by Vikki Patis
But he was going to leave Fiona, and with her, he was going to leave the man he used to be. Things were going to change. But Fiona had a way with words; she knew how to twist everything to her advantage, and the steel in her eyes he used to admire had started to leave him cold. She wanted to bring him down, would have burned their lives to the ground to get what she wanted, and he was afraid of her. Afraid of what she was capable of. Of what she knew, what she could reveal.
Richard was, above all else, a man of reputation. He cared what others thought. He had spent hours in the gym every week, dyed over the grey hairs that started to appear until he realised that the streak made him look distinguished, and his wardrobe was full of expensive, tailored clothes. He always had to look his best. But as he drove towards Eleanor’s house on the night he died, he knew he would never come out of it smelling of roses. He needed to find someone to blame, a way of papering over the cracks. For it wasn’t just Fiona who despised him enough to tear him down. The enemies he’d made along the way had all started to come out of the woodwork, the consequences of his fifty-five years finally catching up with him, and he had left behind a tangled web of lies, one which was going to unravel.
And what of the fourth woman? The woman who was always half-hidden in the shadow, whose true nature was known only to him. Where did his newly found conscience go when he was with her? While Eleanor was his light, the other woman was his darkness. With her, he could not control himself, and he might wonder if it was fair to blame her for his actions, for the way she made him feel. But who else was there to blame?
Richard Asquith might be forgiven for these thoughts. He is dead, after all, his journey at an end. What else is a funeral for but reflection? But those who know Richard – truly know him – would know that his only thought, his only wish, is that his secrets have died with him.
If he were able, Richard might wonder whether it was all worth it. Whether he had, truly, done the best he could in the circumstances. He might wonder if he would have gotten away with it all. If he knew what was in store, would he bang on the coffin lid, screaming that he was alive? Or would he prefer to be out of the picture, away from the line of fire, when it all comes crumbling down? That’s the Richard people knew; the man who was incapable of taking responsibility for his actions. The man who caused suffering, sparking the match before walking away unscathed. But not this time.
Part II
The Wake
20
The Mistress
I am banished.
Cheek stinging, eyes blurry with tears, I drive myself home, stopping only at the off-licence for three bottles of Richard’s favourite wine. I picture Fiona and her sons arriving for the wake, the pub hushed as they enter, their grief respected. But mine is not. My grief does not exist for them; I do not exist. Those years with Richard have been ripped away from me, leaving me vulnerable and alone. I should have expected this. I should have known that I would not be welcome, that I would not be allowed to share in their mourning.
I’m halfway through the first bottle when my phone rings, and as I reach for it, I knock it to the floor, my hand overshooting. It skitters against the tiles, landing against the washing machine. I fall to my knees to retrieve it, the floor cold beneath my tights, and answer it without looking at the screen.
‘Hello?’ Even to my own ears I sound drunk, my syllables slurring into one another.
‘Hello, am I speaking to Ms Hart?’
‘Y-yes,’ I stammer, getting painfully to my feet and falling back onto the kitchen chair. The clock on the wall seems to stare down at me reproachfully; it is barely midday, and I am pissed. I shake myself, trying to focus. ‘Yes, this is she.’
‘This is Anna from Castlegate Surgery. The doctor has requested you make an appointment to see him.’
I feel my stomach lurch as her words sink in. Doctor. Appointment.
‘Is it… is it about the test results? Have they come back?’
A pause, then: ‘When can you come in?’
Richard was with me when I found the lump a few months ago. What a cliché I am, a sixty-year-old woman finding a suspicious lump in her breast while in the shower, but here we are. He had come into the bathroom to use the toilet, had found me lifting my left breast to expose the hard bump on the underside, and he saw the anxiety in my face. It was Richard who booked the appointment, who held my hand in the waiting room, who accompanied me to the hospital where they took a biopsy.
‘We’ll go private,’ he whispered as we waited on hard chairs, plastic cups of lukewarm water beside us. ‘We’ll get you whatever you need. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.’
I nodded, trying to force myself to believe his words, desperate to absorb some of his positivity. But I’d known, even then. I’d known what I would be facing, and a part of me is glad that Richard isn’t here to witness it.
Appointment made, I continue to drink as the afternoon ticks by. What does it matter, if I’m going to die anyway? My head is full of Richard, and the fury on Fiona’s face when she slapped me. She had every right to, I think, draining my glass and opening the second bottle. I would have done the same thing to the woman who stole my husband away.
My cheeks flush in anger. No. Richard was not a possession to be stolen. He was his own man, a fully grown adult capable of making his own decisions. He had a choice between me and Fiona, and he made it.
I pick up the bundle of letters from the kitchen table, left unopened in the days since Richard’s death. I drop the few leaflets, one advertising a new vegan pizza, onto the floor, and a letter from my broadband provider about an increase in my direct debit follows them. My hand hovers over the next letter, the logo of my bank coming into focus. Fingers trembling, I pull out the letter, tearing the envelope and letting it flutter to the floor.
To Mr Asquith,
We are writing to confirm the removal of Ms Eleanor Hart from your joint account.
My stomach clenches as I read the words over and over. The removal… joint account…
I unlock my phone and dial the number on the top of the letter, misdialling several times as I struggle to focus on the numbers. The wine has got the better of me. I take deep breaths as I select the options and wait for someone to pick up.
‘Hello, welcome to TSB,’ a Welsh voice says after ten minutes of irritating music and promises that my call is important. ‘My name’s Jane, how can I help you today?’
I let out a breath, forcing my voice to be steady. ‘Hello, yes, I’d like to request some information please.’
‘Certainly. Can you tell me the account number and sort code?’ I read out the details. ‘One moment please.’
I listen to the buzzing of the call centre as Jane tries to locate the details. My heart is racing, making me light-headed, and I lean against the counter, one hand gripping the polished marble. A memory flashes into my mind; me sitting on the counter like a child, legs dangling, Richard between my knees, his face buried in my neck. The scent of him is almost overpowering and I totter, gasping, as Jane comes back on the line.
‘Hello? Can you please confirm your name?’
‘Eleanor Hart.’
A pause. ‘Ms Hart, I’m afraid you’ve been removed from this account. We received the signed form back some weeks ago authorising this request.’
The world tilts, the edges of my vision blurring. ‘Signed form? Signed by whom?’
‘By you,’ she says. ‘And Mr Asquith. It’s dated the seventh of November.’
The seventh of November… I try to cast my mind back, try to remember what we were doing that day. I glance up at my calendar, stagger across the room to tear it down from the pinboard. Thursday the seventh of November: Lunch @ Willow 1pm. The memory comes back. A steak sandwich for him, a Caesar salad for me. Two glasses of rosé, clinked together in a toast. To us. To us. How could he do this to me?
‘Ms Hart?’ Jane’s voice makes me jump. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Y-yes. I’m still here.’ I take a deep
breath, squaring my shoulders. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this. ‘I’m afraid there’s been some kind of mistake. I did not sign that form, and neither did Richa– Mr Asquith.’
‘I see,’ Jane says, in a tone that makes it clear she doesn’t see at all. ‘Is Mr Asquith available to speak to?’
My throat constricts, saliva flooding my mouth as nausea rises. ‘N-no, he isn’t,’ I say in a strangled voice. ‘He’s dead.’ I hang up, dropping my phone to the counter with a thud and resting my head in my hands. It’s no use. The wine flooding through my body is revealing a truth I’ve kept hidden from myself since Richard died. The truth that Richard was going to leave Fiona, but he wasn’t leaving her for me. I was not the one he wanted after all.
21
The Daughter
I drive the once familiar roads back towards St Agnes, taking the turning for Perranporth and feeling my heart lurch as I read the sign. Fleur shifts in her seat and glances at me before turning towards the back of the car.
‘So, Lexi,’ she says, the name drawn out by her accent. ‘How long have you been with Felix?’
I catch Lexi’s eye in the rear-view mirror and register something in her face. It’s the same look she had when she was reading the poem, the way she looked at Fiona as she made her way back to her seat. Is it fear? Anxiety?
‘We met at university,’ Lexi says. ‘I went a bit late, when I was twenty-one.’ I do the calculations in my head; Felix is almost twenty-six, which makes Lexi a couple of years older.
‘You had a – what’s the term? – a gap year?’ Fleur asks, her voice tentative as it always is when she uses unfamiliar English terms. Her English is flawless, her understanding of the language better than many who have it as their first and only language, but she is often nervous speaking it in larger groups. She does not like to get things wrong, and she finds it difficult to accept it when she makes a mistake. It’s something I love about her, her perfectionism, though it drives me bonkers at times too.
Lexi smiles briefly. ‘Something like that.’ I consider her accent; it isn’t Cornish, isn’t even from the West Country, but she’s not from as far north as I am. Birmingham, perhaps? It sounds like a mixture of different accents, as if she has travelled across the country and picked up something from everywhere.
‘Which university did you go to?’ Fleur asks.
‘Plymouth. I was studying languages, actually.’ I see a shy smile creep onto her face as Fleur grins.
‘Parlez-vous français?’
‘Un peu,’ Lexi responds, her cheeks flushed.
‘Now she will know when we talk about her,’ Fleur says to me, winking, and Lexi laughs.
‘Felix was studying business. We met in the student union in our final year.’ I consider this for a moment. Lexi would have been about twenty-four when she graduated, which means she fell pregnant not long after that. I wonder how Fiona felt about her darling son knocking someone up at the tender age of twenty-two, squandering his expensive education to move back home with a pregnant girlfriend.
‘Where did you grow up?’ I ask, and I see something flit across Lexi’s face.
‘Oh, around. All over. We moved a lot.’ I want to ask more but she turns back to Fleur. ‘Whereabouts in France do you live?’
‘Bretagne,’ Fleur says. ‘Brittany. We live in a small house in a beautiful town not far from where I grew up. It is wonderful.’
‘I’ve never been to France,’ Lexi muses. ‘I’d love to go.’
‘Oh, but you must visit!’ Fleur exclaims, clapping her hands together. ‘And Leo too, he would love it!’
I feel my stomach drop as we enter Perranporth, the familiar winding road suddenly too much. I crack the window and try to breathe in the cool air. My eyes flick to Toby in the mirror. He’s staring out of the window, arms crossed over his chest. ‘And you, mon petit frère?’ I ask him, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘Have you ever been to France?’ I know he hasn’t. I would have known if Richard had brought them over for a holiday. He always tried to contact me when he was crossing the English Channel, asking to meet in Paris or Bruges or Leipzig. And I always refused.
Toby looks up, our eyes meeting, and I know that he’s remembering the same thing I am. That day on the beach, his fingers carefully braiding my hair. The way our father shouted at him. I wonder what his life has been like, growing up in that house, the pressure of trying to please someone who was impossible to please. Richard’s whims were like the wind, and he was forever moving the goalposts. I couldn’t keep up, and I get the feeling that Toby couldn’t either.
‘I’d like to,’ he says after a moment, glancing at Lexi. ‘I’ve always wanted to go travelling.’
Fleur reaches out and places a hand on his knee, and I realise that she sees the same thing I do; a lost little boy, without direction or purpose, drifting alone in the sea. She wants to help him, wants to be his rock like she is mine. It’s her way. ‘You will see the world,’ she says firmly. ‘And when you visit France, you will stay with us. We are family, oui?’
The car is silent, her words hanging heavy above us all as we reach the car park. I pull into a space by the entrance and Toby begins to fish around in his pockets, coming up with a bank card. ‘I’ll go and get a ticket. What’s the reg?’
‘He is a sweet boy,’ Fleur says as we watch him half-jog across the car park. ‘But troubled, no?’ She turns to Lexi, who drops her head to plant a kiss on her son’s head.
‘Yes,’ she says, her voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper. ‘He is troubled.’
We enter The Golden Lion together, Leo still sleeping in Lexi’s arms. Toby leads the way up the weather-beaten steps. It is dark inside, all mahogany and low lighting, and outside, the sea matches the grey sky. There are a surprising number of people already inside. I note the sign on the outer door that reads CLOSED FOR PRIVATE FUNCTION, so everyone here must have been invited. I spot my uncle Peter hovering at the end of the bar, two ten-pound notes clutched in his fist as he waits to be served. He doesn’t look up as we pass, his eyes fixed firmly on the back of the bartender’s head, as if he is trying to use telepathy to call him over.
Lexi finds an empty booth and slides in, carefully laying Leo down next to her. Toby squeezes in beside her, and Fleur and I sit opposite, suddenly warm in our winter coats. We shrug them off, laying them over the back of the leather seat.
‘Drink?’ Lexi asks, and I open my bag to find my purse.
‘It’s a free bar,’ Toby says with a grin. He seems more relaxed now we are away from the beach and our shared memories.
‘White wine please,’ I say, and Fleur asks for a gin and tonic. Toby moves to let Lexi out, and I slide out of the booth, following her towards the bar. ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ I say when she glances at me, and she smiles.
‘Felix tells me you’ve lived in France for ten years,’ she says once she’s placed our order. She picks up a beer mat and begins to shred it into tiny pieces.
‘Thereabouts. I went straight after uni.’
‘And how long have you and Fleur been together?’
‘Just over four years,’ I say. ‘About the same time you and Felix have been together, I suppose.’ She doesn’t say anything, just continues to shred the beer mat as my glass of wine is placed before me. I take a sip. I’m not a big drinker as a rule – my mother’s descent into alcoholism put me off it – but I do enjoy the odd glass of wine. God knows I’m going to need it today.
‘Lovely service,’ a woman says beside us, a glass of sherry in one hand. ‘He was a wonderful man.’ I don’t know this woman, and by the look on Lexi’s face, she doesn’t either.
‘Thank you,’ I say after an awkward moment, and the woman smiles sadly before gliding towards the far end, where a waiter is laying out platters covered in cling film. Fiona has put on a spread, it would seem. I look around the room for her, finally spotting her in a corner with Felix, their heads pressed together, lips moving quickly. Are they arguing? I’m about to t
urn away when Felix lifts his head and his eyes meet mine, and a shiver runs down my spine. He gets up and I realise with a jolt that he’s heading towards us.
Lexi turns as he approaches and reaches out to place a hand on his arm, but he sidesteps her, slotting himself between us, one elbow on the bar, his cold eyes fixed on mine.
‘So, the prodigal daughter returns,’ he sneers, and for a moment it is Richard I see before me, the father who was always criticising me, never happy.
‘That’s me,’ I say, pasting on a wide smile. I catch Lexi staring at me and give a small shake of my head that says it’s okay, I can handle him. And I can. Try as he might, Felix could never intimidate me.
Felix notices the exchange, his lip curling as he glances back at his fiancée before speaking. ‘You’ll be happy to know your trip was worthwhile. There’s enough in there to set you up for life.’
I frown, caught off guard. ‘Enough in where?’
He rolls his eyes. ‘The will. That is why you came, isn’t it?’ I open my mouth to speak, my skin prickling as his accusation sinks in, but he continues. ‘A nice sum for the daughter who abandoned him. It’s hardly fair, is it?’ His eyes flash then, and I notice a flush creeping up his neck. ‘Considering it wasn’t you who had to deal with him.’
‘Felix,’ Lexi hisses, eyes wide. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Oh, is it? I don’t think so.’ He leans in close to me; I can smell whisky on his breath and I recoil. ‘I think we’re only just getting started, sis.’
22
The Deceased
THEN
Richard woke to a pounding headache, his eyes blurry and sore. He rubbed them, feeling the grit beneath his fingers, and tried to take a deep breath in. For a moment, he forgot where he was, the spare bedroom around him unfamiliar. The pounding continued, hammering against his skull like a drum. He breathed out, grimaced when he smelled the alcohol on his own breath and a whiff of the cheap kebab he’d shared with a friend on the way home.