Perhaps there really is nothing to fear.
* * *
The night before we go away, having packed and completed all the necessary tasks, I pace downstairs, desperate to feel comfortable. I’m forced to give up and pour all my energy into my photo project: the one to celebrate Nina’s memory. I turn the pages. There’s something so rewarding about capturing a moment that will never be repeated. Even now, I still enjoy catching people unawares. It drove Nina mad, but only when she didn’t like the picture.
“I look too fat, too miserable, my hair looks crap...” she’d moan.
But when she liked them, it was different. She’d get me to print extra copies, and we’d experiment together with black-and-white and color effects. Any money I earned from my Saturday job was spent, not on clothes or stuff, but my photo-taking hobby. I told Nina I’d destroy any photos that she didn’t like, but I didn’t. However much people say they hate pictures of themselves, they’re a part of history.
Our faces naturally altered as we grew up, attended art college and went on our Ibizan holiday. Our collective expressions were unencumbered by worry, guilt or regret, despite my resentment simmering beneath the surface. People underestimate the innate desire to belong. It can be all-consuming, given the right cocktail of vulnerability and desperation.
I want to correct people when they refer to Ibiza as “the party place” because although it undeniably is, the soft sandy beaches are its best kept secret. (I sometimes wonder if the island hugs the knowledge of its beautiful landscape to itself as tourists flock to the clubs and bars.)
Of course, I have included images of the sea and landscape, the blues and greens, but among these are the hippy markets, Nina and me on the disco bus on our way to a club, the reds, oranges, golds and pinks of sunsets.
I stop. The next images include Charlie. I remove them and pile them to one side. Yet I can’t stop myself from looking at his eyes. Louise’s eyes. Would our future children have had green eyes, too, if things had turned out differently?
The floorboards upstairs creak. One of the children? Please let it not be Stuart, I want to be alone. It goes silent. I exhale, until then not even realizing I’d been holding my breath.
I’ve inserted more happy-looking wedding photos than I’d initially intended, for the children’s sake. I study Nina’s expressions again with my benefit of knowledge. Yet again, I hate that Nina deceived us all. She does not betray a hint of concern or doubt. I’ve always prided myself on my ability to photograph the truth. If I’m wrong, where does it leave me workwise in the future? I want to come out from the shadows, show people what I’m capable of.
I have great plans for when I get back into the swing of work. I intend to build on my previous good name. The thought cheers me. I’ve been feeling lost. I’ve allowed what happened to Nina to have an impact on me, too. I got caught up in her problems and dramas when I didn’t need to. Nina was always good at tugging me into her world, despite not trusting me when it mattered most.
In between the pictures of the wedding and the arrival of first Felix, then Emily, I could have added one or two of their honeymoon. But I couldn’t. I thought of passing them off by saying that Nina had given them to me, that they’d been taken by a stranger, but Stuart isn’t stupid. The shame of admitting that I spent a night on the same island as them in the Whitsundays because I felt left out is too great. It would be too implausible to pass off as a mere “one of those things.”
I do have limits. Lies have to contain an element of believable-enough truth. I did spot Nina and Stuart when I was in the same hotel for one night. I watched as Nina sat at the breakfast buffet and Stuart got up to get her coffee, piled her plate with food, was generally there to do her bidding. I admit, I was jealous. Not because I necessarily wanted that, but because she was clearly his world.
Nina loved parties. She’d throw one on her birthday every year. There were way too many to include, so I’ve picked out a few of the best: highlights of her looking her most radiant and happy.
One in particular stands out as a clear winner. She’d held a barbecue (but splashed out on caterers) during an uncharacteristic early autumn heatwave. She is wearing a pale pink dress and a cowboy hat. Her favorite necklaces (obviously she couldn’t decide on just the one that night) adorn her neck. I remember that party well because it was the first time I didn’t personally know all of Nina’s friends.
It’s impossible not to pick up on the change in fashions (and hairstyles!) over the years, the hard-to-miss transitions from flares to skinny jeans or short skirts to long. I glance at some of the partygoers—it’s so much easier now I’m not the outsider and it doesn’t hurt so much. I recognize people I didn’t know then—there’s Tamsin wearing the same style of cowboy hat as Nina. (Was that the theme? I don’t recall.) There are also shots of Sharon, Greg and Miriam, plus lots more people from the school and village who are now my friends, too.
The last pictures taken were after Nina’s diagnosis. I worked incredibly hard at not making these shots staged while I took pictures of them all at home, going about their day-to-day lives. Nina wanted them to have ordinary memories recorded, too, not just the obvious celebrations and milestones. She and Stuart baked with them, played board games, went cycling, “messed around” in the garden in the paddling pool, played hide-and-seek. Happy family moments, all immortalized. By me.
The final pictures are of us: me, Stuart, Felix, Emily and Goldie. My bump is clearly visible.
I hear footsteps.
Stuart appears and floods the kitchen with light.
“Can’t sleep either?” he says.
“No, too uncomfortable.”
“What are you doing?” Stuart points to the remaining few photos that didn’t make the album.
“Finishing off Nina’s memory album. I want everything in order before the baby’s born.”
“Nesting,” he says. “Nina was—”
“Please don’t tell me that Nina was the same.”
“Sorry.” He smiles. “And you’re right. About Felix and Em. About the adoption. It’s just that everything has happened so fast. If someone had told me a few years ago that this would be my life now, it wouldn’t have seemed possible.”
“Join the club. Some days I lie there when I first wake up and really can’t quite believe it either.”
Stuart picks up the pile of photos I’ve removed. “What are these?”
I want to snatch them from him. They’re mine. They’re personal.
“Pictures that include Charlie.”
He glances through them.
I hold my breath.
He puts them back down.
The one on the top is the one I found in the attic, the one I love of Charlie, despite Nina and Camilla on either side of him. Boat masts are visible in the distance behind them (which I can easily remove), farther beyond is the sea. He is wearing a blue T-shirt with an image of a shark on the front. He loved that T-shirt almost as much as Nina loved the leopard print shoes she broke that night. I’ll get some more copies printed. I will cut Camilla out of mine completely, yet I realize that if she ever decides to tell Louise the truth about her father, the poor girl may appreciate this one of her father and mother together. I’m sure that Christian would approve of me accepting things and moving on, if I ever decide to tell him.
Stuart pulls me close, kisses my neck. “Come back to bed.”
“In a bit, I’m in the middle of something.”
He persists.
I try to reciprocate, I really do, I don’t wish to ruin this moment. I follow him upstairs, as slowly as I can, my mind desperately searching for the right way to convey my reluctance in a tactful way.
The right words don’t come to me in time even though I want to stay downstairs, alone, in peace, and study the photos some more. There’s something about the image of Charlie, Camilla and Nina that
feels unsettling but my mind can’t quite home in on what I think is wrong.
In bed, I mentally study the background: the sea, the boats, the horizon. But like an elusive Spot the Difference image, there’s nothing tangible that I can latch on to.
Perhaps I’m looking to the past to find answers when really, my life is here now. Somehow, right now, just the thought of the permanence of everything makes me flick back through all the pivotal moments to try to pinpoint exactly where I may have made a bad decision. The conclusion I come to is that there may have been many. It is not a comforting thought.
Thirty-Two
Most murders are committed by someone the victim is connected to. Mainly their spouses. Everyone knows that. Stuart is a middle-lane driver and it takes all of my self-control not to insist that I do all the driving. Thankfully, our route is predominantly non-motorway and the children are delighted because we stop at a burger place for lunch that offers free ice-cream desserts on the kids’ menu.
As we enter the open landscape of Dartmoor National Park, I relax. Following the quiet road leading to Greg’s address, I take in the scenery. Granite tors are visible against the green moorland. Occasional paths snake through the flatness, marking out potential walkways. My dad recently told me that we camped somewhere in the area when I was young, but nothing feels familiar.
When we pull up outside the stone cottage, I’m both apprehensive and delighted at its remote location. Inside, it is fairly dark. Some of the stone floor tiles are uneven, and there’s little natural light, but at least it’s fresh-smelling. (According to Camilla, Greg has someone who cleans, does a spot of gardening and keeps an eye.)
The stairs aren’t quite as horrendous as Camilla made out, but overall it’s the type of place that could be described as in need of improvement. There are five bedrooms. I let Felix, Emily and Louise choose their own. I have to hide the old-fashioned keys from the bedroom locks inside a chest of drawers in our room because the kids take immediate delight in locking each other (and themselves) in their rooms. The main bathroom is in definite need of immediate refurbishment, but the room we’ve picked has a fairly modern en suite. Stuart busies himself making up the beds with our own linen.
The worst room, a smallish one at the end of the corridor, with a view over the dilapidated garden shed and an unkempt section of the back garden, will be Camilla’s.
I help Louise unpack. I’ve never spent quite this much time alone with her (without the inevitable distractions of home life), and it’s strangely disconcerting in a I’m-not-sure-how-to-make-conversation kind of way. I desperately want her to feel welcome. She’s neat, likes her things just so. Like her father. I suggest we head downstairs where she can help unpack the groceries in the kitchen.
Later, Stuart takes them out for a walk to explore while I have a doze on the sofa. I wake up with a start, dripping with sweat and utterly disoriented. When everyone returns, their faces red asking for snacks and drinks and full of questions about what they’re going to do next, Stuart takes one look at me, makes me some tea and orders me to go and lie on the bed upstairs.
Listening to the muffled sounds of excited chatter beneath me, I plan what I’m going to say to Camilla. Spending time with Louise has renewed my resolve. Before too long, she does deserve to know the truth about who her father was.
I opt out of most activities, leaving Stuart to get on with it. Louise is a delight; she’s slotted in with us as though she belongs. I sit in cafés and read. It’s bliss.
As he’s preparing dinner on our final evening before Camilla arrives, I take a cool shower. Stepping out into the bedroom, it strikes me that I can’t imagine Greg living here, even though he comes across as quite a loner. Camilla aside, I’ve never heard him mention a special anyone, apart from moving to our village a while ago “for love,” as he described it. Dressed in a loose tracksuit, I wander around all the rooms. In Camilla’s, there is a writing desk in the corner. I open the drawers. They are empty, as is the wardrobe.
Downstairs, I make myself a chamomile tea.
“Smells nice,” I say to Stuart, indicating the pasta sauce simmering on the gas stove. “I’ll lay the table.”
Still unfamiliar with the location of everything (there’s an abundance of crockery, place mats, glasses and just stuff, presumably from the B&B days), I open most drawers and cupboards. One is crammed full of paperwork. I try to shut it again, but it jams. I pull out the top layers and retry. It works, but I drop the pile. They fan out on the kitchen tiles.
“I’ll get them,” Stuart says.
As he does so, dumping them on the table, a bold font catches my eye. As I read, I hear Stuart say, “Fancy a small wine?”
I stop reading and smile. He’s been great company this week. Perhaps he’s not as bad as I’ve feared lately. “I’ll have a spritzer with dinner.”
I glance back down and continue reading an invoice for a photography course. The name of the company is familiar, and it eventually dawns on me why. It’s the same course Nina took. I remember seeing it when I sorted out her files.
I check the date: the year after Felix was born. Something niggles. I’d assumed that the course they did had been more recent, more local to us, for some reason. But the four-day residential course was nearby, here, in Dartmoor.
I do the math as I think back to the photos I recently viewed. Greg had been at the barbecue to celebrate Nina’s birthday, a year before he moved to the area. I access the copies of Nina’s album on my phone. I scroll, then enlarge Greg’s face. I don’t think I’m imagining it: he’s staring in Nina’s direction with what I can only perceive as admiration or longing. It’s unnerving.
My appetite disappears as I sit down opposite Stuart at dinner. I go through the motions of conversation with the children, but it’s hard. I can’t stop thinking about Greg and Nina, because no matter how I try to look at it, I can’t shake off the feeling that Nina was Greg’s mystery love. If that’s true, then I’ve missed even more than I realized.
* * *
Camilla’s arrival the following lunchtime brings further unsettlement. I’d forgotten that it somehow takes a few days to get into a holiday rhythm, more so, I now realize, when you’re a family. A late guest shakes up the routine. Her arrival makes me doubt the wisdom of my plan. I’m unsure how to be with her: is she a genuine guest, a fellow holiday companion, an unlikely friend or an enemy I need to be wary of? Our relationship is more blurred than ever.
We opt for a waterfall visit. I’ll walk as far as feels comfortable, then chill in the café nearby. I may even suggest that Camilla accompany me back down. Perhaps I can get her to talk candidly then, rather than force it out of her somehow.
Lush green foliage borders the lakes. We select one of the easier walks, supposedly for me, but really it’s for Emily, and meander through fern gardens. It’s the coolest I’ve felt all week, and caught up in nature’s beauty, it briefly dulls my ever-gnawing need to push Camilla for the truth. But every time I catch sight of Louise’s smile or hear her laugh, it reminds me that I owe this to Charlie.
Random dark thoughts ping into my mind. Like, how easy it would be to push Camilla over and onto the rocks. Bye bye, Camilla. I even conduct the imaginary aftermath conversation in my head: It was an accident, she slipped right in front of me. So shocking. So terrible. I’d adopt Louise as well as Felix and Em.
I stop myself. I’m glad no one can read my thoughts.
* * *
While Stuart and the children are packing up in the morning (he is going to drop Louise at her grandparents’ for the weekend), my resolve is tested when Louise asks if she can stay with us instead. Everyone looks at me. Camilla doesn’t want to admit to Louise that she’s invited Greg to join us. “We’ll go out, leave you in peace,” Camilla had said. “Greg wants to show me his home area, so sweet, don’t you think?”
I am the one forced to break the silence. “We’d l
ove you to, sweetie, but your mum and I have things to talk about.”
Camilla throws me a grateful look. She has no idea that I’m telling the truth.
“Plus, Granny and Grandad are looking forward to seeing you,” Camilla says.
She’s a good liar and she does it well by focusing on a true fact (her parents adore Louise) and omitting the truth, which is that she is putting spending time with her lover before her daughter’s wishes. I will never be a selfish mother. That’s one of the problems with people like Camilla; because she fell pregnant with such ease, she has assumed that being a mother is a right, not a gift. She’ll learn.
I give Louise an understanding look. She and I have grown even closer these past few days. I hope she understands that I have no choice in this instance. She gives me a trusting smile, which is no doubt helped by Emily insisting that she won’t get in the car unless Louise comes, too.
“She’s my new big sister,” she says.
I give Emily a huge smile of encouragement. Louise has been such a positive influence, not just on Emily, but on the whole family dynamic.
For a freaky moment, I think that Emily winks at me, but of course she didn’t. It’s just my nerves at how far I may need to go to force the truth out about what really happened on board that boat in Ibiza.
I kiss everyone goodbye and let Camilla wave them off. As she does so, I message Greg and ask him if there’s any way he could delay his arrival until tomorrow.
I’d rather you didn’t let on to Camilla that I’ve asked. I feel we need some girlie
(I can’t think of a better word right now.)
The Last Wife Page 24