulders. Nipples seen, sharp, through the lace. Knickers, not bikini bottoms. Nothing as robust as that. Tiny, fragile. Nothing that would stay on underwater. He should know — he had bought them for her, for their holiday. And her hand is down the front of her knickers and her head is back as if she is looking at something on the ceiling, but she is clearly not looking at anything. She has taken herself away somewhere else; she has reached a place which has parted her lips and closed her eyes. Lost in her own exquisite space. But not quite alone because someone else is there. A silent, appreciative witness. Invisible. Except in one photograph. One slipup. A shadow on the edge of the frame.

Robert is grateful he is alone, grateful that no one is there to witness his tears. The initial shock at seeing the pictures has given way to an ache which runs through him like a steel blade, which has sliced down from the crown of his head to his stomach. He feels his insides leaking from the gash. His fingers had been shaking when he’d texted Catherine to say he was stuck at work. A text was all he could manage. He couldn’t speak to her, not yet. He was not capable of having the conversation he knew they would have to have at some point, but not now.

He wants to believe that it is a mistake but he cannot deny what he is looking at. It is her. In full colour, in close-up. He can almost smell her body coming off the shiny prints. The images speak for themselves, images which are new to him, and yet flashes of which he recognises. The underwear. He had chosen it, and the red bikini. Her face is the same, younger, but the same, and yet her expression is not one he quite recognises. And that is so, so painful. He has never seen the absolute abandon on Catherine’s face. It is Catherine but it is not his wife. The location he recognises too. Spain in, when was it ’91, ’92? A small Spanish seaside town. A summer holiday for the three of them. And then his anger rises, and he is grateful for it — allowing it to overwhelm the pain for a moment. He remembers he had missed part of that holiday. He had flown back early, leaving Catherine and Nicholas behind. A case had come up, something which must have felt important at the time but now is lost in the more important fact that it took him away from his wife and child.

Catherine may not look like his wife in the photographs, but Nicholas is absolutely recognisable as his son. His smile. His slender body, baby fat gone, very much a little boy, no longer an infant. All angles, knobbly knees, sharp elbows. A constantly moving flash of a boy, electric with curiosity. Looking at this little boy fuels his anger. What did Nicholas witness? How much did he see? How much did he understand? The poor little mite would have had no choice. He couldn’t catch a flight home. He couldn’t ask Daddy to come and fetch him.

Robert pushes his mind back to when Catherine and Nicholas came home from that holiday. It was soon after that when Catherine announced she wanted to go back to work full-time. He remembers it well. It had come out of the blue. He had assumed she would stay at home a little longer, then go back part-time. It wasn’t the money; he was earning more than she was — enough for both of them. It had upset him, but he didn’t say anything; he covered up what he felt because he put her needs before his. He had kept his disappointment to himself. He swallows down the phlegm that has gathered at the back of his throat. She’d told him she was depressed, that she missed her work. She didn’t say it, but he could tell that being a mother was just not enough for her; she put her own needs before their child’s. But so had he. He had put Catherine’s needs before Nick’s. So it hadn’t been about work — it had been about her affair on holiday.

She was depressed about their marriage, not about being at home. He looks at the photos spread out on his desk. She found something more exciting on that holiday. Fucking hell, he’s been such an idiot. He should have pushed her the other night when he caught her burning the book. She was about to tell him, and she would have if he’d insisted. But of course he didn’t. He played right into her hands as always. That’s why she hasn’t been sleeping, that’s why she’s so fucking caught up with herself: she’s been found out. It wasn’t about Nick moving out, or her guilt — she doesn’t give a fuck for Nick or him. No, she’s been found out, that’s what this is about. Found out about an affair she had years ago. An affair she had under their son’s nose. Jesus Christ.

Poor Nicholas trapped in Spain with his mother and who else? Who was there with them? His mother with a stranger and him, a five-year-old witnessing god knows what. The perfect stranger? He rakes through his memory to see if he can retrieve any conversation he might have had with Catherine when she came home, something which might give him a clue. But all he comes up with are innocuous phrases: “We missed you,” “It wasn’t the same once you’d left.” Well, that’s for fucking sure.

And what about Nicholas? Did he say anything which Robert could have picked up on? Should have picked up on? Did his behaviour change? Was he withdrawn? But Robert can’t remember Nicholas saying anything at all. Surely he would have said something like, “Mummy’s friend did this,” or “We met this nice man,” or “Mummy made a friend,” but he can’t remember his son saying anything, ever, about the time when he was alone with Mummy on holiday. And a stranger. Was it a stranger? Or did he know him? It worries him that Nicholas said nothing. It is not normal. For a child to simply say nothing. Children only say nothing when they are hiding something, something that is unsayable.

His phone beeps. A text from Catherine: “Wish you’d let me know earlier.” No kiss this time. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to talk to her, or text her even. But his son he must talk to. He must see him. Remembering the Nicholas in the photographs and knowing how he is now as a young man, he is struck by the discrepancy. That crash-bang-wallop of a child is nowhere to be seen now in the plodding, rather aimless, twenty-five-year-old Nicholas. That child was snuffed out by adolescence — smoked out — and never quite recovered. He’d always asked himself, why? Why did he drop out? Why was he so unmotivated? And his mother had said nothing. Well, maybe this is why. Maybe little Nick saw, heard things he shouldn’t have. Perhaps now Robert has the key to unlock whatever it is that knocked the fizz out of his son.

“Nick? Hi, it’s Dad.”

“Hello.” His voice is flat.

“Listen, have you eaten?” Robert infuses his voice with enthusiasm.

“Er, no…”

“Well, I’m going to swing by and take you out to supper. I’ve had to work late and I’m starving…” Nicholas hesitates but Robert is determined: “Just a quickie, we can grab something in the pub near you. It’s on my way home.”

“Mum’s trying to get hold of you, by the way.”

“I’ve spoken to her, don’t worry,” he lies. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes.”

There are four bells on Nicholas’s front door, three with scribbled names, one without. Robert rings the top nameless bell. He hasn’t been here since he and Catherine helped Nicholas move in three months ago. He pictures him making his way down the four flights. When he finally opens the door, he looks exhausted.

“Shall we go?” Robert beams, overcompensating for his son’s lack of enthusiasm.

“I’m not quite ready.”

“That’s fine; I’ll come up and wait.” And Robert follows him, holding back his strides to fit his son’s heavy tread, taking in Nicholas’s bare feet, the dirty soles; the post littering the hall floor; the stained, cigarette-burned carpet. Robert waits in the sitting room, peering into the kitchen, taking in the sink full of dirty plates; the blackened frying pan on the hob; the bin which needs emptying — juice and milk cartons, scraps of food spilling from the black bag. What you’d expect from a flat full of students, he tells himself, except Nick is the only one who isn’t a student. His flatmates are out and the place reeks of dope. He hopes that it’s from them, not Nick. Please don’t let him be back on weed again, he thinks, but he doesn’t want to risk annoying his son, so says nothing.

“Ready?” Robert pushes open the bedroom door and his stomach dips again. Pants, plates, jeans, cups, all dumped in their own filth. The duvet has a yellowish tinge to the edge where Nicholas’s face has rubbed against it. He is sitting on the bed putting on his socks. Robert watches him push his feet into the pair of black slip-on shoes he wears for work and feels another surge of anger towards Catherine. This is her fault. She pushed Nicholas away. She persuaded Robert that it would be good for him to be independent. There’s not even a lampshade on the ceiling light. His throat catches. He sees the mobile Nicholas had had as a little boy hanging from a hook intended for something else, the fragile paper wings of the plane crashing against the wall, not enough space for it to float freely.

“Come on then, mate, let’s get going,” and he gives his son an encouraging smile. He is determined to get through the evening without breaking down.

Father and son. A bottle of red wine. Steak and chips. Robert had persuaded the kitchen to serve them late. A loving father who wishes he had done this before. Wishes he had made a habit of it. He asks Nicholas about work but only half listens as he answers. Being a trainee salesman for John Lewis isn’t the career he and Catherine had hoped for their son, but nevertheless Nicholas seems to have enough to say about it to convince his father he’s all right and he’s perked up now he has eaten. He was ravenous. He tells Robert about training days and staff benefits. But is this really what he wants to do with his life? Is it enough? And does he really enjoy living in such squalor?

“So how are you finding it, the flat?” Robert asks. Nicholas shrugs, but then a smile tickles his mouth.

“Haven’t actually been there much recently,” he says, sticking his fork into Robert’s chips.

“Oh?”

“There’s a girl I’ve met. I’ve been spending quite a lot of time at her place.”

“So tell me about her.” This is good news.

“Not much to tell. Don’t think she’d be Mum’s cup of tea…”

“Well, it’s nothing to do with her, is it.” His tone makes Nicholas look up in surprise.

“So what’s she like?” Robert moves on.

“Nice. We’re hoping to go away this summer, if we can get the money together.”

“Really? Where?”

“Somewhere cheap. Maybe Spain. Or Majorca,” he says and grins.

“Spain.” Perfect. “D’you remember that holiday we went on when you were little? To Spain?” Nicholas looks irritated by the change of subject.

“No, I don’t.”

“You were about five. I had to go home halfway through because of work. You and Mum were there on your own.” He scrutinises Nicholas’s face for a sign, but there is nothing. A blank, revealing surely that something must have been erased.

“Vaguely. Not really.”

“It was only for a few days.” He wants to nudge his son into remembering without causing alarm.

“I felt bad about it at the time. I shouldn’t have left you. On your own. With just Mum.” Nicholas looks at him then shrugs.

“I don’t really remember, Dad. Don’t feel bad about it.”

Robert searches his face again for any flicker of pain, but detects none. Whatever he experienced back then has been buried deep.

“You should take your girlfriend somewhere nice. I’ll help you out. It must be hard on your salary, with the rent and everything.”

Nicholas is thrown. This is surely against the rules, Mum’s rules, but he’s happy to take anything he can get from his father.

“Thanks,” he says.

After Robert has dropped Nicholas back, he drives around until he is sure Catherine will be asleep. He parks outside the house and looks up at their bedroom window. The light is off. He takes the book from his bag, and lighting the first page with his phone, reads: “Victoria station on a grey, wet, Thursday afternoon. The perfect day on which to escape…”

He is too tired to face what it might tell him now, and it is the photographs which have seared his heart. He will read the book tomorrow. He Googles The Perfect Stranger from his phone, and finds the site for the book. But like Catherine, he finds nothing which tells him who the author might be, male, female, young, old. He presumes male, of his age. He reads the review and wonders who wrote it. He gets out of the car, shuts the door, then lets himself into the house. He listens, makes no noise himself, then goes up to the spare room.