The Liar Next Door by Nicola Marsh
Forty-Nine
Frankie
NOW
I love this time of evening, around nine, when Luna has been asleep for an hour, Andre is usually gaming or scanning the latest gadget releases online upstairs and I’m in the living room with a glass of wine surrounded by packages.
I may be tiring of having to come up with fresh content for my lifestyle vlog but receiving freebies will never lose its appeal. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, a chilled Riesling on the coffee table in front of me, with a stack of unopened packages on my right. I have a system where I open them individually, record the date, item and sender in a journal so I know who to promote.
I always feel like a kid at Christmas as I tear the tape off the first parcel and discover a stunning silk scarf inside from a local designer. It’s handmade, in a vibrant emerald with slashes of turquoise through it. I drape it around my neck, savoring the luxurious feel of it sliding against my skin.
The next package isn’t as exciting, hand-poured soy candles from a newly opened home wares shop in Manhattan. But as I raise them to my nose one at a time and inhale, I’m transported to an imaginary island by the lemongrass and coconut, frangipani and vanilla. These will definitely get a workout the next time I feel like escaping; which is pretty much all the time at the moment.
The simmering dissatisfaction Celeste picked up on last week hasn’t diminished. If anything, with every passing day I envisage doing something different with my life. Shutting down my vlog so I don’t have to be so perfect every time I step in front of the camera. Taking on a new challenge.
The only problem is, I have no idea what that is. I’ve spent my entire life living up to other people’s expectations. First my parents, being the model daughter, then Walter, being the doting wife, and now Andre and Luna, the perfect wife and mother. It’s not like I resent them; far from it. But I want more and damn if I know what that is.
I’ve ripped open my third package when Andre comes downstairs. “Did you check the mail today?”
I gesture at the packages and he rolls his eyes. “I meant the mailbox?”
“No. I was too fixated on this pile outside the front door I forgot. Are you expecting something?”
“A new catalogue from that design place near our old apartment.”
“You do know you can subscribe to catalogues online, right?”
“Smart ass. I like the feel of paper in my hands sometimes, the same way you like buying exorbitant numbers of paperbacks rather than e-books.”
“Touché.” I smile and wave him away. “Go. You’re interrupting my fun.”
“Any good stuff today, other than that swank scarf around your neck?”
“Some nice candles.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “Maybe you can bring those into the bedroom later?”
“They have to be new when I light them live online, not used.”
“Too bad.” He blows me a kiss. “Back in a sec.”
He lets himself out the front door and I become engrossed in opening the next few packages: a label maker for the pantry, a set of newfangled fruit peelers, a halter top and sequined skirt, sun visors in various colors and a beautiful journal. As I flip the pretty pages, I realize Andre hasn’t returned. I’ve lost track of time but he’s been outside for at least fifteen minutes while I’ve been opening and recording the freebies.
I pick up my wine glass and move to the window looking out on the street. He’s standing at the bottom of our steps, with his arms around a woman.
It’s Celeste.
I stiffen and take a healthy slug of wine. It burns my throat as I watch them. Her cheek is resting against his chest, her arms around his waist, too tight. His cheek is resting on the top of her head and he looks way too comfortable, like he’s done this before.
I try not to jump to conclusions because Celeste and I have grown closer and I don’t want to ruin our friendship by reading too much into what could simply be a comforting hug. But there’s nothing in Andre’s hand so he didn’t go outside to check the mailbox.
Had he gone outside to talk to her?
Violette skips down the steps next door and she joins them, and I’m relieved when Andre releases Celeste as they lean down to talk to Violette. Celeste takes hold of her hand and Andre ruffles her hair, and in that moment they look more like a family than we do.
I gulp the rest of my wine, draining the glass. It does little to ease my rising suspicion.
I know Andre’s infidelity six years ago plays into my inherent insecurities. But I need to tread carefully. I don’t want to cause a rift between us over something that probably has a simple explanation.
I want to look away, to dismiss this as meaningless, but I can’t.
I’m transfixed.
Then Celeste glances up and spots me. For a second I think I glimpse triumph on her face before she waves, beckoning me to join them.
Celeste and I are friends now. I have got to get over this. But as I slip out of the front door, I can’t help wondering: what did I just see?