War of the Wives

by Tamar Cohen

  “Mum!” Sadie clearly felt this was an intrusion too far, but Flora didn’t seem to mind.

  “Sometimes I miss being with someone. I don’t think I’m really cut out to be on my own, although it’s not nearly as scary as I thought it would be. But no, I’m glad I kicked him out, really. He was a twat.”

  “Flora Busfield!” Josh made his voice stern, unaware of how much he sounded suddenly like his dead father.

  “Crikey, it’s like Piccadilly Circus in here,” said Emma, returning with Jules from the hospital cafeteria, where they’d been celebrating their niece’s birth with a cup of tea and a slice of slightly dry carrot cake. She glanced around warily. This new unwieldy family her younger sister had suddenly acquired still required some getting used to, although it was getting easier all the time.

  “I’ve got to get home. Finn will be waiting for me,” said Jules, coloring as usual at the mention of her new boyfriend’s name. “I’ll drop Emma at the station on the way.”

  As goodbyes were being said and hugs given and the baby showered with kisses and then showered some more, yet another figure appeared in the doorway of the ward, hanging back to allow the leave-takers to wind up their business, pretending to adjust the ribbon on her enormous bouquet of flowers. There was an awkward moment as the two sisters passed her on their way out. “Oh, hello, Selina,” said Jules. “Didn’t notice you there. We’re just leaving, actually.”

  “Don’t worry,” added Emma. “It’s nothing to do with you, we were going already.”

  They all smiled, although the joke was too close to the truth to be completely comfortable. They were all trying very hard, but it would take time to completely forget the insults of the past, or to accept that the biggest insult of them all wasn’t the fault of this woman with her loose gray-streaked hair and tired blue eyes, any more than it was Lottie’s fault. They’d both been victims, the sisters had to keep reminding themselves. They’d both suffered. Still, baby steps.

  After they’d gone, Selina made her way to the end of the ward and perched on the edge of Lottie’s bed.

  “They’re beautiful but you shouldn’t have,” the younger woman said, indicating the flowers. “Money’s tight enough as it is.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Selina Busfield. “When was the last time we had anything to celebrate?”

  She hadn’t looked at the baby yet. She was gearing herself up to it. She just wasn’t quite ready. But Flora, who’d never understood about personal space, just said, “Here,” and thrust the tightly wrapped bundle into her arms. It had been many years since Selina had held a newborn, but there are some instincts you never unlearn. She sat up straight and raised her right elbow so that the baby’s head nestled into the crook of her arm. For a few long seconds, they appraised each other, woman and child. Selina was the only one of Hope’s many visitors who wasn’t related to her by blood. There was nothing to say there should be any connection between these two at all. And yet there was. Relief flooded through Selina, and she felt her whole body relax.

  Lottie must have noticed it, too, because she summoned Sadie and Josh and asked them to go to the cafeteria to fetch two teas.

  “But it doesn’t take two of us to do that,” protested Sadie, gazing longingly at her baby sister as if even a few minutes’ separation was unbearable.

  “Sadie. Please?”

  For a split second the old defensive scowl was back and Josh, watching, held his breath, but then the moment passed.

  “Come on, then,” said Sadie, getting to her feet. “Flora, want to join us?”

  “Why not?” said Flora, seeing the tired slump of her mother’s shoulders, knowing how much she was keeping inside her.

  When they were alone, Selina remained staring fascinatedly into the baby’s eyes until she couldn’t any longer put off the moment of looking up and meeting Lottie’s quizzical gaze.

  “Have you come straight from seeing him?”

  Selina nodded heavily.

  “He’s doing a lot better,” she said. “Really, without the drugs he’s a different person. The doctors are thrilled.”

  The consultant at the medical facility where Felix was living hadn’t used the word thrilled, but it sounded better than cautiously optimistic, Selina felt. And surely no one would begrudge her the odd stretching of the truth.

  “And how’s the job?”

  “Oh, you know, nonstop glamour, lots of travel, fancy hotels.” Selina caught Lottie’s raised eyebrow and relented. “It’s not so bad, really. I’d forgotten how amazing children of that age can be. As well as infuriating, obviously. And it keeps me too busy to think during the days, so that’s a blessing.”

  “And the flat?”

  “It’s fine. I’m getting used to it now. The first of the flowers I planted when we moved in are in bloom, and that makes a difference. It’s starting to feel like home.”

  “I still feel bad that you had to move while I’ve kept my home.”

  “Don’t be silly. The endowment paid up as soon as the inquest ruled out suicide, and it was right for you to have the money. After what happened with Felix and Sadie...”

  Selina’s eyes once again met Lottie’s before both looked away. There had long been a truce between these two, but it had never fully tipped into friendship, and each was wary of overstepping the line.

  “He didn’t force her. She was lost at that time. I let her get lost.”

  There was a pause, then Lottie leaned forward to hold out a finger, which Hope grasped with intensity.

  “Anyway—” Selina kept her eyes on the baby as if she were talking to her instead of Lottie “—it was my fault, all of it. I should have let Simon go when he asked me all those years ago in Italy.”

  Again, there was a silence.

  “What would have happened if Josh hadn’t come in that last night?” Lottie blurted out suddenly, as if it was something she’d wanted to ask for a long time. “Do you think Felix would have...?”

  Selina shook her head, revealing more streaks of gray underneath the top layer of hair. “I try not to think about what-ifs. Nowadays I just think about what is. Besides, I know Felix wouldn’t have hurt me. He was just lost, that’s all, like Sadie.”

  “Speaking of what is... The new man?”

  Selina’s face turned as pink as the rosebuds on the onesie Hope was wearing under her blanket.

  “Early days,” she said, and her voice was suddenly like she’d borrowed it from someone much younger.

  Later, after the rest of the Busfields and Carling-Busfields had gone, Lottie lay in her hospital bed gazing at her new daughter as if trying to commit her to memory. Already she had thick dark hair like Lottie’s own, but she would have Simon’s mouth with its distinctive teardrop shape above her top lip, just like her older sister. Lottie was also convinced that when Hope’s eyes changed color, they would be green just like her father’s.

  She still felt that jolt of betrayal when she thought about Simon, but the pain had eased, and sometimes now she could remember him just as he was, without that need to eulogize or attack him. She could see now that he hadn’t been a bad person. He’d just been able to tuck secrets away in pockets so far inside him that he didn’t need to see or think about them—until it was too late. And he’d convinced himself that love was the thing, that you could forgive yourself anything if it was done for love.

  “You can never love too much,” he told her once. “Only not enough.” At the time, Lottie had thought it romantic, but now she saw that he was only justifying his choices.

  Many times over the past few months she’d wished she’d never met him, but now, looking down at the daughter they’d made together, she couldn’t wish it any different. Sometimes there was a price to pay for happiness. She’d learned that, even if Simon never had.

  “You’ve a big family.�
� The woman in the next bed was looking over at Lottie with a dreamy smile, and Lottie instantly recognized the shell-shocked expression of the first-time mother.

  “Is your husband not around?”

  The question was as guileless as it was tactless, and Lottie found she didn’t mind.

  “No.” She shook her head, so that the ends of her long hair tickled her daughter’s face. She really must get a haircut one of these days.

  “Oh, well,” said the other woman, glancing back to her own baby, asleep in its incubator, as if to assure herself it was still there. “You’ve got plenty of support from the looks of it, so who needs him, hey? It’s his funeral, at the end of the day.”

  It was just a silly expression, so the woman couldn’t really understand why her neighbor with the long dark curls seemed to find it so very, very funny.

  * * * * *

  Acknowledgments

  People aren’t joking when they talk about Second Novel Syndrome (think Second Album Syndrome but without the bonus of five months’ thumb-twiddling in a Bahaman recording studio waiting for inspiration to strike). It has been a uniquely challenging experience, and I wouldn’t have survived it without the help and support of many talented people.

  First and foremost, my wonderful editor at Doubleday, Marianne Velmans, who encouraged me throughout and said the tough things that needed saying in the nicest of ways. This book wouldn’t have been possible without her. A massive thank-you also to her assistant, Suzanne Bridson, who gave invaluable suggestions and read all the different drafts more times than was probably good for her sanity. Thanks also to the entire team at Transworld, especially Lynsey Dalladay, Kate Samano and Larry Finlay, and to Janine Giovanni for her perfectly timed vote of confidence.

  Felicity Blunt, my lovely UK agent, has stuck with me and with this book throughout very exciting times in her own life. Thanks to her and to Katie McGowan and everyone else at Curtis Brown for their continued support.

  Also massive thanks to my wonderful American agent, Deborah Schneider, who worked tirelessly to find a US home for this book. I feel so lucky to be published by MIRA and so grateful to Tara Parsons for her support and to Michelle Meade for her sensitive and insightful editing.

  I’d like to thank Detective Chief Superintendent Mary Doyle for answering various police-related questions, and Nicky Stewart for advice on legal details. In both areas, any mistakes that remain are entirely my own.

  When a book goes through several incarnations, as this one did, it takes an exceptionally loyal friend to read every one of them, which is why I’m so grateful to the supremely generous and patient Rikki Finegold. Thanks also to old pal and early reader Mel Amos for her insight.

  Finally, I’d like to thank Michael for putting up with a lot while this book has been in gestations, and my three fantastic children, who, much as they drive me mad, also without doubt keep me sane.

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  ISBN-13: 9781460343210

  War of the Wives

  Copyright © 2015 by Tamar Cohen

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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