Chapter 119: Mr February
The sound of the front door closing echoed through the silent house. Rupert stood in the kitchen, his hand still resting on the counter where she’d left her empty coffee mug. The echo wasn’t loud, but it felt cavernous. He could still smell the vanilla and spice of her perfume, overlaid now with the starch of her freshly ironed apron. She’d hummed while she tied the bow at her back. A cheery, tuneless sound.
He looked down at his hands. For the last twenty minutes, they had been her intimate valet. His blunt, accountant’s fingers had fumbled with the tiny clasps on the frilly white hold-ups, his knuckles brushing the astonishing warmth of her thighs. He’d smoothed the black satin of the miniature apron over the swell of her hips, his palms lingering on the curve where fabric gave way to bare skin. The French maid’s dress itself was a ridiculous, wonderful confection: black lace and starched white cotton that ended in a ruffled sweep just below the cleft of her buttocks. When she had bent forward to slip on her shoes, the mirror above the dresser had shown him everything. She’d caught his eye in the glass and winked.
“Mr. February has rather high ceilings, apparently,” she’d said, adjusting the little white cap pinned in her curls. “Lots of hard-to-reach dust. One must be thorough.”
A whirlwind of final preparations. Spritz of perfume behind the knees. A final check that the silver ‘V’ anklet was visible. The ping of her phone on the bedside table had been like a starting pistol.
He’s here. Don’t wait up. x
A chill that had nothing to do with the January air had trickled down his spine. He’d followed her downstairs, a silent attendant. At the door, she’d turned. She wasn’t Margot from the Women’s Institute then. She was someone else, her eyes dark with a promise he wasn’t part of. She’d kissed him, a soft, closed-mouth press of her lips that tasted of her crimson lipstick. Then she was gone, the click of her heels on the path swallowed by the night.
Rupert’s feet carried him to the living room window. He moved the curtain aside a fraction. A common black sedan, unremarkable, idled at the kerb. The interior light came on as the passenger door opened, illuminating the back of a head, close-cropped hair, the broad set of shoulders in a dark coat. No face. Then Margot slid in, a flash of black stocking, a ruffle of white. The door shut. The light went out. The car glided away, its tail lights dissolving into the wet street.
Silence rushed back in.
His own breathing sounded too loud. The house felt different, as if its dimensions had shifted in her absence. He was alone with the click of the mantel clock and the low hum of the refrigerator. And the constant, quietly maddening pressure of the cage.
He wandered back upstairs, drawn to the scene of the crime. Their bedroom still held her energy. The duvet was rumpled where she’d laid out the outfit. The blue leather hood, rejected for tonight, peered from its usual drawer. His eyes went to the calendar. February’s bull. The mask was different from January’s—sharper, more geometric, like a Venetian carnival. The black star glowed on today’s date. He reached out and traced the week of stars in July with a dull sense of wonder.
Ping.
The sound, her signature, sliced through the quiet. His phone, dumb on the dresser where she’d told him to leave it.
He crossed the room in three strides.
The screen showed a single image. It was taken from above, looking down the length of her body as she reclined in what looked like a car seat. The ridiculous frilled skirt was rucked up around her waist. A man’s hand, large and strong, with thick fingers and a simple silver band on the ring finger, rested possessively on her inner thigh, the thumb just brushing the very edge of her pale pubic mound. The nail was clean, clipped short. The dashboard lights threw the scene into soft, intimate relief.
No caption. None was needed.
Rupert’s breath hitched. The ring. The man was married. Of course he was. The detail was a tiny, brutal hammer blow. He stared at the hand, imagining its warmth, its weight. He wondered where the car was now. A layby on the ring road? A deserted car park? He saw Margot’s face, the look she’d given him in the mirror.
The phone pinged again, a second later. A text, not a photo.
List on the fridge, Blue. I expect it done. Top to bottom. N&G.
Naked and Guarded. Their code. His instructions.
He put the phone down, screen facing the wood. He walked slowly back downstairs, each step an effort. The stainless steel of the refrigerator door was cold against his forehead for a second before he opened it.
The list was there, held by a strawberry magnet. Her looping, cheerful handwriting.
> - Garage: Sort all sports equipment. Donate anything unused. Wipe shelves.
> - Laundry: All bed linens. Wash, dry, IRON. (Hospital corners!)
> - Study: File last year’s receipts. Alphabetical by vendor.
> - Kitchen: Defrost freezer. Scrub interior.
> - Bathroom: Grout upstairs ensuite with bleach pen.
A full evening’s work. A full evening’s distraction.
He took a deep breath. The smell of her perfume still clung to his shirt. He unbuttoned it slowly, letting it fall to the laundry basket she’d just emptied. The rest followed. Soon, he stood in the bright, ticking silence of the kitchen, entirely naked save for the polished steel device that rendered him an observer in his own life. The air was cool on his skin. He was a ghost in his own home.
He folded his clothes into a neat pile, his movements precise, ritualistic. Then he took the list from the fridge. The paper was crisp between his fingers.
He walked toward the garage door, the concrete floor cold under his bare feet. The first task. As he reached for the light pull, his phone, left upstairs on the dresser, pinged once more in the distant dark. He froze, his arm outstretched. He didn’t go to check. He stood there, listening to the silence that followed, imagining what new image now glowed in the void, a secret between his wife and a man with a wedding ring and strong, clean hands.
He pulled the light cord. The garage flooded with harsh fluorescent light, exposing the dusty chaos within. This was his world now. This neat, naked, ordered penitence. He began.