The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

  “It’s bloody unfair,” I say as I hand him a glass. “I remember after the funeral I was shocked to emerge from the relative darkness of the church into the daylight and see life going on as normal for everyone else. It made me so angry.”

  There’s really nothing else remotely comforting I can think of to say that hasn’t been uttered so many times. I’m an arm-patting, “there, there” type of person, not a natural hugger. A change of subject is my preferred method of grief and anger management.

  “I’m going to leave the door unlocked like Nina used to, so the doorbell doesn’t disturb the children,” I say.

  “Yeah, fine.”

  There’s a brief silence before he joins in with my avoidance.

  “What’s the book?” he asks, taking a large sip of a French Malbec.

  The aroma hits. I’d love one, but I genuinely do believe that I’m pregnant, despite four tests telling me I’m not. It’s still too early to be accurate, so it was a complete waste of money and energy—as Ben didn’t hesitate to tell me—but I couldn’t help myself.

  “A ghost novel,” I reply.

  Guilt hits at my insensitivity, before reason takes over. Of course Stuart doesn’t think of Nina as a ghost. How ridiculous. I’m doing the exact thing he hates: people behaving abnormally around him. Not for the first time I notice that he touches his beard more when he’s feeling awkward.

  “Sounds seasonal,” he says.

  Silence hangs until I realize that this is the perfect opportunity to broach a delicate subject. Nina’s promises have been unsettling me more than usual lately because I’m now her sole voice. My latest fear is that her words will distort and mist further over time and the importance of her promises will fade when more immediate priorities automatically take precedence. Some gentle but legitimate detective work is required.

  Every time I mull things over, the more obvious it becomes that Nina was too overly concerned about her future reputation for someone in her situation. She was trying to tell me something without spelling it out. I’m not too worried—there can’t be anything bad to unearth—she’s hardly likely to have been the local drug dealer or involved in some elaborate scam. Still, theories worm away at my consciousness, along with the frustration that I missed my cues to delve deeper when I had the opportunity.

  “I’ve been thinking of the best ways I could help out more. I’m happy to do even more of the admin and everything else in relation to the running of the guesthouse,” I continue, pleased at how natural I sound. “Deborah does her best, but she doesn’t update the website or reply to comments,” I say.

  “The trouble is, she enjoys it. It gives her a purpose.”

  “Understandably, but I promised Nina I’d do everything I could. I’ll act carefully, make sure she doesn’t feel like I’m treading on her toes.”

  Before he can respond, there’s a distant thud coming from upstairs.

  “Shall I go and check on them?” I say. “It’s probably one of Emily’s books.”

  He smiles. “Yeah, probably. She has a pile even bigger than her mother’s was. Go ahead, shout if you need me.”

  He turns around and walks off in the direction of his study, shutting the door behind him. He really isn’t himself. Stuart has excellent manners and is a good host, he’d never usually have a drink without offering me one, but still, it saves me having to pour it down the sink when no one is looking.

  Upstairs, I peek into Felix’s room first. His Batman bedside light shines yellow. He’s asleep. A snow globe is lying on the carpet beside his bed, thankfully intact. Nina gave it to him to shake and watch the flakes settle if he ever needed a calming prop.

  I sit beside him and stroke his hair like I watched Nina do so many times; he can’t have been asleep long. The burst of love I feel for my godson is overwhelming. I can’t imagine loving my own child more than this. I gently rub my stomach. It’s not flat—it never has been—but already it feels rounder. (Rationally, I know it’s not.)

  “Night night, lovely boy,” I whisper.

  I kiss his forehead before I stand up and switch off the light. He likes sleeping in the dark, but Nina always insisted that he didn’t. When I gently mentioned that perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to pass on her own fears, she’d turned on me.

  “What would you know, Marie?”

  That stung because I know a lot, actually.

  The doorbell chimes. It plays out an unnecessary, long-winded tune, which I’ll suggest to Stuart he change. I open Emily’s door, all appears calm. I blow Emily a kiss and rush downstairs. Stuart has beaten me to it.

  “Hi, Tamsin,” I say to Felix’s best friend’s mum.

  We hug. It’s quite a huggy group. I’ve got used to it.

  “Sorry,” I mouth to Stuart. “You go back to whatever you were doing.”

  He obeys.

  “Come in,” I say to Tamsin, leaving the door on the latch and leading her toward the living room. “Help yourself to wine. I’ll be through in a minute with some snacks.”

  I pick up a bowl of crisps and other nibbles before I join her.

  “How are you?” I say.

  “All right,” she replies.

  She looks around. Cobwebs drape over the mantelpiece, pumpkins grin in front of the fireplace and ghostly images stare from the large mirror hanging above. “You’ve done an amazing job in here, it looks so...welcomingly scary.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I can’t believe she’s not here. Was it strange getting ready without her? I feel like I’m being...unfaithful somehow.” She takes a large sip of prosecco. “I was sure Stuart would rather we all met at mine or down at the pub.”

  “I’m used to being here,” I say. “Nina and I were friends for so long that even when she met Stuart, nothing much changed. We almost became a threesome, although not in that way obviously,” I add. “I find Stuart easy to talk to. He’s a good listener.”

  Tamsin is looking at me as though she has something to say, although I can’t guess what. Nina would approve of tonight; it was her baby.

  “Hello?” says a voice—Sharon (mother of a friend of Emily’s) walks in, followed by several women: mums at school, friends and neighbors, Miriam, Abigail, and a man, Greg, who lives on the other side of the village. As the room fills, I sense a danger of the evening becoming too somber because no one wants to be the first to seem too lively. In hostess mode, I do my best to lift the mood, but my repeat reassurances that “it’s what Nina would’ve wanted” and that “Stuart has no issues with it” frustrate me.

  “Between us,” I say. “I think he likes the company. Especially after all the burglaries around here lately.”

  “What burglaries? I haven’t heard of any!”

  I feel my cheeks burn as I clock Tamsin’s widened eyes. I feel mean—she lives at the more deserted end of the village. I shouldn’t have exaggerated like that. Nothing was even stolen from Stuart’s house or garage.

  “Clearly, I’m mistaken, sorry, ignore me.” Time to change the subject. “Who would like to go first and share their initial thoughts?” I say, choosing the kind of words Nina would use.

  I feel like an overworked, underappreciated manager trying to bring staff to order. I don’t want to give that impression, but what is the point in having a book club if you don’t discuss it? Yes, it’s incredibly sad that Nina’s gone, but I’m here and I’m doing my best, just as I promised.

  It’s obvious who has read the novel and who is winging it. I make mental notes because they’ve had six months. Maybe I’ll subtly suggest to repeat offenders that this may not be quite the group they’re looking for. I promised to take care of things for Nina. It’s a big responsibility. Ruining anything she set up would be a sad failure.

  Deflated that the evening has not been the success I’d hoped for, I nearly cave when Tamsin offers me a glass of red as we both tidy
up after the others leave.

  “No, thanks,” I say, drawing steeply on diminishing willpower.

  “Ah,” she says with a wink. “Any news to share?”

  The problem with lies is that it’s easier to stick to a thread. I nod. The moment I do, a memory flashes: Nina had confided that she found Tamsin overly inquisitive.

  “Oh, huge congratulations!” she says, throwing her arms around me.

  I stiffen. Heat flames my cheeks for the second time this evening as regret at my big mouth hits.

  “It’s a secret,” I say.

  “What’s a secret?” asks Stuart, standing at the study door.

  My mind grasps for words but they’re elusive.

  “Marie’s got some news—” says Tamsin.

  I interrupt. “It’s very early days and—”

  “Well, very early congratulations then,” he says with a smile.

  He looks genuinely pleased, yet the thought of new life can’t do anything but highlight his own loss.

  “I don’t know what came over me. Ben will be so cross if he finds out I’ve blabbed.”

  An understatement.

  If he discovers my lie, he’ll throw our past back in my face and I dread to think where that will leave us. Just a few more days and all this will right itself by becoming true. I’ll stay calm and ride this out. It’s not as if it’s the first time I’ve been forced to do this.

  Four

  Humiliation intertwines with grief, rage, disappointment, despair. I can no longer pretend. It has been another week of negative results. When it feels physically impossible to cry anymore, I chuck the white plastic stick into the bin with the others, tie up the bag and transfer it to the outside garbage.

  Ben will go mad if he finds them.

  Or, maybe he won’t.

  It’s only seven in the morning, but fuck it, I pour a Baileys into a coffee and stir. I check the kitchen clock. Ben’s due home from work in less than an hour. I need to think.

  When I told him my period was late yesterday, his reaction was to warn me again about gun-jumping. I tried to believe it was because he was trying to protect me from more disappointment. But...I can sense lies. I’m good at detecting the telltale signs. More often than not, it’s concealed in the barely perceptible shift of a gaze.

  Ben’s eyes betrayed relief. He does not want to have a baby with me anymore; he just hasn’t got round to telling me. I down the contents of my mug and make myself another.

  By the time Ben’s key turns in the lock, I’ve come up with a plan: avoidance. Plus, a mental pact not to lie in future (at least not big ones), and I’ll do all the things Ben’s asked me to, like spend less time at Stuart’s, talk about things other than Nina or our future baby, be more fun. I figure that if I weather this particular relationship storm, things will naturally settle down. My dad always says that. Most of the time, it’s true.

  “Hi,” I say.

  We hug, but don’t kiss.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  There’s no point in trying to hide my red eyes. I look like a frog. I shrug.

  Ben knows what it means. He holds me tight and I give into grief again, my eyes shut tight, my face buried against his chest so I don’t have to deal with his reaction.

  * * *

  There are practicalities to deal with in the aftermath of a big lie; enough of a reversal in order that I don’t have to confess outright. There is an art to it: a mix of weaker lies, a dash of truth, a deflective comment, until I come up with something decent enough to let me off the hook. I enjoy it in a twisted way and almost take pride in my creativity. There’s painful pleasure with the release of fear, the underlying panic at being caught out obliterated like a downpour after a dry spell.

  I start with Deborah: a phone call. My period came, a hint of an early miscarriage.

  Tamsin is next with a text outlining a similar fib.

  I tell Stuart in person.

  “I made a mistake.”

  “Sorry to hear that,” he says. “Nina thought she was expecting twice before Emily came along.”

  Betrayal is a hard emotion to conceal because it twins with the physical symptoms of sickness. Sometimes, I used to think that I was being a bit paranoid or oversensitive when I felt left out of Nina’s life. Each time I’m confronted with evidence that it wasn’t my mind, it’s bittersweet.

  “I hope it happens for you soon,” Stuart continues. “You’re so great with children. Can I make you a coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thanks, I’m on my way to work, a sixtieth birthday celebration,” I say. “I just popped by to tell you and get it out of the way so that I can move on without any...” I struggle for the right word “...misunderstanding.”

  “I get it,” he says. “I don’t know if this is an appropriate time to mention this, but I was going to ask if you’re up for a visit tomorrow lunchtime to the new pizza place on the high street? The children have been asking, and it would be great to have adult company. No pressure, though, only if you’re feeling okay? Ben’s welcome, too. All on me, of course.”

  I smile. “Ben is working. But I’d love to, thanks.”

  “It’s a date,” he says.

  As I drive away, guilt hits at the broken pact with myself. Should I have told the truth, that I’m on my way to an appointment with my therapist? I’ve always kept it private. Maybe I should be more open with the people I trust, admit that I need help?

  Yet, when it comes to doctors, dentists, fake work appointments, surely everyone fibs? It’s not just me. Lies make life palatable. It’s simply unavoidable at times. I do it to protect myself and others. Surely, it’s not a bad thing to tell people what they want to hear? Sometimes, there’s no choice.

  Judy throws me.

  “Why don’t you just ask Ben if he still wants children rather than risk miscommunication with all this guesswork?”

  “Because what do I do if I don’t like the answer?”

  “What do you think you should do?”

  This is followed by the horrible silence which unnerves me so badly. Maybe it’s time to move on from Judgmental Judy. Therapists are supposed to be impartial. Does craving a baby with a long-term partner make me a bad person? No, it does not. Ben will make a wonderful dad. On the whole, we’re a great team and it’s normal to have wobbles. A baby is a big commitment. It’s good, in a way, that he’s doubting himself. It means he’s taking things seriously.

  “The thing is,” I say, choosing my words carefully, “Ben took some persuading.”

  The whole truth being that he thought it wasn’t just about him, that it was primarily all about me and my desires.

  “I feel like I could be just any man,” he has said many times during our arguments. “As long as you get a baby, the father is irrelevant to you.”

  I’ve worked so bloody hard on our relationship to prove that isn’t true. I’ve made so many compromises, told him whatever he wants to hear.

  “Everything will be fine,” I say out loud to Judy. “Once Ben made the decision to go ahead and start a family, he was committed. Ben is a man of his word.”

  I don’t like the expression on her face.

  I got it wrong. As I leave Judy’s (five minutes early. I couldn’t bear it any longer), I switch on my phone. Ben wants to talk.

  In my experience, no one ever wants to talk about anything positive. I hate it when people do this, Ben knows that. Perhaps it’s his way of letting me know quite how pissed off he is with me in general. My parents wanted to talk about “forming other friendships and not relying solely on Nina” and “the importance of telling the truth.” Nina wanted to talk about lots of things, but I’m good at diverting conversations away from the unpleasant and back to neutral, less scary ground. It’s where I feel safe.

  I rehearse what I’m going to say to Ben: I’ve sensed he’
s had doubts, that I have them, too (I don’t). That Nina’s death has hit me so hard that I wake up feeling winded (true). However, the most effective thing will probably be if I tell him that I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone.

  * * *

  “It’s too late,” according to Ben. “It sounds clichéd, but we’ve been drifting apart for a long time,” he says. “It’s easy to blame external things, like the amount of time you spent at Nina’s, how low down your list of priorities I feel, but I know I’m not perfect either.”

  I sip the freshly ground coffee he made me before he instigated our talk. He’s made it exactly the way I like it, full-fat milk, not too strong. I wonder if this is the last nice thing he’ll ever do for me.

  “I’m sorry if this sounds cruel, but I’m glad we couldn’t conceive after all,” he carries on. “It makes it easier for us to part amicably, without complications.”

  “Talk about kicking someone when they’re down.” I stop. There’s a gentle art to applying emotional pressure. If I pile it on too heavily, too soon, he’ll feel cornered. “A baby wouldn’t be a complication,” I say. “It would be an extension of our relationship. It would cement us, give us more common ground.”

  “I...” He stops. He turns away from me and looks out of the window before looking back again with an added air of determination about him. “This is hard, harder than I thought it would be to say, but I’m going to be honest. No more lies.”

  “Lies?”

  Oh my God, please no. I know what he’s going to say, it’s so painfully obvious, I bet even Judy’s guessed. I try to block out the words that will make me hate him, force me to agree to us splitting up, upend my whole life, my dreams.

  The words, when he says them, are even worse than I feared. It’s not just that he doesn’t want a baby. He does want one. Just not with me. He’s been seeing someone—no one I know apparently—and he’s desperately sorry, didn’t want me to find out from someone else (thoughtful of him) but...she’s pregnant. Only just found out last night apparently! Unplanned, unfortunate, unexpected.