The Affair. Colette Freedman
pretty familiar with the menu,” Julia said, voice thick with suspicion. “Brendan seemed to know it by heart. He ordered his kung pao chicken by number.”
“Should I open a bottle of wine?” Kathy asked, moving past Julia, heading into the kitchen. She knew Julia would refuse.
“No, no, I should go. Ben will wonder where I am.”
Kathy moved back down the hall and gave her sister a quick peck on the cheek. Julia smelled of lavender powder, the same talc their mother had worn. Kathy wondered if it was by accident or by design. As she’d got older Julia had come to physically resemble their late mother; she had her hair cut and styled in a slightly more modern version of both their mother’s cut, and that of her namesake, Julia Child. Like their mother and the late chef, Julia always wore a string of pearls, blue blouses, and sensible skirts. And flat shoes. Always flat shoes. She looked old, but then, she had always looked old, even as a child.
Julia stood in the door, wrapping her coat tightly around her. “You’ll be coming over on Boxing Day.” Julia turned the question into a statement.
“I haven’t mentioned it to Robert yet,” Kathy said truthfully. “But I’m sure we’ll be there.”
“It means a lot to Ben. You know he loves to see the children.”
“I know.” Kathy wanted to pour herself a large glass of wine; however, her sister had suddenly decided to get chatty.
“Have you seen Sheila?”
“Not recently.”
“Is there a new boyfriend?”
“I’ve no idea,” Kathy said, which was not entirely true. There was a new man in their younger sister’s life, someone Sheila was excited about, but was being equally secretive about at the moment. But there were always new men in Sheila’s life—each one more unsuitable than the last.
“She needs to settle down,” Julia said and sniffed. “She’s getting a little too old for all this running around.”
“She’s thirty-six. That’s hardly old.”
“I was married with two children by that age. So were you,” Julia added. “Okay, I’d better go.” She turned to kiss her sister quickly on the cheek, the slightest brushing of her lips, then she rubbed her thumb under Kathy’s right eye. “You look exhausted. You’ve got bags under your eyes. I’ll bring you some under-eye cream the next time I’m over.” She let herself out of the door and hurried down the path, her footsteps crunching slightly on the frost.
Kathy stood in the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around her chest, and waited while her sister slowly and carefully backed the big SUV out of the drive. Only when Julia straightened the car on the road and revved away, wheels spinning on icy patches, did she step back and shut the door. The hallway was so cold she could see her breath frosting in front of her face.
Brendan and Theresa were in the family room, sprawled in that peculiarly loose-limbed way that only young children and teens can manage, watching TV. CBS was running a Big Brother Christmas Special.
“Did you get your homework done?”
They both grunted.
“Any word from your father?”
“He called earlier,” Brendan volunteered, “but said he’d try you on the cell.”
“I spoke to him.”
“I hope he gets home soon,” Theresa said. “There’ll be snow later.”
“If it gets too bad out, he might stay in the city,” Kathy said, more to reassure her daughter than to repeat the lie he’d told her.
Theresa nodded without looking up. “Good. That’d be better. Safer.”
Kathy went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. Robert was a good father, she had to admit. The children wanted for nothing . . . except perhaps a father. Much of the rearing had been left to her. He had so rarely been home in the early years of their marriage; he’d often gone to work in the morning before the children awoke, and had returned late in the evening when they were in bed and asleep. They only really got to see him on weekends. And even then he was invariably working. Kathy put down her glass and began to clear up the take-out bags and foil containers. She gathered up the plates and opened the dishwasher. The children had a good relationship with him now though....
She stopped and straightened. Did they? Did they have a good relationship? What constituted a good relationship? she wondered.
He bought them everything they wanted. Christmas was no longer special, because he gave them presents out of season and often came home with pieces of jewelry for Theresa and video games for Brendan. They both idolized him; how were they going to react when . . . no, not when, just if. At the moment, it was still if.
But how much time did he give them?
She began to slot the plates into the dishwasher. She couldn’t remember the last time he’d spent time with them, when he’d simply taken them out with him for the sheer pleasure of their company. The last movie they’d been to see as a family had been . . . She shook her head; she couldn’t remember. He’d missed Brendan’s recitals and Theresa’s games because he’d been working.
Or had he?
Again, the poisonous, insidious thought curled around the question. Had he been genuinely working, or had he been playing with his mistress? Every excuse he’d ever given her was now suspect.
On impulse, she picked up her phone where she had tossed it on the table and dialed his cell. His voice mail picked up immediately; he must have the cell turned off. She went back to her purse and pulled out the sheet of paper with Stephanie Burroughs’s details on it. Then she picked up the phone and was just about to dial the number when she realized that her number would show up on Burroughs’s screen. Sitting at the kitchen table, she spent ten minutes trawling through the phone’s menu looking to switch off Send Own Number. When she’d set it, she phoned her own home to check the caller ID. Private Number showed on the screen. She had a few more sips of wine, and then she called Stephanie Burroughs’s number. It rang and rang. She was just about to hang up when it was answered.
“Hello.”
The voice was crisp, professional, brusque even. There was the tinkling of a piano in the background, the hum of conversation, a clinking of glass. A bar or a restaurant.
“Hello?”
“Hi. Is this Becky?”
“No, you have the wrong number.”
“Rebecca McFeel—” Kathy began, but the phone had already gone dead. Stephanie had killed the call. “Now what exactly did that achieve?” Kathy asked aloud.
“Mom, you’re talking to yourself again.” Theresa padded into the kitchen. She went straight to the cupboard and pulled out a box of cornflakes.
“I thought you had food delivered.”
“I did. But that was hours ago. I’m famished.” Theresa filled a bowl to the brim with cornflakes, then added milk. She glanced sidelong at her mother. “Did you get everything you were looking for in town?”
“Not everything,” Kathy said truthfully. “I made a start.” She turned to look at her daughter. “What do you want for Christmas?”
“I gave my list to Dad.”
“I haven’t seen it yet.”
Theresa concentrated on her cereal.
“Would that be because I might have a problem with some of the items on the list?” Kathy asked.
Theresa shrugged, a mere shifting of the shoulders.
“But you know your dad will get them for you.”
“It’s just one or two small things,” Theresa said