ABOUT LAST NIGHT - SAMPLE CHAPTER :

    Stephanie walked down the aisle of the supermarket, slowly pushing a shallow trolley with, typically, a funny wheel that meant the trolley veered off towards the right. This meant she had to push harder with her right hand and as a consequence she had a slight pain in her shoulder. She’d had a funny twinge on that side for a few weeks now, she should probably book herself an appointment for a back and shoulder massage. Julian was always encouraging her to do that sort of thing but Steph was a bit funny about being that – well – that naked in front of a stranger. OK, she knew that they didn’t actually see anything, and she knew that absolutely everyone had massages nowadays – the Queen probably did. Massages weren’t sexual, necessarily. Silly to think they were. But. Even so. She might just settle for a deep bath and a generous slosh from her bottle of Radox.

   Her intention had been to just dash in to the supermarket and pick up the champagne, she’d done a big shop on Thursday but on the drive over here she’d remembered they were out of garlic paste, kitchen roll and leather cleaner. She’d forgotten to buy these few items the last twice she’d visited the store because generally on her weekly shop she rushed around, grabbing replacement produce for the things they’d consumed in an efficient, mechanical way. Unfortunately, her haste and the repetitive nature of shopping meant that she had a tendency to forget anything slightly out of the ordinary. But she wasn’t in a rush today so this was a great opportunity to buy all those outstanding bits and bobs that made a home run smoothly, there was only so long a woman could manage without garlic paste.

   Besides, she really didn’t want to go home right now. She didn’t much like being in the house when Mrs Evans was cleaning (however inefficiently) because on some level it made her feel strangely useless and displaced. Stephanie still wasn’t convinced that they needed a cleaner or that she deserved one, her mother had never had one and her house was always spotless. Steph could comfortably manage the housework now the children were all at school, in fact her problem sometimes seemed to be filling the hours. But when she’d suggested as much to Julian, he’d said she was nuts. Why would she want to put on rubber gloves and put her hands down the loo when they could pay someone else to do that and all the other grubby jobs – like emptying bins, scouring the oven and washing kitchen tiles? Steph had not said that Mrs Evans was rather hopeless at any of these elbow grease jobs, she realised that wasn’t the point, instead she replied that she might get some sense of satisfaction from scrubbing their home. But then he’d pointed out that Mrs Evans had been cleaning for them for almost ten years and she depended on the income, he said it was a contribution to the economy (as was employing a gardener, people to re-paint the rendering and buying organic meat off the local farmer). Stephanie had then felt rather guilty and silly that she’d failed to think about her responsibility to Mrs Evans. Julian was so considerate, he saw the wider picture, Stephanie sometimes worried that she was becoming increasingly myopic as years went by. When they’d graduated (she’d gained a first-class degree, Julian had a respectable 2:1) she would have looked at the employment of a cleaner in terms of economic value too, she was sure she would have. Although, frankly, the issue would never have arisen because when they graduated they’d both earned a pittance and could hardly afford cleaning products for their little rented flat in Fulham, let a lone a cleaner.
 
   Anyway, today, it wasn’t the issue of feeling displaced in her own house that made Steph reluctant to go home, the thing was she could not face the inevitable chatter about the nuisance calls. Mrs Evans would more than likely go on and on and on about it all afternoon. Stephanie could do without it.
 
   So instead Steph had decided that she’d saunter up and down the aisles, at a snail’s pace, carefully considering the produce on offer and see if she did indeed need a chemical to stop the build up of hard water ravaging the innards of her washing machine or ready to roll pastry (she tended to make her own but having a packet in the cupboard – just in case she was ever horribly short of time – seemed wise).

   It took her forty five minutes to reach the alcohol section but no time at all to for her to snatch up the most expensive bottle of champagne, tomorrow was a Bolly occasion, not an own-label occasion. Steph was fully expecting to gain a certain amount of vicarious pleasure from the resurrection of Pip’s career, it was only right that she launched the ship with the very best champers on offer. It would probably surprise and confound Pip to know that, in some small way, Steph envied her. Of course, it was a genuine shame that Pip was struggling financially and even with a contract from Selfridges Pip’s income was likely to be a relatively modest one. She probably would still not be able to afford the things that were scattered at Steph’s feet, yet Steph still faintly remembered the thrill, the sense of achievement, the sense of satisfaction, that she used to get when she bought something she’d saved up for. It was wonderful to own something that you’d earned. Julian was fond (a little too fond) of saying, ‘there’s no need for you to work, Steph.’ Steph knew there was no need but being needed was rather lovely. Of course she understood that her role as mother to three boys was work enough and it was fulfilling (and exhausting, thrilling and strenuous) but Steph thought it might be nice, on occasion, to buy Julian a present that she had actually paid for.

   Not that Steph’s career had ever been as glittering and fascinating as Pip’s. She’d worked as a civil servant, an administrator in the health sector. She’d been rigorous, focused and disciplined, yes, she’d been rather good at it, although admittedly on some days it had been simply dull. Steph, her parents and Julian all agreed that the civil service was the perfect place for a bright woman to be employed, specifically one who was thinking of starting a family in her mid-twenties. The maternity leave was especially generous, she could have up to a year off. Not that it was relevant in the end. Despite her intentions, she never did return to work after Harry was born. How could she justify continuing? Her salary wouldn’t cover the childcare costs, even if she’d wanted to leave her boys with someone else (which she didn’t). Besides, few careers could withstand three maternity breaks. One or two, an employers might not notice (some assume a woman is yo-yo dieting as she balloons up, disappears and then reappears some months later – in fact, she is precariously balancing her home and work life) but a third pregnancy seemed to tip the scales.

   Steph carefully loaded the shopping into the boot of her new Audi. It was a roomy boot attached to a roomy car. Julian had surprised her with it, just the week before last. He brought it home without them having had any discussion about buying a new car, a late birthday present, he’d called it. Her birthday had been last month and he’d bought her a simply lovely dress and a pair of gold stud earrings then. A new car was so unnecessary.

   ‘Quit grumbling and hop in,’ Pip had insisted excitedly. She’d been at theirs when Julian handed over the keys. ‘I’m desperate to go for a spin, even if you’re an unappreciative, miserable bag.’
 
   Steph was not a miserable bag and she really did appreciate the gift. It was just that the car was extremely long and Steph sweated buckets whenever she had to park it. Although she had to admit the roomy boot was so useful when she had three sports kits, three instruments and three school bags to lug from A to B to C to D and back again. Steph got into the car and took a deep breath, it was just a case of getting used to the size, she told herself.

   Steph’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a phone calling. She reached for hers which was nestled in her handbag but it wasn’t ringing. She looked around, confused. Could the sound be coming from outside? No, it seemed to be closer than that. She followed the noise. Ah ha. That’s where it was coming from. There was a mobile lost beneath the back seat. Steph stretched to retrieve it, her fingers made contact just as the ringing stopped. The phone then beeped to say there was a new voice mail message. Steph was perplexed she didn’t recognise the phone. It wasn’t Julian’s or Harry’s and the younger children weren’t allowed a phone yet. Steph pressed 121 to listen to the message, no doubt it would be some frantic mother of a friend of Harry’s, regretting that she’d spent so much on her son’s first mobile and swearing that from now on she would only buy standard issue.
 
   But the voice was not one of a stressed mum but a rather formal, slightly loquacious male voice. Stephanie had heard the same tone a hundred times before from overly keen shop keepers, car salesmen and waiters. The tone was used by anyone who worked on commission or depended on tips; Steph understood the effusive manner but didn’t enjoy it.

   ‘This is the concierge at Highview Hotel, Mr Blake. I’ve just been checking our reservations for tomorrow evening, sir, and I’ve noticed that while your regular room is reserved, there’s no order for your usual champagne or fresh cut flowers. Nor is there a booking for dinner. I’m concerned this might be our oversight, so I have taken the liberty of reserving you your regular table at nine pm, sir and I’ve arranged for you to enjoy an upgrade to our suite this evening. I’ll personally make sure that there are flowers in the suite and champagne on ice for six pm as usual. This week, we’d like to offer those with our compliments, Mr Blake, sir. Just in case there has been any oversight on our part.’

   What could this mean?
   It could only mean one thing.

   This was the most horrible moment of Steph’s life so far, although she couldn’t computerise and categorise it as such as it was happening. All she thought was Highview Hotel? Highview Hotel? Stephanie felt her body go slack. It slipped away from her and she looked to the ground fully expecting her liquid being to be in a mushy pool on the floor. Flowers? Champagne? She had no bones, no guts and no heart. They’d all vanished in that single moment. Spontaneous combustion. Disappeared. Left her. She was resourceless. She was a void.
 
   Except her head, she could still feel her head. It seemed to be expanding and contracting and she could hear a wailing sound, like a siren but she didn’t know where that was coming from, she could not make sense of it. Had someone called the emergency services? They should have. This was an emergency. Regular table? This was a horrific, unspeakable disaster. She felt her head swell and push angrily against the car interior. The cushy leather seats no longer appeared plush and comfortable but instead, momentarily, she imagined she was inside a padded cell. She was insane. But then, in the next microscopic instant her head began to shrink, to implode. She felt it heavy in her hands. Her hands were wet. Why was that? Where was the wailing siren coming from? She wanted it to stop. Suddenly Stephanie realised that it was her making the siren sound. She was howling. The wet on her hands were an undignified mess of tears and snot. Instantly Steph clasped her mouth closed and swallowed the agony. She scrambled to press the button to lower the car window. She needed fresh air, she was suffocating. She stuck her head outside and took panicked gulps. The howling had created an instant and intense pain inside her head. The betrayal had created a yet more ferocious pain in her heart.
 
   She’d heard other women, in similar circumstances (because, yes there were always women in these circumstances), say that at first they didn’t understand or accept what was going on when they discovered their husband’s infidelity. It wasn’t that way with Stephanie, Stephanie understood immediately. She wished the knowledge – the bleak cruel awareness – had seeped into her consciousness slowly. Even a moment longer in blissful ignorance would have been wonderful. But she knew. She categorically knew. Affair. Adultery. Treachery. Ruin. She knew. Such ugliness.
 
   She knew what it was. She just didn’t understand how it could be so. Not her Julian. Julian Blake was an upstanding member of the community. He’d started a Neighbourhood Watch scheme on their quiet private road. He paid all his bills by direct debit – on time and in full – he donated to charities, he worked so hard to give his family a good life, he was an adoring father, a loving husband. A filthy adulterer. These descriptions didn’t sit together. They didn’t make sense.