The Woman At The Door Daniel Hurst (online e reader TXT) 📖

‘Fair enough. But you’re right. That is not the way you want your husband to behave if he’s supposed to be convincing you that he didn’t cheat.’

I nod my head while feeling pleased that the waiter is now walking towards us, his tray balanced in his hands and a look of concentration etched across his poor face. I’m positively parched by the time he reaches us, and my first sip of wine is a refreshing one.

‘But I don’t want to be a downer tonight so let’s not talk about me and my problems anymore,’ I say as I put my glass back down on the table. ‘Tell me all about you and Phil. Are you guys still going strong?’

Ally laughs, and it’s good to hear that sound because this night was in danger of becoming very depressing if I just talked about Sam for the duration of it. I’d much rather hear about my friend’s thriving love life than talk about my own dying one, and then after that, we can get to the small matter of the hen do planning.

As weekday nights go, this is shaping up to be a good one.

Who knows, maybe I can do this kind of thing more often when I’m single again. Girls’ nights could replace the old romantic Saturday nights with Sam on the sofa. That’s not what I wanted, but it seems it’s what is going to happen now. That’s because, as stupid as it may seem, I did give Sam a couple of days to prove his innocence to me. It’s stupid because he is waiting for some private investigator to do something for him, and it’s stupidity that makes me not want to tell Ally the full story. She must think that I’m gullible enough for falling for a man as deceptive as Sam without me telling her that I am waiting to see if some PI can pull off a miracle and prove my cheating husband right. But that two day deadline ends tomorrow and, so far, he has failed to come back with anything.

Of course he has failed. A guilty man can’t prove his innocence.  Only an innocent man can do that.

And that is one thing my husband is not.

42

SAM

It’s weird being in the office so late at night. I’ve never worked beyond seven o’clock in the evening before, but now it’s almost nine and I’m still here. But it’s not as if I have suddenly discovered the elixir of hard work or anything like that. I’m still here at this time of night because I’m afraid to leave. That’s because leaving means going back to the hotel room. And the hotel room is a glimpse of the grim future that awaits me.

I was hoping to be presenting my wife with some form of evidence tomorrow that would prove to her that I haven’t cheated on her and that the woman at the door was lying. I had hoped to make that happen by getting a call from my private investigator with some news that would prove Alexandra’s guilt and my innocence. Was that too much to ask? I guess so because the clock continues to count down to tomorrow and I still have nothing.

Sliding a fifty pence piece into the vending machine in the staff room, I select the option that will deliver me a can of cola and watch as a mechanical arm picks it up from its tray and drops it down into the bottom where I can scoop it out. Cracking it open, I take several thirsty gulps of the fizzy liquid before wiping my mouth and heading back in the direction of my office, which is on the other side of the open-plan space where so many desks now sit empty and idle, their owners having long since logged off and gone home to where their partners are waiting to welcome them in with open arms. I’m sure they wouldn’t be quite so keen to leave work if they had nothing but a takeaway on a hotel room bed to look forward to, but it seems that it’s just me with that problem in this company tonight, so here I am all alone.

Walking back into my office, I close the door and slump down in my chair before guzzling the contents of the can and tossing it into the bin that sits in the corner about ten yards away. Just like everything else in my life recently, it seems I’m out of luck because the can hits the rim of the bin and bounces back out instead of going in, leaving the can to roll harmlessly away across the carpet to give the cleaner another reason to detest me when she arrives in the early hours of the morning.

Letting out a deep sigh, I stretch my arms out above my head before tapping on my keyboard to let my computer know that I am still here and willing to work in case it decides to activate the screensaver again and I have to log in, which would be annoying. If my computer could talk then I have a feeling that this one would tell me that I look pathetic and that I should call it a night and quit while I’m behind. But my computer cannot talk, so that voice comes to me only as internal dialogue, which is actually worse in a way.

As I sit there typing up an email that I should have sent yesterday, my eyes feel heavy, and it seems that my tiredness is negating the effects of the caffeine from the cola can I just consumed. But a loud bang in the open-plan office outside my door gets my attention, and I stand up from my seat to see what might have caused it. I am definitely the only person here, so it’s a little worrying that I just heard a noise like that, but then I realise I am wrong.

I was the only