Suzi
Christmas drew ever closer. The lights and noise of town, they dazzled me as I walked through the centre of Guildford once again. I’d had enough money hoarded to pay for this trip without asking Nick, and even that small taste of freedom made me realise how trapped I was. I wandered from shop to shop, drunk on lights and music and things. The sheer overwhelming tide of stuff we were supposed to want or need. I’d always loved this time of year, and had even fantasised about a country cottage with holly round the door, twinkling lights in the eaves, candles in every window. Snow piled up round the gables. Now I had it, and the reality was cold and isolating. I couldn’t imagine Nick and I on Christmas morning, exchanging gifts, clinking glasses (non-alcoholic for me; the fact of it being Christmas would not mean I could have a sip of champagne). And in later years, a child leaping on to our bed, hyper with excitement. I just couldn’t picture it. Maybe fear was clouding the future. One word from Nora and I’d lose everything. But why hadn’t she said anything yet? Why become friends with me, encourage me to talk about how much I’d loved you? I didn’t understand what her plan was, and it scared me. Was it even her behind the strange happenings, the music, the dead rabbit?
I’d barely slept the night before, thinking of Nora across the road from me. Your wife. A large part of me didn’t really believe it. I was learning that I was good at that, denial.
Dr Holt was early, dressed in jeans and a nice navy shirt, the sleeves rolled up. He stood when I came into the Costa Coffee, pulled a chair out for me. Polite. ‘Hello again.’
‘Hi. Sorry that last time we met I was . . . well, a total mess.’
He waved it away. ‘You’d had a shock. I’m just sorry you had to find out that way.’ He asked what I’d like to drink, and despite my protests went to get it for me. I chose something laden with sugar and spices, a bucket of festive joy, hoping some of it might creep into my cold winter bones. I watched him chat with the young barista, the open friendliness of the doctor’s face. If only I was married to a man like that. Not one like Nick, so suspicious and critical. Or you, as slippery as a water snake.
‘Thank you.’ I drank too fast, burning my tongue, a flood of sweet chocolate filling my mouth.
‘So what did you want to talk to me about?’ he asked.
I didn’t know where to begin. ‘It was just – it was so weird, wasn’t it? Sean – Patrick, I mean – using your name like that.’
He toyed with the dregs of a ginger-spice latte. ‘It seemed strange to me, yeah. And potentially, very dangerous for my career, if someone’s going around saying they’re me. I mean, I’m known in the field. I’m surprised no one questioned him, at the conference.’
‘It’s possible he didn’t go to any of it,’ I admitted. I hadn’t wanted to think it, but a conference was the perfect place to pick up women. Which meant, what – I wasn’t special? You’d done it before?
I didn’t want to think about that.
‘Oh?’ He cocked his head at me, his warm brown eyes fixed on mine, and I was drowned with shame again for what I’d done, the ease with which I’d jumped into bed with you. What had I been thinking? What blank misery had driven me to do it? ‘Suzi, listen – I’m not judging at all. You and him – you were close?’
I hesitated, then nodded.
‘But you’re married.’ His voice was gentle, glancing at my ring finger, the gold biting into the swollen flesh.
‘Yes.’
‘Alright. Do you know if . . . did you get the sense he regularly said he was me? It’s true I am a little scatty. It’s possible I just haven’t noticed before.’
‘Maybe. He was very keen to explain he was a doctor. Successful.’
‘Well, that was nice of him,’ muttered Dr Holt, frowning. ‘And – I’m sorry to ask you this, Suzi – do you know if he’d . . . had other friends before? Like you?’
Had you had affairs before, he meant. And I thought how good you had been at it, knowing all the tricks, the ways to get caught. ‘I think so,’ I said. Tears came to my eyes, and I felt a spurt of hot embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry.’ So stupid. How could I be upset, when you’d never been mine to begin with?
Some men panic when women cry. He wasn’t one of those. He took a packet of Kleenex from his jacket pocket, and passed me one, pressing my hand as he did. The gentleness made me cry even harder. ‘Poor you. What a thing to happen.’
‘It’s my own fault. I’m a cheater. A liar.’ I scrunched the tissue miserably in my fist. ‘I even lied about my name. You must think I’m awful.’ Was I just as bad as you?
He was quiet for a moment. ‘Suzi, you see all sorts in my job. I’ve kind of come to realise that we’re all just doing the best we can. No one really means to mess up, or hurt other people.’
I had to say what was really worrying me, crazy as it would seem. ‘Dr Holt . . . this is going to sound really weird, but I think his wife – Patrick’s wife – she might be someone I know. I mean, this woman rented the house next door to us a while ago. We became friends.’ I spilled out the story of finding the pill packet in your house, seeing your picture in Nora’s bedroom. The weird things that were happening. He watched me patiently, trying to understand.
‘You’re sure it’s not just a similar name, someone who looked like him?’
‘I know how it sounds. I know I seem . . .’ I didn’t want to say the word. I thought about my visit to my GP, the fact it was now on record that I’d been hallucinating, imagining things. ‘I . . . maybe it’s nothing.’
He was looking at me with concern. ‘Would someone really do that? Move next door to you?’
‘I don’t know. I know it sounds insane.’ I was almost doubting myself now. Had it really been your picture in her house? It was dark, and I wasn’t in my most rational mind. Was it really such strong evidence? Nora and Eleanor – were those even the same name?
‘You should go to the police, if you’re worried.’
I stared down at my dirty cup. I couldn’t go to the police – that would be admitting I’d been in your car that day. I was trapped.
He hesitated. ‘Suzi . . . the stuff with your burglar alarm, the music. Is your husband . . .? I’m so sorry to ask this, but I have a duty of care. You seem scared. And this . . .’ Gently, he touched my wrist, the shading of the bruise where I’d caught it against Nora’s door, and instinctively I jumped back, drew it into the sleeve of my coat. What if Nick somehow found out I was here in a café with an attractive man, letting him touch my hand? But all I could see in his eyes was concern. ‘Are you sure there’s not something else going on?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that. He’d never lay a hand on me.’ But I was scared, wasn’t I? So much that I could hardly sit still, or focus on a task for more than five minutes. I was afraid of Nick finding out, yes, but I wasn’t actually afraid of him. Was I?
‘Just because someone doesn’t hit you, it doesn’t mean you can’t be scared.’ I had a feeling he’d been trained in this, how to support women who were in abusive relationships. But I wasn’t. Just an unhappy one. ‘This is going to seem really awkward, but . . . I brought something with me.’ He slid a shiny pamphlet over the table, with the NHS logo on it. Understanding Coercive Control. A stock photo of a crying woman, locked in a bathroom, while a man shouted at her from outside. ‘Something about you at the hospital that day. You were just so jumpy. And pregnancy is the riskiest time for domestic violence.’
I blinked. ‘Oh, it’s not . . .’ I trailed off. Nick never shouted, never raised his fists or his voice. But all the same I was under his control. I couldn’t go places or see people without him knowing. He knew what I ate, when I slept, when I left the house. He seemed to know everywhere I went, as if each step was under his scrutiny.
Dr Holt’s face twisted, and I could tell he was about to say something difficult. ‘I get it, Suzi. I know it doesn’t always look like it’s meant to. Bruises, black eyes. But it can be just as bad. That case just last week in Medway, where the guy strangled
his wife. Everyone said what a nice person he was, how much he cared for his family.’
I eyed the pamphlet. I could hardly take that home with me; Nick would want to know where I’d got it. ‘Thank you,’ I said finally. ‘I’ll think about it.’ It was true I might need to run away, if Nora was who I thought she was.
He checked his watch. ‘Oh bugger, I’m late for a clinic. I mean it, Suzi – if you need help, there are things we can do. I’ll come to the police with you, tell them about this Nora woman, if you’re really worried.’ I could tell he didn’t believe me. He thought I was in denial, ignoring the real problem in my life. ‘Can I take your number at least, in case I find out more about Patrick?’
I hesitated. How would I explain it to Nick, another strange man calling me? But he was a doctor. He would help me. ‘OK. Give me yours too,’ I said. I passed him my phone to key it in, then dialled it briefly so he’d have my number. This was so risky.
‘Please,’ he said, passing it back. ‘Anything you need. Just call.’
I thought about it for a second – leaving my home, all my things, bunking down in some hostel full of terrified women. Having my baby somewhere like that. I knew that I wouldn’t do anything, not yet. What was I waiting for? For things to get better, maybe. Hope was a dangerous thing. It could keep you going long after any realistic person would have given up and run. He left first, looking back at me anxiously, and I picked up my phone and saved his number under Andrea H, the way you had taught me to do. Another deception, another step away from Nick and I ever working things out. As I went, I dropped the leaflet into a recycling bin.
Wearily, I trailed home. Another expensive taxi, my stash almost gone. As I paid the driver, and got out into the dark cold of the country lane, snow still lying in the verges, I saw a lamp on in Nora’s house. I felt an absurd loneliness as the car disappeared up the road, its lights quickly swallowed in the dark. I stood there for a moment, deciding. Nora was behind the blank windows of Ivy Cottage. She knew who I was. She didn’t know I also knew who she was. Should I confront her, or leave things as they were? Figure out an escape plan first?
I found myself edging towards her house. Why, I didn’t know. What would I even say? I’m sorry, or how dare you, or leave me alone, you jealous hag? Nothing was right. As I grew closer, I could hear music seeping from the house, into the stillness of the lane. It was beautiful – a lullaby, like the one that had been playing in my house that day. It was so lovely I thought it must be a recording, but I looked in and saw, to my surprise, that Nora was playing an upright piano, which definitely had not been there the day before. I could see her through the window, as the curtain wasn’t pulled. The small, damp room actually looked cosy with the addition of a table lamp and a lit candle, and Nora was playing with her eyes closed, a smile on her face. Her fingers, gnarled and raw from gardening, drifted over the keys, and for a moment I realised how little I knew of her. Nothing, really, and yet I’d opened my heart to her, shared all my secrets. I was so stupid.
She saw me. I ducked back, but it was too late, and she was walking to the door. Pure panic surged in my veins, but then she opened it and I saw she was smiling, same as she always was. ‘Suzi!’
‘Oh, sorry, I just heard the music,’ I babbled. ‘I didn’t know you played.’
‘Oh yes. In fact, I played professionally.’
‘I can tell. It was beautiful.’ I was edging away.
‘I hadn’t played for years, but then I just thought – why not get a piano again? They don’t cost much, second-hand. It was delivered today. Would you like to come in?’
Did she know? Had I knocked something over, or left some sign that I’d been in her house? I thought of the pills I’d found, and realised I was trembling. I tried to keep my voice light. ‘Oh, no, I should get dinner started.’
She tutted. ‘Nick better start helping more. You can’t be running about when you’re in your third trimester, can you?’ Something about it sounded threatening, but I couldn’t put my finger on what.
‘I, uh, yes, I’ll tell him. Goodnight, Nora.’
‘Goodnight.’
I almost ran across the road, having utterly failed to confront her, doubting all my judgement and feelings and sense. Doubting everything.
When you and I were together, those few months, the world seemed bright. Summer, and birds in the trees, and the deep-belly thrill of your emails popping into our secret account. The possibility that life could be different.
This was the other side of all that. The hangover after the party, the recession after a boom. Me at home, pregnant and terrified, waiting for the police to come, waiting for Nora to strike. Now that I’d lost you, it seemed to me the hardest thing a human would ever have to face was how to live without the person their heart was tied to. Every day I had to remind my brain and body I was never going to see you again. Remind my skin it would never feel your hands again. Remind my hands they would never touch your back as you slept. Never. I don’t think humans are really built to understand what that means. I told myself it should have been easy. All I had to do was go into my house, and shut the door, and live out the rest of my life without you.
Eleanor
Suzi had been gone all day again, and she hadn’t told me why. Obscurely, I felt angry that she was still keeping secrets from me, Nora, her helpful and understanding friend. Watching her cross the road to Willow Cottage, I pulled my laptop towards me. I was glad I’d bought it, despite the inroads it had made into my depleted finances. It certainly made all my activities easier. It was almost like a job these days, doing my research.
Conway’s visit had thrown me. He too had become a threat, not just to me but to Suzi, and therefore to the baby. I couldn’t let that happen. I’d already spent too much time picturing myself with it. Patrick’s child. Conway had to be stopped, one way or another. My mind was consumed by what he’d hinted. What did he mean? That there was something more to Patrick’s death, that it was deliberate somehow? Suicide – or even murder? But who would want to kill him? I had to know. Conway’s insinuations had taken root in me, squirming like bulbs in winter soil, rootling towards the light. Was it possible he meant something else? But no, that was insane. I had to cling on to the truth, the reality of life, out here in the dark all alone. I had to hold myself together.
When I logged on to Facebook, I saw to my surprise that Nick’s ex, Lisa Ragozzi (Italian, I thought, maybe her father’s family), had replied to my message. Guardedly, she asked why I wanted to know about Nick.
It’s really hard to explain, I answered, alone in my cold sitting room. Part of me felt sad that Suzi hadn’t come in. I would have welcomed her warm and scatty presence, after Conway’s visit. I typed, My friend’s with him and he’s – it seems like he’s been a bit heavy recently, you know?
Heavy how? I could see the little dots that showed Lisa was on the other end, and felt a surge of excitement.
Oh, you know. A bit possessive, I guess? Asking where she’s been, what she’s up to. Not giving her money, that sort of thing. I decided to go for broke. She’s pregnant so not working. I’m really worried about the baby. It just seems – like a step up to something. You know? I wasn’t naming my fear, but Lisa would understand. Any woman would.
More dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then Lisa wrote – I think maybe we should meet. You’re right to be worried.
Quickly, we arranged to meet in London the next day, on her lunch break (she worked in recruitment). It was possible she thought the ‘friend’ was actually me, but that didn’t matter. It would only suit my purposes. I made myself go to bed early, ready for the following day. I would find out more about Nick, and then I would turn my attention to Conway, and deal with him.
Suzi
When Nick came back that night, it was to an unwelcoming house. I hadn’t pulled the blinds or turned on the lamps or set the soft music I had ready for him most nights, and worst of all, there was no dinner waiting in the Aga. I had come straight from Nora’s
and gone on the computer.
Nick hovered in the doorway of my studio. ‘Where were you? You didn’t tell me you were going out today.’
‘No.’ I didn’t answer his question. Why should I? And how did he know I’d been out – the alarm system, I supposed.
Nick blinked. ‘Are you feeling alright?’
No, I wasn’t. I was discovering that my lover, the likely father of my child, had died shortly after I’d last seen him, driving a car into a tree on a clear and dry day. Maybe my fault? And his wife, his widow, had moved in next door to me and become my friend, and she was in all likelihood out to ruin my life, sending me slowly crazy with music and lights and dead things and words in the snow. I shuddered at everything I’d told her. Damian. You. All the ways we had deceived your wife, who turned out to be the very person I was talking to. My burning question was what she would do now. Would she tell Nick? Why hadn’t she already, if she knew who I was? What was Nora’s plan?
‘What about dinner?’ Nick said, plaintive.
‘I’m not very hungry. I had a massive lunch.’ I knew Nick had meant I should cook dinner for him, but I didn’t care. There was thrill as well as fear in pushing back on the rules, playing with fire. ‘Could you shut the door? There’s a draught.’ After a moment, Nick went out, closing the door with a little too much force. Part of me was scared, but part of me wasn’t. I was also going to cross another boundary by googling dangerous things while Nick was at home. Specifically, the background of Nora Halscombe, aka Eleanor Sullivan.
The piano had been a stroke of luck, because the first thing I found was that quiet, dowdy Nora had indeed once been a successful concert pianist. Back then, she played under the stage name Elena Vetriano. I found an old article about her in Classic Times, a sultry shot of her leaning over a Steinway in a red evening gown. Her hair was long and dark and shinier than a raven’s wing, her full lips slightly parted. The article praised her work ethic, her technical skill, which was ‘not surprising, given Ms Vetriano’s tragic past, a past she transmutes into musical ecstasy for the listener’. My ears pricked up. What tragic past? So Nora had gone by at least three names that I knew of. There must be one more. There must have been a name she was known as when she was born, when this ‘tragic past’ occurred. But how was I going to find it? I was sure she’d have done her best to cover it up.
The Other Wife Page 16