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.
Twenty-Six
Deborah is on holiday in the Lake District until Saturday.
I left her a voice mail, 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.
“I need this break,” she says. “The pain is so raw.”
I feel terrible. Perhaps she has felt pushed out; her grandchildren are all she has left of Nina. I’ll try harder to heal the rift, to ensure she’s more involved in their day-to-day lives.
I manage to fit in some work, taking pictures of a local horror author who needs some up-to-date promotional photos. She wants them shot in the woods. I suggest that we use the abandoned barn in our garden as a backdrop, too. It’s fun working again. It alleviates the stress and surreality of the previous week.
I can’t just sit around waiting for Deborah, though. I must find other ways to keep occupied. I contact Greg through his private investigator website, using an email address under the name of Samantha Brown, and book an appointment. I receive an automatic response that says that I need to arrange a telephone conversation first to “discuss my requirements and see if his methods could work for me.” Sounds ominous rather than hopeful. I compose an email lie, something along the lines of not wanting my partner (who works from home) to overhear our conversation.
When he emails back, we arrange to meet in two days’ time.
If I didn’t know Greg, I’m not sure how I’d feel about meeting him alone, in an anonymous place, but the building where he is based is staffed by several receptionists and gives a good overall appearance of being safe. The signs for multiple businesses adorn the walls, including advertisements for temporary office spaces. It’s busy. All the same, I sign in under the same fake name I used to book the appointment.
I wait.
At four minutes past my appointment, I remember that Greg is rarely on time.
A phone rings in reception. The woman who answers it looks at me as she puts it back down.
“Upstairs, second floor.”
“Thanks.”
As I walk up, I don’t feel quite so sure of myself and my online detecting.
His office is next door to the ladies’ toilets.
I take a deep breath and walk into his office as confidently as I can. He rises from behind a desk littered with pens, mugs and paperwork, ready to greet me—his client. He stares at me as though it’s all a mistake.
“Hi, Greg.”
An element of surprise can’t do any harm.
He does his very best to hide his shock by acting like he was half expecting me.
“Hello, Marie. What are you doing here? Is everything okay?”
“Sorry about the false name. Clearly, I’m not Samantha Brown. Shall I take a seat?”
“Please do.”
He sits back down behind his desk and I sit on a plastic chair opposite.
“Look, if this is about me and Camilla, please save your breath. We’re not doing anyone any harm. I’m guessing it was you who sent Stuart round to Camilla’s the morning after your night visit under some rubbish guise to talk to her?”
“No.”
Unsettling news to me.
“Camilla put him in his place. He would have received a slap on the face, too, if I hadn’t been there to stop her. She’s a fiery one.”
“That all sounds very over-the-top but who you sleep with is none of my business, I agree. This is about Nina. You were her friend. I need to know if she confided in you about her fears that someone was following her.”
I fold my arms in an attempt to look as though I mean business. My heart thuds. I feel stupid. The baby kicks. I feel like we’re acting in a TV advertisement for a loan company or some kind of insurance.
“No.”
To be fair, he looks genuinely quite baffled. I half expect him to scratch his head.
“Did she ever seem scared or distracted?” I ask.
“Not particularly.”
“But there was something?” I push.
“It was something very general, unrelated to you or her children, and confidential. You were her friend, too, so you’ll respect her privacy,” he says. “No matter how well you think you know someone, no one can know everything about everyone all the time. Some of the things I see and experience, they could potentially make me doubt everyone I know, if I chose to let it happen.”
I stay silent, pondering my next move. I try, without making it obvious, to study the room, wondering where he keeps his client records. They must be digital or kept at his house because there’s no obvious filing cabinet with the key conveniently left in.
“As a friend, I really need to know exactly what you found. I recently discovered that Nina was looking for someone’s relatives and I feel compelled by grief to continue her search,” I say.
“I can’t tell you anything, especially as I didn’t find out that much. It happens occasionally, even in this day and age. Besides, it’s too late now. Initially, I assumed that she was looking for people to inform them of her situation. I couldn’t make it happen, otherwise they’d have been at her funeral.”
I redden. Greg attended the funeral. He must remember what a fool I made of myself.
Nina had tried to dissuade me from making a speech. “I don’t want too much overemotion,” she said. “It will add to the upset.”
I didn’t reply. How could I ever add to the upset, the raw devastation?
As I made my way to the pulpit, I swallowed hard and took a few seconds checking that the microphone was at the right level to buy enough time to try to regain full composure. As I opened my mouth to speak, I felt a sense of knowing exactly what the right thing was to do. It was a pivotal moment, an opportunity to make true my promises to Nina, to myself, to Felix, to Emily.
I felt disconnected, like everyone else had faded away and it was just me. I heard (well, I didn’t, obviously, but I felt extremely close to) those who weren’t there. My future children, too, not just Nina.
I heard a cough, but it came from the distance. Briefly, I caught sight of rows of expectant faces. Greg’s, come to think of it now, among them. There were all these expressions: Ben’s concern, Stuart’s fear, Deborah’s look of I knew this wouldn’t be a good idea... It gave me fresh impetus.
As I spoke, my voice filled the church, and although it was clear, it didn’t sound like me.
“Nina was the best friend anyone could ask for. She was always there for me and it saddens me that I couldn’t be there for her in the same way. I made her a solemn promise, though.” I looked up when I said this and stared directly at Stuart. “That I would look after her family. That I would remind her children of what she was like as a child, the things we did, and always be there to answer any questions, to fill in the gaps.”
I was briefly yanked out of my mission by a memory. Jealousy. I was jealous when I wasn’t made Emily’s godmother as well as Felix’s. I felt
excluded and I showed my anger by making an excuse not to come to Emily’s christening, citing some ridiculous reason that was clearly made up. Nina was disappointed, but not as disappointed as I was in myself. I vowed then and there, no matter what cost to myself, that I would make amends. I don’t know what came over me—my behavior was unacceptable.
However, the pressure of well, everything... It suddenly dawned on me, right there in front of everyone, that Nina was gone. And then...it was all a blur as I broke down. I will never forget the collective looks of concern while I was guided outside by Ben, sobbing.
But that was then. Greg can’t possibly be thinking back to that time. Nina and I used to discuss how things could be worse in my mind, things that other people didn’t give a moment’s thought to. Although, it’s not always the case. I take a breath.
“Greg,” I say with a smile. “It’s admirable that you’re trying to protect her. But what is there to protect her from? Sadly, she’s gone. I’m her children’s stepmother in every practical sense. They have a sibling on the way and it’s my job to protect my family.”
“If I thought there was anything that would help you, I’d tell you. But there isn’t.”
I use Christian’s technique. Silence is an extremely powerful weapon.
He gives in.
“Marie...you’ve got what you clearly wanted. You were envious of Nina. It was obvious to anyone who saw you together. You were so grateful to be a part of her life. It’s not a bad thing. People feel jealousy, rage, envy, all sorts. It’s natural to feel the negative and the positive. I’ve yet to encounter a person who doesn’t, but the speed at which you gleefully took over has left a few of us a bit shell-shocked. It will take time for people to accept the situation.”
Could he be any more patronizing and pompous?
“Thanks for sharing your wisdom, but it takes two. I did not take over—what a ridiculous description—and even if I did, Stuart is capable of making his own decisions.” I pause. “We love each other,” I lie. “We can offer each other comfort. What Nina’s death taught us is that we can never know what is around the proverbial corner of life. We’re grabbing onto a second chance with both hands, and in the process, those children have someone—me—in their lives who loves them like no other woman ever will. If that makes me a bad person then...”
My mind goes blank.
Greg stares. Oh my God, it’s him.
“You’re the person behind the threatening messages.”
I didn’t mean to blurt it out loud.
“What messages?”
I briefly tell the story, all the while studying his expression.
Again, he looks baffled, yet my instinct is telling me to be wary. I don’t trust people who say they’re transparent and can’t put on an act. They’re either lying, deluded or plain sneaky. Any one of us, under the right circumstances, is capable of putting on an Oscar-worthy performance. I think that in order to find out what someone is really like, it’s best to talk to the people they don’t have to impress.
I lose patience.
“Forget it. You’re hardly likely to admit that you’ve been creeping around the village at night trying to intimidate a pregnant woman. It’s not something to be proud of.”
I stand up and hoist my bag over my shoulder.
He shakes his head. “I’ve no idea what you’re on about. But be careful, Marie. I know it’s already too late, but keep your mind open. Nina did say one thing that always struck me as strange, and I never got the opportunity to fully work out what she meant by it.”
“What did she say?” I ask before I step out of his office.
“She said that Stuart was her penance and that she could never leave him.”
Twenty-Seven
My mother’s words come back to me.
Didn’t want to marry him.
Doubt slithers into memories. Did she have suspicions, too?
I scroll through all the pictures I took of Nina and Stuart’s wedding. I study every expression, all the special moments, and it’s like an optical illusion. Where I saw happiness, I’m pretty sure I now see wistfulness. It’s like pulling off daisy petals: she loved him, she loved him not. She was happy, she was not. Yes, no, no, yes.
Goldie’s barks cut through my confusion; she needs a walk. I shove a tennis ball and some poop bags in a small handbag.
We have barely entered the woods when Stuart calls. This is a rare occurrence. We communicate by messages. Sometimes, at night, when he’s asleep and I’m lying awake in Nina’s old bedroom, I get up, open the curtains and stare up at the dark sky and think about our messages crisscrossing the networks and wonder if it’s the only way we’ll ever properly connect.
“Hi, Stu,” I say.
I’ve still not been able to come up with anything more original, despite trying. Most words stick.
“Deborah’s been on the phone,” he says. “She wants to mark the occasion with the children on Monday.”
I am a terrible person. How could I forget the anniversary of Nina’s death? How?
“Good idea.”
I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to chat to her privately, but with a bit of persistence, I’m sure I’ll manage. I feel a surge of fresh determination to build bridges with her.
“She wants me and the children to visit Nina’s grave and spend the day together.”
Silence alerts me to my misunderstanding.
“Without me.”
“Without you.”
The average time for a widower to start a relationship with another woman is a year, which I recall from my patchy online research and blog-reading. So, according to the average, I should no longer be treated as though I’m some sort of pantomime homewrecker. Right now, I despise Stuart’s weakness for not standing up for us just because I fit with some negative narrative. He’s ashamed, however much he won’t admit it.
It suits him, I realize, that I get the blame for leading him astray. Most of the horrible messages and cards refer to me in some derogatory way. For Stuart, it’s casseroles, offers to take his suits to the dry cleaner’s and to walk the kids to school. For me, it’s death threats and requests for favors. No wonder he isn’t bothered about dealing with it. He’s ashamed, and I’ve allowed him to dump all his shame on me, too. No more! Rage hits.
“No! You, the children and Deborah can have an hour or two together alone. After that, we do something together. I’m your wife. I’m carrying our child. It’s about time I’m treated better than someone who has to hide in the shadows and only be allowed to step out when it’s deemed socially acceptable by someone else. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
It’s the brief silence at the end of the phone before he launches into his Stuart-type platitudes that tips me over the edge. Spite pours from my mouth before I can stop.
“We all know that she was far from bloody perfect. Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives?”
“Watch what you say.”
His voice is harsh. All traces of kind, amenable Stuart have gone.
God, I can’t face a drawn-out row. As I struggle to come up with a response I won’t regret, icy dread grips. I can’t see or hear Goldie.
“Goldie!” I yell. “Goldie!”
I listen for sounds of her rustling through the undergrowth.
Silence.
A plane passes above.
“Goldie! I can’t see her. I have to go.”
I hang up. Panic. I know my motivation in getting a dog to join my family was misguided, but I adore her now. None of us can take any more loss.
I hear barking. I can’t tell if it’s Goldie’s or not. I stride forward until I reach a clearing near the river.
Stuart calls me back. I press Ignore.
Goldie is beside someone who is patting her. As I rush up, I realize it’s Tamsin.
“Yes. She ran off,” I say. “Thank you. Goldie, you naughty girl! You gave me such a fright!”
“I thought so, I was just about to ring you.”
As I bend down to ruffle her fur and attach her lead, she shakes muddy water all over me.
“What are you doing here?”
Tamsin is firmly in the it’s too much responsibility camp of non-dog-ownership.
“I quite often take a walk on my day off. Fancy joining me?”
Does she, really? Do her walks just happen to take her on detours past my front door?
“Another time, maybe. Thanks.”
I need space to sift through my thoughts.
* * *
Back home, having ignored several of his calls, I message Stuart the good news. After a milky tea and a sandwich, I focus on how I’m going to get Deborah alone. I’ll grant her her wish and let her mark the anniversary with Stuart and the children. I’ll visit Nina’s grave in private. Deborah and I used to be so much closer (when she thought I wasn’t suffocating Nina). It’s sad that it seems so long ago. She was chill; from a young age, Nina and I were allowed to walk to the local convenience store and buy sweets and play out in the street unsupervised until dusk.
Stuart texts an apology, relieved, too, that Goldie is safe.
I send one back.
Peace is restored, yet restless, I Google the word penance, despite knowing what it means and why she said it. Some descriptions are harsher than others. There’s everything from: it’s an act to show that you feel sorry about something to definitions like self-inflicted punishment.
A surge of protectiveness toward Nina hits. Her promises take on new meaning. I vowed to look out for her family, and I will. How much was she willing to sacrifice and suffer to try to make the only amends left humanly possible? It’s sad that she couldn’t track down any of Charlie’s relatives.
Nina and I were one of three Catholics in our class. At Easter and other religious occasions, we boarded a minibus (along with children from other years) to different church services. Camilla said that Nina had confessed. Which priest? Which church? It’s not as if I can track the person down and force Nina’s confession out of them.
The Last Wife Page 20