You Can Trust Me Read Free Page A

sold his last motorcycle when Hannah was a baby so that we could buy a new car, and his own bike-riding days are now long behind him.
    Becky is still talking about Spain—Andalucía, to be precise—and the hikes she and Paul enjoyed on their last holiday there. By now, there’s a fixed smile on my face. It’s not just the display of wedded bliss I’m having to witness, that’s making me feel uncomfortable but also the fact that I’m all too aware Catrina will be here soon. If she isn’t already.
    After a few more moments, Martha says she has to check on the food and slides away to the kitchen. Becky follows her. Paul and Will are still talking about bikes. so I gaze around the room. This is hell. My glass is empty. I’ve knocked it back far too fast. The waiter wanders over with another tray of wine and champagne. I take a drink and press the cool, damp glass against my cheek as Leo strolls over.
    â€œHey, Dad.” Paul gives his father a pat on the back. “Good party—the clients are loving it.
    Leo acknowledges the compliment with a small smile. I notice—not for the first time—that Will shrinks into himself a little in his boss’s presence, as if attempting to adopt a more deferential air. I wonder if Leo realizes that.
    Another few minutes pass. More guests arrive. I find my eyes constantly drawn to the door, watching and waiting. Leo spots me looking and touches my arm. There’s nothing inappropriate about his touch, yet his hand feels too heavy on my skin.
    â€œWe really appreciate you coming, Livy,” he says in an uncharacteristically gentle voice.
    I can feel my cheeks reddening. He knows about Catrina too. I glance around. Paul is watching me while listening to Will describe some classic motorbike he saw yesterday. Does he know as well? Does Becky?
    For a few sickening moments, I wonder how much they know. Catrina had been working in the office for a while. Probably all the guys fancied her. Probably Will thought he was the luckiest man in the firm when their eyes met over the photocopier or however the whole sleazy business began.
    Leo’s hand is still on my arm. I shift slightly away from him and he removes it at last. As he turns to Paul, I close my eyes, remembering the days of obsessive worrying and imagining. How did it start? How many times? How good was the sex? When and how and where was I lied to?
    And through all the fights that followed the confession I forced from my husband’s lips: Will’s terror that I would leave him. His insistence that it had been a moment of madness—well, two months of moments. That I was the love of his life. That our home and our children and our life together were his whole world.
    I forgave him—and I tried to forget. But over the past six years, the memory of the affair retains its power to corrode my trust, like acid or rust. It’s ironic: when I was younger, before it happened, I imagined an affair would be a nuclear explosion in my marriage, obliterating it. The reality has turned out to be more like a nail bomb, leaving shards and fragments in unexpected places. Less annihilation, more attrition—though possibly just as fatal.
    I open my eyes. Both Paul and Leo are watching the door. Simultaneously, their gaze switches back to me. I look over to the door myself. Oh God. It’s her. She’s shorter and curvier than I was expecting, in a clingy blue dress. Her face is smiling and open, but she is attractive rather than pretty. Certainly not beautiful. I stare at her. I’ve spent so long imagining a lingerie-toting supermodel that it’s hard to accept the ordinary-looking girl I see in front of me. One thing’s for sure—she is young. Her skin is plump and fresh, her eyes sparkling.
    I realize I’m still staring and look away. Will presses his hand into the small of my back. I’m here.
    I don’t look him in the eye. Can’t. I feel flushed