The Wife's Revenge

by Deirdre Palmer

  But after a while, the buzz of the waiting room begins to increase my anxiety rather than helping it, so I go round the back to the cages and comfort a sweet little black-and-white cat called Freddie. Far from being sleepy after his neutering op earlier, he is making an unholy squalling noise which carries through the surgery. I take him out of his cage and cradle him, letting his velvety warmth soothe me as much, I hope, as my fondling is soothing him.

  David comes through. ‘Ring the owner, get her to come and fetch him, Fran. I’ll give him the once-over, but he seems fine.’

  ‘He’s certainly letting us know he’s ready to go,’ I say, handing the cat to David.

  Before I go back to reception, I check on the other animals: a poorly dog with a bandaged leg; a rabbit who is having a cyst removed later; and two more cats, either awaiting procedures or waiting to be collected. It’s a part of the job I enjoy, perhaps even more than meeting the people, and I’ve learned a whole lot about animal care from the vets since I started.

  Do you hear that, Mirabelle?

  Eventually, time has winged on. It’s early afternoon and I can no longer put the impending meeting with Tessa out of my mind. Most of my packed lunch ends up in the bin as nerves pilfer my appetite. This is stupid, I tell myself, as I put on my jacket and take an age unlocking my bag from the cupboard where we keep out personal belongings. Whatever Tessa wants to see me about, it won’t be anything like I’m imagining. How could it be? Not after all this time.

  Halfway along the village’s main street, a twitten cuts between the shops, snaking past fenced back yards, skirting flint walls, before it emerges into a cobbled square in which there is a jumble of shops of the kind that look temporary, with corrugated tin roofs, bright-painted wooden walls, and a haphazard arrangement of doors and windows. It’s a sort of indoor market, designed with tourists in mind. There’s an antique and curio shop, one selling flowers and plants, another with gifts and cards, a couple with pottery, wooden, and hand-knitted items, and a kiosk selling drinks and ice-cream. There are no visitors today, as there often aren’t, and as I pass through, smiling at the shopkeepers who make eye contact, I wonder how the place keeps going. This thought is by way of diversion, and all too soon, I’m through the market, ducking along a continuation of the twitten, and reaching the part where it widens out again.

  No shops here, nothing except high flint walls on two sides, over which ivy trails and tree branches hang. It’s a hidden place, a little-known cut-through to the oldest, quietest part of the village, a place of shade. It seems a strange place for a meeting, of whatever purpose, and I can’t think why I agreed to come in the first place. Now I’m here, I can’t think at all. About anything.

  Tessa is standing to one side, appearing to be examining the flints in the wall. She turns at my approach. ‘Fran.’

  ‘Hello, Tessa.’ I don’t smile, but neither does she.

  She is dressed all in black: narrow black jeans and black cotton sweater, throwing her pale face and blonde hair into sharp relief against the dark flints. I feel suddenly annoyed with her for bringing me here, and this annoyance hoists me out of my trance-like state, and I face her, head on.

  ‘Tessa, what’s this about? Why are we here? I haven’t got long. I have to go home and fetch my car, then collect Caitlin.’

  Tessa looks at her watch. ‘I know.’

  She knows? Tessa knows what time I leave work, and what time I collect Caitlin, that’s obvious, and extremely disconcerting. My legs feel weak and I glance at the narrow wooden bench against one of the walls. The wood is blackened with damp from yesterday’s rain, which is probably why Tessa is standing, although I have the feeling this is not a womanly sit-and-chat kind of thing. Of course it isn’t.

  ‘How did you do it, Fran?’

  The question shoots across the space and I almost reel back from the surprise.

  ‘What?’

  Tessa takes one step closer to me. I stand my ground, with difficulty. ‘How did you do it? How did you lure my husband into an affair?’

  Oh God. The one thing I’ve been so afraid of is finally happening. She even said ‘affair’. She knows it wasn’t a one-time mistake. Now the real nightmare begins, right here, right now.

  My mouth dries. My brain atrophies. I can’t speak.

  ‘Easy, was it, beguiling a man like Ben? Seducing him while his defences were down?’

  Defences? Ben? I would laugh if it wasn’t so tragic.

  I have to stay on top of this, stay in control. She has no proof; she can’t have. If Ben had told her, or she’d found out some other way, he would have let me know. I’ve always believed he would do that.

  I have no choice but to brazen it out. I find my voice, keeping it even, emotionless. ‘Tessa, I don’t know where this is coming from, but you’re talking nonsense. You’re accusing me of something I didn’t do.’

  ‘Fran, Fran.’ Tessa’s expression softens. She’s acting, trying to force a confession out of me. ‘I know what went on between you and Ben, the summer before last. There’s no point in you denying it, so please don’t waste my time.’

  I give a short, violent shake of my head. ‘No. You’ve got this wrong.’

  I have to keep up the pretence. What else can I do?

  A silence stretches between us, blossoms like mist between the dank walls. Tessa breaks it.

  ‘High Heaven – does that mean anything to you?’

  The moment she mentions High Heaven, I know I’m lost. We went there three, four times at most? Including the first time. And the last. Somehow, Tessa has picked up on that. But wait. High Heaven is a known spot for lovers, illicit or otherwise, as well as for suicides. She could be guessing. One look at her face tells me she’s doing no such thing, and I can no longer deny it with any credibility.

  I swallow, trying to disperse the mesh of fear that closes my throat. ‘Okay, yes. I hold my hands up to that.’

  ‘Finally, she tells the truth.’ Tessa throws up her hands and addresses the space around us.

  I continue. ‘It was a mistake, a really bad mistake, and I’m so very sorry, Tessa. For the record, it wasn’t one-sided. Ben… he and I made a connection, and we took it too far. I was at a low point, which is totally no excuse, and I should never have let it happen. But I did, we did, and there’s nothing I can do about it now. It happened, and I’m so sorry for the pain we’ve caused you. Ben loves you, that’s clear. There was never anything of that kind between us.’

  This speech steals the last of my breath, my energy. I sink onto the bench, damp or not. Tessa remains standing. She starts a slow handclap, just four times.

  ‘Very good, Fran. I could have written the script.’

  I gather myself. ‘Well, what did you want me to say? I have nothing else to offer except my apologies, and to say again that I regret hurting you. But, Tessa, what is the point of this? Okay, I’m guilty, but so is Ben, and is it not hurting you even more to bring it up now, after all this time?’

  ‘Hurting me?’ Tessa shakes her head. ‘My God, Fran, you have no idea. No bloody idea at all. You with your perfect life and your sheltered middle-class upbringing.’

  That’s an odd thing to say.

  ‘You don’t know anything about my life.’

  Tessa doesn’t speak. She looks at the ground. For a moment, I’m on top. It doesn’t last. She tosses her head, eyes glittering.

  ‘Understand this, Francesca Oliver. Nobody who seduces my husband gets away with it. Ever.’

  My mind switches to Maria. I swallow painfully. My resolve to find out more about that poor woman strengthens.

  ‘I haven’t got away with it. Not one day goes by when I haven’t regretted what I did. If you think I haven’t suffered enough, you’re probably right. But again, what do you expect me to say? What do you want from me, Tessa? I can’t turn back time.’

  She turns on her heel, turns back again, just as swiftly. ‘Are you still seeing him?’

  I stand up again. ‘What? No, of co
urse not!’ Is this what’s it’s really about?

  ‘You went to the café with him, while your daughter was in my art club.’

  How does she know that? Ben must have told her, obviously. I gather up the little bit of sense I have left.

  I sigh. ‘We bumped into each other outside the hall. Ben asked me if I’d like a coffee and I said yes. Half the village was in there, too. If Ben told you, does that not show how innocent it was?’

  ‘Oh, Ben didn’t tell me. I saw, with my own eyes. That’s how I know.’

  ‘I expect he forgot. It was nothing. A coffee with a casual friend, that’s all. I have no feelings for Ben whatsoever, not in the way you seem to be implying, and he has none for me.’

  ‘How do you know that, Fran? How do you know how Ben feels about you?’

  The question hits me like a bullet. I feel my face heating. I remind myself that whatever Ben has said, or done, recently, it’s a game he plays. I have never encouraged him, nor taken any part in that.

  Guilt creeps in as I realise I should not have gone for that coffee, not when it was just the two of us. He might have taken it as a sign that I still liked him in that way. I pray that I’m wrong. But this has come from somewhere, this hellish conversation with Ben’s wife. Has she caught some kind of vibe from him, concerning me? She knows him, I don’t, not really. Is this what it’s all about, Tessa thinking Ben still wants me?

  I let the question go. I have no answer to it.

  ‘Two of your girls go to Oakheart Academy, don’t they?’ Tessa says, throwing out a topic at random, it seems. Her voice changes, lowering in tone to something approaching conversational. If these twists and turns are meant to mess with my head, she’s doing a fair job. I haven’t got the inclination to talk about our children, or school. It couldn’t be a more inappropriate topic for this moment.

  ‘You know full well they do. Why?’

  ‘Are they safe while they’re there, do you think? I mean, who is watching, making sure they don’t do themselves a nasty injury. At break, for instance.’

  I freeze. Tessa is fixing me with a meaningful stare.

  ‘Oh my God, it was you! You pretended to be the lunch assistant. You rang me, telling me Hazel had cut herself. Why, Tessa?’

  ‘Now you’re just being stupid. Why do you think? To make you hurt, to make you uncomfortable.’ She gives a humourless chuckle. ‘I made quite a fist of the voice, don’t you think?’

  I shake my head in wondrous disbelief.

  ‘Okay,’ Tessa says, taking a step nearer to me. ‘Let’s play a game. Here’s a word for you, a couple of words: chilli pepper. What comes into your head?’

  ‘The cupcake. That was you, too.’

  ‘Ha. Now she gets it.’

  My nerves are in tatters, my heart won’t stay in my chest. It’s loud, thumping, somewhere near the base of my throat. Now I have the answer to one of my questions: Tessa has not just found out about me and Ben, she’s known for a long time. Possibly, the whole time.

  ‘Plus,’ Tessa points a finger at me, ‘I know somebody else who has cause to wreak havoc on your cosy little life.’ She nods firmly. ‘Want to know who it is?’

  I nod weakly. I am done for, beaten, and Tessa knows it.

  ‘The poor old dear whose cat you seem to have accidentally killed. Or was it an accident? She certainly doesn’t think so.’

  Mirabelle again. ‘Is that all? We had that conversation before, Tessa, if you remember, and I told you at the time it was nonsense.’

  Tessa shrugs. ‘Whatever. Dead animals seem to be your forte.’

  ‘Dead… the badger! That was you as well.’

  ‘Nope, wrong. That was actually Mirabelle, and great pleasure it gave her, even if she couldn’t be there to see the result.’

  ‘But you put her up to it.’ My understanding dawns.

  ‘She had, shall we say, a little bit of help. It was heavy, that thing. And it stunk.’

  ‘I suppose you sent me flowers as well, to the surgery. A basket of roses and gypsophila, no name of sender.’

  ‘Anonymous flowers, huh?’ Tessa pretends to be thinking. ‘Yes, I can see how that might seem weird, a little bit sinister, as if there’s someone out there watching you.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  She laughs. ‘Good one, but it wasn’t me. I would tell you if was, since we’re into the truth here.’

  I don’t know whether I believe her or not. But actually, I do believe her. I cast the matter of the flowers aside and open my mouth to speak again, whilst not knowing exactly what I’m going to say, but Tessa holds up a hand, the palm facing me.

  ‘And now, I shall come to the point of this discussion. No.’ She stops me again with a look. ‘As I said, nobody who so much as looks at my husband gets away with it. I will stop this, and I will stop you. So, you will go home, and you will tell Hector all about your sordid little affair with Ben… or I will.’

  ‘Tessa, please, you can’t…’ I feel faint. I move to the wall and place one hand on it to steady myself.

  ‘Oh, I can, and I will.’ She looks at her watch. ‘You’d better get going. I wouldn’t want you to be late picking up Caitlin.’

  Twenty-Three

  TESSA

  I stay where I am after Fran has left. Zoe won’t be home yet; I’m in no hurry. I sit down on the bench, less damp now that the sun has moved and cast a little warmth and light into the walled space. I need a moment to gather my senses, allow my breathing to regulate, my heartbeat to normalise.

  In the last ten minutes, Fran has discovered just how far I will go to wreck the lives of people who threaten to wreck mine. I have discovered something, too: Hector doesn’t know about the affair. There was always the slight chance that she’d already confessed and I was wasting my time. Clearly, that isn’t the case. It had crossed my mind that Hector has always known and chose to do nothing about it, but it’s doubtful. He’s a man, and a particularly straight kind of guy. Not the type to play a long game of strategy, nor to live silently with that sort of knowledge.

  It’s the children I feel sorry for, the pretty trio of Oliver girls. But they’ll survive whatever is heading their way. Kids do. I did, and came through all the stronger for it. It was the thought of those girls that almost stopped me from taking the conversation to its extreme, even though that’s what I had planned. But then I thought about Zoe and how I need to protect her – and Ben, too, because, as I have said before, Ben needs saving from himself – and I did what I had to do.

  I don’t at this point know whether I will carry out my threat and go to Fran’s husband if she doesn’t tell him. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. It will be the not knowing that will floor her, turn her days to a black, quaking mess of wondering and waiting – if she does confess, she won’t do it right away.

  How will I know if she’s told him? She might tell me she has, but I’ll know if she’s lying. If she does what I ask, that will be apparent, too, especially to me. Our families see enough of one another to recognise that something has gone badly wrong. However she tries to hide it, it will show. Ben will know something’s happened, but not what. Even if he works it out – or Fran tells him – what can he do? He’s hardly in a position to complain that I’ve finally taken revenge. He would probably cheer the fact that it is Fran who has paid the price, not him.

  Yes, I have considered the possibility of Hector storming Rose Cottage and punching seven bells out of Ben, but I don’t believe that’s his style. And anyway, if it looks like happening, I’ll find a way to forestall it.

  I check my watch. I have fifteen minutes before I need to be home for Zoe. It’s peaceful here, in this hidden backwater of the village. Nobody much passes through; visitors to the little shops arrive and leave the way they came, back to the high street. A woman came through just now from the houses at the back, walking a small terrier. The dog pulled to be allowed to sniff at the weeds growing at the base of the wall but was soon hurried on. I gaze up to the sky which is almost clear no
w, the blue brighter than before, and into my mind comes Suzanna.

  My private name for her was Simpering Suzanna, because that’s how she behaved, simpering around Ben, fetching him drinks from the cafeteria in the office building where they both worked, handling his emails and phone calls to save him time. Acting like his personal assistant, and more, even though that was not her role. It wasn’t anybody’s role; Ben had not long been at the advertising company and hardly qualified for an assistant, of any kind.

  There was a purpose to it all, of course, that was as plain as day. She wanted to flounce around the city with a tall, dark, strikingly handsome man on her arm, being the envy of all. I know the type; I came across enough of them when I worked in London. Most of all, she wanted him in her bed. She could hardly keep her hands off him in the workplace, let alone in private.

  We were living in our first flat at the time, not married but talking about it, in a vague one-day kind of way. I was working in an art gallery near the British Museum. The hours were flexible, and I was left to my own devices much of the time. It was easy to call in on Ben at work, ten minutes’ walk away. I would arrive in time to meet him for lunch, often when he wasn’t expecting it. A couple of times, he’d been in meetings and I’d had to wait a while, but it was never a problem. The atmosphere in the office was creative, arty, laid back; people seemed to come and go all the time. I was just one of a number.

  It didn’t take me long to sum up Suzanna. If she’d been in a meeting with him, she’d be practically hanging onto his arm as they came through the door, fixing me with a supercilious stare when she saw me. If looks could kill. That’s the saying, isn’t it? If she’d been at her desk when I arrived, she would immediately rush over to Ben and engage him in an apparently urgent and meaningful conversation, shuffling bits of paper in his direction, jotting down notes, brushing close to him and keeping her back to me as I stood at the edge of the open plan room. Eventually, she would have to release him, and I would patently ignore her as Ben greeted me and we went off to lunch.