Page 55 of The Woman Who Said Yes

‘I know it sounds mad,’ I admit, stirring my weak coffee.

Dom sighs and glances around the unprepossessing suburban café. It appears to be trying to elevate itself by offering raw juices and acai bowls alongside the tuna paninis.

‘What I think,’ he says, ‘is that it was all done for the very best reasons. Whatever drove you to do all of that, it’s obvious that you care about Eva very much. That you want the best for her. I’d have done the same, if I’d thought that something was a little off.’

A little off! Like milk on the turn. ‘Would you really?’ Sam asks.

‘Oh, absolutely! And look, I do realise it’s all happened incredibly quickly with me and Eva. And us deciding to get married must have come as quite a shock to both of you.’

Yes, but it wasn’t just that, I reflect. It was a gut feeling I had – Sam had it too – and I still have it now. ‘I guess it did,’ I say, shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair.

‘So you did some detective work,’ Dom offers with a small, thin-sounding laugh. ‘I must admit, it’s pretty impressive!’

‘Yes, well,’ Sam says brusquely, ‘here we all are. So we might as well be honest, don’t you think?’

Dom picks up his coffee cup and takes an audible sip. ‘Yes, of course. I have no problem with that.’

He looks at me expectantly. So many questions are bubbling up in me, I don’t quite know where to begin. ‘So… is that where you live? The house we’ve just been to?’

Dom seems to hesitate, as if wondering how best to put it. ‘Sort of, just for the moment.’

‘How d’you mean?’ Sam asks.

I study Dom’s spookily poreless visage across the table. How different he seems now from that first night we met, when he’d bounded into Niko’s, keen to show off how much he knew about Eva and, by extension, the three of us. As if he’d swotted up in preparation for the Knitwits being his specialist subject on Mastermind.

Dom colours a little and sets down his cup. ‘It’s a temporary arrangement, just to tide me over.’

I glance at Sam, who seems to be studying him intently. ‘To tide you over?’ he says.

‘Yes, we’ve hit a bit of a hitch with the house,’ Dom says quickly.

‘You mean, your own house?’ I ask. ‘The one that’s being renovated, where you and Eva are planning to live?’

‘The very same,’ Dom drawls with a maddening chuckle, pomposity seemingly restored. A small crackle-glazed vase is sitting on the table between us. It’s all I can do not to rap him over the head with it.

‘What kind of hitch?’ Sam rakes back his hair distractedly.

Dom groans in a where-do-I-start? kind of way. ‘Subsidence, mainly. You know how it is with the clay belt…’ Not really, but do go on! ‘…Whole building’s cracking and sinking and we’re looking at a serious programme of restorative measures.’

‘That sounds like a lot,’ I say.

‘Yes, so that’s delaying things somewhat,’ Dom adds in a clipped tone.

‘And you’re living at that other house while all this is going on?’ Sam remarks, as if he is making polite chit-chat with the guy in the newsagent’s.

‘That’s right. Like I said, it’s just a pit stop really…’

‘Is that your place too?’ Sam asks.

‘Erm, well, kind of⁠—’

‘Or is it your mum’s house?’ I am taken aback by my own boldness.

Dom flinches. ‘Um… yes. That’s right. It’s my mum’s.’

‘So that was your mum who came out? That was Geraldine?’

He seems to take a beat before nodding mutely. As a silence settles, I’m not sure what to say next. ‘She seemed nice’? or ‘I did notice the family resemblance’? I picture the woman in those sheeny tracksuit bottoms and ancient slippers. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say finally.