His Other Life. Beth Thomas

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      ‘You need some hobbies,’ Mum is always saying. ‘Why don’t you take up knitting?’

      Yeah, I know what that means. There’s absolutely no way I’m having a baby yet. Not with Adam, anyway.

      I stop, midway through a pointless wander across the hallway. What the bloody hell does that mean, ‘not with Adam’? Who the hell else will I have a baby with? He’s my husband, isn’t he? I know I definitely want kids some day, so what am I actually thinking? That when the time is right, I’ll go off and do it with someone else? Of course not.

      Although the chance to get pregnant in the first place would be nice.

      When the phone rings in the living room a few minutes later, I’m standing in the kitchen staring into the fridge for some reason. I slam it shut and move swiftly to the living room, grateful to have a purpose at last. Just as my hand reaches out to grab the receiver, I hesitate. It’ll only be insurance sales after all; they’re the only people who ring the landline any more. Well, pseudo-people. No actual fingers press actual keys.

      The answer phone clicks on and plays its message, and after the beep I wait to hear the usual spooky silence of the computer checking to see if anyone is there and then giving up and going down the pub. But instead I’m shocked to hear the sound of a man’s deep voice coming into my living room from the speaker.

      ‘Hello Adam, it’s Leon. Long time no see. Betcha didn’t expect to hear from me again, did you? Come as a bit of a shock, has it? Ha, I bet it has. Just thought I’d give you a call, let you know I’m in the area – nearby actually. Very nearby. Would only take me two minutes to get to your place from here. Piece of cake. I’m gonna try to catch up with you very soon. Don’t worry about calling me back, I’ll be in touch.’

      The phone clicks as Leon replaces the receiver, and the room falls silent. In my mind I could hear the italics in his voice, particularly as he said those two names, as if just in saying them he was trying to make some kind of point. But what point could he possibly be making? And why? And, by the way, who the fuck is Leon? We’ve been married a year, how come Adam has never mentioned him to me before? I know everything about him, all his friends, all his old jobs, where he used to live, everything.

      Ha ha ha. That’s just me being sarcastic with myself. I, of course, know none of those things. A creepy phone call from a weirdo called Leon should not be remotely surprising, considering what I do know about Adam.

      I don’t have any more time to consider it now as I hear Adam’s car on the drive. He’s home. I walk away from the phone and go into the hall to greet him, as I always do.

      ‘Hi there,’ he says as he sees me. ‘Good day?’

      I nod. ‘Yeah, not bad. You?’

      He nods too. ‘Yeah, good.’ He starts up the stairs and I follow behind. ‘Finally sorted out that three-bed semi in Whitlow.’

      ‘Oh good.’

      ‘Yep. The owner can’t believe it. He thinks I’m a god!’ He starts to change his clothes.

      I sit down on the bed and watch as, god-like, he folds his dirty shirt in half, then in half again, then places it carefully into the laundry basket behind the door. As he straightens the creases in his trousers before hanging them up, I remember the call from earlier.

      ‘Oh, there was a call for you.’

      ‘Yeah?’ He’s dressed again now and heads back downstairs. Dutifully, I follow behind. ‘Chinese or Indian?’

      ‘Neither, actually. He sounded English, I think. Possibly London or home counties …’

      I come into the kitchen where he’s standing with the East of India’s menu in one hand and the Moon Hung Lo’s in the other. ‘What?’

      ‘Oh, sorry, I thought you meant … Um, we haven’t had Chinese for a while, have we?’

      He bounces the menus up and down in his hands as he looks at me with a smile. ‘No, that’s true, but I’m really in the mood for a good curry tonight. What do you think?’

      What I think is that we haven’t had Chinese for a while, and actually I would run through our street singing ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ wearing nothing but a splash of perfume and three gold tassels for the chance to eat sweet and sour chicken balls, just once. But I nod and smile nauseatingly. I despise myself sometimes. ‘OK, yes, curry would be lovely. Thanks.’

      ‘Cool.’ He puts the menu down on the kitchen counter and brings his phone out of his pocket. As always, I feel a stab of … something when I see it. Or at least, my eyes do. They kind of jolt to attention as it comes into view, like a dog spotting a squirrel. Adam scans the menu, looking for the restaurant’s phone number. ‘Did you say there was a call for me?’

      ‘Oh, yes, there was. Someone called … Leon …’

      His head snaps up, the hand holding his phone frozen in mid-air. ‘Who?’

      I manage to drag my eyes away from the phone to focus on Adam. His usual air of ease and nonchalance is gone abruptly, replaced by an intense stark alarm. ‘What’s up?’

      ‘Who did you say called?’

      I frown, hesitating before speaking to let him know I’m not pleased with how he’s behaving. If I’m brutally honest, I also do it to torture him, just a teensy bit. ‘It was Leon.’

      He brings his face closer to mine. ‘What did he say?’ He’s speaking slowly, his hands still not moving.

      ‘Um, well he said something about being in the area—’

      ‘Shit.’

      ‘—and that he would see you soon.’

      ‘Oh shit. Anything else?’

      By now, the phone is back in his pocket and the take-away menu all but forgotten. My stomach notices this and gives a loud growl in protest.

      ‘You can hear for yourself – it’s on the answer phone.’

      Adam bursts into life, turning and marching rapidly into the living room. Seconds later I hear the answer phone message playing, that deep gravelly voice filling our cosy living space like a bad smell. When it reaches the click at the end, there’s the sound of a small movement, then the beep and the voice comes on again. ‘Hello Adam …’ At the end, Adam plays it a third time, and then a fourth, until my head is filled with that horrible raspy voice, pointedly saying my husband’s name, over and over.

      I walk quietly into the hallway and peer through the open door into the room; Adam is staring at the phone, unmoving, apparently frozen. Thinking hard? Undecided? Then in a sudden dart he looks up, catches my eye, and hurries past me, up the stairs. ‘Who’s Leon then?’ I ask pointlessly, running after him. He strides into our bedroom, but before I can catch him up, he’s out again, passing me on the stairs as he runs back down.

      ‘Oh, no one. Just someone I … used to work with. Years ago.’

      ‘Oh, right. So why are you so pissed off?’

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