It’s a flash decision, I can’t resist. I scroll: call lists, messages, nothing too interesting. Some from me – I clearly keep in touch with him more than I realize. Notes. Stuart is a list-keeper.
The toilet flushes. I reach for my own phone and snap pictures of the top few notes and place his phone back down, sliding mine under my pillow.
When he emerges, he doesn’t seem to clock that his screen is still light enough for him to see his way back to bed. As he lies next to me, it dims again.
We hold each other tightly in the darkness. It’s nice. Well, as long as I can keep mentally blocking out Nina. I must keep reminding myself that I’m not just any other woman or girlfriend. I’m the best possible option there is, whichever way you look at it.
When he’s asleep, I lock myself in the bathroom with my phone. Stuart’s notes are odd, but in fairness, so are mine. They’re a hotchpotch of random things I need to remember and I even make a note of my dreams sometimes so I’ve got something to say when Christian occasionally asks me about them.
The latest note is a flight number, date and time. Oh my God, he looked up Camilla’s flight in advance. Did he really even have a meeting in Windsor? He’s never gone there before to my knowledge.
My heart starts to beat a little faster.
The next is a reminder to buy mouthwash.
The one after that is harder to decipher.
Veg recipes, dog treats, work-related interest, thank-you gift from F&E. Stability.
It’s only when I start to shiver that I realize I’m cold and how long I’ve been sitting on the edge of the bath trying to make sense of things.
As I climb back into bed, I feel nauseous. But as I’m finally drifting off, I hear a cry. I sit up. Stuart doesn’t stir, even when I switch on my bedside light.
I pull on my dressing gown and open our bedroom door fully. Emily’s light is on. She’s sitting up in bed, tears streaming down her face. ‘Emily, darling, what’s wrong?’
‘I dreamed about Mummy.’
I hug her. I don’t know what else to do or say for the best. She breaks away and hands me a mini photo album. ‘Mummy gave me this for when I’m sad.’
I flick through all the pictures of Nina and Emily.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, forcing back tears as I hand it back. ‘Shall I put it under your pillow or somewhere else safe?’
‘Under my pillow is good,’ she says, settling back down and closing her eyes.
I wait until I think she’s asleep. As I stand up, her eyes open.
‘Mummy had a secret place where she kept things for when I’m older. And for Felix, too.’
‘Did she? Where?’
My voice must sound too keen because she looks at me suspiciously, reminding me of Deborah.
‘Umm . . .’
I wait.
She closes her eyes.
‘Em?’ I say, a lot more gently this time.
‘She climbed up the ladder to the loft a lot before she got really tired,’ she says.
I wait a few minutes longer, but she drifts off.
Back in my own bed, listening to Stuart breathing, my mind is full of questions and memories of Nina, as are my disturbed dreams when I finally manage to sleep.
Despite promising to be truthful with Stuart (can I even trust him to be honest, too?), I can’t bring myself to tell him when I discover the next day that I’m pregnant. It’s too late to take things slowly. This changes everything.
Chapter Fifteen
The last thing I feel like doing is hosting the book club meeting, but I can’t think of a good enough reason to cancel after the song and dance I made about continuing to host it. Everything, except my future child, feels less significant and unimportant. Not wishing to repeat my earlier mistake under Tamsin’s watchful gaze, or Camilla’s for that matter, I clutch a glass of white wine heavily diluted with sparkling water.
The book talk is a blur. Time drags. Greg arrives late, interrupting the flow. It veers us off track. The conversation turns to the local council’s planning permission procedures and policies. I used to be good at listening when I first joined the group. I’d make an effort to remember things about people, so I could fit in better. Now . . . there’s just too much else creeping through my mind.
I haven’t read the book (I do feel slightly bad about it, but I skimmed through some online reviews to get a flavour), so I nod and agree with whoever is speaking at the time. Apparently lots of people lie about the books they’ve read and the films they’ve watched. Clearly, I am not alone. I smile; I engage.
It’s not hard because there are the usual reactions: Greg likes endings tied up neatly with the villain getting their comeuppance and being carted off to prison as he insists that it is the only one-size-fits-all way to deal with society’s ills. Miriam thinks the book was too long. Abigail never likes to disagree with anyone so ‘loves everyone’s choices’ and Tamsin is the only one, to my mind, who ever offers a balanced opinion.
Camilla leaves early, having brought Louise with her because she didn’t want to leave her alone in the guesthouse. This gives me a much needed opportunity to catch Tamsin before she leaves.
‘Stay for another drink,’ I say. ‘I’ve got something I’d like to ask you.’
‘I’m intrigued,’ Tamsin laughs. ‘You normally can’t wait to get shot of me.’
I laugh as if it’s not true, but we both know it is.
I get straight to the point.
‘What was Nina like before she became ill? Did she seem happy?’
Tamsin’s expression doesn’t give anything away. ‘In what way?’
‘In any way. Did she ever seem . . . I don’t know . . . preoccupied? Upset? I’m talking about a few years ago. Not recently.’
‘Nothing jumps out. She was fortunate. Obviously, I’m talking about before . . .’
‘That’s what I thought. It’s just that I’ve got the impression lately that maybe she wasn’t that happy.’
‘Does it matter now?’
‘Yes and no.’
‘Why don’t you talk to Greg?’ says Tamsin. ‘They used to break off from the group from time to time, have private chats.’
‘Greg? I never noticed.’
‘Back when the group started, they appeared really close friends.’
‘They did a photography course together once, he told me.’
‘Maybe that was it then,’ she says, not sounding particularly interested.
The more I think about it, Greg is quiet and not someone I would’ve thought Nina would be friends with. But then, I don’t know – do I – because, as I’m starting to discover, I didn’t know Nina as well as I had presumed.
‘You do know he’s a private investigator?’ Tamsin adds.
‘Is he? He merely told me he was a keen photographer.’
Tamsin smiles. ‘Well, yes, he is. But he works part time in varying other jobs from what I understand. He may even do some work as a security guard from time to time.’
‘He does blend in well.’
‘Just like you, Marie. Sometimes it’s as if you’ve always been here.’
‘I’m not sure how to answer that,’ I say.
‘Can I be blunt?’
What choice do I have?
‘Go on.’
‘People are talking. Maybe it’s judgemental, maybe it’s wrong, but it’s hard for people to accept.’
‘Accept what?’
I’m getting into uncomfortable territory. I can’t outright deny any longer that there’s anything going on between me and Stuart because soon it will be blatantly obvious.
‘You. Here. It’s too soon.’
It flits through my mind that Tamsin may be the nasty card and photo sender. She doesn’t look like one, but then who does? Greg? Sharon? Abigail? Deborah? Camilla? Someone at school? Ben? No, not Ben, he has well and truly moved on.
Tamsin is staring at me, waiting for a response. I refocus.
‘When would be a good time?
Nina asked me to look out for the children. Stuart is grateful for the help.’
‘I’m just telling you how it is. Nina had a lot of friends.’
‘Thanks for letting me know, Tamsin. I do appreciate it. I’ll bear everything you’ve said in mind.’ I’m dying to ask – is it me they’re judging or both of us? But I don’t want to hear the answer out loud. ‘Did Nina ever talk to you about . . . afterwards?’
‘Afterwards?’
She knows what I mean, she’s trying to force me to spell things out.
‘About her fears. Stuart moving on. Someone else playing a mother role in her children’s life?’
Tamsin hesitates. I mentally brace myself, fully prepared to hear something I don’t like, but then I realize that she’s pausing because she doesn’t want to admit she wasn’t quite the confidante she likes to think she is. If Nina didn’t trust her, she wouldn’t have told her anything. Nina took issue with people who couldn’t keep secrets.
‘Not really, but I did get the impression that she would have liked it to be someone with children the same age as hers. She thought they’d get it, really understand.’
‘Oh.’
‘There is one more thing, while we’re on the subject . . .’
I brace myself. Again.
‘I think it would help if you let go a bit. Everyone loves the book group, but your insistence on hosting it here and nowhere else, it’s causing tensions.’
‘Seems there’s a lot going on that I don’t know about.’
If I didn’t have my baby to think about, it would be a real wrench but . . . I’ll let this particular project go. However, it’s the only thing I am going to let go. Everything else is mine. If I’m going to hang onto it, then I need to be more proactive. It’s not just about me any more. I have my child’s future to consider.
The next morning I wait a few minutes until after Stuart has left for work, in case he’s forgotten something (not that I can imagine him doing so), before I climb up into the loft. I tread carefully up the ladder as if I’m old. The thought of falling down and hurting my baby fills me with dread. Right now, he or she is the size of a poppy seed.
I struggle to find a light switch, even though light seems to force its way through various gaps. Once I manage to find it (it was a pull-down cord), I take in the area, aware that the smell, a mixture of cardboard, damp – maybe, or just sheer mustiness – is mildly suffocating.
There are ten or so cardboard boxes all neatly labelled: Clothes, Make-up, Shoes, Accessories. Stuart seems to have kept everything. I use a key to slice open several boxes, photographing them with my phone first so I can buy the same type of tape to reseal them. I’m safe for a while. I’ve never seen Stuart come up here. He’s packed away his pain, hidden until such time as he feels ready to truly let go.
The first four boxes are labelled Children’s Books (why haven’t they been kept out in easier reach for Felix and Em?). There are her favourites among old school exam books, but also plenty of non-fiction: healthy food and cookery books, art, pregnancy, childcare ones, all subjects that have been a part of her life journey but others I didn’t know she was interested in: crime and punishment, prisoner rehabilitation. I take out a few, including one of the better-looking pregnancy ones.
A loud thud on the roof makes me jump. A bird? It scratches. My peace shattered, I stifle the urge to climb down to the comfort and familiarity of downstairs as I hear indistinguishable, muffled noises from the house below. I reassure myself that everything sounds different when it’s approached from a fresh angle.
The boxes containing photos – temporarily freezing time – and paintings are naturally the hardest to deal with. Young versions of Nina, pictures I’ve never seen, fill albums and shoeboxes. There must be other copies. I’m sure Deborah would want these. It annoys me that they aren’t being properly looked after, the thoughtless stuffing away of all these memories. I vow to sort them myself at some point as I select five to add to my own collection. They all include me, along with Nina, at various stages of our childhood: I’m closely at her side while she’s blowing out nine candles; I’m sitting next to her at a pantomime – Aladdin; we’re side by side at the beach, both holding matching chocolate ice creams.
There are ones from Ibiza, too, which is a surprise. I didn’t know she’d had this many printed. I’d asked her for access to her photos sometime during the months after Charlie died. I’d wanted some good memories as a memento. She’d been reluctant at the time, however much I tried to reassure her that it wouldn’t upset me, quite the opposite. I understood that she was trying to protect me, but it wasn’t helping. So, I insisted.
There is one of Charlie that I love (even though Nina and Camilla are either side of him), smiling, looking happy and carefree. It’s how I remember him when we first met. I don’t recall taking it. I asked Nina for this particular picture, but she’d insisted that I crop her out because she didn’t ‘look good’. It’s true to be fair, it’s not the best one of her. But still, memories are memories. I smile. She is wearing trainers. I remember how cross she was when she had to take them out of her rucksack and wear them while we were still partying because she’d snapped the kitten heel of one of her new leopard-print shoes. (Camilla and I had both told her that she shouldn’t wear heels, but she wouldn’t listen.) One of Nina’s things was that she was proud of the fact that she could walk in heels anywhere. She was stubborn.
I help myself to a few more pictures. I want Nina’s memory album to be rich in memories from all periods of her life.
Nina’s paintings are disordered. When Emily mentioned that Nina had a secret place where she kept things, I imagined that Nina would’ve earmarked certain prints for her children. It seems I’m wrong, given the level of disorganization contained within all the boxes. I don’t have time to go through them all, but I come across two that are undeniably representations of me. I can interpret Nina’s style, probably even better than my own. In the image, my fringe drapes in front of my face, it’s solid, looks greasy and is hiding my right eye. But the exposed eye is creepy, watching, painted shades of green.
I feel compelled to cut open more boxes, to steal knowledge. Clothes: coats, scarves, belts. As I delve deeper, reckless indulgence takes over and I tip the boxes upside down. Nina’s old belongings litter the ground. It makes sifting through easier, although I feel desperate at my lack of findings. I hadn’t appreciated how much hope I’d pinned on discovering something, just like in a novel or a film, which would illuminate all of Nina’s old world.
I shove as much as I can back in, but the stuff is in the wrong boxes and it won’t all fit back in the same way. The cardboard lids won’t flatten properly and random items poke out, one of which is a turquoise scarf. Nina loved it, and it seems a shame to leave it up here. I add it to my pile of things. My back aches. I’ll have to return soon and clear up the mess.
To prevent the risk of falling, I drop the books, scarf and photos down onto the carpet below so that I will be able to grip the metal ladder with both hands. The books thump, one after the other. Goldie’s muffled bark sparks a pang of guilt; I’ve neglected her this morning.
I glance around one more time before I switch off the light and climb carefully back down, sealing the hatch behind me.
Goldie’s barks are still muffled as I walk downstairs; the kitchen door is shut. I never close it.
Icy fear grips.
‘Hello?’
The door to Stuart’s study opens, but it isn’t him. It’s Camilla.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Stuart said I could borrow a heater from his study. There’s something wrong with the central heating in the cottage. It’s freezing in there. My hands and feet are like ice.’
‘So you let yourself in? How?’
‘I rang the doorbell. No one answered. I phoned Stuart, he told me to use the spare key if you were out.’
‘What spare key?’
‘The one he keeps hidden by the back door.’
‘Where?’
As we walk into the kitchen, she stays behind me as Goldie rushes up to greet us. I place the photos on the kitchen table and put the books on top of them. I open the back door. Camilla points out a large stone by the metal boot-scraper as she leaves, handing the key back to me as I hold out my right hand in readiness to accept it.
For goodness’ sake. I’m shocked at Stuart’s carelessness. Any old burglar with a spot of imagination and a dollop of determination and desperation could find it in seconds. Or anyone else with malicious intentions. I chuck the key into a kitchen drawer; it’s safer inside than out.
I put on my coat and wrap Nina’s turquoise scarf around my neck. It is warm and comforting.
I stroke Goldie.
‘Sorry, gorgeous girl. Let’s go for a walk.’
She is gracious and forgiving. If only people around here will be like that when they find out about me and Stuart. As I open the door and step outside into the cold air, I’m apprehensive about what lies ahead. Unseen horrible future judgement almost feels tangible, like an imminent, unavoidable thunderstorm.
Stuart and I coexist in pleasant, respectful politeness. Fleeting random moments present themselves, when I could open up a conversation with him about his decision to collect Camilla and Louise from the airport. But I hesitate each time, and the opportunity dissipates with a change of topic or a child’s interruption. I remind myself that I had no right to read his notes anyway, that there was nothing incriminating to worry about. But I can’t help feeling that there is.
As I tuck the children into bed that evening, it strikes me as weird that Nina and I are interlinked, yet again. Her children will be related to mine. Our lives remain entwined.
I make my way downstairs when they’ve drifted off, ready to break the news to Stuart. But he is not alone.
Camilla is with him in the kitchen. They both have their backs to me, but Stuart is nodding as Camilla speaks.
‘It seemed the best thing to do,’ she says. ‘It’s what she would’ve wanted.’
I hesitate.
Are they talking about me? Judging me as a mother?
The Last Wife: The addictive and unforgettable new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller Page 12