The Other Wife

by McGowan, Claire

  ‘Thought you were still in the budget meeting. How was it?’

  ‘Oh God, hellish . . .’

  As they chatted, and his gaze was fixed on her, my fingers grazed the metal edge of his phone. Such a small rectangle, but it would tell me everything I needed to know about him. I glanced up – Nick was nodding at something the woman had said, holding wooden cutlery in one hand.

  Heart hammering, I slipped the phone into the deep pocket of my coat, and exited the café, sucking in cold air. They’d have cameras, probably. I might get caught, arrested even. Though of course it wouldn’t be the first time.

  I couldn’t resist it. Luckily – and luck was something that had deserted me a long time ago – the phone screen had not yet locked itself. As I trotted along the street, trying to put distance between me and the café, I clicked the back key, and saw a whole host of feeds. It looked like a bank of security cameras, but all trained on rooms in Nick and Suzi’s house. Suzi wasn’t there – I’d seen her leave in a taxi earlier that day, on another mysterious errand. I clicked back again. I was in an app called Home, and it controlled temperature, music, lights, door locks.

  I had one more thing to check. Under ‘Find My Friends’, an app I had discovered on my husband’s phone and realised could be very useful, there was Suzi, clearly marked. She was in London, somewhere in the City. He could follow her every move. Had she any idea? She couldn’t have. Suddenly I was afraid for her. She knew she had to be careful, but did she know just how careful? Did she know how much he could see?

  Suzi

  Damian and I went to the small public garden around the corner, which even in the freezing weather wasn’t empty. Awkwardness kept us several feet apart, and all I could think about was the last time I spoke to him, that day in the office kitchen. I didn’t want it, I’d said. Had it been an assault, as you had insisted when I told you? I didn’t know. I felt too ashamed to ally myself with real victims, women pulled into bushes on their way home, hands pressed over their mouths. I had brought this on myself.

  We walked around, hands jammed in our pockets to stay warm. Damian said, ‘So what are you doing here? Are you coming back to work?’

  ‘No – I can’t really right now.’ I laid my hands on my belly. Trying to use it as armour, shield myself from the flood of memories he brought back. My stomach was queasy, roiling with undigested pasta and green tea. The smell of that alley. The wetness of his mouth against my neck. Oh God, Suzi. ‘I just – I needed to talk to you. Do you remember when someone smashed your car up a while back?’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’ He frowned. ‘Hadn’t you left by then? That was like, in the summer?’

  ‘I just – I saw it on Facebook. Well anyway, the same kind of thing’s been happening to me.’ I told him about the issues with the alarm and speaker, the dead thing in my garden, the writing in the snow (glossing over what it said). His frown deepened. We’d stopped walking now, and he was bouncing on the balls of his feet, his breath like smoke in the cold air.

  ‘That’s fucking weird.’ The twang of his South London accent took me back, all the times we’d smoked together, gone for drinks, lingered in the kitchen to talk. More than once we’d sat on that bench over there eating lunch. I could almost see our past selves if I blinked.

  ‘You didn’t – you don’t think the same person could be doing it?’ I said.

  I didn’t even ask if it was him, though that had been my initial thought. I could tell from his reaction on seeing me that I’d barely crossed his mind in all these months.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ My ex-lover’s wife? That is, my other lover? But how would she even know about Damian, or care? I couldn’t put the pieces together. I’d been sure it was you who smashed up the car, but you couldn’t be doing these things to me.

  ‘The thing is, Suze . . .’ His old nickname for me, in the circumstances, felt cruel. ‘I always thought maybe that was you.’

  ‘What? You thought I busted up your car?’

  ‘You know, a woman scorned and all that.’

  I gaped at him. This man had been my friend for two years. Had been more than that. ‘I wasn’t – you didn’t scorn me. Jesus, Damian, that’s not what happened at all. We crossed a line, and I felt terrible about it. I’m married, so I ended it.’

  He shrugged. I could see him thinking, you tell yourself that, if it helps. ‘Water under the bridge. If anything else weird happens, I’ll let you know. Get you on Facebook?’

  I could hardly say, don’t contact me publicly, because Nick will see it, and if he knows I’ve spoken to you I’ll be in a whole world of pain. I couldn’t admit this, not to him, a man I’d thought cared about me, who it turned out was only after five minutes inside my knickers. ‘Maybe just email. I have a new one. Here.’ I typed my secret one into his phone, feeling the awkward intimacy of the gesture. It seemed disloyal, giving him our private email account. But you were gone, and I’d never hear from you again.

  ‘Listen, Suze . . .’ He scratched his head. ‘What you said that time . . .’

  Fear ran through me. I couldn’t have this conversation, not with everything that was going on.

  ‘I’m sorry if you . . . if it wasn’t what you wanted. I thought it was.’ Was that an admission?

  What could I say? ‘I . . . felt so terrible afterwards.’

  ‘I know. Me too. You think it’s going to be so sexy, but instead it’s just – you feel like crap. Seedy.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I risked looking at him, his dark eyes, the dimple by his mouth that I had once spent hours thinking about, day-dreaming at my computer. We had been good friends once – would perhaps still be, if it wasn’t for the alley. For what happened. What I’d made happen.

  He nodded his head to my belly. ‘Congrats, by the way. Hope it all goes OK.’ Was there any more awkward conversation to have than that about a pregnancy, with a man you’d once slept with? Was slept with the right phrase? My mind shied away. At least I was in no danger. He would never fancy me like this, huge, in country casuals. But as we said our awkward goodbyes, and I waddled to the Tube, I found I had tears in my eyes for the loss of something. The way he’d seen me once, maybe. The person I used to be.

  Luck was against me that day. When I got to Victoria, I could see at once it was more crowded than usual. People stood around tutting, staring at the large display screens as if they were oracles. A sense of panic and anger in the air. All the trains to Kent read ‘DELAYED’ – of course, the snow had predictably messed up the lines. I checked my watch – if I was lucky, I’d just make it home before Nick. Was there anything to cook in the house? Maybe if I dashed to M&S now, I could get something, bash it up a bit to look home-made. I was sure he’d know. He seemed to know everything I did.

  I was not lucky. A platform number appeared on the sign after I’d spent half an hour standing, afraid to go into a café and sit down in case a magical train appeared and I missed it. I lumbered towards the platform, exhausted, and watched people on the train avert their eyes from me in case they’d have to offer me a seat. In the end, some kind young woman gave me hers – it was always women – and I almost cried. I rested my head against the cold glass, as the train inched south. It stopped so many times en route, waiting outside Otford for what felt like twenty minutes. I played with my phone, the battery close to dead again – I should really have texted Nick, but there was still a chance he’d be late and I’d beat him there. I saw I had a message from Claudia, who was perhaps feeling guilty: Call me anytime you need babe. Stay strong xx. I deleted it – I didn’t want Nick to see.

  Inevitably, I found myself reliving it all, everything with Damian. Ruminating again. I’d told you all about him when you asked. The new guy starting at work, catching his eye and an overly long smile when he was brought over to say hello, the chats in the office kitchen long after the kettle had boiled, flirting by email, the drunken nights in the pub when we’d inch closer and closer together, shouting out jokes to each other, t
he cold drips creeping down my glass of gin and tonic, then the final night, feeling his hand on my leg under the table, the thrill of it, everyone melting away, and it was so late I’d forgotten about my last Tube, and then suddenly the alley and the cold stone under my back. His tongue was in my mouth. His hand was between my legs. My knickers were gone. The whole alley stank, and behind us, over his pumping shoulder, I could see people walking on the main road. I didn’t want this – no, I hadn’t wanted it – but it was too late to stop him and he was in me. There was pain – then it was over. I’d been breathing tight against his shoulder, wet on his Paul Smith shirt.

  ‘Oh God,’ he’d gasped. Then he slipped out and I was hunting for my underwear, my hands shaking with what had happened. Out on the main road he was distracted, checking his phone. ‘I better shoot. Last Tube’s almost gone.’ And he’d left me and I had to find a cab, and I’d no money, and I had to make it stop for cash, and I saw six missed calls from Nick on my mobile, and it took me three goes to text him: Missed train on my way. When I got home, I tiptoed to the bathroom. I washed between my legs, which made me wince. A shower would have been too suspicious. When I crawled into bed, holding my breath, Nick said in the dark, ‘Good night then?’

  ‘Mm . . . sorry. I just missed the train.’

  A pause. ‘You stink of booze.’ He rolled over.

  I waited for morning, and my punishment. The next day when I picked up my handbag from the stairs, I could smell piss had sunk into the leather from where it had rested on the ground, and I couldn’t get it out, no matter how much I scrubbed.

  When I told you this story, you went very still. ‘If he comes near you again, I’ll kill him.’

  How I loved you for this. Your anger. I linked my arms around your neck – we were in the Travelodge, where we used to meet. A bland, even unpleasant room, somehow made perfect by your presence. ‘How would you kill him?’

  ‘It’s easy for a doctor.’ You rolled me over, and then you were on top of me and then inside me. I groaned. I wanted you to fuck it all out of me: Damian, the alley and even Nick. ‘We have power over death. We can make it look like an accident, a heart attack or a stroke – anything.’

  A few days later, I went upstairs to the bathroom. I had my phone – I’d got into the habit of always taking it with me, safer that way. I put the phone on the floor while I peed, and idly glanced at Facebook.

  I had to stay friends with Damian on there, of course. If I’d blocked him, he might have hit back. I knew every one of his wake-boarding festival-going beer-drinking photos. He’d done a status update. It said: Car windscreen smashed up. Paintwork wrecked. WTF! Supposed to be a ‘low crime area’.

  I had clicked out of FB and wiped the history, hands shaking. It seemed a huge coincidence, after our conversation in the Travelodge. Had you? Taken a brick or something and attacked his car? How would you even know where he lived? I hardly dared believe it. I clicked into our secret email. You never emailed in the evening – too risky. I messaged. Damian’s car. You didn’t?

  I hadn’t expected a reply, but suddenly one winked in, making me start. Don’t know what you mean ;). Goodnight, darling.

  ‘Suzi?’ Nick’s voice. Right up against the door. ‘What are you doing?’

  The tap was still running. ‘Just cleansing.’

  ‘That wastes water, you know.’ Pause. ‘Five minutes and I’m putting the light off.’

  I closed my eyes. ‘OK. I’ll be there. Promise.’

  I already knew I wouldn’t.

  When my taxi pulled into our drive, Nick’s car was there. I dragged my shopping in.

  ‘Sorry. I’m sorry. The trains – I left hours ago.’ Tears welled up in me. ‘I’ve just – I’ve had a horrible journey, OK, so please don’t have a go.’

  To my surprise, he spoke mildly. ‘I wasn’t going to. Are you alright? Sit down.’ He took the bag of food, only one raised eyebrow commenting on the fact I’d been planning to feed him a ready-made dinner. ‘This is why I didn’t want you going, see. There’s so many delays just now, it’s not good for the baby.’

  ‘Or for me,’ I muttered.

  ‘No. Not for you either. I did say.’ He bustled about, putting things away, turning on the oven. Somehow, the kindness made things worse, and that, combined with my exhaustion, with seeing Claudia and Damian and all those memories stirred up again, broke me. He said, ‘Did you text? I’ve lost my phone, or it’s been nicked maybe. So annoying. I’ll get a new one tomorrow, but in the meantime . . . What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh Nick.’ A sob tore out of me, and I put a hand over my mouth. ‘I . . . I can’t go on like this. Things are so bad, we never talk, you’re always mad at me . . . I’m sorry! I’m trying! I really am trying!’ The rest was lost in a garble of tears.

  Nick hunkered down in front of me. ‘Hey, hey, it’s alright.’

  ‘It’s not alright! Things between us are so bad . . . I mean, aren’t they?’ Oh God, was it possible he hadn’t realised? That he thought we were happy?

  He said nothing for a while, just peering into my face, concerned. ‘I know the move’s been hard on you.’

  ‘I’m so lonely, Nick. I feel so – having no job, no money, it really sucks.’ He opened his mouth, doubtless to say I did have money. ‘I know what’s yours is mine. But I have to ask you for it, don’t I? I can’t just pop out and get cash, and the car situation . . .’ More tears welled up, as I realised we were going over and over the same rows. Was that what the end of a marriage was like, being stuck in some Groundhog Day of misery?

  ‘I thought you’d be happy here,’ he said, standing up. ‘In London . . . I felt like I was losing you. You were always working, or out.’ Between us, the truth lay just beneath the surface, a treacherous river under a thin layer of ice. I could tell him. Nick, I had sex with Damian. I didn’t want to but – it happened. I’m sorry. Please, I’m so sorry.

  But then how to explain the rest? Oh, and I had a second affair, and now the man was dead? He could count. He’d work out the baby likely wasn’t his. I couldn’t do it. I wiped a hand across my face. ‘I’m sorry I went out so much. I know it wasn’t fair on you. I – I want to be different. But please, Nick. You never touch me any more. You never look at me.’

  He was nodding, slowly. ‘You seem so far away.’

  ‘I’m not, I’m right here.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re willing to try – you want things to be better between us?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘You know these things I do – worrying about where you go, what you eat – it’s just because I love you. You and the baby.’

  I stood up too, and walked the few steps between us. Tentatively, I put my arms around him, feeling his solidity, the warmth radiating out from under his woolly jumper. Perhaps I had not touched him either in months. ‘I know. But please – don’t criticise me all the time. I will try harder, I promise.’

  ‘Alright.’ He went slack in my arms, then hugged me tight, his arms almost crushing the air from me. ‘I love you, Suzi.’

  I made myself say, ‘I love you too.’

  I had, once. Perhaps I could again.

  Later, as we cleaned up together for a change, him washing the dishes and me wiping the counters, Nick asked, ‘How was it anyway? Lunch?’

  ‘Oh . . . a bit rushed. Claudia didn’t have much time. An eat and run situation.’

  ‘Hmm, yes.’ He ran the tap, and said innocently, ‘See anyone from work?’

  Suddenly I wanted to be sick. My hands began to shake. ‘My work? No, why?’

  His voice was as reasonable as could be. ‘No reason. I just thought you might have stopped by. It’s near Claudia’s office, isn’t it?’

  He couldn’t know. It wasn’t possible. ‘Not really.’

  Then he said, casual-like, ‘By the way, I almost forgot: when I called the police about my phone – not that they were at all helpful – they mentioned they’d been planning to talk to us.’

  Blood buzzed
in my ears. ‘What? Do you know what about?’ Hadn’t I worried about this for days now, a phone call, a car drawing up the narrow lane, stopping by our door? What did they know? What had they told Nick? In all my imaginings, I had never thought he would be here when they came and not me.

  ‘I think it’s just routine enquiries. Some accident over on the slip road. Did you hear about that?’

  I turned away, putting the plates in the cupboard. ‘I don’t think so. Recent?’

  ‘A few months back. A man died.’

  Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God. Liquid fear sloshed through my veins. ‘Oh, that’s sad. What did they want with us?’

  ‘Just checking if we heard anything. Maybe you could call them back, they left a number.’

  ‘Sure. I don’t know how I can help, though.’

  Nick looked at me, and I wanted to cry again. I had failed at being a friend, being an employee. There was nothing left of me but this house and marriage, and even that I couldn’t get right. ‘Hey, you look tired,’ he said, concerned.

  I rubbed my eyes, tears just under the surface. ‘I am. I forgot how awful it is, the commute.’

  ‘No more trips to London for a while, I think,’ he said, and I found myself agreeing with him, the suggestion that I should no longer go anywhere by myself. This was how easy it was to lock your own jail cell, from the inside.

  When we first moved to the country, I’d asked Nick what the road signs meant that said Passing Places. He showed me when we passed a car on the road and he reversed back to let it by, and the driver waved thanks to us. I thought it was nice. Later, I thought that was what Nick and I had lost – neither of us was prepared to move back and let the other one through, and so we were stuck there, beeping our horns and flashing our lights, all for nothing.

  Elle

  A woman. There’d been a woman in his car with him. Did that mean she’d been right, all those times? Every time he said, Darling, are you getting funny again? Are you taking the pills? You’re not going, you know, like your mother? Every time he’d denied it, made her think she was crazy – there really had been another woman?