The Wife Who Ran Away

by Tess Stimson

  I never expected to find myself having to choose between two men I love equally, albeit in very different ways. All my life I’ve bought into the received wisdom that we all have a soul mate, one person with whom we’re meant to be; that all our other relationships are no more than mistakes along the way. But the truth is, love’s a lot more complicated than that.

  I never stopped loving Ned. I just lost sight of it for a while.

  ‘Kate,’ Keir says behind me.

  I turn. On the other side of the Victorian family plot, Keir is watching the two of us, his expression unreadable. His hair flames in the late July sunshine, and his amber eyes burn with intensity as he looks at me. But when he speaks, his voice is calm. ‘The car’s waiting, Kate.’

  ‘Oh,’ Ned says awkwardly. ‘Since we’re hosting the wake at the house together, I thought you might want to come back with me.’

  I’m literally caught in the middle. On one side, Ned. On the other, Keir. One last time, I have to choose.

  Love familiar, comfortable, comforting. Not perfect, far from perfect, but committed and tested and true. A flawed man who has forgiven me abandonment, an affair, who’ll accept a rival’s child. Steadfast and loyal. And love impassioned, intense, fresh and exciting, from a man who already seems to know me better than I know myself, who allows me to be someone new. Whatever my choice, I lose as much as I gain.

  And then I realize. The extravagant gesture I looked for throughout my marriage, the gesture that would tell me Ned and I did have passion after all: there it is.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, turning to Keir. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  Ned wants me not because of the baby but despite it. It’s enough.

  It’s everything.

  ‘Go with him,’ Keir says quietly. ‘It’s OK. Go with Ned.’

  Still nobody moves.

  Keir finally breaks the deadlock, stepping carefully around the old stones and putting his hands on my shoulders. ‘When I met you, it was just you,’ he says softly. ‘There was no Ned, no Agness and Guy. You were free to be with me. But you’re not any more. Maybe you thought you’d left them behind, but you’re still part of your old family and your old life, and that’s a good thing.’ He grips my arms, his voice catching. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to fight for you, Kate. God knows I do. But I wouldn’t want to be the one to destroy something good. I couldn’t build my own happiness on so much misery.’

  ‘I do love you,’ I whisper, choking on the words.

  ‘I know you do. And I love you. But it’s not always that simple, is it? There are other people involved. You have a responsibility to love them, too.’

  ‘Keir—’

  ‘I don’t have a voice here,’ he says. ‘I’ve known that since I arrived. The pull of the past was too strong.’ He kisses me gently on the cheek. ‘You’ve made your choice. Be happy.’

  I know I’ll never see him again. I watch him walk away, the pain of losing him as real and raw as if I’d sliced a sharpened knife-blade across my palm. As it would have been if I’d said goodbye to Ned instead. Grief is the price we pay for love.

  ‘Kate,’ Ned says, quietly. ‘Kate, what are you going to do about the baby?’

  I didn’t want anyone to know I was pregnant. Not after the miscarriage in February. I wanted to be sure this baby was going to make it before I threw all our lives into needless turmoil. But when Ned found the pregnancy test stick, the decision was taken out of my hands. And in a way, it made leaving him a little easier for both of us to bear. We could tell ourselves that circumstances had forced my hand; it gave him an excuse, and me a reason, for the decision.

  Would I have chosen Keir if it wasn’t for the baby? I still don’t know. I love them both. It was like asking me to choose between my children.

  But there was a baby. And I did choose Keir. I was sure he’d be supportive about the pregnancy, perhaps even happy. But I didn’t know. And even if he’d stood by me, everything between us would have changed irrevocably with the news. I didn’t want to tell him until I had to, until I was absolutely sure.

  So yesterday afternoon, with a sense of weary déjà vu, I went for my first scan. It was the same sonographer who, five months previously, had broken the news that my baby was dead. If she was surprised to see me back so soon, she didn’t let on.

  I lay back on the couch as she smeared cold gel over my stomach, bracing myself for the worst.

  ‘When was your last period?’ she asked.

  It’s too small. Hasn’t developed. Dead already.

  ‘Twenty-third of April. St George’s Day. Why?’

  ‘Was it normal?’

  I frowned, trying to remember. ‘Maybe a day shorter than usual. But they’ve been all over the place since my miscarriage, it’s hard to know what normal is any more.’

  ‘Lighter?’

  I pushed myself up on my elbows. ‘Look, I’d rather know. Is it dead?’ I asked bluntly.

  She laughed. ‘No, your baby’s fine. Listen.’

  She fiddled with a dial, and the next moment, a rich, vibrant thump-thump-thump filled the room.

  ‘A hundred and sixteen beats per minute. Your baby has a nice, strong, healthy heartbeat. It’s fine, I promise.’

  I sank back in relief as the sonographer clicked and measured. My baby had a healthy heartbeat. It was going to be OK. My baby was going to be fine.

  ‘It’s just the dates I have a problem with,’ the sonographer added casually. ‘You’re not twelve weeks along, Kate. More like sixteen.’

  ‘Sixteen?’

  ‘Give or take a day or two.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said faintly.

  ‘Oh, yes. No question. Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t felt the baby move.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I had a period! How—’

  ‘It happens quite often.’ Smiling, she slotted the probe into its holster at the side of the machine and wiped the gel from my stomach. ‘Quite a few women bleed early on in their pregnancy, particularly around the time they would have got their period. It’s just hormones. It won’t affect the pregnancy. I promise you, Kate, there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I only found out I was pregnant last week,’ I said, feeling panicked, still struggling to take it in. ‘I haven’t taken any supplements. And I had a glass of wine at lunch . . .’

  ‘Honestly, Kate, everything looks fine. As long as you haven’t been downing a bottle of vodka a night, it won’t make any difference. A glass or two of wine now and again doesn’t hurt, though don’t quote me on that. You’re too far along for CVS testing, I’m afraid, but we can do an amnio tomorrow if you’re worried about Down’s.’ She gave my hand a quick squeeze. ‘It’s good news, Kate. Everything looks perfect to me. You’ve made it through the first trimester, which means you’re very unlikely to lose the baby now. Stop worrying.’

  ‘So when . . . ?’

  She picked up a small cardboard wheel. ‘I’d guess the date of conception was around the ninth or tenth of April.’

  The ninth of April. Our wedding anniversary. The last time Ned and I had sex. Weeks before I’d even met Keir, let alone slept with him.

  This baby wasn’t Keir’s.

  It was Ned’s.

  It starts to rain, a light summer drizzle that softly darkens the headstones to a deep slate grey. A welcome cool breeze drifts across the grass, freshening the muggy air.

  ‘I didn’t tell Keir,’ I tell Ned steadily. ‘There wasn’t any need.’

  ‘But he deserves to know,’ Ned protests. ‘He’s the baby’s father, you have to—’

  ‘He isn’t the baby’s father. You are.’

  I watch Ned’s expression, waiting for the fear, the rejection. Taking on Keir’s child is a choice; accepting his own is a responsibility he can’t avoid. He’s no longer being noble, but obliged.

  His face opens in a smile of pure joy. ‘We’re having a baby?’

  ‘We are.’

  He catches me in his arms and kisses
me, a hot sweet kiss that reaches my toes and lights a flame of longing between my legs and sets my nipples tingling and makes even my earlobes throb with longing.

  When neither of us can breathe, we pull apart yet stay so close we are drinking each other’s breath.

  ‘This isn’t going to be easy,’ Ned murmurs.

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘There’ll be times I’ll wish to God we’d never had another child.’

  ‘There’ll be times I’ll wonder why the hell I came back.’

  ‘I’ll wonder if you’re sleeping with Guy’s cute college friends.’

  ‘I’ll worry you’ll gamble the house away on a horse.’

  ‘I’ll forget to insure the car and miss our anniversary and dump things in your lap and expect you to take care of them.’

  ‘I’ll bail out my sister and nag you for staying out late and treat you like a half-witted child.’

  There’s a sudden choking noise behind us. We swing round to find Agness standing there with her fingers halfway down her throat. ‘For God’s sake,’ she says, unable to keep the huge grin off her face, ‘can’t you two get a room?’

  Ned and I smile at each other. ‘I don’t care how bad it gets,’ Ned tells me, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  ‘I don’t care how bad it gets,’ I say, ‘I promise I won’t run away.’

  And then, to the delight and disgust of our daughter, he kisses me again.

  Acknowledgements

  For her unparalleled wisdom, advice and friendship these many years, my gratitude and thanks to Carole Blake, agent supreme.

  The sparkling and divine gift of an editor, Wayne Brookes, as warm and funny as he is shrewd and ass-kicking.

  Long suffering, unsung and brilliant, Macmillan’s Team Tess: Sandra Taylor and Helen Guthrie in publicity; Ali Blackburn and Louise Buckley in editorial; Rebecca Ikin, Ellen Wood and Antonia Byrne in marketing; Michelle Taylor and Emma Dalby Bowler in sales; patient and painstaking, copy-editor Juliet Van Oss.

  To all at Blake Friedmann who work so tirelessly behind the scenes.

  Fabio Sermonti, who opened his home in Rome to me and shared wine, pasta and friendship with extravagant generosity; I can’t thank you enough.

  My dear friend Simon Piggott, who as always provides legal advice with a twinkling smile; any mistakes are mine alone.

  Michele Romaine, darling girl, who inspired this story fifteen years ago; don’t worry, you’re not in the book.

  Georgie Stewart, Andrew Roberts, Peter Davis, beloved all: thank you for your endless hospitality and dear friendship.

  I cannot forget the extraordinary family who bring so much to the novelist’s table: sons, Henry and Matt, and daughter, Lily; brother Charles, and his family, Rachel, George, Harry and Oliver; mother-in-law Sharon; Barbara, Mummy 2.0; darling mother, Jane, missed always; and all my extended family straddling England, New Zealand, Europe and the US – probably the only way we can stand each other.

  My husband, Erik, my beloved, my bashert, who has made me whole in ways he can never know. You carry me through.

  And finally, my father, Michael, who has inspired me my entire life. Daddy, you have faced this last battle with all the courage and determination and vitality you have brought to every challenge in your life, and I’m simply awed by you. I am so lucky to have you as my father. Everything good I have ever done, everything positive I have ever achieved, is because of you.

  I love you.

  TESS STIMSON is the author of seven previous novels and two non-fiction books, and writes regularly for the Daily Mail as well as for several women’s magazines. Born and brought up in Sussex, she graduated from Oxford before spending a number of years as a news producer with ITN. She now lives in Vermont with her American husband, their daughter and her two sons.

  www.TessStimson.com

  ALSO BY TESS STIMSON

  Fiction

  What’s Yours is Mine

  The Cradle Snatcher

  The Infidelity Chain

  The Adultery Club

  Hard News

  Soft Focus

  Pole Position

  Non-Fiction

  Beat the Bitch: How to Stop the Other Woman Stealing Your Man

  Yours Till the End: The Biography of a Beirut Hostage

  First published 2012 by Macmillan

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-447-20923-2 EPUB

  Copyright © Tess Stimson, 2011

  The right of Tess Stimson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

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