So it’s true.
Bile rises in my throat hearing him say ‘she’. He’s acknowledging her for the first time, and he’s not denying it. The world I’ve carefully crafted is collapsing like a house of cards.
‘Who is she?’
‘Nobody you know.’
‘You can’t know her well yourself if she’s being so careless, or deliberate. I bet you didn’t know she was going to do this, did you? How well do you even know her?’ I stumble over the words as I speak, my heart racing with shock.
He’s chewing the inside of his mouth, turning the card over in his hands.
‘She isn’t like that, she wouldn’t have done this, but—’
But you can’t deny the evidence.
‘Who is she?’
‘You don’t know her, I promise you don’t. I couldn’t do that to you.’
‘I’m so glad you have good morals.’
His face twists in discomfort. He hates sarcasm.
‘Has she been here, in our bed?’ My voice cracks on the last word. He pushes his glasses to the top of his nose again and for the first time the gesture irritates me.
‘We didn’t mean to hurt you.’
So that’s a yes. The ‘we’ stings like a wasp.
‘How long has it been going on for?’
‘Six months.’
I feel as if he’s thumped me in the chest. It’s too long, but it’s not that long and hope flutters in my chest. It’s swiftly followed by shock, making my whole body tremor. He can’t mean what he’s saying; she’s pushing him into doing something he doesn’t want to do.
‘Did you know she was going to send the letter?’ I clench my hands together, willing him to say no.
He shakes his head.
Hope flickers again. Married men never leave their wives, everyone knows that.
‘Is she married?’ It hurts to hear the answers to these questions but I want to keep him talking, force him to see he’s made a terrible mistake.
He nods. ‘I am sorry to hurt you like this, it’s the last thing I wanted.’
He looks distraught and I can’t help the familiar ache at seeing the man I love in distress. ‘Can’t you see she’s trying to trap you, to force the issue out into the open?’
He sighs and collapses onto a chair, rubbing his eyes, adjusting his glasses.
‘Who is she?’ I have to know.
‘I met her through work, she’s married, it’s a mess. I knew she liked me and I resisted for ages, but what with Mum dying and you being so distraught, I needed comfort you couldn’t give me.’ He sees the agonised expression on my face, holds his hands up. ‘I know, I know, it was the shittiest thing to do, but you kept pushing me away when I tried to comfort you. I didn’t want you worrying about me on top of everything else.’
This is Chris, my Chris, and I can see how much this is hurting him. Again my feelings for him surface. I kneel down beside him.
‘We can get through this, I know we can. Let me…’
‘No.’ He jumps to his feet as if he’s scared of letting me in. He still has feelings for me.
‘I’m so sorry, Ella, but I can’t fight this, we’ve fallen for each other hard. We want to be together.’
‘But…’ I can’t express the agony that’s tearing me apart; Chris’s last words are like poison darts. With one conversation he’s destroying everything, our marriage, our life together, the nursery upstairs, our home. My legs weaken at the thought of losing him, of losing this life, our future family, and I drop onto the sofa. Hope surfaces when I see the flicker of compassion crossing his face. He still cares about me despite these false words he’s coming out with. I know he does. She’s making him do this, and I have to stop her.
‘You must have noticed something’s up. I’ve hated lying to you.’
But I hadn’t noticed. My grief for Nancy wrapped me up in its cloak and I was oblivious to what was going on around me. I lost myself for a while. But I’m better now, he knows that.
‘Chris, stop and think about this. We’re happy, aren’t we, our life here, our home? I know Nancy dying has gutted us and things haven’t been the same since she passed away, but grief is natural. You can talk to me about anything. Or I thought you could.’ I bite into my lip to stop myself from crying.
‘I’ve made up my mind. This isn’t easy, don’t think for a minute it is. I’m so sorry – you’re the last person I want to hurt. But it isn’t working any more, Ella.’
‘How can you say that? I didn’t even realise we had a problem. You’ve been out working a lot so we haven’t been spending as much time together. Well, obviously you weren’t really working.’ My voice almost breaks. ‘But this house, our home, it’s my home, the only home I’ve ever known. You know that.’
‘It’s too much pressure on me, can’t you see that? I can’t be everything to you. It was OK while Mum was around, you spent so much time with her. But now she’s gone—’
‘So Nancy died and you started seeing someone else, like that would make it better? That doesn’t make sense.’
‘It wasn’t like that. I needed someone to talk to, she was there—’
‘Why did you need someone to talk to? Why, when you have me?’
But as I speak a memory surfaces, Chris texting me from work one day saying he needed to talk. Me, preoccupied with helping Nancy shower when he got home, too exhausted for conversation. How many times did I push him away, focusing all my energy on Nancy?
His eyes slide away from mine as his phone pings. I bet it’s her. I push his hand away from his phone as he goes to pick it up, my nail catches his skin and he flinches. I hate that she’s got his attention. A bead of blood appears on his hand and he sucks at the tiny cut, glaring at me.
‘I realise this is a shock. You need some time to get used to the idea. I’ll give you some space.’ He gets up and goes into the hall. I hear the cupboard door open and a clattering sound. He bashes around while I remain stunned, as if I’ve been hit around the head. Surely this can’t be happening. Nancy would… The thought of his mother causes my breath to catch in my throat and I cough, tears springing to my eyes. I can’t lose both of them.
Chris appears at the door with his overnight bag. The sight of him fidgeting in the doorway almost hurts more than the bag, his awkwardness at being with me. What happened to my best friend?
‘Chris, you can’t do this to me.’ Something breaks inside me and I rush over to him, bursting into tears. I grab his arms, inhaling the familiar tweedy smell of his jacket. ‘Please, stay, we’ll talk, talk as much as you want. We can sort this out, I know we can. Please don’t leave me. I hate being alone, you know I do.’ I drop my hands, my energy suddenly depleted.
‘We need some space. It’s for the best, you’ll see when you’ve had time to think about it.’
‘Where are you going? Are you going to her? Have you got some sordid love nest somewhere?’ The idea of Chris sharing a home with another woman strikes me and I dig my nails into my palms, pressing hard. I won’t cry again.
He takes his jacket from the peg.
‘Please Chris, don’t go, let’s talk some more.’ The neediness in my tone makes me grimace.
‘I’m sorry, Ella, I really am.’ His voice sounds strained. ‘This must be a terrible shock for you, I do understand. I’m in the wrong and I’ll try and be as fair to you as possible. You need time to take this in, I understand that.’
He’s right. I’m in no fit state to talk to him at the moment. And he’ll see sense; he can’t be in his right mind. A little time apart may do us good. He’ll realise what he’s throwing away. I’ll give him time to see what he’s missing. Time to come back to me.
He shrugs the holdall over his shoulder and walks to the door.
‘And don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to move straight away, I’ll give you some time to sort something out.’
‘Move?’ The word scratches my throat.
‘You can stay here for a month, say six week
s, max. That should give you plenty of time to find somewhere else.’
‘Chris, no…’
The sound of the door closing rings in my ears. My legs give way beneath me and I sink to the floor. If Nancy were here she’d sort him out. But she isn’t and I’m on my own. Chris grew up in this house and I wouldn’t want to take that away from him, but it’s become my home, too. Our home. Tears run down my face and I wail into the empty house. Memories flood my mind: sobbing my guts out as a child, wondering why my mother had given me away, leaving me alone, unloved. I love Chris so much, I won’t be alone again. I won’t. I can’t.
I hug my knees to my chest and talk to Nancy in my head. Nancy will know what to do. She always does.
Three
ELLA
After a while I put the chain on the door, go round the house and make sure every window is shut. Every room except the nursery, that is; I can’t face going in there. The weekend’s disappointment is too fresh.
Chris didn’t even try to deny the affair. He’s left the credit card bill on the table and I run through the items listed, each one causing anger to spiral within me. Countless expensive restaurants; Bertrand’s, where he took me to celebrate our engagement, features more than once last month. Heat rushes to my head and the familiar pulse of a headache beats behind my eye. I reach out to the wall to steady myself. The last time we went out to eat was months ago. Little clues that I’ve missed – why haven’t I noticed? How could I be so stupid?
I pour myself a glass of white wine. It’s only five o’clock, but today doesn’t call for rules. It was only two days ago on this very spot that Chris hugged me before I got in my car and drove off to a country spa. Over his shoulder I’d caught sight of the tree we planted where Nancy’s ashes were scattered and I’d thought that if my period really was late, the two of us might become three again. Not that Nancy could ever be replaced. Her tree became symbolic to me, nurturing it to life as if that could stop her memory fading away. A sob lodges in my throat as the reality of my situation hits me. Here I am in a position I swore never to be in again. Alone. I sink into the softness of the sofa and sip my wine. It won’t help my headache but I’m past caring.
The sky is darkening and I switch the spotlights on, illuminating the soft green of the recently painted walls. Chris was impressed with what a good job I’d done. My last foster-parents had run a decorating business and I’d discovered that stroking paint onto walls was therapeutic, helping me to get my thoughts in order. Decorating eased my grief over Nancy.
A sharp pain causes me to gasp aloud. I can’t lose Chris too.
I check my phone but there’s no word from him and I wonder where he’s gone. Has she held on to her house, too, kicked the husband out and taken mine in his place? Is she dolled up for him, all cleavage and crimson lips? I get up and look at myself in the mirror, surveying my pale blue chinos and white designer T-shirt. My blonde hair will never be thick and luxurious; my eyes are dishwater grey. Chris professed to like my ‘simple elegance’. I think about our relationship, and as much as I want to deny it, we have drifted apart lately, ever since Nancy’s death. The heath was hidden beneath a blanket of white snow when she died and now a new winter is approaching with a blast of icy wind. Her death hit me harder than it did Chris; he even accused me of liking her more than him. I didn’t understand why they were forever sniping at each other. Maybe I didn’t know either of them as well as I thought I did. Surely he can’t have been jealous, jealous of the time I devoted to her? He knew she was like a mother to me, the mother I’ve been looking for all my life. My father was a blank on my birth certificate, but somehow that never got to me in the same way.
It’s been ten months since Nancy died, but whenever I’m troubled her voice echoes in my head: ‘do something normal’. Eat, that’s what she was always encouraging me to do, despite her own minimal appetite. I stick a slice of bread on the grill before going into Nancy’s room. The nursery, I tell myself. For a month after her death I dusted and hoovered it daily, keeping it nice. Her dresses hung pristinely in the wardrobe, a mix of colours and patterns. Her wicker sewing basket sat at the end of the bed; the never-to-be-finished cushion cover she was working on propped next to a pile of books she’d lamented no longer being able to concentrate on. She’d wanted to die at home, and it was pneumonia that got her in the end. That terrible day. I’d known somehow, as I hurried home through the snow-dusted heath. A persistent wind tore at my limbs as if chasing me back to the house. The house had been still, too still, its normal creaks and wheezes suspended, as if in mourning. My heart pounded in my head as I climbed the stairs slowly; fear gripped hold of me and I knew. She lay on her back, eyes closed, hands crossed over her chest. I knelt down beside her and put my hands over hers. That was how Chris found us. Grief gutted me. It still does.
Chris took Nancy’s clothes to the charity shop after only six months, despite my protestations; if it had been left to me I’d have kept her room as it was, honouring her memory. Her books had always been on shelves in the box room and he put some of her possessions in there, stuck everything else in the cellar and encouraged me to decorate the whole house. He said it might help me accept that she was gone. I resisted at first, but it gave me something to focus on and helped me pull myself back together. The rest of the house is finished; this is the last room to tackle – I didn’t want to forget Nancy, erase her from this place. Now it’s stripped bare, tins of pale yellow paint piled in the corner. I thought turning the room into a nursery would help turn her death into something positive. The disappointment that I’m not pregnant tugs at my heartstrings; I’d been so convinced it would happen this month.
I stare out of the large window overlooking the jungle garden. Chris promised to hire a gardener, but he’s been so busy lately and he practically bit my head off when I offered to sort it myself. His moods make sense now; he was obviously feeling guilty about her.
A burning smell hits me when I go downstairs. The toast. I don’t think my pulse can beat any faster as I race down to the kitchen where the forgotten bread is blackening, smoke filling the kitchen. My hand wobbles as I slide the tarry mess out and whack my hand on the shelf, dropping the tray as pain sears through me. I let myself cry as I run my hand under the cold tap.
I open the back door and I’m greeted by an eerie rustling noise from the wild garden. A small thought filters into my head. Silly, really. Chris can’t stop me taming the jungle outside. It doesn’t matter what he thinks now. Stop it! He’ll come back, he will.
The street light from the alleyway running along the back of the garden is on, casting a dingy yellow glow over the bushes. Something clatters and my heart stops as Lady comes bounding towards me. Her fur tickles the goosebumps on my legs: I shiver and she springs inside with me as I slam the back door shut.
* * *
I leave the hall light on when I go upstairs to bed. It’s not yet nine but I’ve had enough of today. My overnight case stands forgotten by the bed. The spa feels like a lifetime ago. The face masks, the pedicure, the massage – what difference did it make? He only sent me so he could secretly spend more time with her. The sheets are cold and I pull the duvet up under my chin, soothed by the slither of light sliding in from the open door. The bedroom feels less comforting at night, here on my own. I roll onto my front, sob out loud and let the pillow swallow my tears. Nobody will hear me, after all. The memory of hundreds of nights like this from the time before Chris – BC as I’ve always thought of it – engulf me and I give in to self-pity.
I must have fallen asleep, because I wake with a start to the jangling of the telephone screaming into the night. My heart thuds as I run downstairs. What time is it? It’s still dark.
‘Hello.’ My voice sounds loud in the empty hall, the moon’s rays lighting up the kitchen, my bare feet cold on the floor tiles.
‘Is Chris there?’ The husky female voice sounds alert, not at all as if she’s ringing in the middle of the night. Maybe I’ve only been asleep
for an hour or so, but a glance at the kitchen clock tells me it’s half past three. Her? I shiver.
‘Who is this?’
‘Is he there?’
Laughter trickles into my ear and something touches my leg. I drop the phone and it clatters to the floor. Lady jumps away from my legs. When I pick up the receiver with my wobbly hands the dialling tone purrs and I scream into the receiver, sending Lady bolting into the kitchen.
Diary
1 JULY 1976
A new diary for a new house!
46 HEATH STREET
Doesn’t it sound grand? Edward picked me up in his van. Having his own transport is one of the advantages of dating an older man. Thank goodness my parents have finally accepted him.
He wouldn’t say where we were going. It was early morning and the day was already hot. We drove towards Hampstead Heath and turned down a tree-lined little lane off the main road. It felt as though we were travelling through a forest. A row of houses, huddled and hidden: one house standing out. I crossed my fingers and looked at Edward. He was grinning and I knew this was it, the secret he’d been holding. I could have burst when he walked towards the house that grabbed my attention. He led me down the path, picked me up from the waist and swung me over the threshold. The full skirt of my dress swung in an arc, made me feel like a ballerina. When he set me down my head was spinning like a top. Dizzy with glee, that was me. Standing in the hallway of my very own house, looking up at the twisty staircase leading to rooms waiting to be explored. I flung my arms around Edward and wouldn’t let go. I’d fallen in love all over again.
* * *
EVENING
Today was a flurry of excitement. I was too distracted by everything to continue writing earlier. I ran around the house looking at every room, opening the windows to let in the summer heat. Our bedroom is huge; it’s where I am now, writing at a table I’ve moved in front of the window so I can look down at the pretty garden. It’s not pretty yet, but in my imagination it’s beautiful.
The Woman at 46 Heath Street: A twisty and absolutely gripping psychological thriller Page 2