“I understand that this is extremely difficult,” Stuart says. “I loved Nina. I miss her every day of my life. Yes, this is soon, but we came together through grief, not anything sordid or preplanned. Given the choice, we’d both rather Nina was here.”
Deborah wipes away her tears.
“I’ve always been fond of you, Stuart,” she says. “But I wish you were stronger and could see through what she’s—” she points at me “—done. Pregnancy! The oldest, most effective trick in the book.”
“It does take two, Deborah,” says Stuart.
“It’s really not like that,” I say. “You know I was with Ben. You know Ben left me. You know how much I wanted a baby with him.”
Deborah stands up.
“I also know how envious you were of Nina. Ever since you were young. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie. Everything you do is to benefit you.”
“That’s not true. Yes, I made some mistakes, but who doesn’t?”
She plows on. “I warned Nina before she left us. I warned her that you’d do this. Do you know what her response was?”
I shake my head.
“She said, ‘Marie wouldn’t stoop that low. Besides, she’s not Stuart’s type, nor he hers. They wouldn’t last five minutes together. They’d drive each other mad.’ She trusted you because you loved her children. She gave you her blessing for the most precious of gifts and this is how you repay her! You’re despicable—a scarlet woman!”
I inwardly flinch, yet stoop that low are likely to be Deborah’s words, not Nina’s.
Deborah walks over to Felix and Emily and bends down. Obviously, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but after she kisses and hugs them, she walks toward the car park.
“We can’t let her drive in that state,” I say to Stuart. “You go after her. She is clearly directing all her anger at me. I’ll distract the children.”
Stuart follows her. He is gone a good fifteen minutes. When he returns, he is quiet.
He sits down opposite me, rather than beside me. Our lunch was served in his absence and he reaches over for his. He breaks his cheese-and-tomato baguette in half and bites into it. The children have left most of their fish, having mainly picked at the chips.
I don’t know what to say to make things better, to lift the atmosphere. Stuart is avoiding eye contact, and I can only begin to guess at some of the things Deborah’s told him. Right or wrong, she’s held me responsible for many a thing over the years. I feel sick, but I sit there picking at chips, too, slowly dipping them into ketchup, as if I, too, am reflecting. Which in a way, I am.
“Will Gran feel better soon?” Emily asks. “She said she had a stomachache.”
“I’m sure she will,” I say.
“Will she get sick like Mummy?”
“No, darling. Not sick like Mummy. It’s just something small like when you have a tummy ache. She’ll be fine, I promise.”
The conversation with Deborah has made me realize that I’ve put myself in the position of second best again, and now it’s going to be increasingly hard to assert myself.
I do have moments of guilt—of course I do, I’m human—but never regret. When Nina asked me to surreptitiously vet Stuart’s future partners, especially in relation to their suitability as mother figures, we wrote down a list of desired attributes. There were all the obvious things, of course, but by the time we’d finished, there was only one conclusion: the woman needed to be Nina’s twin. Subconscious seeds were naturally sown—there only ever was one obvious candidate.
Eighteen
We are outside a yacht club located at the end of a secluded road. Car ferries—comparative giants—slip past the marina heading for the Isle of Wight.
“The sea breeze will do you and the baby good,” Stuart insists as he lifts out two orange life jackets from the trunk of his car and hands me one.
It’s chilly, not the start of spring at all in my opinion, but Tamsin has offered to look after the children as long as we return the favor. She’s “reembracing” (her word, not mine) the dating scene following a self-imposed break after giving up on “men who don’t keep their promises” and there is someone she’d like to go out on a proper, grown-up date with.
I shiver as we walk along the jetty, past the signs warning us of deep water, submerged objects and sudden drops. To my right, stagnant water in between us and the grassy bank is thick with grease and litter. I turn away and try to ignore the smell of fuel, lest the sickness return.
Stuart is in his element, pointing out landmarks, educating me on the function of everything, issuing instructions.
“Hold this tightly, stand there—not there—to the left. Don’t sit on that side,” until, finally, we are off.
It’s not the same exhilaration I remember from our younger years in Ibiza—you really can’t compete with the weather, no matter how well you dress for it—but it is strangely exhilarating to be free from the constraints of my life. The sense of freedom and possibility initially feels the same as it used to, despite it being colder and a different type of boating experience. I feel my shoulders relax. My whole body has been storing tension.
It doesn’t last. The motion gets to me as I clutch the metal on the side.
“Too fast,” I yell at Stuart. “I want to go back!”
So much for me deciding that this was something I could do differently than Nina, that I would enjoy it. I’d thought about bringing the children, sailing off for jolly picnics, all-hands-on-deck type of atmosphere. My stomach lurches as we go faster, as if Stuart hasn’t heard me.
I shout again, but my words are lost in the wind.
Oh God, I’m going to tip overboard. I clutch my life jacket and think of my baby being tossed around in my womb and hating me. We appear to be heading as far out to sea as possible. The ting-ting of something hitting the metal increases in sound and frequency.
When Stuart twists his head around, he looks shocked when I mime a slicing motion across my neck, but he at least gives a thumbs-up. We turn. It feels like a painfully slow process. As the shore gets closer, my heart rate slows.
When we reach the safety of the marina, I’m still furious. I anchor my feet to the ground with renewed gratitude.
“Why did you ignore me?”
“I didn’t realize,” he says. “I’m sorry. I remember you loving it.”
“I did,” I snap. “When I was young and not pregnant.”
My legs shake as I step onto the walkway and head for solid land. The more I try not to be like Nina, the more I end up being exactly like her, mere footsteps behind. Relief at being safe, along with a sense of failure and futility intertwine.
Over lunch in the restaurant, artichoke soup and pasta, I calm down.
When various people pass by our table, Stuart almost seems to take pride in introducing me. He clearly loves it here and feels at home.
“I’ve been thinking,” Stuart says. “But you need to hear me out.”
“Why do I feel nervous?”
“Because what I’m going to suggest may sound hasty, so that’s why I need you to listen carefully.”
“Go on.”
Despite my loyalty and dedication, if I could pause all of this for even another six months (while somehow obtaining magical seeing-into-the-future powers by knowing that I’d fall pregnant soon), maybe I would, but whenever I think of my own innocent baby, there is no way they will ever feel second best or born at the wrong time.
I tune back in to Stuart.
“We have four options.” He counts them off on his right fingers, starting with his thumb.
“One—we give in to the haters and doubters. You move out, have our baby alone and we take things slowly. We could come to some arrangement. Two—you end this pregnancy, which I have to make very clear is something I don’t want you to do.”
“Me ne
ither.”
“Three.” He pauses. “We get married. Let’s prove to everyone that although it’s quick, although it’s not ideal circumstances, we have nothing to be ashamed of. That we intend to do the best for our children. Four,” he slots in quickly, “we move away. Set up a new life elsewhere.”
“Giving in to the haters and doubters,” I say.
I know he doesn’t want to move. I know the house was important to Nina. She wanted the children to be brought up in the place that she chose for them. There are really only two options. One, I go. Two, I stay.
“I don’t want you to go,” he says. “I didn’t realize how lonely I was until you came. I hold back because of Nina, because I loved her, because of guilt and maybe shame that I have feelings for you, which perhaps I should or shouldn’t.” He stops. “I’m babbling, I know.”
“I have feelings for you, too,” I say. “Watching you with the children, seeing how gentle you were with Deborah, your parents, lots of things. Nina wanted you to be happy—she told me as much. She said that she knew that you’d move on, that it was natural, and her main concern was that it was someone who would love the children, put them first.”
“It would have to be a very quiet wedding,” he says. “Out of respect.”
“I’ve been to enough flamboyant weddings in my time,” I say. “I’ve seen it all. Quiet works for me.”
Yet he takes out a blue jewelry box and slides it over the table.
“I was going to do this on the boat,” he says. “I wanted it to be special, despite the circumstances.”
Fresh guilt at my non-enjoyment of the boat trip hits.
I look around, hoping that no one is watching. The gesture feels off-kilter and I don’t want any witnesses to my discomfort. I know that he proposed to Nina in Ibiza. At the time, she didn’t take it seriously; it was just a holiday romance, an impulsive romantic gesture. But on her return, they flew to Verona and he proposed outside Juliet’s balcony. Them and thousands of other tourists, I remember thinking uncharitably at the time.
As I open the box, Stuart starts speaking quickly.
“It’s not an engagement ring. I wouldn’t know your taste or be presumptuous, but it’s something small, for now, to show my appreciation for all you’ve done.”
It’s a silver pendant, shaped in a teardrop and actually, I do love it. It’s perfect.
I relax on the drive home, close my eyes and allow myself to think that maybe it will all be okay until the word stability I read in his phone notes pops into my head.
Is this what he’s been planning all along? What if Nina planted a similar seed in him, one that pointed to me being an obvious replacement? No one enjoys feeling duped. Yet, the thought doesn’t sit with what I knew of her or Deborah’s angry outburst (her words hurt, which mean they hit a nerve, however much I try to deny it). Marriage is too drastic an option for mere convenience.
Still, it sends me down a negative mental path, one where I recall all the times Nina could be manipulative, and fresh anger toward her for dying (however mean and irrational) takes hold.
When we park outside the house, we kiss in the car, the most public thing we’ve ever done, despite the fact that no one can really see us. I put my arm around him as we walk toward the front door and reach for him before it properly closes.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he says.
“There’s no one here, no one can see us,” I say.
“I prefer it.”
As I follow him upstairs, I wonder if I’m willing to accept that this may never be the most passionate of relationships or if things will gradually improve over time. I’m thankful that I don’t feel sick anymore, that the worst of it seems to have eased off, so I want to make the most of the afternoon. But Stuart takes his time as I sit on the edge of my bed. He draws the curtains, takes off his jacket, pulls off his shoes. It’s unnerving and off-putting.
“Aren’t you going to get undressed?” he asks me.
“I thought you could help?”
He joins me on the bed. As he runs his hand across my naked stomach, with a hint of a bulge, the sickness returns.
Nina. I can’t get her out of my head.
I sit up.
“Something wrong?”
“Please take off your wedding ring,” I say. “I know it’s a big thing, but...”
He looks distraught.
I sit up, put my dress back on over my head and lock myself in the bathroom. I sit on the edge of the bath.
Outside the bathroom door, it is quiet.
I wait. What did Stuart expect? Yes, our relationship has been on fast-forward, which really is not a bad thing after my relationship breakdown with Ben. People always say, “Things happen for a reason,” usually when events are unfair.
However, in this case, perhaps the statement has a ring of truth to it. I had no control over Ben dumping me. Realistically, by the time I’d weeded out the decent, genuine men from various dating apps, it could’ve taken me years to get to the point of trying for a baby again. Impatience does not make me a bad person. All Stuart and I have done is skipped the insecure uncertainty of the early relationship stage and moved on to the more...settled and realistic, let’s say. It’s all about perspective.
When I emerge, there is no sign that Stuart was ever there. Other than his wedding ring on my bedside table.
I pick it up and place it in the palm of my hand. It’s not mine.
I return it to his room and put inside his bedside drawer.
Out of sight, yet not out of mind.
Only I can change that.
Nineteen
The respite from sickness was short-lived. I’m diagnosed with hyperemesis gravidarum—extreme morning sickness. In the short-term, it makes me feel better that what I’m experiencing is normal. I’ve canceled even more work as I try to make it through each day until midafternoon, when I seem to get a few hours of blessed respite. Nothing helps. Not the dry cookies, nor the toast and ginger recommended. Nothing.
I faint one morning, after a particularly bad bout of sickness. As I come round, I hear Stuart ringing for an ambulance. Consequently, I am hospitalized for forty-eight hours as a precaution, feeling the weakest I ever have.
Trapped in a hospital bed, alone with my thoughts, it is paranoia’s gift. Unwelcome memories visit. When Nina was pregnant with Felix, I told her how lucky she was.
“It’s more than I deserve,” she said.
At the time, I interpreted it as a meaningless, throwaway comment. I assumed she felt bad because I wasn’t in her position. Now, though, my mind keeps taking me back there. Around the same period she said, “Be careful what you wish for.”
I can’t help but feel that those words apply to me now. I should be planning our wedding. We’ve given notice to the register office. We had to prove that we were legally allowed to marry (of course) but because Stuart has been married before, he had to produce documentary evidence that his marriage had ended. In this case, Nina’s death certificate. It’s things like that that hit me hard, make me want to look at myself in the mirror and give myself a good talking-to.
My first ever therapist had her consulting room near Stuart’s office. Whenever I hit a really low point, I’d sometimes walk past her building as it calmed me, thinking about old sessions, reminding me how far I’d come from my darkest days when suicidal thoughts could, at times, seep into my mind. I (eventually) came to believe that even though I had found my school years anxiety-inducing and needed Nina to feel safe, it didn’t make me worthless. For a brief while, I even stopped endlessly reading fertility issues online.
On one occasion, I bumped into Stuart in a café. It was busy, and we ended up sharing a table, even though he’d asked for his brie-and-bacon baguette to be wrapped to go. I think he sensed my desperation or had noticed my red eyes. (I’ve always wished I could be the sort of pe
rson who can cry and still be able to venture out in public without giving myself away.) We ate our sandwiches and drank a coffee. We talked about Nina and how we’d all get a date in the calendar soon for dinner, the four of us.
It was never mentioned again. I don’t know if Stuart told Nina. I didn’t tell Ben, not for any reason. The moment never organically arose. I wonder now, was some kind of seed planted then? Did I subconsciously respond to Stuart’s kindness, anchor a part of myself to him in the hope that someone like him would be able to save me from myself?
I can’t read. I switch on the TV to try to drown out the endless hospital noises—cleaners, food carts, medical staff, visitors—but it’s impossible. I drift. I hear the curtain being pulled back. I open my eyes, expecting to see a nurse, hoping it’s Stuart, but it’s Deborah. My stomach plummets.
She sits in the visitor’s chair, her back straight, clutching her stiff, black handbag.
“It’s not too late, you know, to end this charade,” she says.
It sounds like something she’s rehearsed.
“What do you mean?”
“Marie, do yourself the hugest favor. Don’t marry him. No good will come of it. I know it’s not what you want to hear, I know you’re expecting, but there are other ways. You can co-parent—” it sounds like she’s read a relevant article online the way she says it “—leave yourself free to meet someone else. There are many decent men.”
“I love Stuart.”
“No, you don’t. You love the idea of him. Nina felt sorry for you, she wanted to give you hope. She felt desperately sorry that you couldn’t conceive. But...this! She’d be horrified. It’s bordering on incestuous.”
“That’s very dramatic, Deborah. I’m sorry for everything, but I’m here to stay. I loved Nina, too, I will do what’s best for Felix and Emily. I promised her that and I promise you that. Please, try to trust me.”
The Last Wife Page 14