Chapter 6: Friday

Friday arrives the way all dangerous things do.

Quietly.

Derek is in a good mood at breakfast. Humming while he makes toast, refilling my coffee without being asked, kissing the top of my head on his way past like we are a couple in a commercial for something wholesome. He has no idea. Absolutely zero idea. And the contrast between what he thinks this morning is and what this morning actually is, is so sharp it almost makes me dizzy.

"Big dinner tonight," he says, sitting across from me. "Might run late."

"That is fine," I say. "I will probably just have a bath and an early night."

"You sure? I can try to wrap it up by nine."

I look at him over my coffee cup. This man. This genuinely unbelievable man. Planning a considerate evening around a wife he has been lying to for two years.

"Take your time," I tell him warmly. "I will be here."

He smiles and reaches over and squeezes my hand.

I smile back.

The moment he leaves I text Rhys one word.

Today.

His reply is immediate.

Ready.

I spend the day doing completely normal things. I go to the gym. I buy groceries. I repaint my nails a dark burgundy that I have been meaning to do for weeks. I eat lunch at the kitchen counter and watch something mindless on my tablet and I am so calm I genuinely concern myself a little.

At six-fifteen my phone vibrates.

Rhys: She is home. I am pulling up now.

Me: Derek just left. Do it.

A pause. Then:

Done. Walking in.

I put the phone down and I wait.

Forty-four minutes of silence.

I sit on the couch with the television on and nothing registering and I think about Rhys walking into that house with fourteen screenshots loaded on his phone and I think about Vivienne's face when she realizes the thing she thought was airtight has a crack running straight through the middle of it.

My phone lights up.

Rhys: It is done.

Three words. I stare at them.

Me: How did she take it?

Rhys: How do you think.

Me: Is she calling him?

Rhys: Already tried twice. He is not picking up, must still be at dinner.

I stand up from the couch. Walk to the kitchen. Walk back. Sit down again.

Rhys: She is crying. Telling me it meant nothing. That it was a mistake.

Me: What did you say?

Rhys: I told her to get out.

I exhale slowly.

Me: Are you okay?

A longer pause this time.

Rhys: No. But I will be.

I look at that message for a moment and something in my chest pulls in a direction I do not examine too closely.

At eight-forty Derek's key turns in the lock.

I am on the couch. Television on. Burgundy nails. Glass of wine in hand. The picture of a woman having a relaxed Friday evening, completely undisturbed.

He comes in fast. Not his usual easy stroll. Fast, jacket half off, phone in hand, and I know from the look on his face that Vivienne reached him in the car.

He stops when he sees me.

I look up. Tilt my head slightly. Take a small sip of wine.

"Hey," I say pleasantly. "How was dinner?"

"Camille." His voice is strange. Tight. "Did you, did you do something? Did you contact someone?"

I let the silence sit for exactly three seconds.

"What are you talking about?" I say, perfectly calm, perfectly confused.

"Vivienne's husband. Did you send him something?"

I set my wine glass down on the coffee table. Slowly. Deliberately.

"Derek," I say, standing up. "Who is Vivienne?"

The look on his face when I ask that.

Oh, that look.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "She is, she was just someone I used to know. Her husband apparently received some messages and he is saying you sent them and she is, it is a whole situation and I need you to tell me you did not do this."

I look at him for a long moment.

This man who brought me peonies two days after sleeping with someone else. This man who kissed my head this morning. This man who has been smiling at his phone at the dinner table for three weeks while I sat across from him and said nothing and waited.

"I need you to tell me the truth first," I say quietly. "Who is Vivienne?"

Something in his face breaks.

And there it is.

He does not even try to hold it. It just collapses, the whole careful performance of a man who thought he was managing everything, gone in seconds, replaced by the face of someone who knows they are caught and has no more moves left.

"Camille," he says. "I can explain."

"I know you can," I say. "Derek, I know everything. I have known for three weeks. I have the texts, the calls, the hotel. I have all of it."

The colour drains from his face.

"I was waiting," I continue, "until I had everything I needed. And now I do."

He stares at me. "You, you were waiting? This whole time you knew and you were just, you were still, we were still, last week when we, Camille."

"Yes," I say simply.

"Why didn't you say something?"

And I pick up my wine glass, take a slow sip, and look at him over the rim the same way Rhys looked at me last Saturday and asked if I was scared.

"Because," I say, "I wanted to make sure you had absolutely nowhere to go when I did."

The silence in that room is enormous.

His phone starts ringing in his hand. He looks down at it.

Vivienne.

He looks back up at me.

"You should probably get that," I tell him. "I have a feeling she needs you right now."

I pick up my bag from the armchair. I walk to the bedroom. I start packing.

And my phone vibrates once on the nightstand.

Rhys: Check your email. You need to see this.