Phoebe Morgan - The Babysitter

I take a deep breath, then type out a reply to her and bury my phone underneath the pillow next to me in a vain attempt to stop myself from checking it for messages from him.

It’s only a week until they all go on holiday to France. He’s moaned about it, told me how difficult it is for him to get time off. He’s so busy, so busy and important. The two of us went on a rare night away a month ago, stayed in a little B&B in Norfolk, the best he could manage, but of course I lapped it up. He left his suitcase here afterwards, didn’t want his wife to find it. He hasn’t even come back to get it – he’d rather buy another one than face seeing me again, it seems. It’s all there is of him here – no toothbrush, no razor, no crumpled boxer shorts. It’s almost as if he’s never been here at all. As though our entire relationship has been solely confined to inside my head.

I can’t stop thinking about them going away together, picturing it all. He told me ages ago, before everything happened, that his sister-in-law had a place in France they were going to visit, although he wouldn’t say much more than that. Where in France? I asked him, but he laughed, kissed me on the nose, told me it didn’t matter. Callum, don’t worry, I’m not going to turn up on the doorstep, I said, and he tugged gently on my hair, teasing me. I wouldn’t put it past you. I tried to find pictures of it after that, googled his sister-in-law’s name. Maria Wilcox. She’s very pretty, just like Siobhan. Even prettier, in fact, like Siobhan with an Instagram filter. Good genes, the Wilcox clan. I couldn’t find a photo of the villa, though. I don’t know what it’s called.

I don’t want to think about them going on holiday together; I can’t bear it. Even after what he did to me, the thought of him playing happy families makes me feel sick. I put an end to things, told him it was over. And it is over. It has to be, this time. After everything that’s happened this year, I need to make the decision to put myself first. It’s what my mum would’ve said to me, if she was here. Eighteen months is long enough to conduct an extra-marital affair, especially one with a man like Callum Dillon. Jenny told me once that she thinks he’s a misogynist, and I looked up the definition that night: a person who dislikes, despises or is strongly prejudiced against women. Three months ago, I’d have said the exact opposite was true. Callum likes women too much. And women like him. He’s charming, at first – he reels you in with a smile, an in-joke. When we first met, I felt as though I’d been selected, as if a torchlight had picked me out of the darkness. Now I wish I’d stayed in the shadows.

My phone beeps again, the sound barely muffled under the cushion, and my fingers scrabble to unlock the screen. Go on, Caro, please! I’d love to see you. It’ll be fun! Jenny, again. I stare at the exclamation points: so unnecessarily enthusiastic. I hesitate, try to think clearly, to push away the fug of loneliness that is threatening to crowd out my thoughts.

I am still in my pyjamas, sitting upright in my bed, the curtains resolutely closed against the sunlight even though it has gone 11 a.m.. The room feels stale. An empty wine glass stands on the dresser; it will leave an ugly stain. My legs are prickly, unshaven and white. I think of Siobhan Dillon’s legs, long and tanned, stretched out on a sun lounger by a sparkling blue pool, the sun a burning hot sphere in the sky above her. Callum’s hand making its way up her thigh. No. I force myself to push the images away, to stop obsessing. Obsession’s never good for anyone; the therapist told me that after Mum died. But I don’t think obsession is something you develop, or get rid of. You’re born with it – you either have it or you don’t. It might shift focus sometimes, but it never truly goes away.

The day yawns out ahead of me like a blank canvas, and I feel a fluttering sense of panic at the thought of staying here, stuck in this room, waiting to hear from him, even though I have told myself that it is over. What good will that do?

OK. I’ll be there, I write to Jenny, and within seconds the reply pings back, a smiley, overexcited emoji that makes me grit my teeth, just slightly. But perhaps I am wrong. Being too harsh. Maybe going to see Jenny will take me out of myself a little; the baby, Eve, will presumably be tucked up in bed, and maybe her husband isn’t quite as annoyingly smug as I remember. Perhaps I can have a good time. Eve. The christening invite is still floating around the flat somewhere; at the time, I couldn’t bring myself to go. It was too painful. But I’m better now. Much better. Or at least, I’m trying to be.

Feeling newly resolved, I force myself to pull back the duvet and ease myself out of bed, my feet touching the cold floorboards. I try to avoid my reflection, because I know what I’ll see – my long hair feels greasy and unkempt, my face will be slightly puffy from the wine-induced crying I did last night. I think of the day Callum and I met, how different I am now. I wouldn’t want him to see me like this. Not when he’s got Siobhan Dillon for a wife.

Jenny lives on the other side of Ipswich, right by the south side of the docks. It’s a ten-minute walk from my flat on Woodmill Road and I decide the cooling evening air might help me decompress; besides, it’s still light. July and August have been kind to us this year, hot and sticky; Suffolk has baked under the summer heat. Normally I’d like it, but in my current mood it feels like a punishment. I think briefly of Callum and Siobhan, limbs entangled on a huge white bed, the doors flung open to stave off the humidity. I think of them emerging from a plane into crisp French air, pulling expensive sunglasses down over their faces, smiling at each other as the first wave of warmth hits them. I bet Siobhan speaks perfect French, on top of everything else.

The docks are lovely at this time of year; the water curves around the harbourside and the sails of the boats chink in the breeze. Ipswich often gets a bad rap, I’ve always thought, but I like it here – it has everything I need. And it’s better than Stowmarket, where I grew up, but still close enough to visit Mum’s grave if I want to. I haven’t for a while. I think she’d be ashamed of me, of what I’ve become.

As I walk, the restaurants sparkle in the light, but peering at the glowing windows makes me feel worse. I see a couple, smiling at each other over deep, full glasses of wine on the table in front of them, and my stomach clenches. That could be me and Callum. That was me and Callum. A woman comes out of the Pizza Express on the corner, pushing a pram, followed by a tall man holding the hand of a child. The perfect nuclear family – everything I wanted. Everything that is totally out of my reach.

Forcing myself to keep walking, I round the corner and approach Jenny’s house. It’s set back from the road, in a nice-looking row of buildings that face the water. I remember when she and Rick bought it, just over a year ago; they posted a picture on Instagram of their faces pressed together, keys dangling in her diamond-ringed hand.

I’ll never post a picture like that. I’ve got nobody to post one with.

Jenny’s got little window boxes neatly laden with summer flowers, the leaves wilting a bit in the heat. As I approach the front door, I reach out and push my finger into the soil in the box nearest to me; it is dry beneath my skin. Perhaps I’ll remind her to water them. She shouldn’t take things for granted that way.

‘Caro!’

I’ve barely knocked when the door is swinging open, and Jenny is engulfing me, her arms tight around my torso, her perfume sweet in my face. She kisses me on the cheek, then takes hold of both of my shoulders, stands back as though appraising me. What does she think when she looks at me, I wonder; does she find me wanting? Not enough?