The Other Wife by Michael Robotham

Author:Michael Robotham [ROBOTHAM, MICHAEL]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780751562835
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2018-06-25T16:00:00+00:00

29

Charlie has taken Emma to see a movie and I’m alone, staring at the contents of the fridge, trying to summon the enthusiasm to cook. Other chores have been completed – linen changed, washing folded and school blouses ironed – mundane domestic rituals that prove I can be a single parent.

I am listening to my old vinyl: Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. The girls don’t like my ‘Dad music’. I was the same at their age. Every Sunday morning after Mass, my father would make my sisters and I kneel beside his leather armchair while he lovingly wiped dust from a classical music LP and lifted the needle into the groove. He would sit back, close his eyes and silently conduct the orchestra with floating hands.

Telling a school-age child to sit still for an hour on a Sunday morning is a form of torture. At times, we tried to sneak out when we thought Dad had fallen asleep, but that usually led to an extended sentence. The result? To this day, I can identify almost any piece of classical music; naming the interpretations, orchestras, conductors and soloists. At the same time, I break out in a cold sweat when I hear a TV commercial backed by Mozart, or Beethoven, or Handel. It doesn’t matter if it’s for toilet paper, or beer, or margarine, my response is always the same – I’m transported back to those Sunday mornings, feeling trapped and bored shitless.

Closing the fridge door, I pick up my mobile and look up a number. Kate Hawthorn answers on the second ring.

‘Kate?’

‘Who’s this?’

‘Joe O’Loughlin. I hope you don’t mind me calling.’

‘Is there a problem?’

‘Have you eaten?’

‘Why?’

‘There’s a little French place in Soho. Shabby chic. Great food. Good wine list. You’ll feel like you’re in Paris.’

‘Are you asking me out?’

‘If you don’t want dinner, we could have a drink.’

‘I think we should keep this purely professional.’

‘That doesn’t mean we can’t eat … or drink.’

The line hums with silence. ‘Maybe another time,’ she says.

Kate hangs up and I wonder what else I could have said. I’m standing in the kitchen, looking across the rooftops. Wisps of smoke emanate from various pipes and funnels and chimneys. My mobile begins vibrating on the bench.

‘It’s not a date,’ Kate says.

‘Definitely not.’

‘And you can’t ask me about the case.’

‘OK.’

‘What time?’

‘How about now?’

‘Give me forty minutes. I’ll text you my address.’

I give a little fist-pump, happy and amazed and maybe a little anxious because I don’t know what I’m doing. Actors often ask directors, ‘What does my character want in this scene?’ I couldn’t answer that question. Maybe I have no expectations, or I’m too nervous to give them any thought.

Having showered and shaved, I choose something casual to wear – an open-neck shirt and blue blazer. Black shoes with yellow stitching on the seams. I check my medication. I don’t want to fall apart mid-meal.

Quietly pleased with the results, I catch a cab to Abbey Road in St John’s Wood, not far from the pedestrian crossing made famous by John, George, Paul and Ringo.

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