For now, I’ll let the sleeping dogs lie very quiet.
The days are long. The nights longer. Stuart and I are forming our own rituals – like right now, I’m drinking a coffee at breakfast to keep him company instead of a tea (just a weak one; every time I eat or drink anything I think of my baby).
‘Stuart . . .’ I say.
God, it sounds forced. Nina used to call him honey. It’s too cringey. I must google terms of endearment and pick out a non-syrupy, natural-sounding one. ‘Stuart’ feels too formal.
Despite hating the words date night for the purpose of this conversation, I can’t think of a better description right now.
‘The other night . . . The bracelet and everything . . . Well, it was a Tuesday night. It made it feel like it was a,’ I say it, ‘a date night.’
Stuart looks surprised that I’ve even raised the subject. ‘Well, yes.’
Now I feel stupid. There are only seven days in a week, after all; it’s hardly impossible that we go out on a Tuesday.
‘Well, it’s just I’d like us to do things differently.’
‘OK. Like what?’
He sips his coffee and acts like he’s interested, but I feel humoured. It’s irritating.
‘Nothing springs to mind right now, it’s just that it bothered me a bit when I woke up in the night and realized it was a Tuesday date night.’
‘Point taken. But it was you who said you wanted to talk. I thought it would be easier on neutral territory. The gift was something I’ve been meaning to give you for ages and then felt appropriate. I could hardly give it to you in the pub after your revelation.’
‘Daddy, can you take us to school today, please?’ Emily interrupts.
She always interrupts.
I wait, hoping that Stuart will ask her to wait. Of course he doesn’t. He never will, and each time it happens, it reminds me of my place. Once our baby is born, I will feel more secure. It will cement my place in the family.
It’s quieter than ever once Stuart has taken the children to school. I sit at the kitchen table and reply to client queries. I must get working again properly, but I can’t concentrate.
I distract myself by looking up pregnancy facts during the second trimester. Just reading about swollen ankles and tiredness makes me yawn and twist my wedding ring around my finger as though my fingers might swell any moment. I’m not used to wearing one. I study it. He’s promised that later on down the line we can buy something bigger, if it’s more to my taste, and an engagement ring, too, if I’d like one. It sums up our relationship perfectly: everything is backwards.
I stand up and walk around the house.
Nina’s presence is fading, but never her memory. I forget that I am living her old life for days at a time now. I’ve tried so hard for the children’s sake to replace Nina that I don’t even think like myself at times, until something happens, like a random caller phones the landline and asks to speak to Ms Beaufort. It grates as I have to explain – yet again – that Nina has gone.
In my more paranoid or low moments, when I question my actions, I wonder if Nina knows somehow what I’ve done (I appreciate it’s irrational). Deborah knows and judges, as do anonymous people. The more I think about it, the more I wouldn’t put it past her to send the flowers and cards. Nina’s unpredictable moods and selfishness came from somewhere. I wonder if Deborah would change her mind about me if she knew what her precious daughter was capable of?
What I crave, more than anything, is a good dose of my mother’s sensible, no-nonsense advice. Usually, I ring my dad and let him know that I’m coming, but the urge to visit is so overwhelming that I just pick up my bag, get in my Mini and drive to my childhood home.
Their neighbour answers the door.
‘Hi, Pam,’ I say. ‘Dad not in?’
‘He’s gone to the supermarket. I’ve educated him about online deliveries, but I think he enjoys the outing between you and me.’
‘How’s Mum?’
‘She’s quiet today.’
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s at the back, in the conservatory.’
My mother is in a straw-coloured wicker chair facing the garden. I pull up a chair beside her. Mum’s frailness gets to me every time. Her hair is neatly brushed, but the parting is wrong. She doesn’t look herself. I sit beside her.
‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.
I take her hand. She looks at me as if she’s expecting me to say more. Now that the moment’s here, now that the time feels right, I’m scared. I’ve imagined this for so long. I waffle, skirt around the subject because I know that once I get into the more natural swing of it, it’s easier talking to my mother than it is to Christian because there’s no expectation. I find I speak the most I have in a long time. My mother looks interested, makes the odd random comment and she does seem to enjoy the sound of my voice, so it gives me confidence to continue.
I tell her about Camilla’s surprise return.
Silence.
‘I wish Nina was still here,’ I say.
Mum used to say that there are many people who will enter our lives, Nina was just one of them. But I enjoyed hanging out with her. With Nina I felt like a better version of myself, that anything was possible. I would never explain it that bluntly to anyone else, especially not Christian; it sounds pathetic. I consider how I’d describe Nina to someone who didn’t know her, who’d never met her. I think about the questions Christian has asked me about her. I mull over my dad’s, Ben’s, Camilla’s frustration at my building my life around one friendship. I’d describe Nina as beguiling. Someone whose faults people tended to overlook because just being in her company made life feel better. More open to possibilities. I guess it’s called charisma. It doesn’t mean I didn’t hate or resent her at times.
‘I got married, Mum. To Stuart. I mean, a man named Stuart.’
‘No, you did not!’ she says.
‘I did. Dad came. You weren’t well.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m your daughter, Marie.’
Pam walks up behind us. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thanks,’ I say.
‘Didn’t want to marry him,’ my mum says.
‘It’s all right, Mum,’ I say. ‘Everything worked out in the end. I’m happy. We’re all OK.’
‘Nina,’ Mum says.
‘No, I’m Marie,’ I say.
I wait until Pam’s out of earshot.
‘I’ve made so many mistakes.’
When my mother first started forgetting things, I grew scared of her. Which is silly, I know, and it’s another thing to hate myself for. When Nina was first diagnosed, I was relieved that at least I could still talk to her about what was wrong.
I’m not afraid any more. I say what I’ve really come here to say.
‘Mum,’ I say. ‘You’re going to be a grandmother.’
She smiles, but it is not one of recognition. It’s one of incomprehension.
‘I did it for you,’ I tell her. ‘I remembered. You wanted a big family.’ Everyone told me that it won’t make a difference. That no matter what I do or say, she’ll never know. But I had to try. It was worth a shot.
She smiles as though she feels that it’s the right reaction, but there is definitely no sign of comprehension.
I swallow. Hard.
I can’t trust my own judgement, and it’s a horrible feeling. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like for my mother. I feel like I’m in a dream and there’s an answer, so obvious, yet so elusive and out of reach.
I just need to figure out what it is.
Chapter Twenty-Five
My insomnia worsens. I spend most nights keeping Goldie company, wondering how on earth Stuart manages to sleep. I keep a record of everything.
Things Stuart likes: Sunday roasts, clean sheets on a Monday, a pub visit at least once a month, a supermarket delivery every week, curry on a Friday night, at least two loaves of bread and one carton of full-fat milk in the free
zer at any one time. Green grapes, not purple. He wears suits at the beginning of the week, more casual clothes on a Thursday and Friday. And date nights on a Tuesday.
Things that unsettle Stuart: Alternative suggestions to the above.
I make a camomile tea.
My thoughts switch from Stuart to Nina and her lies.
‘I was surprised to see you on the sofa,’ Nina had said to me the morning after the fateful night before. ‘I thought that you and Charlie had made up.’
‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘He made it quite clear that it was Camilla he was interested in.’
Nina had glanced over to the bar where Camilla had gone to get a bloody Mary: hair of the dog.
‘In fairness, he almost didn’t have a say in the matter once Camilla decided that . . .’
‘Why didn’t you stick up for me, why didn’t you say something to her?’
‘It’s hard for me always being in the middle . . .’
Recalling that particular conversation is sickening because by then she knew that Charlie, the man I loved, was dead. Because of her. And Camilla.
When the time came for us to leave and Charlie hadn’t turned up, they told me that they’d read loads of Ibiza stories online about people going missing, only to show up a day or so later. I had to pack up his belongings and leave them with the hotel’s front desk, telling the concierge that I couldn’t find Charlie and was extremely worried.
‘Very common,’ was the response. ‘People get drunk, make new friends, wake up somewhere on the other side of the island, hungover, sometimes minus their wallet or handbag. He’ll show up and he’ll be sorry about everything.’
We caught a taxi to the airport. Camilla paid. (I should’ve suspected something then, really.) Charlie was booked on a flight several hours later than us because he’d arranged his trip with a different airline. I thought we were over and he hadn’t had the guts to tell me. I sent him several texts, but (of course) he didn’t reply. I assumed, or even hoped, it was because of the cost; he had said that he wasn’t going to use his phone abroad. I was so angry and hurt when I returned, I could barely think straight.
When we heard that someone’s body had been found drowned, I prayed. I thought Nina did, too, but clearly she was praying for something different. Snippets of information filtered back via my parents who liaised with the relevant authorities, helped with formalities and supported me while I was numb with grief and shock. Although the description of his clothes sounded correct, there was no mention of a Saint Christopher; it had been given to him by his birth grandmother before she died and he wore it on a chain around his neck all the time. It had given me brief hope that it wasn’t him. Nina knew that.
She came to the funeral which was arranged by friends and the owner of the pub where Charlie had worked. Nina comforted me. She listened to me. Or did she? Perhaps I only thought she did. Maybe that’s why she distanced herself from me as she threw herself into her new life.
I’m not sure I can carry a secret around with me as heavy as this. I need to talk to Camilla, talk to her properly, prise every wretched detail from her and how she copes with the knowledge.
I can’t wait, even though it’s 2:00 a.m. Enough is enough. An element of surprise may shock her into divulging more than she intended.
I tell Goldie to ‘shhh’. Her eyes follow me as I go, reluctantly.
Coolness envelops me, despite it being an early summer night. I am not dressed to be outside, in maternity tracksuit bottoms and a thin top, flip-flops on my feet. The thwacking noise of rubber as I walk is heightened by the silence. Shivering, I keep looking behind as though I expect to see someone emerge from the darkness. I speed up, fighting my natural instinct to be cautious. Camilla always leaves at least one downstairs light on.
I slide my key in the door but am thwarted by the chain. I’m not giving in. I try the back door – yes!
I stand still. The fridge hums. On a counter is a pile of papers, school forms (instantly recognizable by the logo) and a set of keys. A blast of air slams the door shut behind me. I freeze. I think I’ve got away with it for a moment or two, but no, footsteps thud down the stairs.
I flood the kitchen with light so that Camilla can see it’s me.
But it’s not her. It’s Greg.
Then Camilla appears at the bottom of the stairs, hair all over the place, eyes wide, her phone in one hand, a tennis racquet in the other.
‘For fuck’s sake, what the hell are you doing? I’ve already rung the police, you stupid cow!’ She calls them back. ‘A mistake. So sorry.’
When she ends the call, she turns her attention back to me.
‘What are you doing, Marie? Do you even know what time it is?’
I look at Greg.
He shrugs.
‘You and Greg?’
‘It’s none of your bloody business,’ Camilla says.
He gives me an awkward wave. ‘Hi, Marie. Hope everything’s all right. Pretend you haven’t seen me. I’ll leave you two to it,’ he says, disappearing up the stairs.
‘Thank God you didn’t wake Lulu!’
‘The door slammed. I didn’t mean to wake you.’
‘Well, what then? Burgle? Breaking and entering? You can’t just walk in here on a whim.’
‘Why not? You do what you like. I need to know. Exactly how it happened,’ I whisper, as if Greg or Louise are listening in.
‘At two in the morning?’ I notice she whispers back.
‘Yes, at two in the morning. I can’t sleep. It’s haunting me.’
‘Bloody hell, Marie. Just try. Imagine what it’s like for me.’
‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘Speak to Deborah.’
‘Deborah? She can’t stand me.’
‘Try her. She knows. And Marie . . .?’
I stop.
‘Keep anything she says to yourself.’
The walk back feels longer. As I approach the back door, I scream when someone grabs my wrist and shines torchlight in my face.
‘Oh my God, it’s you!’ Stuart’s voice.
I can’t breathe. I haven’t had a panic attack since I was a teenager. He switches off the torch, but I’m still blinded. I inhale. Breath, blessed breath.
He holds me around the waist and helps me up the back steps like I’m an old lady.
‘Why did you grab me like that?’
‘I thought you were a prowler.’
‘But you must’ve seen that I wasn’t in bed? Dear God, the baby! I hope the baby’s all right after a fright like that.’
‘I didn’t know you’d be outside,’ he says. ‘Sit down. I’ll make you some tea.’
He reels out a list of flavours – jasmine, ginger, peppermint – and so forth, as if that will make amends for the fright he just gave me.
‘Anything. I’ll drink anything.’
‘What were you doing outside?’ he asks.
‘I needed air. I needed to think.’
‘Half-naked?’
I shrug.
‘For God’s sake, Marie. Anything could’ve happened! Someone has been leaving threatening notes. We’ve had two attempted break-ins.’
‘I wondered if you’d made the second one up,’ I say. ‘To get me to come over and help you.’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
Put like that, why did I? I’m having real trouble making sense of everything.
‘Camilla tried to break in, before she let it be known she’d moved back. I don’t think there is a someone other than the poison-pen author and flower-sender. Regardless, though, let’s tell the police,’ I say. ‘What if someone was after Nina? What if they’re after me now instead? What if I’ve made a mistake in believing that it was Camilla? What if it’s all linked?’
‘That’s a lot of speculation. I’m reluctant for obvious reasons,’ he says. ‘But sadly, we can’t rule it out indefinitely. However, logically, if “they”’ – he mimes quotation marks – ‘were after Nina, then surely they�
��d be after Camilla now, too?’
‘Who knows, she’s never mentioned anything,’ I say. ‘She’s hooked up with Greg from the book group, so she’s not alone at the moment.’
‘Greg? Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, if this is something to do with the past, they wouldn’t be after you.’
‘Unless . . . Camilla is behind all this? She’s desperate for me to keep quiet. Perhaps she thought that Nina had already told me. Perhaps she’s got Greg in on it, too. He’s a private investigator and a security guard, and Lord knows what else. He could be a hit man on the side.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. Camilla wouldn’t want to harm your baby,’ he says. ‘If anything, it’s the best thing that could have happened. The chances of you speaking out now are so much less. You stand to lose out, too.’
He’s right.
And in a really perverse, childish, twisted way, I feel moments of jealousy that I was left out of the secret. Like I was a child to be managed, someone who couldn’t handle the truth.
I don’t want my child tainted with a history of murder, manslaughter or whatever it is. Or Nina’s. Or Camilla’s and therefore Charlie’s. Yet as distasteful as it is, I have to embrace the secret and find a way to live with it. I’m a part of it now. Just like Nina, Camilla and Stuart. And I will find a way. Once I’ve spoken to Deborah. I need to piece everything together in my own way, in my own time, if I’m to take such a monumental burden on board.
A tiredness like I haven’t known in a long time hits. I let Stuart lead me upstairs by the hand and help me lie down on the bed before I give in to the blackness.
When I awaken, it’s still dark. I am alone in bed.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Deborah is on holiday in the Lake District until Saturday.
I left her a voicemail, insisting that I needed to speak to her urgently, so she called me back. As soon as she ascertained that the children were all right, she asked me to leave her in peace until she returned.
The Last Wife: The addictive and unforgettable new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller Page 19