The Husband’s Secret

it.’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘Tell him if he treats you bad again, I’ll break his knees.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Seriously, Tess. Don’t give him any more chances.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘And if things don’t work out. Well. You know. Keep my application on file.’
    ‘Connor, someone will –’
    ‘Don’t do that,’ he said sharply. He tried to soften his voice. ‘No worries. I told you, I’ve got chicks lining the streets for me.’
    She laughed.
    ‘I should let you go,’ he said, ‘if this bloke of yours is on his way.’
    She could hear his disappointment so clearly now. It made him sound abrupt, almost aggressive, and part of her wanted to keep him on the line, to flirt with him, to make sure that the last thing he said was gentle and sexy, and then she could be the one to put an end to the conversation, so thatshe could file these last few days away in her memory under the category that suited her. (What was that category? ‘Fun flings where nobody got hurt’?)
    But he was entitled to be abrupt, and she’d already exploited him enough.
    ‘Okay. Well. Bye.’
    ‘Bye, Tess. Take care.’

    ‘Mr Whitby!’ shouted Polly.
    ‘Oh, my god. Mum, make her stop!’ Isabel lowered her head and hid her eyes.
    ‘Mr Whitby !’ screeched Polly.
    ‘He’s too far away to hear you,’ sighed Isabel.
    ‘Darling, leave him alone. He’s talking on the phone,’ said Cecilia.
    ‘Mr Whitby! It’s me! Hello! Hello!’
    ‘It’s out of his work hours,’ commented Esther. ‘He’s not obliged to talk to you.’
    ‘He likes talking to me!’ Polly grabbed hold of her handlebars and pedalled away from her father’s grasp, her wheels wobbling precariously along the footpath. ‘Mr Whitby!’
    ‘Looks like her legs have recovered.’ John-Paul massaged his lower back.
    ‘Poor man,’ said Cecilia. ‘Enjoying his Good Friday and he’s accosted by a student.’
    ‘I guess it’s an occupational hazard if he chooses to live in the same area,’ said John-Paul.
    ‘Mr Whitby!’ Polly gained ground. Her legs pumped. Her pink wheels spun.
    ‘At least she’s getting some exercise,’ said John-Paul.
    ‘This is so embarrassing,’ said Isabel. She hung back and kicked at someone’s fence. ‘I’m waiting here.’
    Cecilia stopped and looked back at her. ‘Come on. We’re not going to let her bother him for long. Stop kicking that fence.’
    ‘Why are you embarrassed, Isabel?’ asked Esther. ‘Are you in love with Mr Whitby too?’
    ‘No, I am not! Don’t be disgusting!’ Isabel turned purple. John-Paul and Cecilia exchanged looks.
    ‘Why is this guy so special anyway?’ asked John-Paul. He nudged Cecilia. ‘Are you in love with him too?’
    ‘Mothers can’t be in love,’ said Esther. ‘They’re too old.’
    ‘Thanks very much,’ said Cecilia. ‘Come on , Isabel.’
    She turned to look back at Polly, just as Connor Whitby stepped off the footpath and onto the road, the kite floating above him.
    Polly swung her bike down a steep driveway towards the road.
    ‘Polly!’ Cecilia called, at the same time as John-Paul yelled, ‘Stop right there, Polly!’

chapter forty-eight
    Rachel watched the man with the kite step off the kerb. Look out for traffic, matey. That’s not a pedestrian crossing .
    He turned his head in her direction.
    It was Connor Whitby.
    He was looking right at her, but it was as though Rachel’s car was invisible, as if she didn’t exist, as if she was completely irrelevant to him, as if he could choose to inconvenience her by making her slow down if it suited him. He stepped briskly across the road, with every confidence that she would stop. His kite caught a gust of wind and spun in lazy circles.
    Rachel’s foot lifted from the accelerator and hovered over the brake.
    Then it slammed like a brick on the accelerator.

    It didn’t happen in slow motion. It happened in an instant.
    There was no car. The street was empty. And then, just like that, there was a car. A small blue car. John-Paul would say afterwards that he knew there was a car coming from behind them, but to Cecilia, it just materialised out of nowhere.
    No car. Car.
    The little blue car was like a bullet. Not so much because of its speed but because it seemed as if it were on some unstoppable trajectory, as if it had been shot from something.
    Cecilia saw Connor Whitby run. Like a man in a movie chase scene leaping from one building to another.
    A second later, Polly rode her bike directly in front of the car and