Marriage and Other Games

by Veronica Henry

  Charlotte and Fitch had decided that the best way she should deal with any questions from Jade and Amber during the funeral was to tell them the facts. No airy-fairy nonsense about Mummy just being asleep and being able to watch them from heaven. It wasn’t brutal; they just didn’t feel that giving them any false sense of hope would do them any good in the long run. Platitudes and sentimental false truths would only confuse them further.

  ‘The important thing for them to know,’ said Charlotte, ‘is that she loved them and always will.’

  ‘It’s just so hard,’ said Fitch, as he pulled on the jacket of his best dark suit. ‘It’s so unfair. They’ve been so good.’

  It had broken Charlotte’s heart to watch the three of them over the past few days, each equally helpless and bewildered. Sometimes crying, sometimes laughing, sometimes just being quiet. She’d tried to keep things normal, to keep a sense of routine so they would understand that life still goes on, that their whole world hadn’t fallen apart.

  ‘Will I do?’ Fitch stood there in the middle of the kitchen, awkward in his smart clothes. He looked amazingly handsome, his dark hair touching the collar of his jacket, his shoulders broad.

  Charlotte swallowed down the lump in her throat.

  ‘You’ll do,’ she nodded.

  He took a deep breath in to steel himself for the afternoon ahead.

  ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be back,’ he said. ‘I expect it will go on a bit. And I need to be there for the family.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll put the girls to bed. I’ll be here.’

  She rushed across the room to hug him, wishing she could take some of the pain away. She breathed in the smell of him, then felt him kiss the top of her head lightly.

  ‘Thanks,’ he whispered, then quickly let her go.

  She watched him leave the room. She felt filled with emotions she couldn’t quite identify. Then she told herself sternly that she was bound to feel strange. It had been a gruelling time, with everything slightly heightened, slightly surreal. If she felt closer to Fitch, it was because they had been thrown together by the tragedy. Nothing more.

  She took a tray of sandwiches into the girls for lunch. They were in the living room, half-heartedly watching television. They barely ate.

  Eventually Jade turned to her, eyes wide.

  ‘We’re worried that we might forget what Mummy looks like.’

  ‘Well,’ said Charlotte carefully. ‘You’ve got lots of photos, surely.’

  ‘Not really,’ said Amber. ‘There’re no really good ones of her. We’ve looked.’

  Charlotte racked her brains, horrified by their plight. They needed some reminder of their mum, something to hold on to, something to comfort them when they were missing her.

  ‘I tell you what,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we do a picture? I’ll help you. A nice big picture that you can put up in your bedroom and look at whenever you want.’

  Their faces lit up.

  ‘Go and get your paints,’ Charlotte told them. ‘I’ll get some paper.’ They scampered out of the room to do her bidding. Charlotte sighed, hoping that she was doing the right thing. Of course she was, she told herself. The wrong thing had already happened. Hayley was dead. Anything, anything at all she could do to help from now on was going to be the right thing.

  The funeral service went as well as could be expected. The entire village seemed to be there, as well as most of the hunt and the shoot, shuffling in wearing rain-spattered wax jackets. The air smelled of wet wool and damp dog.

  Catkin stood out in purple velvet, a touch of glamour amidst the drabness. She refused to wear black to funerals. She did a wonderful reading, the congregation rapt as she recited the words to ‘Every Breath You Take’, one of Hayley’s favourite songs. It had been Charlotte’s idea, and Fitch knew that Hayley would have got a kick out of a celebrity at her funeral. She went in for that kind of thing.

  The burial, by contrast, was horrendous. The wind whipped cruelly through the graveyard. The rain had fallen harder than ever, making the grave slippery and waterlogged. As the first soggy clods of earth had hit the coffin, Barbara had given a keening wail and collapsed onto her eldest son. The noise had continued throughout the vicar’s carefully chosen words. No one could wait to escape to the warmth and comfort of the pub. The rush to leave the graveside was almost indecent.

  Fitch lagged behind, wanting to thank the vicar and the undertakers for making sure everything ran smoothly. He was in no rush to get to the Trout and be faced with more commiserations. Not that he wasn’t grateful for people’s kind thoughts, but he was tired of it all. It was time to move on. He was clinging on to the thought of tomorrow, when he could get back to normal.

  As he left the churchyard, a man fell into step beside him. He looked up, brow furrowed.

  Kirk.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Fitch growled.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ Kirk said urgently. ‘I know I’m the last person you want to see. And I’m not going to make any trouble. There’s just something I think you should know.’

  Fitch tensed his fists. What was the bastard going to come out with? Some fucking plot twist worthy of a Martina Cole novel? Was he after money?

  ‘She was coming back to you.’

  Fitch wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.

  ‘What?’

  Kirk sighed, and passed a hand over his face. He looked terrible. Gaunt and red-eyed, not the smug picture of rude health that Fitch remembered.

  ‘We’d been out to dinner. She told me it was all over. That she wanted to make a go of it with you.’ There was a slight crack in his voice, and Fitch realised that he was struggling to hold it together. ‘She did love you, you know. And the girls. Me and her, it was just one of them things. Chemistry, you know. It was never going to last . . .’ He trailed off, clearly choked. ‘I’m sorry if . . .’

  He turned away, and Fitch watched him put the crook of his elbow to his eyes, to staunch the tears.

  ‘You’re all right.’ Fitch put a hand on his arm.

  ‘I wasn’t going to come,’ Kirk spoke in a rush, suddenly defiant. ‘But she’d have wanted you to know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Fitch. ‘I appreciate it.’

  And he did. It must have taken a lot for Kirk to drive down here and approach him. He needn’t have told him anything, could have kept Hayley’s secret to himself for ever more.

  ‘I know I wasn’t always as good to her as I could have been,’ Kirk was saying. ‘And I’m sorry for that. Really sorry . . .’

  Tears were streaming down his face now, unstaunched, and his shoulders began to heave. Fitch watched in disbelief as this huge brute of a man sobbed, understandably reluctant to console him but moved nevertheless.

  ‘I better go,’ choked Kirk eventually through his tears.

  Fitch held out his hand.

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ he said, that anodyne blokey phrase that said everything and nothing.

  And the two of them shook hands, Hayley’s husband and her lover, united in their grief and their disbelief as the rain fell relentlessly on.

  In the Trout, Norman had done them all proud, serving big mugs of cream-topped hot chocolate fortified with brandy. Plentiful trays of food were passed around all afternoon and into the evening as the residents of Withybrook came together to remember one of their own, telling tales that grew increasingly bawdy as the drink flowed. Fitch had stood on the sidelines, not sure of his role, especially in the light of Kirk’s revelation.

  The news had stunned him. His mind was whirling. Hayley had been coming back to him. How did that make him feel? He didn’t know. All he did know was it made her death even more futile, more tragic. And the knowledge didn’t stop him asking himself what he could have done differently. He would never stop asking himself that.

  At nine o’clock the band struck up, and the music and dancing began. Fitch had to admit that it was a fitting tribute to his wife. She would have been there in the middle of it a
ll, the party girl, flitting from man to man. For a moment he imagined her amidst the mêlée, her flashing eyes, her smile. That come-hither look she gave everyone she came into contact with, the look that promised so much.

  And in that moment, he knew. Even if she had come back, he would never have been able to trust her. Not really. He would always be afraid that she would be seeking the next thrill, because she thrived on drama and controversy. And he wondered if her telling Kirk she was coming back was just another one of her games, a ploy for more attention. He knew it was awful, thinking about her like that when she wasn’t here to defend herself, but he doubted he would have believed her if she was.

  At ten, Fitch swallowed down a final brandy and slipped away. His in-laws would be fine. They had their extended family around them. They didn’t need him for support.

  Inside, the house was quiet. He looked into the kitchen. On the work surface, he saw a large painting. He took a sharp breath in. It was a picture of Hayley, remarkable in its likeness. She was smiling, wearing her jeans and a blue flowery shirt that she was always fond of. Charlotte must have drawn it, he realised, with some input from the girls. One of them had written ‘Mummy’ in spidery black writing underneath. He touched the surface in wonder. The paint was still wet. He drew his hand away, not wanting to spoil it.

  He looked in the living room, but it was empty, then crept up the stairs. The girls’ bedroom was empty too. He felt slightly anxious. Perhaps they had gone back to Charlotte’s house?

  He found the three of them in his bed, Jade and Amber under the duvet, Charlotte on top between them, fast asleep with a copy of Dr Seuss in her hand. They must have asked to sleep in there; they had taken to sharing his bed since Hayley’s death and how could he refuse them?

  He reached out and touched Charlotte gently on the leg to wake her. She woke immediately, then smiled when she saw him. She scooted to the bottom of the bed, careful not to wake the girls. He put a finger to his lips, indicating that she should follow him downstairs.

  He took off his jacket in the living room, throwing it onto the back of the sofa, then sitting down with a sigh, stretching himself out.

  ‘How did it go?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘OK,’ he said. ‘OK . . .’ He put his head back and shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted. He had got through the day on adrenalin, he realised.

  ‘I’ll make some tea.’

  He nodded, managing a smile. ‘Tea would be great. How were the girls?’

  ‘They were . . . amazing. We did a picture - for them to remember.’

  ‘I saw. It’s fantastic. Thank you . . .’

  He didn’t know how to express his appreciation. He’d tell her tomorrow. How he’d never have been able to get through it without her . . .

  When Charlotte came back with the tea, Fitch was fast asleep. She gazed at him, his dark lashes resting on his cheeks, all the stress and worry gone. She swallowed. She was supposed to be leaving Withybrook at the end of the week. She’d booked a fortnight in Portugal, hoping for some sun and relaxation while she decided what to do next with her life. But how could she leave this little family, just when they needed her? She wasn’t flattering herself. At least, she didn’t think so. They needed someone around to take their mind off things, to do the mundane things that they couldn’t put their mind to, provide a distraction . . .

  She decided she’d call Sebastian in the morning. See if his offer still stood. She could stay on for another couple of months while the house was on the market. Even if it sold tomorrow, it would be a while before contracts were exchanged. Yes, she decided. That was the right thing to do. It would give her something to get her teeth into, and she could keep an eye on Fitch. Just while he got himself back on his feet.

  She sat on the sofa next to him. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he must have been through over the past few days. She picked up his hand, and kissed the back of his fingers gently, one by one. He opened his eyes. She stopped, feeling incredibly foolish. He gave her a small, sleepy smile. She held his gaze, then bent her head to kiss the last finger. His smile widened, and he gave her hand the tiniest squeeze in return. Then his eyes closed, as if his lashes were unbearably heavy, and he fell back to sleep.

  She sat, holding his hand, happy just to watch him until he woke again.