We drive in silence. I thought we’d have reached the village by now. I check – we’ve been driving for over fifteen minutes. I must’ve missed a turn somewhere. There are no lights, no signs of life close by. I don’t want to be anywhere near her. I’ve never hated her more. I want to push her out and leave her to find her own way home. Let her be frightened. Let her feel helpless.
Poor Charlie. I feel winded. I pull over to the side of the road, open the window and take some deep breaths.
Camilla watches me but doesn’t say anything. Even she seems to realize that she’s said enough. Surrounded by darkness, I can hear her breathing. Is she frightened? I reach down with my fingers and pick up my phone. No signal.
Camilla, swift and predatory in her realization, leans over me and tries to grab it. I am faster. I drop it back down to my side, release the handbrake and pull away from our secluded spot, relieved when a white signpost to the next village (only one more mile) is illuminated by our headlights.
As I drive in to the village, I see a pub. The lights are on and there is a board outside offering bed and breakfast. Perfect. For Camilla. I pull into the car park.
‘Get out,’ I say.
‘I’m not getting out of my own car in the middle of nowhere.’
‘Fine. I’ll call the police and tell them that I had to stop you drunk driving. I want you out. You have your handbag, stay the night here, order a cab, I don’t care. But I’m not driving you back.’
‘You can’t do this.’
‘Watch me,’ I say, as a surge of rage gives me strength when she makes no effort to get out.
I unclip her seat belt, open my door, stride around the front of the car and yank open the passenger door. She tries to pull it shut again but isn’t quick enough. She leans away from me as if she’s planning on climbing over to the driver’s side, so I pull hard on her arm.
I realize just how drunk Camilla is as she loses her balance and half stumbles, half falls out of the car. She staggers slightly before putting out her arms and reaching for the side of a nearby truck, leaning against it for support. I reach inside for her bag, throw it down on the ground beside her and slam the door.
I rush back round, slide into my seat and shift the gears into reverse. I straighten up then change into first and pull away, driving slowly enough to check the rear-view mirror and see Camilla pick up her bag, briefly rummage through it, then disappear through the entrance of the pub. I pick up as much speed as possible, given my surroundings. The growing distance between us is a welcome relief.
I grip the steering wheel. I’ve no idea where I’m going, only that it will do Camilla good to have some more time to reflect. The area is unrecognizable in the darkness, of course it is. I must go back, this is madness. I am directionless in the middle of nowhere.
I pull over to set the satnav, when a wave of pain knifes my stomach. Feeling sick, I open the door and lean out. Cold, harsh realization hits as the second pain forces me to get out and pace up and down the deserted road.
As soon as it eases, I call Stuart. It goes to voicemail. Icy fear ups my indecision a notch. Do I try to drive back to the house? Call an ambulance? Camilla. God, why did I think it was such a good idea to leave her behind? Even her drunken, horrible company would be better than being alone right now. I take some deep breaths.
I feel better, much more in control. I get back in the car and turn on the ignition. Think. I must come up with a proper plan: return to Camilla, tell her we’re even? (We’re not, but now is definitely not the time.) She can drive me to a hospital if the pains worsen to get checked out; it’s too early for the baby to come. I turn the car around, then I remember that Camilla is in no fit state to drive.
I’m on my own.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The decision is made for me. I search for the nearest hospital on the satnav. Thankfully, it’s only twenty miles away. The pains subside long enough for me to drive myself there. Stuart was right to be concerned, for once. I can’t take any risks with my baby’s health, not after all I’ve been through. Camilla will be all right. Worst-case scenario, she’ll have to pay an expensive cab fare back to the property. Greg will be with her by lunchtime.
Fresh pain hits and distracts me as I leave the car in the hospital car park. I follow the signs to the maternity unit as I try to call Stuart again. Thank God he answers, albeit in a sleepy, hoarse voice.
My plight spills out in a torrent of jumbled words.
‘What? Slow down, Marie. Where are you?’
I name the hospital. ‘Please, call Deborah to look after Felix and Em. Get here quickly. Just in case.’
As I walk through the automatic doors, sickness swamps. I’m terrified. I thought I was a strong person, could take anything. I’m not. Everything I thought I’d learned or prepared for doesn’t happen. There is no order, only sickness, pain and desperately busy staff. I want to die.
My baby is putting in an early appearance.
Time passes in changes of medical staff. I take every drug I’m offered and give in to the surrealness. I didn’t think I’d be able to stay still long enough to have an injection in my spine, but I can’t wait for it to work its magic powers once the anaesthetist has been located. I think I see my dead grandmother. I even see Nina at one point.
I drift in and out of reality. I’m told to push. To not push. I’m sick. I’m hot, I’m cold. I’m terrified yet resigned simultaneously. The baby is back-to-back, meaning that he is pressing against my spine. There is talk of forceps, of a caesarean. I don’t care as long as my baby comes out alive and all this is over. Time is suspended and distorted, yet the end comes in sight swiftly.
‘Your baby’s heart is in distress,’ I’m told. ‘We need to take you into theatre and deliver the baby quickly.’
I sign a consent form while the risks are read out loud to me.
‘Is my husband here yet?’
A midwife squeezes my hand. ‘He’s on his way. He won’t be long.’
She has no way of knowing, but I’m grateful for the lie, nonetheless. I stare at the ceiling as I’m wheeled to theatre. I look up at the largest round lights I’ve ever seen, like UFOs. I hold out my right arm to be injected. Then, nothing.
I open my eyes.
Ice-cold fear floods.
‘Where is my baby?’
Stuart is sleeping in a plastic chair in the corner. I try to sit up, but there is a burning pain, like fire, where my bump used to be.
I am not pregnant any more.
‘You’ve had a beautiful, healthy boy,’ says a midwife.
Thank God.
‘Would you like to hold him?’
She helps me into an upright position before she hands him to me.
‘Make sure you hold his head,’ she says.
I know, but I don’t mind her telling me.
He is dressed in a little white sleepsuit I chose for him, decorated in teddies. Stuart must have brought it with him. Someone has put a blue hat on his head. There is a white plastic name tag around his wrist. He has the smallest eyelashes. Every now and then he jerks suddenly as if he’s realizing that he’s out in the real world and has space.
‘You’re perfect,’ I say to him.
Stuart opens his eyes, leans forward, stands up and comes over to us. He looks tired but happy.
‘You’re awake,’ he says. ‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’
‘He’s early. Is he all right?’
‘Yes, he’s fine. He wasn’t that early.’
I want to cry with happiness. Finally. I am a real mother. I did do the right thing.
I’m only given a few precious moments holding him before my blood pressure is taken and I’m told I’ll be prescribed liquid morphine for the pain. After all the years I’ve spent eating as organically as possible, trying to limit toxins, I’m a rapid convert to drugs.
I’m offered a cup of tea and some toast. To my astonishment, I’m hungry. The tea is the nicest I’ve ever tasted.
‘I�
��d like to call him Jack,’ I say to Stuart. ‘I think he looks like a Jack.’
Stuart smiles. ‘It sounds like a good name.’
I knew he wouldn’t disagree. After all, he can’t. As he keeps telling me, he’s ‘done this all before’.
When I’m feeling up to it, I ask Stuart to pass me my phone so I can let my dad know the good news.
I freeze.
There’s a missed call from Greg asking why Camilla hasn’t answered her phone, followed by a couple of messages. He’s been delayed by an unexpected money’s-too-good-to-turndown job.
I check the time. I abandoned Camilla in almost the middle of nowhere and took her car.
My whole body feels like jelly. I hope nothing awful has happened to her. I don’t want to be like Camilla and Nina. I don’t want to be responsible for something bad happening to someone else. I do the only thing I can: confess to Stuart.
I give him Camilla’s car keys.
‘Be quick,’ I say as he leaves me and our son alone.
I’m wheeled through to a bed in the middle of the main ward. It’s busy and noisy. Jack is attached to my bed in a plastic cot. Navy curtains are drawn around us to give an illusion of privacy, but they can’t block out sounds.
My first hours as a new mother are the worst of my life. I cannot feed Jack, and when he cries, I press the call bell as I’m not allowed to lift him due to my surgery, but the midwives are overworked and cannot get to me quickly. Babies cry.
Every time I hear the doors to the ward open, I pray that it is Stuart and not the police. I ring him every twenty minutes. Panic at being trapped and so helpless is utterly surreal and petrifying. When I see a message from Stuart, I want to cry with relief.
Camilla’s fine. She’s back at the house. She got a taxi, which she says you owe her for by the way. She’s furious, but relieved. Especially when I told her where her phone was hidden. Without her contacts, she couldn’t remember any numbers to call anyone from the pub’s phone for assistance.
I message back.
Did she say anything else?
What I mean is, is she going to call the police and tell them I locked her in her room, then stole her car? I doubt it – she’s hardly likely to want to get them involved after confessing to murdering my old boyfriend – but being helpless creates powerful paranoia.
I’m going to drive her to the hospital to get her car, then she’s heading home. She’s not going to say anything, but she’s as mad as a snake. I’ll check into a hotel, get some sleep. I’ll see you both as soon as poss in the morning.
The woman next to me sobs relentlessly, yet I’m unable to move to go and comfort her. The pain, the spaced-out feeling, the sheer sense of powerlessness is overwhelming again. This is not what I had in mind when I craved being a mother, not at all. When I look at my baby, rather than being in awe, I pray that he doesn’t start crying again.
I’m wrung-out by the time Stuart visits. I can’t feed Jack. Formula is a totally frowned-upon no-no. I learned this in antenatal classes, where everything sounded so straightforward and simple. I’m desperate and exhausted.
‘I’ll sort this,’ Stuart says.
It’s such a relief to hear those words. He arranges a single room for me, reserved mainly for women who need longer hospital stays. Once I’ve been assisted upright and proved I can stand, then walk, unaided, I’m wheelchaired to the relative sanctuary of the private room. Finally, Jack feeds. He feels calmer in my arms. I cry in gratitude. When he falls asleep, Stuart lifts him from me and places him in his Perspex cot attached to my bed.
From where I’m lying, all I can see are windows. Yet, my world exists here, in this room. It’s tricky to imagine that life really is going on outside.
Yet it is. A message from Camilla among the many good wishes (there’s even one from Ben) bursts my bubble.
Greg’s dumped me. But that’s not the problem. We need to talk as soon as you get back. (And not through a bloody door this time or on some road in the middle of nowhere.) Don’t think I won’t hold that against you forever. Btw, I know I’m supposed to say ‘congratulations’ and ask how you are, etc. But this is important otherwise I’d be ignoring you.
I message back.
OK. Sorry.
Me too.
It doesn’t let her off murder – not by a long way.
I no longer think of Greg as benign ‘Greg from the book group’. I’m certain he has had a hidden agenda for a long time. If I’m right, then he’s dangerous to us both. Who’d have thought that after all this time, Camilla and I would have to join forces for both our sakes.
Nina’s legacy is becoming increasingly twisted in ways I don’t think even she could have foreseen.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Everything at home looks the same, yet my whole life and outlook is different. One of the first things to catch my eye is the camera. It strikes me as odd how so very recently I was obsessed with watching the footage. The shift in my priorities is stark. Actually, thinking about it . . .
‘We need to dismantle that one,’ I say to Stuart, pointing at it. ‘I don’t want to use Greg’s stuff any more. We can buy and install our own.’
I can’t be too careful. I don’t need to feel paranoid in my own environment.
While Jack lies asleep (thank goodness) in his car seat, I read congratulations cards, admire flowers and open gifts. Exhaustion hits at the same time that Camilla opens the back door and lets herself in.
Strange to think that I haven’t seen her since that night. Time has distorted, like it could have happened weeks or months ago. The memories are dreamlike, almost as if they never happened.
She makes a show of oohing and aahing over Jack, but I can tell that she’s desperate to speak to me.
‘He’s gorgeous.’
‘Thanks. Please don’t stand too close to him,’ I can’t help saying.
She throws me a look.
What does she expect? She confessed to murdering my ex-boyfriend.
‘Coffee?’ Stuart asks.
Camilla shakes her head.
Stuart gives me an are you all right to be left alone with her? look behind her back.
I reply with a discreet nod.
He retreats to his study, closing the door behind him.
‘It wasn’t true, what I said,’ she begins. ‘I was angry, I wanted you to stop questioning me. I thought that if I told you what you wanted to hear, I could sort it out later.’
Photo evidence aside, I don’t believe her. Charlie’s body had a head injury. It’s like some sort of sick game – was it a rock, a cool box or a metal pole? For now, I’ll let her deny away. It’s not as if I don’t have enough on my plate, and Nina isn’t here – as we all well know – to corroborate or dispute her story. I go along with the polite chit-chat.
‘Sorry about . . .’ I say.
‘It was a ridiculous stunt, but I understand now why it’s been so hard for you having me and Louise back here. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
Jack makes a sound. We both turn and stare at him. He remains asleep.
‘So . . . Greg,’ she says. ‘Guess why he dumped me?’
I shrug.
She lowers her voice. ‘I asked him if he’d had a fling with Nina.’
I glance at the closed study door as if Stuart could be on the other side, listening.
‘Talk about an OTT reaction! He was furious. I’m scared.’
‘I’ll find out what Greg knows. It sounds as if he’s just put two and two together and come up with—’
‘Exactly four,’ says Camilla.
‘He can’t have proof,’ I say.
‘What if Nina gave him some, even if she didn’t realize it?’
‘I have an idea . . .’
Camilla throws me a look of such hopeful gratitude, that – briefly – I forget how much I detest her.
I phone Greg.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ I say.
He agrees.
Deborah comes in and takes over for hours at a time. I let her.
Stuart keeps trying to tell me ‘how to do it’.
Midwives visit and give me forms to fill in to ascertain whether or not I am at risk of postnatal depression. I am not. I know what depression feels like and this isn’t it.
But something isn’t right.
There’s an expectation to be happy after having a baby. I am not over the moon. I am anchorless, fearful and in a constant state of fight-or-flight.
I draw charts, religiously working out how much sleep I haven’t had. Naturally, it’s unhelpful, but I can’t stop myself. When painkillers ease off between doses, barely controllable anger flares, which I know is wrong because I have a healthy baby. I must be more grateful. Flashbacks start one night and increase in intensity.
The agony.
The shortage of midwives.
Being alone with no clue what was happening, I think my baby and I are dying, but no one has told me.
Seemingly insignificant little things all seem to add up, one on top of the other.
In the hospital, young trainees were sent in each evening to ease the burden of the exhausted staff, and one of them picked up Jack when he started to cry, held him upright and, staring at him, said, ‘Not on my watch!’ gripping him as though she were about to give him a shake.
Why didn’t I tell her to put my baby down?
The casual cruelty and lack of empathy still leaves me reeling.
Why didn’t I speak up, stand up for myself more?
Other women manage to give birth without drugs, without fuss, breastfeed without being curtly told, ‘It’s not that difficult.’
I become obsessed with thoughts of old, vulnerable and sick people and other pregnant women, wondering what I can do to save them.
The Last Wife: The addictive and unforgettable new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller Page 26