The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “Yeah, headless ones running around with axes,” I laughed to ease the mood.

  How could I have been so bloody insensitive? A horrible thought: what if she was waiting for me to ask her something, to push her? What if I was too stupid, too self-absorbed, to read the signs? I trawl through all our last moments, desperately trying to think, to grab hold of something relevant. She was deliberately vague, perhaps trying to tell me something without having to spell it out.

  “Promises aren’t always easy to keep,” she said when she impressed upon me the importance of keeping mine.

  “Not for me,” I assured her.

  “I want people, especially the children, naturally, to remember me for who I am now, the person I became, not the self-centered one I was when I was younger.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about there, then. As far as I’m aware, children don’t think that their parents ever had a life before them.”

  I waited for her to smile her response, but one never came. I realize now—after talking things through with Christian—that I wanted to give her space. I couldn’t imagine what she felt like, or what she was going through, so when she appeared wistful, I’d go silent and hope that by just being there for her, it would offer some comfort. Maybe that’s why I didn’t push for specifics. Who knows?

  We each lit a candle and stood there watching the wax soften as I wished for her to live. I imagine she did the same.

  “I’m sorry, Marie,” she said.

  “What for?”

  The church door opened, and this time, we did see a man enter. The moment was lost.

  The pain in my chest aches all the way up through to my jaw, and I give into the tears. She was apologizing for the secret she kept from me. And I didn’t realize. Fresh anger reignites at Camilla. It was because of her that Nina was put in the position of having to withhold information, which clearly went against what she felt was the right thing to do.

  It’s gone midnight when I hear Stuart return home. Outside, the wind builds up. I can hear the branches of the New Forest trees swaying and the cries of night creatures. Foxes? Owls? Inside, quiet, apart from the odd creak. I hear him come upstairs, slightly louder than usual. His door shuts.

  I creep downstairs to check on Goldie, who really is a chill dog. She opens her eyes but doesn’t move from her bed in the corner. I made sure it wasn’t too cold or too warm. I’ve been warned that there may be an adjustment period of up to three months while she susses things out and that she may sleep at lot at first because it was so noisy with all the dogs constantly barking at her previous home. Mainly, however, it’s all about trust, love and routine. Sounds easy enough.

  I turn on the kettle. Goldie seems fine with that. Phew. I open a cupboard and rummage through a pack of mixed herbal teas until I find a chamomile one, which promises me a good night’s rest.

  Stuart’s wallet, house and car keys lie on the kitchen counter, a sign that he must’ve had a good few drinks. As I wait for the flavor to infuse, I open his wallet and flick through, craving some form of intimacy through a little more knowledge or insight into him. We haven’t slept together again. It’s concerning. We’ve fallen back into our friendship as if it never happened, and I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to steer us back in the right direction. A little knowledge can’t harm.

  The first thing I find is a picture of Nina on their honeymoon, which evokes mixed feelings. Envy, a little, of course, but it would also feel callous of him to discard any memories of her overly soon, so it also reinforces my belief that he is decent. There are the expected pictures of the children, including the most recent school pictures. A parking receipt for Heathrow airport: dated today for around the time Camilla and Louise were due home.

  I pick up his keys, slide on Nina’s wellies and go outside. I press the ignition switch on Stuart’s Range Rover. His GPS only confirms what the ticket has already told me.

  Why hide the fact he was picking Camilla up from the airport? I feel sick because there is only one reasonable explanation. Images of Stuart and the children forming a perfectly blended family with Camilla—not Nina, not me, but bloody Camilla, of all people—are a real kick to the stomach because I’ve realized that Louise is the daughter I should’ve had with Charlie.

  Fourteen

  Camilla doesn’t even try to deny it. When she opens the front door to the cottage just before seven the following morning (I couldn’t wait any later), she doesn’t look surprised, almost as if she’s been half expecting me.

  “I’m not proud of myself,” she says. “I didn’t know I was pregnant for a surprisingly long time afterward. Denial, I guess. I went abroad for a fresh start. My paternal grandparents lived out there. I built a life. My parents died within a few months of each other not long after I moved away. I buried everything until Nina got in touch and—”

  “Why keep your visit secret?”

  “It wasn’t a secret as such. Think about it rationally—Nina was desperately ill. Who she chose to connect and why I’m sure were deeply emotional, complicated decisions and wishes. Marie, Nina wasn’t your responsibility. You shouldn’t be here. You still have that tendency to overdo things.”

  “Stuart wants me here,” I say.

  Even as I say the words out loud, I don’t know if they are true.

  “Oh for God’s sake, Marie. Get your own life. At college you stifled Nina. Even on holiday she wasn’t even allowed to sunbathe on her own. There you were, getting her towels, telling her to wear a stronger sunscreen, buying her favorite things from the supermarket, fussing over her like a protective mother. It was suffocating.”

  “Because now you and Stuart want to make a go of it?” I say. “That’s why he came and picked you up from the airport, that’s why he agreed to you living here. That’s why you came back. It’s all very convenient.”

  “Of course not,” she says. “He was visiting a client in Windsor. He offered me and Lulu a lift. Look, there’s no great mystery. Nina only wanted to protect you. She said you struggled to move on from what happened to Charlie, that you were desperate for children. If it helps, Nina was really angry about me and Charlie. We fell out over it. That’s why we lost touch for so long.”

  That Nina knew so much more than she ever admitted to, that she sat there and listened while I went over and over where it had all gone so wrong with Charlie, that I regretted accusing him of sleeping with Camilla, is yet another blow.

  Renewed doubts about my loyalty to Nina and my being here, playing at happy families, take hold. Perhaps I was too much of a pushover in the past. I’ve had enough.

  “And why should I believe anything you say? You lied to me, you and Charlie. You said that there was nothing going on behind my back, that I was being paranoid.”

  “I am sorry. I felt guilty—we both did.”

  “How long did it go on?”

  “It was a few times.”

  “When?”

  “Why do this? What will it achieve?” she says. “This, in all likelihood, is why Nina kept quiet. I can’t undo anything I’ve done.”

  “I want to know.”

  “At the villa,” she says. “Whenever we could.”

  I feel sick. The picture album I made her for Christmas. The photos were meant to taunt her, to remind her of our argument, but I didn’t realize how horribly accurate I’d been.

  “But still, why move back?” I say. “Why now?”

  “There were lots of reasons. One being that my relationship had broken down. My ex and I were angry with each other. I needed a change of scene.” She sighs. “Please listen to me, Marie. Nina was a good friend to you. I beg you to leave all this alone. Louise knows that she is the result of a holiday fling. I wish I’d done things differently.”

  I give her a dose of some Judy-and-Christian-type silence.

  She
caves, fills in the gap. “It’s only now, as Louise gets older, that I realize the impact my silence may have on her,” she says. “Naive, I know. Selfish, yes. Young and stupid? Very. Believe me, you can’t say anything that will make me feel any worse.”

  I bet I can.

  The remainder of the day I’m on autopilot: replying to clients, looking after Goldie, which takes up an extraordinary amount of time, tending to the never-ending household chores.

  I went to a New Year’s Eve house party at an old college friend’s place this year because Stuart took the children round to Deborah’s for a meal. It was unexpectedly good fun to be out, and it reminded me how much I’ve sacrificed for Nina’s family by throwing myself so fully into the daily grind. My life isn’t exactly how I pictured it. Yet, knowing what I know now, it helps. Anger is a powerful driving force. No more tiptoeing around guilt and loyalty; I need to move my relationship with Stuart on. As well as being a mother to Felix and Emily, I still crave a baby of my own.

  I pour a large glass of champagne and drink half a glass. When Stuart comes downstairs, I hand him one.

  “Happy late birthday,” I say. “I thought it would be nice to have a celebratory meal, so we can catch up properly with no distractions.”

  “Thank you, Marie. The table looks lovely,” he says.

  “But?”

  He looks uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I choose a different candle? That one was an anniversary gift.”

  All the signs are stacking up that tonight is too staged—it’s just not going to work. If it means so much to him, if he can actually remember little things like this, why was it left in a drawer with all the others? Honestly, what does he expect? I nearly tell him about her wellies, how actually it makes no difference if you use stuff, but instead I summon up all my self-control and outwardly exude an air of patience.

  “Choose whatever candle you like, I’m not that fussed. We don’t even have to light one,” I say. “By the way, I haven’t cooked. I’ve ordered in from a decent restaurant.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Cheers!” I say to Stuart.

  “Cheers!”

  We are standing close to each other.

  “You look nice,” he says.

  I smooth down my hair. “Thanks, so do you.”

  “I—” we both say at the same time. We laugh. It breaks the ice.

  “I was going to invite Camilla, too, but she said she’d caught up with you on the drive back from Heathrow,” I say.

  He doesn’t hesitate in his response. “Fair enough.”

  “I didn’t realize you were collecting her and Louise from the airport.”

  “It was a last-minute arrangement,” he says. “I was in the area, remembered that she was due back and thought that I may as well.”

  “Oh.”

  “I guess I forgot to mention it, what with the surprise arrival of Goldie.”

  The doorbell rings: our delivery. We both stand up. I let him go.

  As I’m about to spoon our Japanese fusion dishes onto plates, Stuart comes up behind me and puts his arms around my waist.

  “I’m sorry, I know I’ve been a bit off. It was hard for me. It was like admitting Nina was gone all over again. It felt unfaithful somehow.”

  Relief floods. “I understand. It’s strange for me, too. I’m happy to take things slowly. I know it’s hard for you and you have to put the children first.”

  “Camilla suggested that I hire a part-time nanny. She felt that it might be fairer on you so that you can be more flexible with your working hours. Perhaps she has a point? I know you’ve turned down weekend weddings because of social commitments involving me and the children.”

  Anger surges. “Oh come on, Stuart! Since when has Camilla cared about my welfare? What the children definitely do not need is a stranger giving them orders in their own home, of all places. What they need is love, security and consistency. I’m here. I know I’m not Nina, but I’m not trying to be. I’m me.”

  “I agree, but when she said it, I can’t deny it touched a nerve. It made me feel freshly concerned that maybe I’ve been selfish by relying on you so heavily. Long-term, I have to do what’s best for the family.”

  I’m what’s best. Stuart has to understand that.

  * * *

  It’s two thirty before I’m tired enough to sleep, but the bed is empty. I check the bathroom. I wonder if one of the children has woken up, but I’m kidding myself. He’s gone back to “their” room.

  I open the door. Stuart’s asleep. I slide in next to him and pull the duvet over. It’s cold, I lie rigid, unsure what to do. What am I doing here, really? Sleep feels impossible. He doesn’t snore like Ben. A fondness toward him comes over me. I toss around until he half wakes up.

  “Nina?” He sits up.

  “No, it’s me.”

  He reaches for his phone to check the time before he looks around the room in the semidarkness as though he can’t work things out or isn’t sure who I am. I refuse to feel like an intruder.

  “It’s strange to think of us like this,” I say. “Lie back down.”

  He does. Thankfully. He closes his eyes.

  I trace my finger gently over his lips. “We didn’t plan this,” I say. “We’re not bad people.”

  “I feel like we’re having an affair,” he says.

  “It won’t always be like this.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just do. This has happened to other people. It’s normal to feel confused, up and down.”

  “Maybe,” he says.

  “Did you and Nina talk about...” I want to say moving on, but it doesn’t sound right. I opt for “...the future?”

  He seems to be coming around more, adjusting to a more wakeful reality. He gets what I’m trying to say.

  “Kind of. She said as long as it was with someone who accepted and loved the children, then that was the most important thing. She wanted me to be happy.”

  “I’m not sure I could’ve done that in her position,” I admit. “She wouldn’t have necessarily wanted it to be me, though,” I say, choosing my words carefully.

  “Nina wondered if you were settling for Ben,” he says.

  “Is this your way of changing the subject?”

  He laughs. “Maybe.”

  “Nina never said that to me. I thought she liked him.”

  “She did like him. I did, too. I think she was worried that he didn’t want children as much as you did.”

  “Sometimes I think I never really knew Nina at all,” I say.

  Up until now, I’ve gone along with the narrative that Nina was an angel, that she could do no wrong, that she was a great friend. But...perhaps it would genuinely help Stuart if, over time, I drip-feed in some more truthful elements about her. Doubt may speed up his healing, allow his guilt to diminish. Naturally, he’ll be more drawn to our new life because he won’t feel so duty-bound to her.

  “But...” I say.

  He sits up.

  “She kept secrets from me, too.”

  He bites. “Like?”

  “Like she knew that Charlie was Louise’s father.”

  “No way?”

  I’m pleased that he sounds shocked. “Yes way.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Camilla and I had a little heart-to-heart this morning,” I say.

  “And she just came out and told you?”

  “No. I worked it out.”

  I realize I haven’t told him about the emails or that I’ve been doing some digging. I’ll hold back a little longer, until I’m sure that there really isn’t anything developing between him and Camilla. Today has left me reeling and a bit jaded with human nature. I need to know everything that Camilla and Nina discussed, everything that Nina kept hidden from me.

  “Did Camilla
confess to anything else interesting?” Stuart says.

  “Like what?”

  He shrugs. “Like...I don’t know.”

  “Let’s make a pact to always tell each other the truth,” I say.

  “Ben did me a favor,” he says. “You’ve been amazing, Marie. Truly. I’m glad you’re here.”

  He reaches for his phone and glances at the time. “It’s late. I’m going to feel like shit tomorrow.”

  I try not to take it personally.

  He gets up and heads for the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind him. We’re too new for a casual open-door intimacy. His phone screen dims, the room goes black. I reach over and tap his phone, the screen relights. It’s then that I notice that it’s still unlocked.

  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 hodgepodge 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.