My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  There was a short silence during which Carla felt that Lily had more to say but was holding back. ‘You are not ill?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘No.’ There was a short laugh. ‘Not me.’

  Carla felt a quickening of fear. ‘Not Ed?’

  ‘No. Not him either.’

  That was good. Of the two, Carla definitely preferred Ed, with his appreciative eyes. Lily, Carla told herself, was not to be trusted. It was true that she had once idolized the woman who had taught her how to make Victoria sponges and looked after her when Mamma was ‘working’. But look how she had stepped in between Larry and Mamma. Then there was her job. Carla allowed herself a half-smile as she recalled how she’d thought Lily had committed murder herself because she’d seen the word on her files. But even so, it took a certain kind of person to defend someone who was accused of snuffing out someone else’s life. Carla shuddered. Criminal law wasn’t for her. Employment law, said her tutors, was the way forward. She had a knack for it, apparently.

  Meanwhile, Lily was still wittering on about her son.

  ‘Tom … well, Tom got into trouble at school. But it’s all sorted now.’

  ‘That is good.’ Carla knew she should sound more interested, but the truth was that she wasn’t that fussed. Some of her friends back in Italy had had babies now, and maybe, one day, it would be something she’d like. But right now there were other more important matters on her mind.

  ‘I had to take some time off work,’ Lily continued. ‘But I am back now in London. Ed and I wondered if you would like to come over next week for supper.’

  Ed and Lily’s home was beautiful, even though there was an empty crisp packet fluttering around on the pavement outside. Before walking up the steps, Carla stood and stared at the gracious, tall house with white bricks and late geraniums flowering on a balcony above. A rustle in the hedge running along the front of the house startled her. Just a bird. Calm down, she told herself. You’re only nervous because you’re finally here.

  Tentatively she raised the silver knocker on the glossy black door, tucking the flowers she had brought under her arm in order to do so. When Ed opened it (‘Come in! Come in!’) she marvelled at the black and white tiles in the hall. Every room was like a page in a magazine. White everywhere. White and glass. Glass coffee tables. White walls. White counters in the kitchen.

  They must have a great deal of money to afford all this. Yet it was almost as if Lily had banished colour.

  ‘Roses!’ Ed buried his face in the bunch which she’d bought, at half price, from a street flower seller about to shut up for the night. ‘What a wonderful smell. And such an amazing pink, like blushing cheeks. Now why don’t you sit here. Lily will be down in a minute.’

  If it was her, Carla told herself, taking a seat at the glass table in the kitchen, she would put a rustic pine bench there and a scarlet rug there …

  ‘Welcome,’ said Lily, suddenly appearing through the door.

  Carla airkissed her hostess’s cheeks, taking in her cream trousers and the stylish beige pumps on her feet. If only she had the money to dress like that instead of buying second-hand or relying on Mamma’s sewing skills! ‘Thank you for having me.’

  ‘Thank you for coming. Like I said on the phone, I’m only sorry it’s taken us a while. Ed? Is dinner ready now?’

  ‘Dinner’ was fish pie from a packet. At home, that would have been considered a disgrace. Meals had to be made from scratch; the process took hours. It was a mark of respect for the guests.

  Meanwhile, try as she might to make small talk, the atmosphere was tight. ‘Your home,’ said Carla, in desperation, ‘is very minimalist.’ Since coming back, Carla had made a point of learning a new English word every day. This was one of them. She’d been waiting for an opportunity to use it.

  Lily dug the serving spoon into the dish so the juices flooded over the edges. ‘It’s so that all my husband’s paintings will stand out.’

  All? But there were only two that she could see.

  ‘I seem to have lost my creative mojo,’ said Ed drily, topping up his and Carla’s wine glasses but not Lily’s. She had sparkling water. ‘I’ve been trying all kinds of things but nothing works.’

  Something had happened to this couple since she had last seen them in the gallery. They looked empty somehow. Someone had switched off a light inside their souls.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Ed picked up his knife and fork. Carla followed suit. Lily, she noticed, didn’t even bother. It was as if the food in front of her wasn’t there.

  ‘I have run out of inspiration. It’s partly because of Tom. He hasn’t been … well.’

  He stopped as Lily flashed him a warning look.

  Aware the atmosphere was getting worse, Carla tried to choose her words carefully. ‘But he is better now?’

  ‘Better?’ Ed took another large slug of wine and laughed hoarsely. ‘Tom will never be better, and –’

  ‘Ed.’ Lily’s voice carved through the air. ‘We must not inflict our troubles on our guest. Now tell me, Carla. How is your course going?’

  She braced herself to look directly at the woman opposite. ‘Very good, thank you.’

  Somehow, Carla told herself, as she spoke lightly about the past, how she’d loved cooking with Lily as a child, and then described the various lectures she’d been to recently, she had to find a way to bring Larry – no, Tony – into the conversation.

  As she finished talking, there was silence. Ed and Lily both seemed completely absorbed in the table in front of them. Fine, Carla thought, I’ll just launch straight in.

  ‘Actually,’ she said quickly, ‘I was wondering if you could tell me how I could find Mr Gordon. My mother, she has a message for him. I’ve emailed his clerk but received a reply to say he is not available at present.’

  Lily visibly twitched.

  Ed had almost finished half a bottle now. ‘You can say that again,’ he spluttered.

  ‘The reason he’s not available at present, Carla, is because Tony is very ill,’ said Lily slowly, pushing her plate to one side even though she had barely touched her food. ‘In fact, he’s in a hospice, not far from here.’

  ‘A hospice?’ Carla felt a catch in her throat. An excited catch that knew it ought to be shocked instead.

  ‘He has cancer. The poor man doesn’t have much time.’

  ‘Poor man?’ Ed snorted. ‘That’s not what you’ve said about him to me.’ Then he turned to Carla. ‘The two of them had some kind of falling out over a case. But my wife here can’t go into details because it’s confidential.’ He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘That’s the law for you.’

  Lily looked furious. ‘Don’t drink if you can’t control yourself,’ she said coldly.

  ‘It’s not me who can’t control myself.’ Ed was rising unsteadily to his feet.

  ‘That’s enough.’

  They were arguing as if she wasn’t there! Carla felt another glimmer of excitement. If you wanted to get one step ahead in court, her new tutor had said, it was always better if your opposition was divided.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Lily touched her arm as Ed stormed out of the room. ‘Things are difficult at the moment.’ Then she pressed an envelope into her hand. ‘This is a small thank you from us. It’s the award money that Ed won all those years ago, as well as a little extra.’ She spoke fast. Sharply. Without warmth. As if this was a pay-off rather than a proper present.

  ‘Thank you.’ Part of Carla wanted to throw it back. Their ‘gift’ made her feel dirty. Humiliated. It was clear Lily just wanted to get rid of her. ‘That’s very kind. But there’s just one more thing.’

  Alarm flashed across Lily’s face. Her eyes grew stony. She thought Carla wanted extra money! The knowledge gave Carla power. Of course she did. But that would come later.

  ‘Could you please,’ continued Carla, brazening out the hostility in those eyes, ‘write down the name of Tony’s hospice?’

  Lily’s face softened. �
��Of course.’ She reached for a pen. ‘Here it is. I will ring you soon, Carla. I’m so sorry about this. Like I said, we’ve had a few problems. Ed isn’t quite himself.’

  Outside, Carla tipped open the envelope. A thousand pounds? If those two thought that was enough, they were very much mistaken.

  33

  Lily

  ‘I wasn’t sure that you’d come.’

  We’re sitting outside an Italian restaurant just off Leicester Square. I’m still shaken after our dinner with Carla. Not to mention everything that’s been going on with Tom. After all, that’s partly the reason I’m here.

  It’s unseasonably sunny for this time of year. I’m not wearing a coat, but I do have my sunglasses on. Red frames. They’re necessary protection against the low-burning orange circle in the sky, but they also let me observe my companion without allowing him to make that eye contact he was always so good at.

  Joe Thomas, it has to be said, looks like any of the businessmen walking past. Respectable in that dark-blue suit. Clean-shaven. Tidy hair. Shiny, black, pointed shoes. And a tan.

  ‘What do you want?’ I’m keeping my tone deliberately level. Act normal, I tell myself. It’s why I suggested this place in full view of the world.

  His fingers position the cutlery so that it is perfectly in line with the edge of the place mat. His nails are clean. Well kept. ‘That’s not very polite.’

  ‘Polite!’ I laugh. ‘What do you call perverting the course of justice then?’ I lower my voice, even though it’s quite low anyway. ‘You killed your girlfriend and then made me believe you were innocent.’

  ‘You wanted to believe I was innocent.’ My companion leans forward so his breath mingles with mine. ‘You thought I was like your brother.’

  I sit back. It was a mistake to come here. I see this now. Yet I too have my questions to ask. ‘I don’t want you to send cards any more. How did you know when my birthday was?’

  ‘I looked it up. You can look almost anything up.’ Joe Thomas smiles. ‘You should know that. I wanted to remind you that I was still thinking of you. But it’s Tom I’m here about.’

  I freeze. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I think you know already. It’s why you’re here. I would have come earlier, but I’ve been working abroad until recently. And when I came back, I found out you’d had a child.’

  He leans across the table towards me again. ‘I need to know, Lily. Is he mine?’

  My body goes cold. Numb. Underneath the table, my legs start to shake. Words are about to tumble out of my mouth, but I manage to pull them back and replace them with better ones. ‘Of course not. Don’t be so ridiculous. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Gripping the edge of the table, I stand up.

  ‘I’m talking about us.’ Joe’s voice is pleading. His former arrogance now carries a note of desperation. ‘Don’t go. I must have the truth.’

  ‘The truth?’ I laugh. ‘What do you know about truth? You’ve allowed your imagination to run riot, Mr Thomas.’ I stop myself. It’s not his fault he has ‘behavioural issues’, as we argued in court. But that doesn’t explain everything he’s done. ‘You were my client twelve years ago and I’ve lived to rue the day I helped you get off. It’s something I will never forgive myself for.’ Tears blind my eyes. ‘Poor Sarah …’

  Joe is clutching my hand now. ‘I do have some feelings, you know. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. But it helped others – all of those other victims.’

  I pull my hand out of his. People are looking at us from the adjoining table. I throw down a twenty-pound note to cover our drinks and walk off, through the square.

  ‘It’s Tom. He’s in trouble.’ Even now, some weeks later, my mother’s taut voice, sprung with fear, haunts me. I hear it in my dreams. I hear it when I wake up. And I hear it when I’m meant to be concentrating in meetings, even though I know that that particular ‘Tom emergency’ has been sorted.

  Until the next one.

  Ed and I had rushed down to Devon of course. It was just after that shock encounter with Carla at the gallery. I left quick, sharp messages of instructions to my secretary and junior partners while Ed drove, his mouth set in that thin line which said, ‘For God’s sake, can’t you forget about work while we sort out our son.’

  I know what he meant. I’ve told myself the same thing over and over again, especially when I see another woman with a son of Tom’s age walking past us in the streets or queuing up for Madame Tussauds.

  But Tom would never stand like that in a line. He would be worried about whether our feet were in the ‘right’ position. He would be asking the woman behind us why she had a mole on her chin and how long it had been there and why she hadn’t had it removed. Children like Tom don’t always realize when they’re being rude.

  It would cause an awkward explanation on my part and a stepping away on the part of the imaginary woman with the mole. Naturally it’s difficult having an almost-teenager who behaves like a toddler. But I can deal with that.

  It’s the violence that’s not so easy. Take this scar on my forehead. It’s from when Tom once accidentally hit me with a saucepan. I hadn’t put the offending item back in its ‘proper’ place in the kitchen, so he charged past me to put it right. And that mark on Ed’s arm? That’s because Ed once tried to play football with his boy, but Tom’s poor spatial awareness skills (which can sometimes go with the label, apparently) made him frustrated.

  So he bit Ed.

  We’d been trying our best to ‘put strategies of structure in place to address challenging behaviour’ (according to one rather useful piece of online advice). But as he’d got older and bigger – even taller than me, despite his age! – he got worse. More violent. And now the time had come to do something about it. That much was clear when, after a five-hour dash to Devon that night, we had an emergency meeting at our son’s school the next morning.

  ‘He flew at his teacher with a pair of scissors.’

  The head’s exhausted tone – usually more sympathetic – made me realize we’d reached the end of the line. Tom had been allowed to go to the local school, despite his special needs; partly because of our local connections (I had been there too, and Mum is on the board of governors), and partly because we’d argued that we wanted him to be in mainstream schooling. If he was with others ‘like him’, Ed and I had argued, Tom wouldn’t have any role models to help him improve.

  ‘We’ve tried, but we simply can’t cope with this behaviour any more.’ The head spoke as if Ed and I had picked up the scissors ourselves.

  ‘But she’s all right, yes?’ Ed was just about controlling himself.

  ‘That depends,’ said the head curtly, ‘on whether you count five stitches as being acceptable.’

  ‘Tom was hurt too,’ snapped Ed.

  ‘That was self-inflicted.’

  I’m used to arbitrating between clients. Between clients and barristers too. But when it comes to my own family, my skills seem to fly out of the window. Stick to the facts, I told myself, just as I told my clients. Stick to the facts.

  ‘Can you tell us exactly what happened?’ I asked. ‘Mum told me there had been an argument in Geography.’

  Those disapproving eyes swivelled back to me. ‘The children were asked to cut out maps. Tom was fussing about his outline. He said he needed more time to get it right. The teacher told him that his was perfectly acceptable and that they needed to finish before break-time. There was an argument, during which he picked up the scissors and nearly stabbed her. Luckily she stepped to one side and they went into the desk.’

  ‘Hang on. You said she needed stitches!’

  ‘She did.’ The head was regarding Ed as though he was no better than Tom. ‘She fell in her attempt to avoid the scissors and hit her head.’

  ‘He didn’t cut her then? It was an accident.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ The head’s voice was rising. ‘It could have been fatal.’

  ‘So that explains it!’ My r
elief sang out. ‘It wasn’t because he wanted to hurt her. He was hurting inside because his outlines weren’t right. Don’t you see?’

  There was a shake of the head. ‘No, Mrs Macdonald, I don’t.’

  ‘You know Tom needs to get everything right. It’s part of his condition.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but I won’t accept any kind of abuse towards my staff. You’re lucky we didn’t call the police.’ The head stood up, indicating the interview was at an end. ‘I’m sorry, but you must remember what the educational psychologist said the last time this happened.’

  Briefly, I thought back to the day Tom had got too near a girl in the playground. (Problems with personal space again.) She’d pushed him away and he’d pushed her back. She’d fallen awkwardly and cracked her wrist. Full blame, rather unfairly in my view, had fallen on our son.

  ‘It’s another example of his behaviour.’ The head was sounding weary now. ‘We can’t keep Tom here any more. It’s time to consider a special school. One that can deal with his … his issues. In the meantime, Tom is suspended.’

  Of course, Mum stepped in. She’d been through ‘challenging behaviour’ before with Daniel. This time she would get it right. ‘We’ll look after him at home until they sort something out,’ she insisted when we returned, drained and worried after the meeting.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  My mother bit her lip. ‘Upstairs. He’s pushed something against the door so I can’t open it. But he’s talking, so I think he’s all right.’

  A cold shaft of terror caught at my heart. I could see him climbing out of the window. Cutting his own wrist with scissors. Hanging from the ceiling …

  Together Ed and I raced up the stairs. ‘Tom, it’s Mum. Are you all right?’

  No answer.

  ‘Tom.’ Ed tried again. ‘We understand what happened at school. Just let us in.’

  He could try all day, but Tom wouldn’t give in.

  ‘I don’t want to talk.’