My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  How dare she?

  ‘You have no right to mention Tom,’ I say to Carla, trying to control my voice.

  We’re on our way to work. Walking briskly. It reminds me of the mornings when I used to see her at the bus stop with her mother.

  ‘He is part of our private life,’ I continue, still hot with rage after spotting the offending article in one of the lobby magazines.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says but in a tone that suggests anything but. Her chin juts out. It seems more angular than usual. Almost pointy like a cat’s. ‘But it is true, is it not?’

  ‘He is,’ I say, struggling to remain composed, ‘in the best place for him.’

  She shrugs. ‘In Italy, we keep our family close, whatever the circumstances. It is better that way I think.’

  ‘You are living in the UK now,’ I splutter, almost unable to believe her audacity. We’re going into the office building now. I can say no more. But later that day, I receive a note from one of the other partners.

  Luckily this has not yet gone out to the client. One of the trainees spotted the mistake, highlighted below. Please amend.

  I’ve made a mistake in drafting a document about a company fraud. It isn’t big. But big enough. Yet the worse thing is that the trainee, according to the initials on the correction, is our Italian ‘guest’.

  Later that night, Ed turns on me. ‘Why were you so horrid to Carla about Tom?’

  A cold feeling crawls over me. I feel like the school prefect, reprimanded by a teacher for snitching on a girl caught smoking in the loo. Why should I be blamed for something she’s done? ‘Because Carla shouldn’t have mentioned Tom or the fact that he’s at a special school. He’s private.’

  ‘Clearly, our son is to be categorized as “Not to be opened”. Are you embarrassed of him?’

  This isn’t fair. ‘You know that’s not true. Do you think you could work if Tom was here all the time? Do you think you could concentrate if he was in the studio demanding to know why paint is called paint? Or giving you every statistic imaginable on Monet or John Singer Sargent?’

  Ed sits up and turns on the bedroom light. His eyes are sad. I know that my words sound selfish and I hate myself for it. But it is horrifyingly easy for the resentment to bubble up every now and then, to burst through the carefully painted veneer of outward sainthood. I know he thinks it too sometimes – it’s simply easier to put the blame on me.

  ‘I just can’t help feeling,’ says Ed slowly, mirroring the thoughts in my head, ‘that when you have a child like Tom, you have a duty to do the right thing. That’s all.’

  Then he switches off the light, leaving me to thrash around all night. Wondering. Telling myself that separating our lives like strands of unruly silk is better than being with my son. And why? Because I practically followed Daniel round for years, trying to protect him from himself. But I cracked. I said things I shouldn’t have done. Did things I shouldn’t have. And that’s what finally tipped my brother over the edge.

  If I’m not with Tom full time, he stands a chance of making it. My constant presence won’t help him.

  It might kill him, instead.

  Trying to work at home one night, so many thoughts colliding in my head that I am getting little done, I make a call.

  ‘Lily!’ Ross’s deep, rich voice immediately makes me feel calmer. Assured. As though everything is going to be all right, after all.

  ‘I thought you were out tonight.’ He sounds surprised.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Must have got it wrong. I thought Ed said you were going to that gallery opening with him.’

  ‘He asked me but I had too much to do. Besides, it’s Carla they want. You know. The painter and his subject. The Italian girl.’ I don’t even bother hiding my irritation.

  Carla looked gorgeous tonight when she left with my husband. Her bob was sleek and her make-up immaculate. No one would have guessed that she’d been slaving away over her books until half an hour beforehand.

  Ed looked good too. It wasn’t just because of his new blue-striped shirt. It was the way he now carries himself. The buoyancy in his face. Success suits him. It always did. My husband, I now realize, is one of those men who needs to do well. If only for the sake of everyone around him. The whisky level hasn’t gone down for a while. He’s even being particularly nice to me. My husband deserves this, I tell myself, as I say goodbye to Ross after arranging a dinner in a few weeks’ time. Let him enjoy it.

  August 2014

  Three weeks later, I am working late again in the office. Ed is at another cocktail party. Carla is still at home. This morning, she failed to come into the office with me. ‘I don’t feel well,’ she said, curled up like a kitten on her bed.

  It’s nearly ten o’clock – everyone else has gone home – when the phone rings on my desk. I know it’s Joe before he says a word. I can sense it. Feel it down the line.

  ‘Lily. No. Don’t put the phone down. Just go.’

  The hairs on my arm are standing up. ‘Go where?’

  He names a hotel near the Strand.

  Is this another tip-off for some case which I must ignore?

  ‘It’s to do with your husband. I’ve been watching him.’ His voice rises urgently. ‘Just trying to look after you. Like I always do. Just go. Now.’

  I replace the receiver, trembling. Slipping on my coat, I tell myself, as I bid goodnight to the security guard, that I am going straight home. That I’m not visiting this hotel to see what I should or shouldn’t see.

  Ed wouldn’t do this. Ed wouldn’t do this. The words pound over and over in my mind. But then I think of his ups and downs. The way he has blown hot and cold throughout our marriage. Our rushed marriage, all for the sake of an inheritance he’d never told me about. A marriage we have stayed in because of Tom. But we’ve made it work. Haven’t we?

  As I get out of the taxi, I see a figure. No, it’s a couple. She has her head on his shoulder. The girl has short hair that gleams in the lamplight. The man is tall with a slight stoop to his shoulders. The kind that comes from bending over an easel for hours on end.

  I run towards them. They stop in the street, under the lamp. He lowers his head to kiss the girl. And then he looks up.

  ‘Lily?’ says my husband, open-mouthed. Then, as though he can’t believe it, he says it again. ‘Lily?’

  There’s a flash of light. As if a picture has been taken.

  A press card is being waved in front of me. ‘Mrs Macdonald. Would you like to comment on the rumours that your husband is having an affair?’

  The burning smell has died down now.

  That’s something. But there’s a taste of unease in the air.

  Have I missed my last chance?

  What is she up to?

  What is she planning next?

  44

  Carla

  Of course, the publicity for the new painting had played its part in bringing them together. The ‘fairy-tale story’, as one paper put it, about the artist and his sitter. ‘The Italian Girl Grown Up’. The magazine articles. Ed’s arm around her shoulder for the camera. The brush against her cheek – so close to her mouth! – after a particularly glittery cocktail party. Carla didn’t even have to try.

  But nothing more physical had happened until the night when Lily was working late in the office (again!), and she was posing for yet another picture in the sitting room, the window open to an unusually hot night. Carla had purposefully worn no make-up, knowing he preferred her like that. She could feel the warm air making tiny beads of sweat break out on her lip. ‘A little to the left … Now to the right.’

  Suddenly Ed moved away from his easel and walked towards her. He got down on his knees and gently, very gently, moved a tendril of hair from her forehead. ‘You’re the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.’ Then he kissed her. And she let him.

  For a minute, Carla had a glimpse of the man on the plane. The one she’d dismissed on the grounds of his wedding ring. Hadn’t she always
told herself that she’d never get hurt like Mamma had been?

  But as Carla allowed herself to be laid down on the soft sitting-room carpet, she couldn’t help thinking how much she’d love to have a famous artist for a boyfriend. A place of her own. Her own money. (She would of course share this with Mamma.) A standing which would impress even the neighbours at home, who would have to be kind to Mamma now, especially as Ed’s work was soon to be exhibited in Rome.

  After that, they made love whenever and wherever they could. Hotels were best, Ed said. More private.

  Yet he seemed to get more satisfaction than she. Ed was not the lover Carla had imagined he would be. Naturally, she’d had some experience. At university, finally free from Nonno’s rules, she would flirt with boys who were likely to take her to dinner. Sometimes she would let it go further. A new dress perhaps in return for a weekend in Sorrento. Always, she took precautions. Not just with her body but her mind. ‘I wish to concentrate on my studies – not fall in love,’ she had told them all. But the truth was that she didn’t want to get into trouble like Mamma had done. It was the financial stability of marriage she wanted. Not the role of a mistress.

  And yet here she was, being just that.

  ‘I’m going to leave Lily,’ Ed always promised. ‘I simply need the right time to tell her. This is more for me than just sex.’

  I can help with that, Carla told herself.

  One day, a few weeks after they’d started to sleep together, Carla made a call from the hotel room to the twenty-four-hour hotline of a celebrity gossip magazine while Ed was in the shower. The woman at the other end was very interested in what she had to say. Carla spoke quickly. Then she put down the phone, without giving her name.

  And shortly after that, Lily found them.

  It was strange. Despite everything coming together, Carla didn’t feel the expected satisfaction of revenge.

  Instead, she felt cheap. Dirty.

  Lily’s face was white under the street lamp. Her glaring eyes belonged to a wild animal. Carla was scared. Ed saw that. He put his arm around her protectively, even though she could feel his body shaking too. ‘We love each other,’ he kept saying to Lily. ‘We want to be with each other for ever.’

  ‘We couldn’t help it,’ Carla stammered.

  Lily snarled. Yes! Snarled. ‘Of course you could.’ Then she began to weep, which was worse. ‘I’ve helped you so much. Is this how you repay me?’

  ‘Repay?’ Carla’s voice rose into the night air and a passer-by turned to look. ‘You were the one who should have repaid me. I heard you in Devon telling Ed that you ignored my letters from Italy.’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Don’t deny it. Don’t try any of those lawyer lies on me, because I know them all myself.’ She was sweating now with indignation. ‘If you hadn’t told Larry to leave my mother alone, we would have been all right.’

  Lily’s laugh was brittle. ‘Is that what you really think, you silly little girl?’

  ‘I’m not –’

  ‘Listen to me.’

  For a minute, it looked as though Lily was going to grab her by the neck. ‘If Tony could deceive his wife, don’t you think he could have deceived you and your mother as well?’

  Carla had a flashback to the woman in the car with the bright lipstick.

  ‘I did you both a favour. Trust me. Just like you’ve done me a favour – both of you.’ Then she swung round to face Ed. ‘If it hadn’t been for Tom, I’d have left you years ago. Take this child,’ she gesticulated towards Carla, ‘and go.’

  Then she swivelled round to face Carla again. ‘You’ll soon find out what he’s like. And if you think you’re going to get any money out of this, you’re mistaken.’

  Ed’s hand tightened on hers. They were as strong as the waves of fear that were tightening her chest. ‘I’ve heard enough of this. Come on, Carla. We’re going.’

  ‘No.’ Lily’s voice was stronger than she had ever heard it. ‘I’m the one who’s going. Do you think I really want to go back to that house, knowing that you two have probably been at it like rabbits when I’ve been working? Besides, it will only have to be sold now anyway. Here.’ She tossed the keys at Carla. ‘Take my set too. I’ll be in touch about my things. Just get out of my sight. Both of you.’

  Hang on, Carla wanted to say. This isn’t how I thought it would be. But Ed had gripped her hand so tightly that it almost hurt. Then he hailed a taxi and they went home. ‘Where will Lily go?’ she asked as they opened the front door to be greeted by Lily’s belongings everywhere: her white coat hanging on the hook in the hall; her heels neatly positioned by the door.

  ‘She’ll be all right,’ said Ed, drawing her to him. ‘She’s tougher than she looks. Look how she had us followed.’

  ‘Really?’ Carla tried to sound innocent.

  ‘How else do you think she found us?’

  But Carla could not sleep for worrying. Supposing Lily did something stupid like jumping off a bridge, like some poor man had done only a week ago? What do you care? Mamma might have said. Yet for some reason, she did. For the first time, Carla wondered if Lily had been right when she said she’d done them a favour in pushing Larry away. Then there had been that final throwaway line. If you think you’re going to get any money out of this, you’re mistaken.

  All night, Carla tossed and turned. When she woke in the morning, to find Ed’s head on her chest like a child in need of comfort, Carla felt another flash of misgiving. Then he woke, smiled and stretched out in the wide bed as the sun streamed in through the cream shutters.

  ‘Isn’t this amazing?’ he said, tracing her breast with his forefinger. ‘We were meant for each other. And now we’ll be together for ever.’

  Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? But all she could think of were those grey hairs on his chest, that little bald spot in the middle of his hair, and the tears on Lily’s face from the night before.

  The headlines came swiftly:

  PAINTER LEAVES WIFE FOR SEXY ITALIAN SITTER

  ARTIST BLOTS CANVAS FOR ITALIAN GIRL GROWN UP

  ‘I’m definitely keeping the house,’ Ed told her a few days later. ‘I’m going to borrow some money so I can buy Lily out. She’s going to leave London and set up a practice in Devon near Tom. It’s the best thing for everyone.’

  ‘But will we have enough to live on?’

  He held her in his arms. ‘Don’t worry about that.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘I’m broke, Ed.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I will look after you now.’

  ‘But I don’t have any cash.’

  Then he reached into his back pocket and peeled off some notes. ‘Is that enough?’

  Her heart filled with relief. ‘Thank you.’

  Of course, she banked most of it and sent a transfer straight to Mamma.

  For a few weeks, Carla’s doubts began to fade. There was something rather flattering about living with a famous painter. They went to nice restaurants. Waiters bobbed obsequiously. They were the couple of the moment. Everyone knew them.

  She didn’t have to worry about paying rent or bills. Edward – she liked to give him his full name at times – bought her lovely clothes. So Lily had been lying about the money! She even managed to stay working in the London office – they could hardly sack her, it would be against the law. And thankfully Lily was no longer there.

  Some people of course were cool to begin with. ‘Memories are short,’ Ed reassured her. And he was right. Within a couple of months or so, the coldness began to thaw, especially when one of the partners left his wife for his secretary and everyone had something else to talk about.

  As for Ed, he couldn’t have been more attentive. Sometimes too much so. One day, in the post, she received a handwritten note in ink with beautiful sloping writing from Rupert.

  Glad to see you are doing so well.

  ‘Who is that from?’ asked Ed, reading the note over her shoulder.

  ‘Just a
friend from law school.’

  ‘That kid who came here?’

  Uncomfortable memories of Ed finding her and Rupert in the house came back to her.

  ‘Yes.’

  Ed said nothing. But later that night when she put something in the bin, Carla found Rupert’s note torn into tiny bits. ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked him. But instead of replying, he kissed her deeply, and then began to make love to her with a passion that he had not shown for some time.

  The shredded note was worth it, Carla told herself, as she lay gasping on the sheets. It was like it had been at the beginning, when Ed was still just enough out of her grasp for him to be exciting. And she suspected he felt the same.

  There was nothing like unavailability for attraction. For the first time in ages, she thought of that pencil case. The one she’d stolen from another child. How she had wanted it! But then, when she’d had it, the craze had turned to something else instead. What was wrong with her, she wondered as she felt her way to the bathroom in the dark so as not to disturb Ed, that she always needed something more?

  45

  Lily

  November 2014

  ‘I can’t eat it now.’ Tom glares at me with fury in his eyes. ‘You’ve moved the cutlery. Look!’

  He points angrily at the fork which I have edged a couple of inches to the left to make room for an extra setting. I’ve been looking after Tom for long enough now to remember not to do that, but every now and then something slips and I forget. The results can be spectacular. Like now.

  CRASH.

  Mum and I jump, grabbing each other’s arms. It’s not just the cutlery which has flown off the table. It’s the plate next to it and a rather nice crystal wine glass which belonged to a wedding-gift set from all those years ago.

  After Ed and I split and began dividing our possessions (which was nothing compared with the division in my own heart), I couldn’t help thinking how ironic it was that wedding presents could long outlast the marriage itself.