My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  ‘Do you still care for her?’ I’d yelled, throwing coffee all over the rug.

  ‘No.’ He seemed genuinely perplexed, like a lost small boy. ‘She … she just keeps coming up in my work.’

  ‘Work?’ I’d screamed. ‘Advertising is meant to be your work.’ I waved my hand angrily at his sketch of Davina, her head back, laughing throatily.

  I couldn’t help myself. ‘Are you having an affair with her?’

  ‘When would I have the time? But even if I was, why would you care? All you’re worried about is this case of yours. Not our marriage.’ Ed was angry now too.

  Before we knew it, the argument turned into an out-and-out screaming match – something that seemed to be happening more and more.

  Since then, we’ve barely spoken to each other, save for making Christmas arrangements. The day itself at my parents’ in Devon. Boxing Day with his, further up the motorway in Gloucestershire.

  Ed’s warm hand is a festive peace offering. But I’m too wound up in my own thoughts. Daniel. Merlin. The note.

  ‘Here’s your father,’ Ed announces, relief in his voice because we will no longer have to stand together in angry silence in the cold wind.

  ‘First Christmas as a married couple, eh?’ says Dad beaming, opening the doors of his old Land Rover for us to get in.

  I can’t even look at Ed as we exchange jollities. All I know is that my parents will be using our sham marriage as an excuse to be cheerful; to forget the empty place at the table and the saddle still hanging on the rack in the boot room because no one can bear to throw it away.

  Part of me longs to tell them how miserable I am. But I can’t. I owe it to them to make up for what happened in whatever way I can.

  ‘Darlings!’ My mother is at the door. Her eyes are unnaturally bright. Her hand is shaking. The glass she’s put down on the hall table is half full. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  ‘Great tree,’ says Ed, taking in the monstrosity behind him which reaches up through the circular staircase to the third floor. ‘How did you get it in?’

  My mother beams. ‘Daniel helped us. He’ll be down in a minute. Now come on in and make yourselves at home.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ I hiss to Dad as soon as I get a chance.

  He looks miserable. ‘You know what she’s like at this time of year.’

  ‘But she’s getting worse, Dad. Surely she should be getting better?’

  Ed, to his credit, is every inch the gentleman. When Mum gets out the photograph album showing Daniel and me down the years, he appears genuinely interested.

  But his questions – ‘And where was this taken?’ – are directed towards my mother. I am ignored.

  At Midnight Mass in our small village, people I haven’t seen for ages come up to embrace me and shake hands with Ed for the first time. Thanks to my mother-in-law’s insistence that ‘all Macdonalds’ get married in the small family chapel on their estate, there had only been room for immediate relations. ‘So this is the lucky man,’ says one of the old boys who used to prop up the bar at the local every night when I lived at home. ‘We all love Lily, you know.’ Then he claps Ed on the shoulder. ‘Mind you take care of her.’

  This time it’s me who can’t look at him. Instead, we trudge in silence behind my parents towards home, breathing in the salty air. When I was a teenager, I’d itched to get away from this place, scorning it for being so ‘parochial’. Only now do I realize how precious it is, how touching the concern for everyone in the flock. And how this little town represents real, solid values. Not outright lies or half-truths or games – whichever way you see them.

  Joe Thomas seems another world away.

  ‘Now, who’s going to check on Merlin?’ asks my mother as Dad fumbles for the back-door key under the stone wall. ‘Someone needs to make sure he hasn’t knocked his water bucket over again.’

  ‘Mum,’ I begin gently. ‘Merlin’s …’

  But Dad steps in quickly. ‘I will, love. You go off to bed. Nothing to worry about. The turkey’s already in the Aga and this young couple will want to go to bed.’

  I shiver. It’s not just Dad’s lies or our couple charade. It’s also fear. I told Dad to be careful about security after the note. Yet here he is, still leaving the key in its usual place. Where anyone can get it.

  In the morning I’ll talk to him, I tell myself as I get into bed, while Ed is still in the bathroom. By the time he is finished I have turned off the lights and am pretending to be asleep.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ My husband’s voice clearly indicates that he isn’t fooled by my turned back and pretence of even breathing.

  I sit up, my back against the pillow. ‘I presume we’re talking about Davina here. But are you sorry you’re in love with her? Or sorry that you married me? Or sorry that …’

  ‘I’m sorry about Daniel. It must be very hard for you all.’

  Ed’s words sink into the silence. Would he say that if he knew the full story?

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I say now, turning away from him.

  Then I sleep. Easily. Deeply. The best sleep I’ve had for years. I’m running along the sand after Daniel. He’s still young. Laughing. Jumping in and out of the water. Picking up shells, which he organizes in precise order on the windowsill in his bedroom. Then someone in my dream (who?) moves them. Daniel is screaming because they are spoiled. He’s throwing the shells out of the window and now he’s collecting new ones all over again …

  I wake with a start. It’s night. There’s a strange scratching sound on the roof. A seagull perhaps. I wonder what Joe Thomas is doing now. Is he awake? Going over those figures again and again? Deciding whether to reveal the secret source who sent them to him?

  And Tony Gordon. What might he be doing? Is he in bed with his wife? He rarely speaks about his personal life. Only once has he mentioned a child, and that was when he had to take a call from his wife about a school play that he’d missed. Not that he told me this; it was merely something I gathered from overhearing the conversation. He had expressed remorse, but when he put the phone down appeared to forget it fast, returning to our paperwork.

  Tony Gordon, I suspect, is a man who can compartmentalize life quite easily.

  My restlessness wakes Ed. He reaches over and strokes my back. Then his hands reach lower. I don’t move. Tears begin to run down my face. I don’t know if he thinks it’s me or Davina. Self-respect dictates that I should move away, waiting until we are both awake so we know what we are doing. But my dream about Daniel has disturbed me. I am lonely. Sad. And so it is that I find myself allowing Ed inside me. But when I arrive on a wave of illicit excitement, it is not him in my head.

  In the morning, I wash my husband away in the old-fashioned bath, which has a crack in the enamel from where Daniel once removed the plughole strainer and stuffed a giant blue and silver marble down the pipe ‘to see if it would go through’.

  It had cost a great deal to unblock the system.

  ‘Happy Christmas,’ says Ed, handing me a shiny red package.

  Does he even remember making love to me in the night? Or does he feel consumed with guilt for imagining Davina?

  The only way I can justify my own fantasy is that I am so wrapped up in my guilt over Daniel that I cannot allow myself to be happy. Self-destruction. Therefore I imagine someone I am forbidden, professionally, to have sex with.

  There’s a small box inside the red paper. A pen. I’d been secretly hoping for more perfume. My honeymoon bottle is almost empty. How is it that an artist can be so observant one minute and so blind the next?

  ‘You’re always writing. Thought it might come in useful.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, handing over the package I had hidden in my case. It’s a box of oil pastels. Ed picks them out, one by one. His face is like that of a child. ‘This is great.’

  ‘You can paint some more Davinas now.’ I just can’t stop myself. Then again, how would my husband react if I flaunted another man in front of him?


  His face darkens. ‘We need to leave early tomorrow,’ Ed says coldly, after we’d accepted Mum’s offer to lend us a car because of a limited train service during the holiday. ‘Otherwise we’ll be late for my parents.’

  My childhood home is lovely. But when I first saw Ed’s family home, shortly before our wedding, I couldn’t believe it. It was virtually a stately home.

  ‘It’s actually not as big as it looks,’ he said as I sat in the car, willing myself to get out while staring in awe at the Elizabethan stone, the turrets, the family arms over the front door, the mullioned windows, and the lawns which extended as far as the eye could see.

  Who was he kidding? Himself? Artists, I was beginning to learn, were good at that. Then again, so are lawyers. Both have to act. To play the part. To get inside someone else’s soul …

  The truth is that a large part of Ed’s home is sectioned off for the public; its visitor fees go towards the upkeep. The other part – the finger-numbingly sub-zero one – is where his parents live, as well as a brother and his wife. Another brother works in Hong Kong and couldn’t come back for Christmas this year.

  I’m grateful. This lot is more than enough. Ed’s mother is a tall, angular, aloof woman whom I haven’t seen since the wedding, and who has, so far, failed to invite me to call her by her first name. Artemis. It suits her.

  The brother is equally pompous, although Ed’s father is polite enough, asking me about my case ‘with that murderer’. He’s clearly read up about it.

  ‘Consorting with criminals? What an awful job you have, dear,’ shudders my mother-in-law over pre-dinner drinks in the library – another freezing-cold place, where the leather spines are peeling off the backs of the books. ‘Didn’t you want to do something nicer? In my day, if we had to work, we taught or did nursing before we got married. Of course, many of my friends’ daughters are in what I believe they call public relations, or events management …’ Her voice tails off at Ed’s look, but it’s too late.

  ‘Actually,’ I reply, ‘I think that those kinds of jobs are far better left to women like Davina.’

  There’s a silence. It was meant to have come out like a joke. But no one is fooled, least of all Ed. Or me. Ed’s mother smoothly moves on to another topic (that of her eldest son’s recent promotion in a huge insurance firm), but the damage is done.

  ‘I need some air,’ I murmur to Ed as I grab my cashmere wrap – a present from the in-laws – and make my way to the terrace overlooking the gardens. They’re beautiful. I’ll give my mother-in-law that. She spends all her time out here, apparently.

  ‘Artemis didn’t mean it.’

  I turn at the gentle voice behind me. It’s my sister-in-law with a compact, snuffly toddler in her arms. Out of all Ed’s relatives, she is the one I like best. She seems more normal than the others and has slightly grubby fingernails, possibly because she works as a freelance garden designer. ‘She just says what she thinks, I’m afraid. You’ll get used to it.’

  The toddler is grinning at me. It has a wide gap in its front teeth. I’m not the maternal type, having had little experience. Although to my surprise, I’ve really enjoyed having Carla around.

  ‘I’m not sure I want to get used to it,’ I say.

  My sister-in-law frowns. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know why Ed married me.’ As I speak, I feel I am talking to myself instead of to a woman I don’t know very well. Maybe it’s the pre-dinner sherry I gulped down in a desperate need for warmth as well as to curb my nerves. ‘He clearly still has feelings for Davina. So why did he choose me instead of her?’

  There’s a short silence during which I see a distinct look of uncertainty flitting across my sister-in-law’s face. The toddler struggles to get down. He is deposited gently on the ground.

  ‘But you know about the trust?’

  ‘What trust?’

  ‘You’re kidding me. Right?’ She takes in my face. ‘You’re not, are you? Shit. He told us you knew …’ She seems genuinely concerned.

  ‘Please,’ I beg, ‘you’re the only one who will tell me anything. Don’t you think I have a right to know?’

  There’s a quick glance over her shoulder. No one is there. The toddler is now sitting at her feet, eating clumps of frozen earth from a plant pot, but she hasn’t noticed and I don’t want to stop her now. ‘Ed was heartbroken when Davina dumped him to get engaged to some banker she’d been seeing on the quiet for yonks. Poor old Ed really loved her – sorry – but it wasn’t just that. Time was running out. Henry, spit that out or …’

  ‘Time was running out for what?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you. The trust. Henry, spit it out NOW. It was set up by the boys’ grandparents. They all have to get married by the age of thirty and stay married for at least five years or they won’t get their inheritance. Sounds totally ridiculous, I know, but apparently Artemis’s father has a thing about men who don’t get married. His brother was the other way inclined, if you get my meaning, and it brought terrific scandal on the family in those days. I knew about it, but Andrew and I would have got married when we did anyway, trust or no trust.’

  I can’t believe it.

  ‘We got married just before Ed’s thirtieth birthday,’ I say slowly. ‘I thought it was fast, but I was flattered that he was so keen …’

  ‘And he was, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. I was always amazed that Ed had fallen for me. I’m all wrong for him. Why didn’t he go for someone more suitable?’

  ‘Have you been listening to that mother-in-law of ours? Honestly, Lily. You’ve got to have more faith in yourself. Anyone can see Ed loves you. You’re just what this family needs. Someone normal.’

  Normal! Hah! The irony almost makes me miss what she says next.

  ‘When Ed first told us about you, we were shocked, of course. Especially with the wedding coming so soon. But when we met you, we saw why he’d chosen you. You’re just the kind of girl he needs. Reliable. Attractive without being a floozy. No offence meant. I said that if it didn’t work out … Henry, stop that …’

  ‘You said what?’ I say urgently.

  She has the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I said that if it didn’t work out, he could always divorce you when the five years were up. It’s a bit of a joke among us trust wives.’

  ‘Right.’ I am so stunned I don’t know what else to say.

  ‘Come on.’ She pats me on the arm. ‘You’ve got to see the bright side.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Not entirely. Let me put it another way. It means we all stand to inherit quite a bit when the grandfather dies. He’s in a home now, by the way. Dementia, poor man. And don’t blame Ed.’ She says the latter more seriously. ‘He was up against the wall. You should have heard how Artemis was going on about losing all that money if he didn’t get a move on. Mind you, I agree he could have told you.’

  If he had, I wouldn’t have accepted his proposal, as he’d have been well aware. The whole thing sounds insane in today’s day and world. But then Ed’s family doesn’t come from my kind of background. I’ve always known that. I just didn’t realize how far apart we were when it came to telling the truth.

  Or how close.

  ‘Of course,’ continues my sister-in-law, ‘it was a bit of a pain when Davina broke off her engagement to the other chap …’

  My skin breaks out into goose pimples. ‘When?’

  ‘Henry! When you were on honeymoon …’

  Now, finally, it’s all falling into place.

  ‘I see,’ I say numbly.

  ‘What do you see?’

  It’s Ed, coming up from behind. Looking every inch like a former public schoolboy in his navy jacket, crisp white shirt and beige chinos. But inside, he’s no better than a criminal. Hasn’t he stolen my life?

  ‘You married me so you didn’t lose out on your inheritance,’ I hiss. ‘But you really wanted Davina. No wonder you were so upset when we came back from our hon
eymoon and you found out she’d cancelled her marriage.’

  Alarm is written all over his face. For one minute there, I had hoped this ridiculous story was a pack of lies. Yet my husband is disconcertingly quiet, making no attempt to deny the charge. Like all good lawyers, I’ve got to the truth. But there’s no pleasure in it.

  ‘And now clearly,’ I continue furiously, ‘she wishes she’d waited for you – and you for her.’

  He takes my arm. ‘Let’s walk.’

  My sister-in-law has gone, along with her toddler. We pick our way along the gravel path by the early snowdrops. Ed’s voice is raw. ‘She shouldn’t have told you.’

  ‘Yes. She should.’ I shake off his arm. ‘You married me for money. But I could have been anyone who was around, just as long as it was before your birthday.’

  He looks away, down towards the lake. ‘It wasn’t like that. No, I didn’t want to lose my inheritance. I knew when it came it would allow me to give up my job and let me paint. Maybe start my own gallery. But at the same time, I was genuinely attracted to you. There was something about your face when you told me your brother was dead and … and how he’d died. I tried to draw it, after that first night, but I couldn’t do it. It was as if your grief was too deep.’

  ‘You married me out of pity?’

  He is pleading now. ‘That’s not what I meant. I married you because you intrigued me and because I could tell you were a good, kind person.’ His face crumples. ‘Look how you insisted on mopping up your wine at that party instead of pretending it wasn’t you who had spilled it. Davina would just have left it. You’re a much better person that her. Honest.’

  Honest? I’m tempted, as I’ve been on so many occasions, to tell him everything. The guilt lies like a heavy stone inside me. But if I’m upset about the trust, how would Ed feel if he knew what I had done?

  I try to take a step back, but before I can do so, Ed’s hands are cupping my face. ‘You’re a beautiful person, Lily. Inside and out. And the most amazing thing is that you just don’t see it. That was another reason I fell for you. You’re also brave. Loyal. Clever. I know I haven’t been very nice about you working so hard, but actually I’m really proud of you for helping the underdogs in life, like this prisoner of yours.’