The Mistress: A gripping and emotional page turner with a killer twist

by Jill Childs

  I opened the door wide. ‘Come on in! Don’t look so worried! Cup of tea?’

  She kissed me on the cheek with cold, dry lips. She smelled of the outside world, of petrol and work.

  ‘Everything okay?’ She paused in the kitchen to peer through the connecting door to the sitting room, taking in the sight of Anna and her daughter. They lay motionless, totally absorbed in their cartoon.

  ‘All good.’ I put the kettle on and bustled round the kitchen.

  Bea sank into a chair. She looked exhausted.

  ‘How was work?’

  She pulled a face and didn’t catch my eye.

  ‘One of those days, eh?’

  She nodded. ‘’Fraid so.’

  I put a mug of tea in front of her and slid into a chair with my own. I waited. From the sitting room, the strains of cartoon music drifted through, punctuated now and then by the girls giggling together. Their laughter was high-pitched and uninhibited.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Bea shook her head. Her face was weary. ‘Last time, it was Clara, wasn’t it? Not coping with her maths. Now it’s Megan I’m worried about. Always one or the other. Welcome to motherhood!’ She tried to laugh but it wasn’t convincing.

  ‘What’s up with Megan? I thought she was all fired up about Edinburgh.’

  ‘She was.’ Bea hesitated. ‘But she’s started on about taking a year off first. I just really don’t think it’s a good idea. She already knows that – we’d talked it all through before she applied. Then she brought it up again last night. There’s some girl at school who’s planning to go travelling round South-East Asia. So, of course, now she wants to go too.’

  I sipped my tea. ‘She might enjoy university more if she’s had some fun first.’

  ‘What if she does something stupid, though?’ She looked up, her eyes full of anxiety.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know – like gets herself killed. There was that girl in the papers last week. Raped and murdered when she was hitchhiking. And that boy who fell off a cliff and died.’

  ‘That can happen anywhere.’

  ‘I know. But they take more risks when they’re overseas. They do stupid things. Things they wouldn’t do in their own country.’

  I tried to imagine Anna at that age, striking off on her own. I supposed I’d be worried.

  ‘Megan is nearly seventeen…’

  ‘Exactly. A whole year younger than most of her friends.’ Bea rolled her eyes. ‘She’s always been brainy, that’s why they put her up a year. But she’s not as worldly-wise as she likes to think.’

  ‘I know I can’t stop you worrying,’ I said at last. ‘But she’s going to leave home anyway, one way or the other. A year abroad might help her mature.’

  Bea blew out her cheeks. ‘I don’t know what she’s planning to use for money. She hasn’t saved enough for the airfare, let alone all the rest. And I haven’t got it.’

  I nodded. ‘She’ll manage, somehow. They all do.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  We sat in silence for a while, drinking our tea, listening to the musical bleed from the cartoons.

  Suddenly, Bea said, ‘It’s not just that. She’s been very odd, recently. Short-tempered. Bursting into tears for no reason. I know she’s a teenager – I get it. And exams and everything. But even so… I think she’s got something on her mind. Something she’s not telling me.’

  I considered. ‘You’ve tried talking to her?’

  ‘Of course. She just fobs me off.’ Bea stretched a hand along the top of the table towards me. ‘You wouldn’t have a chat to her, would you? You’re so good with her. And, I don’t know, it might be better coming from you. She’s very fond of you.’

  I was fond of her. Ralph had been, too – impressed by her writing. Bea never talked about Megan’s father, or Clara’s. We were good friends – mum friends – but some things were still off-limits. All I knew was that the girls were half-sisters, spawned by two fathers who’d both been very absent from the scene.

  I shrugged and reached out, gave Bea’s hand a squeeze. ‘I can try. No promises.’

  ‘Thank you. Let’s find an excuse to get her over here one evening, when Anna’s asleep. I’ll think of something.’

  ‘I’d be glad to see her. She’s always welcome, you know that.’

  Bea pushed back her chair as if she were getting ready to head home with Clara to start the bedtime routine.

  ‘Bea? Don’t go yet.’

  She let her weight settle again and looked at me sharply. ‘That sounds ominous.’

  ‘Well, it’s sort of good news. For me, anyway.’ I hesitated, watching her face. ‘But maybe not what you want to hear.’

  She frowned. ‘Go on. Get it over with.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘You know how, since, you know… Ralph went missing, I’ve been talking about a fresh start? Well, I think I’m ready.’

  ‘You’re really leaving?’ She gaped.

  I nodded, lowered my eyes to the table.

  ‘But… why so soon?’ She looked as if she were struggling to understand the enormity of what I’d just said. ‘What’s the rush? Why not give it another six months, Helen, and then see how you feel?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’ve found a couple of places near Bristol that might work. Renting, to start off with. Until I get to know the area.’ I paused. ‘I’ve got to get a move on if I’m going to get Anna into a new school for September.’

  ‘I see.’ Her voice was tight.

  Snorts of laughter erupted from the sitting room. We both turned to look. The girls’ heads were almost touching, side by side in front of the television.

  ‘Does Anna know?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I know it’ll be a pain, finding childcare and everything. Especially with Megan leaving home too. But you could ask around. There might be another mum—’

  She lifted a hand and interrupted me. ‘It’s not that. Well, it is. But we’ll miss you. Clara adores Anna, you know that.’

  ‘I know.’ I slid my eyes away from hers.

  ‘Are you sure, Helen? It’s a big decision.’

  I focussed on my hands, folded neatly on the top of the kitchen table. ‘I know. But I can’t stand it here. Not now. I can’t stand all the sideways looks. The gossip.’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Sounds as if you’ve made up your mind.’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘I’m not being like anything.’

  I shook my head. ‘I want a clean sheet. New school. New place.’

  The tinny cartoon voices filled the silence between us.

  ‘So, you’ve put the house on the market.’ Her voice was cool.

  ‘It’s on a few websites, yes.’

  She nodded, taking this in. ‘It might take a while, even so.’

  ‘I know.’ I paused. ‘That’s another reason we’ll just rent to start with.’

  She raised her eyebrows at me. ‘With what?’

  ‘We’ll get by. I’ve got savings. And there’s Ralph’s life insurance. Not just yet but, you know, eventually.’

  ‘Well!’ She got to her feet abruptly and turned her back to me, washing up her mug in the sink.

  ‘I know it’s a shock, Bea. I’m sorry.’

  Her shoulders were hard. She didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m just sorry for the girls,’ she said finally as she gathered up her things to go. ‘Clara will be so upset.’

  ‘I know.’ I put a hand on her arm. ‘Anna, too.’

  She didn’t answer but her jaw was set as she headed through to the sitting room to prise Clara away and take her home.

  Anna and I stood at the window and waved as they set off down the path and headed towards Bea’s car. Clara and Anna blew each other kisses and mouthed some silly joke of their own.

  Bea didn’t look back. I didn’t blame her. As we turned b
ack into the house, I felt suddenly wracked with guilt.

  Bea was my best friend here. I hated having to lie.

  Forty-Two

  The house was different without Ralph. It sounded different, especially once Anna fell asleep. A new silence pressed down on me, wherever I sat, in the kitchen, in the sitting room. The fabric of the house, the furniture, emitted creaks and groans I’d never heard before. Sighs.

  I had too much time to sit alone in the stillness and worry. Mostly, I worried about Anna.

  I thought about the way she and Clara had played vets, taking it in turns to wear the white coat and place the stethoscope on a soft toy’s fluffy stomach. On the surface, she seemed fine. Almost too fine.

  I didn’t want to distress her by making her talk about her father all the time, but it felt strange for us to be carrying on together as if nothing had happened, as if he’d just stepped out one day and we’d barely noticed that he’d never come home again.

  In the first days after the accident, I told Anna a half-truth. I sat her on my knee and threaded my arms around her and told her that Daddy had gone away for a while.

  She frowned. ‘Where?’

  ‘We’re not sure. Everyone’s looking for him. Looking really hard.’

  ‘Did he go in an aeroplane?’

  I swallowed. ‘He went for a walk, I think, sweetheart.’

  She put her head on one side and considered this. ‘When he comes back, will he bring me a present?’

  I blinked, trying to think what to say.

  ‘I’d like a puppy.’

  I reached for my difficult conversation voice, slow and careful.

  ‘If you miss Daddy, it’s all right to tell me. Okay? It’s okay to talk about it.’

  Anna said, ‘I ate and ate and was sick on the floor.’

  I frowned. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Miss Fry taught me that.’

  ‘When? You were sick at school?’

  Anna laughed, delighted at having tricked me. ‘I ate and ate and was sick on the floor. Eight eights are sixty-four. Get it? It’s maths.’

  I had the sense I’d just lost the chance to make progress with that difficult conversation, to talk with her about Ralph. Her mind was already elsewhere.

  She squirmed out of my arms and ran off to play and, for a while, that was that.

  The second time, she raised it herself, out of the blue, one evening, about a week later.

  I’d just read her two chapters at bedtime from a story about mice detectives and she’d laughed and bounced on her bed and generally seemed her normal boisterous self.

  Then she asked, as I bent to kiss her goodnight, ‘Is Daddy back tomorrow?’

  I stopped and stared at her, the mood suddenly changed. She was looking at me with such hope, such innocence, it broke my heart. ‘No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. They’re still looking for him, remember?’ What else could I say? I wanted to tell her more. Desperately. But she was too young to understand.

  ‘In the water?’

  That was new. Someone at school must have said something about them dragging the reservoir. I perched on the edge of the bed and opened my arms to her.

  ‘Everywhere. They’re looking really hard, but they haven’t found him yet.’ I held her close, steadying my breathing, avoiding looking her in the eye.

  ‘But why did he go out?’ She pulled away, cross. ‘Without me?’

  ‘He went for a walk, petal. It was very late. Past your bedtime. You were asleep in bed.’

  ‘Wait a minute! He went for a big walk – in the dark?’ She laughed softly. ‘Daddy, that is so not a good idea!’

  I kissed her forehead and she wrapped her arms round my neck and pulled me lower.

  ‘Silly Daddy.’

  I sat in the quietness, thinking about her, wondering at what point she might grieve. I wondered if I ought to launch a new conversation with her about her feelings. Or if, at seven years old, she was better off handling it all just the way she was doing, on her own terms, in her own time.

  I picked up a book and tried to read but I couldn’t concentrate. I read the same few paragraphs repeatedly, realising each time that I hadn’t taken them in. I went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on, then sat on a chair and waited for it to boil, wondering what I was doing.

  Was this how Miss Dixon had felt, when she realised Ralph was losing interest? This sense of vacancy, of meaninglessness? Is that what drove her to see the doctor and start amassing pills?

  I tried to remember how I’d lived before Ralph. I’d been content, hadn’t I, in my small flat, neat and ordered, busy with books and films and meeting up with friends from university? Their lives had changed too. Everyone had married, one by one, then started families. My closest friends had moved away. That life wasn’t still there for me to step back into. It was history.

  And the person I’d been then was nothing more than history too. I thought back to her. A more naïve person, a more optimistic one. What had happened to me, since I married?

  I hadn’t stopped loving him, never. But I’d stopped trusting him. I’d stopped believing.

  He made elaborate excuses, at first, about where he went. He made a fuss about attending a weekly poetry group which, I was sure, only met once a month.

  He’d always fancied himself a bit of an actor and started a drama group for the sixth form, putting on a production each year. Not even the Royal Shakespeare Company could need as many read-throughs and rehearsals as he claimed to attend. It gave him an alibi that stretched over months.

  I heard rumours, sometimes, about his affairs. Did he really think I didn’t know? The woman who shared his bed, his home – who was the mother of his daughter?

  It wasn’t easy.

  I remembered lying in bed, muscles taut, listening to Ralph as he rattled his key in the front door lock and banged about downstairs, clearly the worse for the drinks. His footsteps mounted the stairs. When he drew back the duvet and crawled into bed beside me, his breath fell in low, warm puffs against my shoulder.

  I kept my eyes closed, my body still, trying not to tremble as he fell quickly into sleep.

  There were days I thought about confronting him and then, inevitably, of leaving him. He couldn’t change. I saw that now. He thrived on drama. He needed intrigue and risk. It was so much part of who he was.

  But, whatever else he’d done, he’d given me Anna. The other love of my life. I wouldn’t alter anything, however hard our marriage had been at times, if changing the past meant missing out on her. And they were short-lived, these other women. Fireworks that flared and sparked across the sky, then burned out. He always came back to us, Anna and me. In the end.

  I couldn’t leave him. It wasn’t only for Anna’s sake. And it wasn’t because he paid the bills – although I was grateful he did. It was because, despite everything, I cared about him. And I couldn’t extinguish the hope that eventually, one day, when he finally grew tired of the chase, he’d change. He’d turn those deep brown eyes on me and see me afresh, as if for the first time, and realise just how precious our life together was, right here, at home.

  I made a cup of tea and went through to the hall, on my way upstairs, to lock up.

  Ralph’s coat hung there on the rack. Watching me. His old shoes sat underneath, worn to the shape of his feet, alongside a pair of ancient wellies he’d rarely worn.

  I swept them all up and bundled everything into a plastic bag, then opened the front door and stuffed the lot in the outside bin, replacing the lid with a clatter. I felt better when I turned the lock and put on the chain. Cleaner.

  After that start, I took my tea upstairs to his study and closed the door behind me. My heart quickened. I was trespassing. I felt as if I might, at any moment, hear Ralph’s heavy tread on the stairs and see the door-handle turn. That he might catch me standing here, in his space, and say with false jollity, with suspicion in his eyes, ‘What’re you up to in here?’

  He never liked me being in here. It was a tacit ag
reement, formed early in our marriage, about his and hers territory. I’d respected it partly in the hope that, if he had his own space in our home, he mightn’t feel the need to escape it so often in the evening. To grab his jacket and car keys and head out, with some mumbled excuse, leaving me alone.

  Now, I looked around. His desk was a mess of poetry books and novels, scraps of paper, scrawled with half-written poems, fragments of ideas. I’d bought him a wooden desk tidy once, for pens and pencils, but he never used it. Pens, missing lids and pencils were strewn everywhere.

  A jacket, creased and in need of a wash, hung on the back of the chair. On the mantelpiece, his hairbrush, still holding strands of dark hair.

  I stood in the silence, my pulse racing. Ralph. I could almost feel him here. Resisting me. Mocking my love of neatness, of systems, of order.

  But he wasn’t here. And for the first time in a long time, I could do as I pleased.

  I rolled up my sleeves and set to work.

  It took me all evening, working methodically, without pause, until late into the night.

  By the time I’d finished, all I wanted to do was have a shower and crawl into bed to sleep alone.

  But I’d done it.

  I’d gathered together all his poetry, sheets and sheets of sprawling handwriting, and shoved it into the recycling.

  I’d taken all his books off the shelves and set them out on the floor, sorted them out and divided them into categories: poetry collections (individual), poetry collections (anthologies), poetry criticism, novels, biographies, humour (mostly presents from friends) and miscellaneous.

  I’d picked out a small number of expensive hardbacks – plush anthologies, mostly, and complete works – and set them to one side.

  I’d arranged the rest by category and then in alphabetical order, by author or editor, and stowed them all away into boxes, each box carefully labelled. Ready for the charity shop to collect.

  I sat back on my heels and looked at the empty shelves, wiped clean now of all trace of Ralph. The boxes were neatly arranged along the wall.

  My back and arms ached. My blouse was grimy with dust. But I felt strangely satisfied. Happy. It was a start. I was imposing order, in my own way. I would take back control.