Chapter 1

Prue Gascoyne Hawkins was 24 years old. Her skin still had the glow of youth, like the fresh, blushing tan of a day at the beach. It was two years now since Prudence Felicity Gascoyne added the name Hawkins to her own. It happened in a small chapel. Family and friends watched her do it, a priest too, but most of all Peter Hawkins, 24 then.

He’d been her fiancé since college.

His vows happened to mirror hers. They were about ‘forever’ and ‘death do us part.’ But death was still too far away to have meaning for them. And forever was vague enough to live with. ‘Forsaking others’ seemed ridiculous: they were still so besotted with their new love that there wasn’t even a concept of ‘others’ in their minds.

That was two years ago.

Now there were these few hastily typed words on her cellphone. “He cheats,” they read. And they made her world come to a screeching halt.

Peter Hawkins was 25, almost 26. He had the dark, unruly hair women love to touch. He also had clear blue eyes under thick eyebrows, an eternal tan and the stubble of fashionable rebellion. Peter knew he was on his way to become a great architect; it was just a matter of time for the rest of the world to agree, he was sure – even his father in law.

Peter loved his wife Prue.

Most of all: he knew she loved him. She’d been The Prize at university – cute, clever and popular. Falling in love with her had been a thrilling rollercoaster of feelings he’d been too pre-occupied to analyze. Peter wasn’t a great analyzer of feelings anyway, like most men. Assured of her love, he basked in a sense of certainty, a warm bath of comfort.

Peter never knew that love is the eternal antagonist of comfort.

And now there were these two little words on his cell phone’s screen, clawing at the foundations of his cozy life: “She cheats.”

Reality kicked in and Prue Gascoyne Hawkins returned to life.

First thing she moved was her head, shaking it left and right – like waking up. Her hand rose as she dropped the phone in her purse. Finally taking a step, she scattered the halo of diffuse sunlight around her.

She wasn’t aware of anything, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

“He cheats,” her brain said, copying the message. “He” was who – Peter? Who else? And about what did he cheat? What secret could he hide? Who sent the message anyway? And why?

Peter Hawkins started moving too.

He closed his phone and put it away. Looking around he noticed the empty hall. He walked to the exit, nodding at the security guard without really seeing him.

Stepping into the slanting sunlight he blinked his eyes.

“She cheats?” he thought. About what? What secret could she have? He had none, did she? He planned on surprising her on their anniversary; that was a secret of sorts, maybe. But it was still months away – he didn’t even know yet what the surprise would be.

He shook his head and walked to the subway.

“Hi darling, how was your day?”

She hugged him as always – no, not like always. There was a hesitation, ever so tiny, he thought. She was an all-out hugger, always had been – arms and breasts and belly; warm, soft and intense. He loved her for that.

But now there was tension; not much, not obvious, but there was.

“Same old,” he said. “Glad it’s Friday.”

The words sounded like always, didn’t they? But it had taken him a conscious effort to make them sound that way. Why was that? And did she notice? Was that why she blinked and looked away? Her smile was there – her usual smile, causing dimples and showing off her white teeth.

And yet...

“What about yours?” he asked as he let go of her.

“Nothing special,” she said, already turning away.

He wanted to reach out and stop her, but he didn’t.

The hot water fell like a curtain.

He put his head under it, feeling the stream hit his brow and run over his closed eyes. “She cheats.” What the fuck did it mean? Did it mean anything? There was no name, no number, just the two words. Should he ask her? Yes, he should. But why had she been so nervous? Had she been nervous? Or had he?

Fuck.

Prue heard the shower go.

She might be naïve, spoilt or even shallow. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew the cheating wouldn’t be about mere little secrets from the past. Not things like old lovers, or a lie about his education or his career.

“He cheats,” the message said and she knew it was cheating now and on her.

But Prue was brought up in a home where bad news wasn’t welcome. Pretending everything was fine was the rule until reality left no way out anymore.

So she shook her curls and went looking for a smile.

He dried his hair and body.

Then he put on shorts and a t-shirt. Walking from their bedroom he saw her sit at the kitchen bar, sipping white wine. She still wore her blouse and skirt, but had kicked off her heels. Stocking-clad toes curled around the metal bar between the legs of her stool. There was a second glass on the counter, red wine – as usual. He approached her from behind, wrapping his arms around her.

She stiffened, if only for a second – a fraction of a second.

He smelled the scent of her hair. Then he let go of her and lifted his glass, standing at the corner of the console. As he sipped he saw her watch him. When he looked back, her eyes escaped. He should ask. He should, but could he? “She cheats.” What does it mean?

Ask her.

Seconds passed and she beat him to it.

“Kuric wants to have a talk with me, Monday,” she said, finding safety in the banality of work. He tried to hold her fleeting eyes. Kuric? Her boss, almost forty, tall, dark, very successful – hero of quite a few of her stories.

“Oh, does he? What about?”

“Don’t know. Maybe the new project. Maybe they want me to coordinate it?”

Look at me! he screamed in the privacy of his mind.

“Wow,” he said instead. “That would be something.”

“Nothing special,” she’d said when he’d asked about her day. Wasn’t this special? Peter’s mind ran down the stairs of his memory, stopping at each moment he’d seen the two of them together, Kuric and she; their looks, their interaction – each word he recalled her saying about him. She admired the man, she laughed at his jokes.

He remembered her touching the man’s forearm, once.

Stop this!

Prue let her slim finger run around the rim of her glass, finding another excuse to not look at her husband. The growing awkwardness seemed to strangle her throat, making her words sound forced.

“Yes, wouldn’t it?” she said. “Just two years and already doing a project. Scary!”

She laughed – or tried to. Looking up she saw a smile touch his lips but it never reached his eyes – the clear blue eyes were dark now. “He cheats on me,” she thought. He doesn’t care. He stopped caring. He doesn’t love me anymore.

Did he ever?

Stop this!

“Did you see Karen today?” she asked.

Karen Samuelson was tall, blond with blue eyes. She had great taste, great tits too. She was an award winning architect, and Pete’s boss. Did his eyes shift at her question? Did hers?

“No, why?” he asked, and she knew her question had been silly – and obvious. Damn.

“Oh, nothing,” she said, sliding off the stool. “Let’s start dinner.”

They ate.

Peter remembered the lasagna Prue made was special. It wasn’t lasagna really, but a dish made of layered vegetables, sliced very, very thin, almost translucent – zucchini and tomatoes, onions, garlic and crumbled goat cheese, grilled in the oven. Lots of virgin oil. What did they call it again in Italy?

It tasted like cardboard.

“Mmmm,” he said. “Delicious. What’s it called again?”

She looked up, smiling.

“Tian,” she said.

“Damn, those Italians know their food,” he said.

“It’s French, remember?” she corrected. “Provence.”

He shrugged, taking another bite and chewing. The food had no taste to him; so did the wine.

Prue watched him eat while she sent her fork aimlessly through the delicious ingredients on her plate. Pete shoved it into his mouth by the forkful, she saw, but did he really even chew before swallowing?

Tian had been their fond discovery, like so many other exotic little dishes. Good food was important to them, just like traveling, finding new places together, exploring exotic things.

He is lying, she thought, finishing her third glass of wine. She never drank more than two. He lies about finding it delicious. Has he always been lying?

About everything?

Stop this!

She reached for the bottle. His hand checked hers. She felt a sting of irritation.

“What’s wrong, Prue?” he asked.

Of course that was the question. It had been simmering inside him all evening. It had blocked his throat, obsessing his mind. Not necessarily in these exact words _– there had been terms like damn and fuck in earlier versions – but watching her reach for a fourth drink had pushed it out.

What was wrong with her, with them?

She cheats.

Her eyes blinked. She blushed. Then she pushed away his hand and got hold of the bottle.

“Nothing,” she said, spilling wine as she poured.

He left the table, his plate half-empty.

Their apartment wasn’t big, but he did have his own room. It held his computer, his books and some knick-knacks – photographs, souvenirs, trophies. And his collection of car-models. They were all of British cars and none older than 1970. It was his dream to have one for real – a convertible Austin Healy.

But right now he didn’t dream. Or did he? It was a nightmare, more likely – a daymare.

He sat down, rubbing his temples.

Prue had not tried to stop him when he left the table. Why did she drink so much? She’s nervous. Of course she is; she cheats on you. But why nervous now – all of a sudden? She sure must have been cheating for a while. Of course she must have. So why act different now? Or didn’t he look – didn’t he notice before?

He shook his head to clear it.

Think! So she cheats. Who says so? The phone says so. Who’s the phone? Damn phone. Could be anyone – any crazy asshole. The name Kuric crept in. Fuck off, Kuric.

Why can’t she just say what’s wrong?

He rose and took a narrow carton box from a shelf. “Laphroaig” it said. There was an oval, etch-like picture on it and the number 10. The bottle he pulled from it was half empty – half full? He found a glass and blew the dust out off it before pouring a finger width of the amber fluid.

The whisky smelled of burning peat. It tasted like medicine.

Prue pressed her empty glass against her brow.

Through the buzz of four glasses of wine she tried to think. What was happening to them? What happened anyway? Three hours ago everything was fine; and all that happened in between was this one silly anonymous message.

He cheats.

No name, no proof, no specification, and yet: everything seemed different. Peter acted weird, didn’t he? Shushpicioush – not a word to say out loud after four wines.

He‘d asked her what was wrong, goddammit. He cheated and then he asked her?

What was wrong with him?

She put down the glass and rose, grabbing the edge of the table – their lovely, lovely blond oak table, handmade by this sweet, sweet old man. “A table to last a lifetime,” he’d said. “And of your children and grandchildren.”

Ah, well.

Her legs felt weak as she rose. She stumbled. Then her head cleared. Walking over to the closed door of his room she felt her bare feet sink in the thick Berber rug that covered part of their shining parquet floor. Grey oak planks; God had they been expensive.

She rested her hot face against the door’s panel, her hand in a fist, ready to knock.

“Peter,” she said. “Pete, please.”

The whisky wasn’t medicine.

It burned his throat, but it was as tasteless as the food and the wine. It didn’t clear his mind or cloud it, it did nothing; not even make his knotted muscles relax.

“Pete.”

He heard her voice, her cheating voice. Please, it said.

Was he a fool? He must be, either way. It was a lose-lose situation, wasn’t it? Either he was a clueless cuckold, or he was played like a puppet by an anonymous liar.

Point was: how could he be sure?

Then it dawned on Peter Hawkins. He had to choose and the choice was easy, really, wasn’t it? The choice was either to believe a total and anonymous stranger, or the love of his life – the woman he’d shared the last four years with, made plans with, slept with, laughed and cried with. The woman he loved more than himself.

Even acting like she did: strangely – suspiciously.

He rose and walked to the door. Opening it he caught the body that leaned into it, falling into his arms when the door gave in – the soft familiar body that fit so well in his embrace. He kissed her crying face, tasting the salty tears.

“Ssssh,” he said. “Shhhhhh,” as much to himself as to her.

“I’m drunk,” she said.

“So am I,” he admitted.

They swayed in each other’s embrace, not quite knowing what to do after her flood of tears stopped.

“You asked what was wrong with me,” she went on.

“Yes, I did,” he agreed.

Her eyes were on him now – steady but bloodshot. Her nose looked pink, as did the rims of her eyes. It made her seem very young.

“I wonder what’s wrong with you,” she said. Her lips closed into a thin line after she delivered the words.

“Nothing,” he said, not realizing it was what she’d said to him after exactly the same question.

The tears obviously hadn’t washed away the checkmate – nor had the embrace helped much. She stepped back.

“Look at us, Peter,” she then said. “Is this nothing? What’s happening to us?”

“Let’s go to bed,” he offered. “Or I’ll say stupid things, do stupid things. I’m upset and drunk; so are you.”

“Where are you going?”

Peter had taken his pillow and a blanket.

“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he said. He stood in the doorway of their bedroom.

“No!”

Prue took three steps forward, her hand reaching out for the pillow. Her eyes were wide with panic.

“Don’t,” she went on, almost whispering. Her fingers touched his hand that held the blanket. “We vowed we would never do this. Never sleep apart!”

He shrugged. She pulled at his shoulders.

They lay in the dark. A faint light seeped past the curtains, washing the ceiling with a ghostly gray.

Prue’s thoughts ran in perfect circles.

He cheats – I should tell him I know, but I can’t – he acts weird, but I have no proof – should I confront him? – no, I can’t, he’ll deny it – he’ll laugh and make me feel silly – what can I say if he denies?

I should tell him, but I can’t...

Peter’s thoughts were an equal mess.

There was no sequence to them, no logic. They just ran around and around, making him dizzy. He stared at the ceiling, feeling the mattress press against his back. Should he accuse her? Throw it all into the open? Would she admit? What if she denied? What if she was innocent? She’d be hurt. Could he hurt her? She might throw him out.

Everything would be lost – for nothing.

Prue’s fingers crawled over the cool, empty space between them. They found his arm. He didn’t withdraw.

“Pete?”

He gave no response. She rose to rest on her elbow, peering into the darkness.

“Peter?”

He groaned as if half asleep.

“This afternoon I had this, this text message,” she said. “On my cellphone.”

More silence, a distant dog barked.

“It said that you are cheating.”

“Me?” he exclaimed, sliding away from her as he sat up. “Me cheating? But this is...”

An entirely new set of thoughts invaded his brain, deepening his confusion even more. Then a pinpoint of light plowed its way through the murky mess. A rusty camera seemed to slowly pan from a claustrophobic certainty to a new, panoramic view of kaleidoscopic possibilities. He’d thought she cheated on him and all the while she supposed...

It might explain her weird actions. But was it true?

The Peter Hawkins of old would not have doubted the truth of what his wife said. Now he did, and it didn’t even startle him that he did. If she cheated on him and suspected he knew, wouldn’t it be very effective to turn things around and accuse him, confusing the issue?

But how would she know about the message he got?

And anyway, could she be doing a sly thing like that? His Prue?

He looked down on her gray silhouette, trying to discern the expression on her face. Grabbing behind him, he lit the small bed lamp. The pupils of her eyes retracted with the light.

She looked pale.

“And you believe it,” he said. “You believe that message.” There was no question mark. She winced.

“I don’t know what to think,” she whispered.

“I am Peter you know,” he said. “Your husband, remember?” She just blinked. A quiet fury started to build at the back of his mind.

“This hurts me,” he went on, hating the whine in his voice. “Someone, anyone texts you, and you believe it.” He turned away from her. “Who sent the text?” he asked.

She kept silent until he looked at her again.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It was anonymous.” Her hand was on his knee. “And I didn’t believe it.”

Didn’t, she said, he thought. Didn’t, not don’t.

So Prue got the same message – a text about him cheating, while he got a message about her cheating. Only half a day ago he might have seen the oddity of it, and suspected the whole thing to be some sort of manipulation, a sick joke or whatever. Right now he still saw the manipulation, but too many weird things had happened for him to not suspect Prue’s hand in it – or at least her knowledge.

She was trying to turn the tables.

The fingers on his bare skin brought him back to reality. He pushed them away, ignoring her gasp. He slid off the bed, grabbing his pillow.

“Please, Pete, don’t.”

He walked to the door, opened and closed it. The couch was cold and narrow.

Lying alone on a dark, abandoned bed is a guaranteed shortcut to troubled thoughts – especially when you have no idea what’s happening, and haven’t had for the last five hours.

Prue stared into the murky grayness that returned to the room after Peter turned off the light before leaving. The click of the bedroom door seemed to have a self-sustaining echo; it kept punctuating her jumbled thoughts.

Why did he leave?

Why now after she told him about the message? She did tell him she didn’t believe it, didn’t she? She’d been clear about it. So why run? Did he doubt her?

Or...

Prue pondered what happened since they came home. His half-hearted embrace, his looking away, the forced conversation and his lack of appetite. His leaving the table, drinking whisky and getting the sudden idea of sleeping on the couch. Her eyes burned with tears.

The ceiling gave no answers.

Lying on cold leather cushions and under an inadequate blanket is no way to find peace of mind, let alone sleep.

Peter hardly understood what happened or why.

Prue had told him about her message; why hadn’t he told her about his? He wondered at his suspicious thoughts – how deep they ran and where they came from.

Prue had acted odd all evening, right from her reserved welcome through their forced conversation and her four damn glasses of wine. She never looked him in the eyes, did she? Why? And why not say ‘I don’t believe it?’ Was he seeing ghosts?

Why had things become so damn complicated?

He must have fallen asleep.

Looking up from the sticky leather he saw Prue walk into the living room. She carried two mugs, one in each hand. She was completely dressed, but looking a mess – eyes bleary, hair in a sloppy bun, no make up.

“Coffee,” she said forcing her lips into a smile.

Peter sat up, knowing he looked even worse – sure feeling awful. His skull seemed stuffed with cotton, his eyes burned. He accepted the mug, mumbling thanks. Prue sat down in the club chair across from the couch.

“What are we doing, Pete?” she asked. “What’s going on?”

He sipped the scalding liquid, black with a pinch of sugar. It tightened his throat on its way down. He felt an urge to tell her about his text message, but he didn’t. If his suspicions were right, she already knew, didn’t she? It might help to keep her in the dark. He sure needed every advantage he could grasp, didn’t he?

Yesterday Peter would have been appalled at his sneakiness.

But, well, today was today. Ah, damn it all – yesterday’s Peter was a naïve sucker anyway. Sipping his coffee, supposing it cleared his thoughts, Peter Hawkins told himself that at last he saw through it all – the phony messages, the justified suspicions, the first outlines of truth.

“I guess you know what’s going on, Prue,” he said, amazed at his deep, gravely voice.

Prue’s eyes widened. Cold fingers touched her heart. Was he going to confess?

“What do you mean?” she asked. “I know nothing. I don’t even know why we are sitting here like we do; like strangers.”

She put down her mug and leant forward. Her robe opened, showing the white t-shirt she’d slept in.

“I told you,” she went on, agitated. “I told you how I got this damn anonymous slander message that I never believed anyway. It is silly: I know you’d never cheat on me. I told you. And when I did, you got up and left me alone? You’ve never ever done that before. What should I think? I didn’t sleep a wink from worrying. I worry, Pete, about us, you and me. Something’s changed. I’m scared!”

She grabbed the lapels of her robe, closing it tight around her chest.

Her eyes shone with tears.

Peter sat up straight.

His head felt as if caught in a cloud of steam. Seeing her cry hurt him; hearing her despair cut into him. Every fiber in her body screamed to be held. And yet he just sat and didn’t move.

Prue was desperate.

She’d never felt more alone – abandoned, betrayed. How could he just sit there and not hug her, comfort her, cry with her? He really must have stopped caring for her. Who was that man sitting there, where had her Peter gone?

“Hold me,” she whispered. “Please hold me and tell me everything is right.”

Peter stared.

He knew he should rise, take the two small steps and hold her. Why couldn’t he? He felt tears run down his glowing face, his hands clawed into the seat he sat on and he was sure it was his throat that produced the low moaning sound.

His body wanted to be with her, hug her and comfort her, but his mind was a convolution of conflicting thoughts, rolling and roiling. There was the cell phone text, there were the images of her with Kuric, there was the hesitation of her embrace, and there was a sickening pageant of Prue flirting, Prue dressing sexy, Prue being drunk and silly – Prue coming hard and loud.

Everything that had been dear to him up till now seemed tainted. And the horrifying thing was, he knew it was all about him: his unfounded thoughts, his silly suspicions. They were all based on nothing, weren’t they? Almost nothing, and yet, they turned him into a statue.

“I ... I can’t,” he said at last, turning away from her. “Give me time, leave me alone.”

Peter Hawkins sat on the windy terrace of a seaside bar.

All chairs were empty, quite a few blown over by the gushing winds. He knew his coffee on the table would be cold by now. But he wasn’t here for coffee.

Staring out over the gray sea with its long, lazy rollers running out onto the empty beach, he murmured wordless curses. Why, he thought, why had everything he held dear turned to shit in only one day? How could it? Was his love for Prue so shallow or his confidence in her so weak that just one anonymous message could make him doubt her in a matter of hours?

Obviously.

When she told him about her message he should have told her about his. But he hadn’t. Why was that? It might have cleared the air between them. Maybe he didn’t want the air cleared? He shook inside his raincoat. Crazy thought; of course he wanted the air cleared.

But he knew that wasn’t true.

He’d held his information back because he didn’t trust her. How could he suddenly not trust her anymore? Because of one crazy anonymous message? The mere thought flushed his mind with guilt.

What was wrong with him?

Prue stared at her phone – damn phone.

She’d wanted to call her best friend Julia to share her desperation with when she saw she had a new text message. Seeing the announcement filled her with fear. Maybe it was nothing – something totally unrelated. Spam, even. Or maybe, maybe it was from Peter, telling her he changed his mind and please, please...

But she knew it wasn’t. There was no name.

It would be from the anonymous freak, and she should ignore it. Her thumb hovered and she knew she would press the button even if her mind was adamantly against it.

“He is seeing her right now.”

No. Nooooo.

Prue dropped the cell phone as if it were a hot piece of iron. It bounced off the couch where she’d stayed to after Peter left. She wrapped her arms around her legs and rocked slowly back and forth.

It was all a lie, of course it was.

Just someone playing a cruel game. Someone hating her. Who hated her enough to do this? No one, for sure. She’d been everybody’s darling all of her life. No one hated Prue. No one. So why?

And why was he succeeding? Or she?

The cell phone lay on the carpet, the message still there. “Right now,” it said. Peter hadn’t showered before he left. He’d just put on his used clothes and a raincoat. No bag, no extra clothes.

Where did he go?

She’d begged him not to leave, of course. But she’d never left her seat. The last thing she heard was his car, roaring into the quiet Saturday morning. Then there was nothing but the ticking of the big station hall clock they’d found on this little market two towns over.

She crawled into the corner of the couch that was still warm from his body, wrapping herself into his blanket – staring, thinking.

She’d stopped crying.

Julia Connors was her best friend since college. She’d shared all her highs and lows with her, and her calamities – all just minor things of course, in the sheltered cocoon of her privileged life. Nothing like this, Prue thought.

Nothing as hurtful and confusing like this ever happened.

She reached down for the phone, clicking the message away to speed dial her friend. The signal kept buzzing. Julia’s familiar voice asked her to speak a voice mail message. She didn’t.

She sighed. It turned into a dry sob.

After a few minutes the phone rang. Dear God, no new texts. Julia’s name popped up; Prue pressed the button.

“Hi Pruts,” a tinny voice said. Pruts was a nickname only Julia used. “You called me.”

Hearing the voice caused Prue’s throat to clog with new tears.

“Jules,” she said. “Oh God, Jules, everything is so awful!”

“Damn, man, too cold out here. Let’s get inside.”

Gus Rennick had the kind of big frame that easily attracts fat after you turn 30 and don’t work out enough to keep it away. Gus didn’t work out a lot and he liked beer.

His hair got thinner too.