The Perfect Widow

by A. M. Castle

  Then, just when I’d thought things could hardly be more perfect, I got pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but immediately Patrick was as thrilled as me. We’d swirled the possibility around, but had always thought it would happen later, when we were more settled, more securely on our way. But life has a way of turning even the best-laid plans upside down.

  Having kids together, that’s the glue, isn’t it? The cement that holds a man and woman together, makes individuals into a family. With one of each, a boy and a girl, we got the perfect result. It seemed to be yet more proof that we were invincible. From the outside, the four of us looked solid. It was as though we all held up our own corner of our lovely house.

  And I was good at pregnancy, too. I’d thought I’d hate it, the loss of autonomy, the sense that someone else is in the control room all of a sudden, making you put on shedloads of weight, grow ponderous and swollen, steering a path you can’t see or alter, that leads inexorably to the delivery room and the very, very bad idea that a fully formed human can emerge from your vagina.

  But I got through it all. We sniggered our way through the antenatal classes. The lessons in huffing and puffing, the enthusiasm for water births and whale music. Even the ridiculous notion that it was somehow more noble to have this eight-pound object emerge from your nethers if you did it without an anaesthetic. Luckily, we had private medical insurance by that time and I managed to convince my consultant that a caesarean was the only way to go. By this stage, I was most definitely too posh to push, thank God.

  It wasn’t until after the births that I realised what the real point of the antenatal group had been. To introduce you to other women who were going through the same new-baby experience, at the same time as you.

  I’d avoided all Stacy’s overtures at the original classes. But then I’d arrived home with my first little shrivelled screaming baby. I looked down into his squinty, raging ink-blue eyes. The love I had for Patrick, huge though it was, was but a shadow of this new, all-consuming passion. But I needed so much help to get through this. In minutes I was searching out Stacy’s number and begging her for a coffee.

  I’d seen, even while she was pregnant and the size of a blue whale, that Stacy was going to be brilliant at this motherhood lark. I badly needed someone to copy. Jen had been fabulous at getting me this far, helping me transform myself into Patrick’s wife; now I needed another example to help me become Giles’s mum. Motherhood was a bit of a crisis for me. It could have gone so wrong. I could have lost sight of my perpetual mission, to be better, to better myself. I could have just followed the vile pattern I’d been set. It would have been a lot easier.

  Instead, I did everything I could to carve a different path. It’s hard doing that single-handedly. I already knew several shedloads of stuff I shouldn’t be doing, from mainlining drugs down. If I could pick up some useful tips from watching Stacy, a woman who seemed incomplete without a child attached to her like a limpet on a rock, then so much the better for everyone.

  I’d never gone in for lots of friends, it was like a language I didn’t speak. Most people learned it young, in the playground. But it had never crossed my mind to bring anyone from school home. Why would I want a witness seeing what my life was like? Even if there had been a single person there who’d have said yes. Even if my mother would have let them over the threshold.

  Jen had been a wonderful mentor. There’d been Trish at work as well, and even Sal, my number two on the desk, I suppose. That had been plenty. It was only when I was home with babies that I realised how much I actually needed the company of other women. Although technically I wasn’t alone anymore, with a baby in the house, I’d never felt so dangerously isolated. With so few clues to go on, I needed to see how this motherhood lark was done first-hand. And Stacy, messy and chaotic as she cheerfully admitted she was, became my accidental role model.

  Without her I’d have found it so much tougher. Unless you’ve been faced with the crescendos of wails, those unrelenting hours with a small, anger-filled blob, poop at one end and sick at the other, you just don’t know how hard it can be.

  I loved them so much, but it’s a fine line, finer than a silent movie star’s eyebrow. There’s nothing like another being’s total dependency on you to make you realise your power – and your responsibility. I now saw how astonishing it was that I’d ever made it to adulthood. I decided that my mother must have just zoned out a lot of those years, with the aid of the ever-handy drink and drugs, while I’d brought myself up, a truth locked so deep I couldn’t remember it.

  I, of course, wanted to do things differently – perfectly. Not for the first time, I wondered about my absent father. Maybe he’d levered himself off that grim sofa and then put in an eighteen-hour day somewhere else. Because someone, somewhere in my background had a strong work ethic. It certainly wasn’t Mum, so could it have been him? Maybe he was a perfectionist too. It would definitely explain why he hadn’t hung around at our place.

  Thanks to the way the world is skewed, as the children grew I spent my days at home, acting as a taxi service to my growing children, ferrying them from ballet to football and back again, while Patrick was out there, in the workplace, earning ever-greater fortunes – and doing lots of other things as well.

  I always loved my part in our little equation. My kids, the home. Our life. It seemed more than enough, to do this well. And, to be honest, I was never qualified to do much else, on paper at least. After escaping my mother’s house, any letters after my name were always going to be AWOL, not PhD. So, when I briefly considered going back to work after having the kids, I realised it would be crazy.

  I loved what I was doing in my small domestic sphere and, though I felt a tiny bit vulnerable, not having a Plan B, why did I need one? After all, Patrick was my Plan A. He would always be in my corner. Why wouldn’t he be? I was his greatest fan, and his support system. Clean shirt? Dinner on the table? Cheerleader and groupie? Tick, tick, tick, I took care of everything at home and made it oh-so-easy for him to leave it every day. My hero, conquering the outside world.

  So, once I was pregnant, that was that. I earned little enough from my job anyway. Certainly wasn’t worth the hassle of finding another, once the kids were here, to pay a pittance straight into some other woman’s pocket. If anyone was going to be doing the child-minding, it would be me. And, because I’d seen how not to do it, at very close quarters, I was going to be the best mum ever. Hands down.

  Of course, I hadn’t really reckoned with the reality. Pushing swings, for example. The minutes drag more heavily than the arc of the rusted chains, the creaking of the frame is the yawning stretch of time. And how do you discipline children, when all you’ve ever known is the sharp sting of the slap … or worse? It was tough.

  Crying babies did my head in, toddlers outwitted me, the whole applecart was in danger of tipping. But then, as usual, I resorted to something that had never let me down, in all my lonely years on the planet. Books.

  Toddler Taming. I wished. The Contented Little Baby. In my dreams. Positive Parenting. Ugh. But gradually, the kids grew, and I did too. My skills developed, one step ahead, most of the time, and we scrambled through. It helped a lot that I wasn’t a helpless junkie and alcoholic. And that I loved them so, so much.

  Chapter 38

  Now

  Becca

  Becca took a look round the Indian restaurant and snapped off another bit of the poppadum in front of her before sneaking it into her mouth. Anxious, she’d left too much time for her journey, found the place too quickly. And now he was late. It was still almost empty, snowy tables beautifully laid and expectant, teenage waiters loitering around the back, whispering in their magenta waistcoats. She wouldn’t have worn one for love nor money at their age. The music was muted, the lighting was dim. She felt like a right pillock, sitting here. Lonely splendour, they said, didn’t they?

  She didn’t bother with the little dips. The red one was usually ferocious, the green one too gloopy, and the chopped-up on
ion … Well, was there a reason why she shouldn’t have onion breath tonight? She squirmed inwardly, loath to admit her pathetic longings, even to herself. She’d been so sure she didn’t fancy him. But as soon as there’d been a glimmer … she slapped herself down, mentally. Get over yourself. But would onion help? She put the tiny spoon down.

  She sighed a little as the poppadum disappeared. Why did food always do that around her? She checked her watch again. Then her phone. No message since the one fifteen minutes ago. Held up. There in 5. ‘In a minute’ had been the childhood phrase her mother had fobbed her off with all the time. In a minute meant twenty, thirty or more. Now five did too. No wonder she was so bad at maths.

  She was just finishing off her second glass of white when Johno sauntered in. ‘Well then, Becs. Started without me? No, no, you’re all right,’ he laughed as she jumped to explain the mess of poppadum crumbs, the glaringly empty silver platter, the glass, ditto. The chopped onion looked forlorn. ‘I’d have done the same. You ordered yet? Or just eaten all the starters?’

  Once they were through the menu palaver, they both resettled themselves and Becca took him in, really took him in, for the first time. He’d spruced himself up. Was it for her? She couldn’t quite believe it, but the freshly slicked hair, the shirt with ramrod creases down the sleeves, even the occasional waft of aftershave that reached to her across the table like a diffident kitten’s paw. They all suggested preparation – preening, even.

  She, by contrast, had made little effort. Well, little effort for a girl. She was clean, and so were her clothes. But they were the usual – sweatshirt, jeans. All right, jeggings. The hoody was her favourite, from Hollister. She’d had it forever but it had been dead pricey, once upon a time. That doesn’t count, she told herself. He’s all gussied up and you aren’t.

  Well, so what? There had never been any chance, anyway. She eyed him covertly. No. He was just too … successful for her. Successful with women, that was. Career-wise, he was only a couple of rungs above her, and she’d barely got started – and intended to go as far as she could. But on the personal life front, it was clear that he’d outstrip her any day of the week. He had that look, like he knew the inside of a pair of knickers all too well. He might actually be married, she hadn’t made enquiries. That would be like getting a megaphone and shouting her interest in the incident room. It was a big station and they worked very different areas. No gossip about him. That she’d heard, anyway. There was no ring on his finger. She looked closely. No indentation, either. Still, she felt a little on the back foot. Should she be flattered by his efforts? She just felt flummoxed. Typical, her mother’s voice hissed in her ear. Over-thinking. Just make the most of it, girl.

  She pinned a smile to her face. ‘Busy day, Johno?’

  ‘You know how it is. Always happens when you’ve got one foot out the door, doesn’t it? I’d been waiting all day for this report, then suddenly it drops. Had to look at it.’

  ‘Oh, no, I wasn’t … I didn’t mean …’

  ‘You’re all right,’ he said again. ‘How about you? Lot on?’

  Becca sighed. As always, there were mounds of chores on her desk. But so few she was interested in. It reminded her of why she was here, why she’d got into all this in the first place. Louise Bridges.

  The waiter appeared with a stack of plates, started polishing them with a purple cloth and putting them down in front of them. His colleague wheeled over a trolley groaning with dishes. Becca winced. She’d probably over-ordered. Again. The fragrance of cardamom and ginger fought briefly with aftershave and won. They both leaned forward, Becca’s eyes wide with greed. There was a silent tussle over the yellow mountain of rice and she retreated, mortified, only for him to give way, sit back with a smile. They chewed until the silence seemed charged. Becca leaned forward earnestly, lifted a fork to her mouth, put it down. Fiddled with it. His eyebrows rose.

  ‘Do you ever get a case, or not even get it, just find yourself on the fringes of it, and it’s just … so much more interesting than all the stuff you should be doing?’ she burst out, plucking at the stiff linen of the tablecloth. She saw his eyes tracking her fingers and moved her hands to her lap. She didn’t want to give too much away.

  ‘You mean like the Louise Bridges case? Why’s that got under your skin?’

  Bingo. He hadn’t forgotten. Becca flushed. But it was hard to explain, even to herself. ‘There’s something about that woman. I just don’t think she should … get away with it.’

  ‘With what, though? No sign she’s done anything,’ he said, almost absent-mindedly, ladling the thick reddish sauce from his madras onto his plate then pushing the dish her way.

  She shook her head. ‘No sign she’s done anything, on the surface. But then, no one’s really been looking, have they? There are reasons why I’m interested.’

  ‘Reasons? What sort of reasons?’ She’d got his attention back from the food now, but he was looking at her as if she was one mushroom short of the full bhaji.

  Becca rolled her eyes. ‘Reasons for her to have done it, of course. What is it about that woman? Anyone else sitting on a pile of money after the sudden, unexplained death of their partner, and we’d be digging away. With her, it’s “how would you like your money, madam, gold bars or a cheque?”’

  ‘Hang on a minute. It’s not unexplained. It’s all been neatly labelled, filed away. And why would she kill him? Father of her children, sole breadwinner?’

  ‘Don’t say you lot haven’t looked into it at all? The insurance?’

  He leaned forward, one hand absently pulping his naan bread.

  Becca took a breath. This was her chance. If she could convince him, maybe they could look into the case together … She started her spiel, left nothing out. Those papers, the way Louise had hidden them, what they’d actually said …

  ‘Wait. You mean you’ve pulled up the papers? How? On what authority?’ Johno was staring at her. She felt her colour rising. She wouldn’t mention the letter she’d stashed away that night.

  ‘Well, I’ve done some IT training …’ She said it vaguely, hoping it would cover a multitude of sins. But he was immediately electrified.

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ He leaned across the white tablecloth, now splattered here and there with yellow dollops of turmeric. ‘That’s illegal,’ he hissed.

  Becca wasn’t sure what to say. She was astonished at his ferocity. On the one hand, yes, she knew it wasn’t strictly ethical. She was a police officer, for God’s sake. On the other hand – look at what she’d found. She stared at him, half a child with a hand in the cookie jar, half a professional who’d been vindicated by the evidence. Gradually, vindication won out. She sat up straighter, held his stare. ‘What’s really illegal is that bitch trying to get away with it.’

  ‘Oh. Here we go,’ he said, sitting back, relaxing.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Just, you know. This is one of those women things, isn’t it? You don’t like her.’

  ‘I don’t like anyone who breaks the law. And I don’t like to see people getting off the hook – not like this,’ she said quickly. ‘Can’t you see? She’s up to something.’

  ‘Looks like you are, too,’ he said, glancing at her then turning his attention back to the food.

  They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not even the smoothness of the korma sauce could appease the ache Becca felt, though. This wasn’t how this had been meant to go. Suddenly the world felt heavier, darker. Like it had before. She stabbed a chunk of chicken viciously with her fork, chewed it unnecessarily thoroughly, looked all round the restaurant – anywhere, but at him.

  After a while, he gave a little cough. She turned back to him reluctantly. He was smiling, and the smile broadened as she caught his eye. Then, slowly, she was grinning, too. ‘Look, let’s not fall out about it. I’ll keep a watching brief, how’s that?’ Johno’s head was on one side, as though he’d promised a favourite niece a trip to the fair.

 
Becca nodded warily. But inside she was exultant. This was what she’d been after. True, Johno didn’t seem convinced that Louise Bridges had done anything wrong. But, with more eyes on the woman, she was bound to make a slip. Becca would bet anything on it. She toasted him with her now-lukewarm wine. He smirked and signalled over to the waiter for more.

  Chapter 39

  Then

  Shopping. It was supposed to be what I was good at. My profession, if you like. Or so Patrick used to say, after a glass or four. But there were times when it was just another chore. One trip sticks in my memory, for all the wrong reasons.

  Life in the suburbs, with Patrick, with kids. It had been a golden dream for so long. But the children were soon at school, and Patrick … well, he was off doing whatever. I needed someone, and there Stacy was. After the NCT, we’d chosen the same nurseries. Then we were at the school gates together, and busy hanging out in between drop-offs too. I’d moved on so far that I was the one who was the mentor, the Jen in our little relationship. I won’t lie, it felt good.

  ‘There’s never anything here to suit me,’ Stacy always wailed when we shopped. This time was no different. She was flipping through the racks, jangling the hangers in a hopeless, angry way, too fast, too indiscriminate. Her emotions always seemed to be on the surface. Like braille but much easier to read, in a way I could never afford to be. She made me laugh, too.

  ‘No rush. What about this?’ I held it up. An embroidered cardigan. Deceptively simple, just that bit of embellishment lifting it. It glinted in the overhead lights, catching the eye. In fact, I quite fancied it myself.

  ‘Oh, didn’t see that.’ Stacy held it up against herself, spread out the sides awkwardly, seeing if the fabric would stretch, the hanger tucked under her neck. ‘I don’t know, it’s really not my colour.’ Stacy jammed it back on the rail.