She's Mine

by A A Chaudhuri

  Logically, I guess that makes sense. But these things are easier said than done. I mean, it must feel strange knowing that your future daughter-in-law has an insight into your thoughts, fears, failings. Your daily purgatory. Your secrets. How vulnerable you must feel. Above all, mothers-in-law want to feel strong, in control, be sounding boards for their children and their spouses, but you must feel weak, exposed, and I feel bad that I can’t help you with that, even though, for so long, I’ve resented you, almost enjoyed seeing you suffer after you lost our child and pushed me away.

  I admitted this to Miranda one night, a long time ago now, whilst we were having a late-night call and I’d had one too many whiskies. As usual, she took my side, said it was a perfectly normal reaction to have and that I shouldn’t feel guilty about it. That I had every reason to resent you. I also had a feeling that she’d discovered something about you, something I wasn’t going to like. I didn’t ask her what it was, though. I wasn’t strong enough for more bad news. I know she was trying to be kind, that I should have been grateful for her support, but when she said all that, it riled me somewhat. She can be so blinkered about me, it makes me wonder if she just says things to please me. It also struck me as double standards that she appeared to have no qualms about badmouthing you behind your back, but at the same time be your friend to your face.

  I think she picked up on my disapproval because then she backed down, said it couldn’t have been easy on either of us and that maybe you and I needed a break. She was probably right about that. I perhaps should have moved out for a bit, given us space, but by then, we’d had Daniel and I didn’t want to leave him alone with you. I wanted to make sure he was safe and loved. By me, at least. Thinking about it, I wonder if that’s why he’s getting married so young, and to someone older. Symptomatic of his inherent need to be loved, cared for.

  I can’t lie here any more. You are sleeping, though not entirely peacefully, because every now and again, you give a little whimper, jerk your shoulders, as if you’re having an unpleasant dream. But it’s not that which causes my insomnia; it’s my guilt. Not just because I wasn’t there for you today, but also for being repeatedly unfaithful to you, even though, until today, I told myself that it served you right, that I have nothing to feel guilty about after the way you treated me and the kids.

  Recently, you’ve seemed warmer, more approachable, like you’re making an effort to open up to me, get closer to me. But is it too late, I wonder? Truth is, I’m torn between breaking things off with Amber and trying again with you – particularly in light of the note and the possibility that Heidi might still be alive – and staying with Amber and her intoxicating elixir for life. Her amazing body, her ability to make me feel young and attractive and optimistic, even though I know how shitty and cruel life can be. I know that if I continue to see her, it can only end badly. But she’s like a magnet I can’t – don’t want to –

  repel; an exciting temptation I don’t want to be led away from because it gives me so much pleasure, and I want to feel pleasure, I deserve it after all I’ve been through.

  But again, I feel guilty for even thinking this, and I know I cannot lie next to you a second longer because the guilt is killing me. I get up, feel my way downstairs in the dark and head for the study, where I turn on the light, then sit down at my desk, thinking I might as well check my emails because I’m not going to get much chance later with completion meetings and so forth.

  I have 200 new emails, some of them important, some of them junk, which I automatically bin. But then something catches my eye. It’s from an address I don’t recognize, with no subject heading, but there is an attachment. The email itself is blank. It’s probably spam and my head says don’t open it because it’s doubtless some hacker and opening it will unleash a whole host of problems. But my heart says otherwise, and I cannot resist. Feeling wide awake now, I double-click on the attachment and see five words typed in capital letters:

  YOUR WIFE IS A WHORE.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Heidi

  Now

  It’s been fun watching your movements recently. Watching you come and go, enter and leave your psychiatrist’s home, reliant on yet another quack to untwist that twisted mind of yours, still failing to accept that only you, and you alone, can do that, by taking responsibility for your own actions. But that’s always been your biggest problem. You’ve been so used to getting your own way all your life, you think you’re immune to judgement. Even now, after twenty-three years of guilt eating away at you, reducing you to a deplorable scrawny wretch of a woman, whose own family resents her, you refuse to come clean.

  That’s what my mother says. That’s what she despises most about you, the fact that you won’t own up, and the fact that you’ve always acted so entitled, never really appreciated how goddamn lucky you are to have the life you have with Greg. And despite what the note says – accusing you of being an unfit mother – you’re still too chicken to tell your nearest and dearest the truth. A cowardly part of you clinging to the hope it’s just another creep who doesn’t have a clue what he or she is talking about and so with time it will all blow over.

  I wonder how you can live with yourself. All these people who have loved you: Janine, Miranda, Greg, you owe them the truth. But it seems that your selfishness knows no bounds. And that’s why I won’t let up until your deceit is laid bare and you lose everyone who made the mistake of ever loving you.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Christine

  Now

  I didn’t see Greg this morning. It wasn’t as if I got up late. I woke at 7 a.m., but he was already gone. Usually I stir when he unwraps himself from our duvet, so the fact that I didn’t on this occasion makes me think he got up in the middle of the night and didn’t come back to bed. The study door was open when I went downstairs, but I’m certain I closed it when we retired for the night, so perhaps he couldn’t sleep and decided to check his emails and go in early.

  It irritates me, because he knows what a shock I had yesterday, and he’d seemed genuinely apologetic about not making it home for lunch with Daniel and Dr Cousins, or Freya as I should probably get used to calling her when we’re not having a session. He hasn’t even bothered to leave me a note or send me a text to explain his early departure and check that I’m OK. It’s my own fault. I pushed him away for so long, how can I now expect him to treat me with kid gloves on the basis of recent events?

  I’m seeing Dr Cousins/Freya a little later, at eleven. Despite only seeing her on Saturday, we decided to keep our appointment scheduled for today. She’s so nice. Yesterday, when Daniel went to the bathroom, I didn’t even have to raise the question as to whether it was wise for us to carry on our sessions, because she read my mind – which I suppose isn’t surprising as it’s her job to read people’s minds – and assured me repeatedly that things didn’t, and shouldn’t, have to change between us on a professional level, just because she’s marrying my son. She said I shouldn’t think of her as my future daughter-in-law when she is being my psychiatrist, and that she certainly won’t treat me any differently during our sessions just because I’m her fiancé’s mother.

  And so I am going to be rational about it, give it a go, because it felt like our sessions were helping and I don’t want to stop unnecessarily. Daniel didn’t mention the note and so I’m certain he’s still in the dark about that, which only goes to show how professional Freya is, and that my secrets are safe with her.

  Greg and I must tell him and Ella soon, though. It’s just a case of finding the right moment.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Greg

  Now

  We don’t usually meet in public, but I really needed to see you, Amber. When I called, you weren’t at home; you were just coming out of the gym, having done an early morning spin class. You spin at your local gym three times a week, and it shows. Unlike Chrissy, you look fit and healthy. Not too skinny, but slim and toned with curves in all the right places. You look slig
htly flushed as you walk into Deco’s – a trendy cafe fashioned in the Art Deco style – and spot me at a table for two at the back, trying not to look conspicuous, even though it feels like I’m on some reality show and the whole world is watching me, waiting to catch me and my infidelity out.

  But I don’t care. I can’t get the email out of my head; the accusation that my wife is a whore is too shocking to discount, to keep bottled up inside me. And I can’t help wondering whether it was sent by the same person who sent Chrissy the note. It just seems like too much of a coincidence, in which case, I should probably tell Chrissy about it, and we should both tell the police. But I can’t quite bring myself to do that. Not before I’ve spoken to someone about it. Someone neutral and uncomplicated. Someone like you.

  You approach the table, wearing Lycra leggings and a purple zip-up top, pulled down just enough to reveal the top of your cleavage. There’s still a faint line of sweat on your chest, and your face has a glow about it, while your hair is pulled up in a high ponytail. You look so young dressed as you are, with no make-up, and again it makes me question what on earth you are doing with me. I suddenly feel ashamed of my behaviour, like I’m some dirty old man. Then again, you’re probably off screwing guys your own age on the nights you don’t see me. I mean, who am I kidding, that’s what young, attractive, single girls like you should be doing. Although, of course, the rules are different for my daughter. I shudder at the thought of Ella doing such a thing.

  I’ve already ordered you a skinny latte, your favourite, while I’ve gone for a large, full-fat version. Slyly scanning the other patrons as you sit down opposite me, you smile faintly, and look nearly as nervous as I feel, which is hardly surprising because it occurs to me how panicked I must have sounded on the phone, and you must surely be wondering what was so urgent that I needed to see you at 8 a.m. on a Monday morning.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ you say, gesturing to your latte, before you coolly bring the mug to your lips and take a sip.

  I say it’s nothing, then take a sip of my own drink, before setting it down on the table, at which point I start tapping the side of my mug with my forefinger.

  ‘What is it, Greg?’ you ask, eyeing me with concern – or is it irritation, I can’t quite tell? Or maybe I’m just imagining things?

  I don’t dither. I pull out a folded piece of paper from my jacket pocket and hand it to you.

  You look at it with a puzzled expression, then ask, ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Open it,’ I say, my heart beating frantically.

  You look nervous again; you’re probably asking yourself what the hell you’ve got yourself into, thinking that perhaps you should never have given a washed-out middle-aged man like me the time of day. But then you slowly unfold the paper and read the words, frowning, before looking up at me with quizzical eyes. ‘Where did you get this?’

  ‘It was sent to my email account last night.’

  ‘From who?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t recognize the address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know what the sender’s getting at?’

  This strikes me as a rather superfluous question, because it seems pretty obvious what the sender is getting at. He or she is insinuating that my wife has cheated on me, perhaps many times. I repeat my thoughts to you, whereupon you redden slightly, and I feel bad for laying this on you because, of course, it isn’t your problem. You didn’t sign up to be my agony aunt.

  ‘And do you think it’s come from the same person who sent the note?’ you ask, doing your best to look interested and concerned.

  ‘It has to be the same person, don’t you think? It’s too much of a coincidence, and if you remember me saying, the note claimed that Heidi was better off with her kidnapper than with Chrissy – this email appears to be telling us why.’

  ‘You mean because Chrissy slept around, and therefore wasn’t fit to be a mother to Heidi?’

  ‘That’s the implication, yes.’

  ‘Did you ever have any inkling that Chrissy might have cheated on you?’

  ‘No, none at all.’ And that’s the God’s honest truth.

  ‘Are you going to show it to Chrissy?’

  I sit back and sigh. ‘I think I have to. I just can’t ignore it, and who knows what other messages we’ll get? We need to be on the same page. The police also need to know. They may be able to trace the email, spot a pattern.’

  ‘I’m no expert, but unless this person wants to be found, I’m sure they’ve done everything possible to ensure the email can’t be traced back to them.’

  I smile wryly, thinking you’re not just a pretty face. ‘Yes, you’re probably right, but I have to try at least.’

  You smile back, reach for my hand and take it in yours, and we stay locked in that moment for some time, smiling at one another. But then, as I happen to glance past your shoulder, I see the door open, and a new customer walks in.

  My heart drops to my stomach. This surely can’t be happening.

  It’s Janine.

  She spots me, as if she has a cheat antenna attached to her head. And even though you have your back to her, she sees that I am not alone, that I am holding hands with a woman who isn’t Chrissy.

  She sees that her best friend’s husband is an adulterer.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Christine

  Now

  It’s just gone 10 a.m. I plan to head out in half an hour, but before I do, I’m going to call Janine. I’ve not had a chance to respond to the text she sent me late last night. She asked how lunch had gone and was keen to know what I made of Daniel’s fiancée, but I had a lot of clearing up to do after they left around five, and then Greg came home and that conversation took a while. By the time we were done talking, I was beat, and just wanted my bed. I can’t imagine her reaction when I tell her Daniel is marrying our shrink. Or Miranda’s for that matter. After all, she was the one who brought Dr Cousins into our lives.

  Apparently, they met at a festival last summer. Freya was in the row behind Daniel watching some band or other. They made eye contact, got talking, went for a drink, and things just went from there. One of those instances where two people gel immediately, although – and I’m really not trying to belittle Daniel in any way because he’s a bright, good-looking boy – Freya could have her pick of men and I would have pictured her with some smart, dashing doctor.

  It’s obvious what Daniel saw in her, though. She’s stunning, intelligent, has a lovely personality (I saw a warm, funny side to her at lunch, very different from the serious, professional persona she adopts in our sessions, making the age gap less noticeable), and Daniel must know he’s hit the jackpot. So really, I should be over the moon for him as he’s not exactly had a great track record when it comes to relationships.

  I pick up the phone and dial Janine’s number. She’ll know it’s me because we have special ringtones programmed in for each other. But it takes eight rings for her to pick up.

  ‘Hi.’ It’s not a bright and breezy ‘hi’. It’s almost reticent, like she’s on edge about something and reluctant to speak to me.

  I wonder what’s wrong, whether I’ve done something to upset her. My stomach feels uneasy as I say, ‘Hi, Jani. What’s up, you OK? You don’t sound right.’

  There’s hesitation at her end.

  ‘What is it?’ I press, really starting to worry. ‘Listen, I have to go out soon, I’ve got a session with Dr Cousins, so whatever it is, tell me, please.’

  ‘OK, but I think you should sit down.’

  My stomach is now in knots and I feel rather light-headed, wondering what the hell she’s going to say. All sorts of morbid thoughts filter through my mind, like she’s got cancer, or someone close to me has died or been involved in a serious accident.

  I perch on the bottom step of the hall stairs, phone pressed against my ear, and say nervously, ‘OK, I’m sitting, so what is it?’

  ‘OK, so…’ I hear her inhale deeply,
like she needs the extra air to get the words out. ‘So I went for a swim this morning, like I often do, at Swiss Cottage gym, and afterwards, I fancied a coffee, and so I popped into Deco’s to grab one to go…’ Another pause, and I haven’t the foggiest what’s coming but I also feel relieved that she’s clearly not about to tell me she’s dying.

  ‘And?’ I probe.

  ‘And I saw Greg with another woman.’ She rushes this last sentence, as if she’s ingesting a bitter-tasting medicine she knows she must take quickly if she’s ever going to keep it down.

  I’m stunned. It’s so not what I expected. ‘What time was that?’ I just about get the words out, feeling foolish for assuming he must have headed to the office early.

  ‘Around eight-fifteen.’

  ‘Perhaps it was a business meeting?’ Even as I suggest this, I know how far-fetched it is. Why would he be having a business meeting in Swiss Cottage? It just wouldn’t happen.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Janine says cagily, like she feels bad for not confirming my hope.

  ‘What did she look like? Old, young? Did it seem like they knew each other well?’

  More hesitation. Then, ‘Perhaps I should come over?’

  This gets my goat, and I lose patience, even though I know I am being unfair because Janine is just trying to protect me, soften the blow. ‘No, I don’t have time, I told you I have a session at eleven, so just answer the bloody question, will you?’