The Perfect Widow

by A. M. Castle

  Often they were actually doing me a favour. When we’d first got together, I’d thought there would never come a time when I didn’t want Patrick. But the reality was that two children, hot on each other’s tiny pink heels, was a massive passion killer. Sometimes I was too tired for sex, and sometimes it just came right down on my to-do list, after scraping the hair out of the shower plughole and descaling the kettle.

  I liked to feel I could reel him in though, when a fling had gone on too long, when it suited me to take him back. I consoled myself that this gave me a sort of power. And this always worked very well. Until he went and overstepped the mark.

  Meanwhile, I had the kids to bring up. Don’t get me wrong, he was involved, but it’s the mum that sets the tone, isn’t it? And this mum didn’t really know, at first, which tone to adopt. As usual, I fell back on my tried and tested method of decoding the human race – my childcare books. Unfortunately, the kiddie gurus seemed to delight in contradicting each other. Leave the baby to cry, but don’t, feed on demand, but stick to a rigid four-hourly schedule, give rewards while potty training, or go straight to hell for it. Which do you pick?

  Most people have an inner compass, set by their own childhoods. I didn’t, and I freely admit I made mistakes. But then, as Larkin pointed out, all parents fuck their children up. They don’t mean to, but they do. They don’t even need to have endured a shit upbringing themselves. Sometimes complacency can make you the worst sort of parent. I watched people in the park, I studied the remnants of my NCT group as we all got on with our lives, and I judged other people’s parenting ferociously, mainly so I could assess how I was doing myself. Once, I overheard two mums on a bench saying that too many blankets could contribute to cot death. I rushed home and threw half of Giles’s bedding in the bin.

  Watching other mothers cooing over their babies helped me too. While I loved mine to bits, I was quite happy not being in the same room as them for much of the time. But this seemed wrong, from what I gleaned. I’d just wanted a bit of time to myself. But once I worked out this wasn’t done, I really took to togetherness, and we were quite the sight as I took them for airings in their state-of-the-art prams.

  Celebrities now make such a thing of snapping back to their pre-baby size the moment the bundle of joy has been extracted. Believe me, I’ve been there, done that, before they even thought of it. I made a point of being back in pre-pregnancy jeans, scars and all, as soon as humanly possible. I used to think it was probably one of the reasons Patrick didn’t leave me sooner.

  One of my best sources of feedback on my mothering performance was Jill. As a professional woman, and a no-nonsense person, I hadn’t been expecting much granny gushing from her. But she surprised me by going baby-crazy. Maybe she’d hadn’t had the time or inclination when Patrick had been small. Or maybe she was just gaga for her grandkids. But she showered Giles and Em with love and with surprisingly soppy blue and pink babygros, which I only put them into when we were on our way round to hers.

  As a newly minted granny, and Patrick’s mother as well, I wasn’t expecting her to be neutral on the way I did things. If I was messing up, she’d surely let me know. But, aside from an odd pause in the conversation every now and then, I felt she was giving me a solid eight to nine out of ten on bringing up babies. True, she’d try to be tactful even if I was doing badly, as she wouldn’t want access to her beloved babies withdrawn. She knew that I was in charge of the social calendar and there could be many bleak months when we were terribly, terribly busy if she put even a toe of one of her funny posh pumps out of line. But Jill was cleverer than that.

  We were sitting there one day, in early spring, in her garden, She’d either falsely got the impression that I loved the great outdoors, from our very first meeting, or she couldn’t resist rubbing my nose in that early subterfuge, I was never sure which. I certainly wouldn’t have put it past her to know full well that I didn’t know one end of a rhododendron from the other, and to be indulging in a long-running dig at my expense. But I didn’t care. It gave us something to chat about, as we cooed over little Giles, asleep between us in his car seat.

  ‘Will you be planting a tree for Giles?’ she asked that day.

  Naturally, I just looked at her as though she were mad. True, we did have a patch of garden at our house, not yet our wonderful forever home, as people say these days, but still a solid family place that was evidence of Patrick’s gradual ascent – with me shoving him on from behind, of course.

  It was not long after I’d made the discovery of his first affair, and to say I was a bit off him was an understatement. ‘A tree?’

  ‘Hasn’t Patrick told you? We did that for him, and his grandfather did it for his father.’ As usual, Jill sounded a bit wistful when talking about Patrick’s dad. Divorce was still spoken of in hushed tones in families like theirs. For one thing, it screwed up inheritance so badly, she’d once confided in me. ‘I’m so sorry for Patrick, having to share with those … other children,’ she’d said, and it was as close to venomous as a woman like her could ever get.

  Sitting there, that day, still inwardly digesting the knowledge of Patrick’s betrayal, I heard the tale of the trees, remembered her words about the divided estate, and vowed then that I’d keep our marriage together. For as long as I could, anyway.

  Chapter 42

  Now

  Becca

  It wasn’t a surprise that Johno had turned out to be such a waste of space. Becca couldn’t honestly remember a single man who hadn’t – apart from her dad, of course. But she’d had such high hopes. Again.

  When would she learn? She tutted to herself as she stared into the depths of her terminal. She’d expected to hear from him, after their … well, she wouldn’t call it a date, exactly. Although it had been so like one. She remembered his aftershave, his shirt. But nothing. When she’d seen him in the corridor last week, he’d all but blanked her. What do you expect, wearing that hoody? her mother would say.

  In the desk opposite, Burke’s neighbour whispered to him. ‘See? She’s off again.’ He shrugged his shoulders, but gave the woman a quick complicit grimace.

  Becca lifted the polystyrene cup to her mouth, oblivious. Sipped up some of the sweetness. She ought to cut out the sugar. Tomorrow, tomorrow. For the moment, it was helping her keep going. Yesterday had been another late night, following Louise from one corner of the internet to the other, and then a turn waiting outside her house as well, to see what the woman was doing in person. Well, that was precisely nothing at all, last night. The lights had been on when Becca got there, then they’d gone off, and that was as exciting as it got. If Becca didn’t know so much better, she’d say Louise had a quieter life than her own.

  But that was just a smokescreen, she knew it, had always known it right from the start. She’d sniffed her out, and now it had been proven. Bugger Burke, bugger Johno. She’d been vindicated. Patrick Bridges’ email was a rich seam that she was mining, deeper and deeper.

  She shook her head as she thought about it, and then was seized with a ferocious yawn. Even the milkshake couldn’t pump enough glucose into her system to keep the tiredness at bay. She could do with a break. But that was what Louise wanted, wasn’t it?

  No, she wouldn’t give up now. Just when she was so close.

  She had to keep going.

  Chapter 43

  Then

  We’d tried it before, and it had always done the trick. A weekend break. Time away, from the kids, from the stresses and strains of normal life. And, in Patrick’s case, away from whoever it was that was currently threatening to bring the whole edifice of our marriage down.

  I suppose if we’d gone to the same place every time, then we might have been able to settle more easily into the routine. But would it have come to symbolise every other time our marriage had been in tatters? Would I have counted the months, preferably years, between our stays, remembered what, or rather who, the last weekend had been expressly designed to forget? No, it was better to
find a new spot every time. Pretend this was just another lovely treat in a life filled with luxury and abundance, not my desperate attempt to oust the latest piggy-in-the-middle from our marriage bed.

  This hotel was lush, I had to admit. I looked around the bedroom and whistled. ‘Business must be good.’ He’d booked it himself, this time. I should have realised immediately this meant a conscience that was even more heavily overloaded than usual.

  Patrick winked at me – yes, he was still doing that, after all these years. ‘’Course it is, darling. You know me. Strength to strength.’ He loped over, almost wading through the velvety pile of the carpet, skirting a four-poster bed piled high with pointless cushions that were destined to hit the floor pretty soon. ‘I know how to show my special girl a good time.’

  I bit my lip. There was so much I could say, wanted to say. So many reproaches, now. But that was contrary to the spirit of our agreement. I’d made my decision, way back when Giles had been a tiny squirming thing in his Moses basket. I’d kept my mouth shut then. I’d keep it shut now. Whatever it cost.

  Somehow, I’d turned myself into a politician’s wife – the poor sap who makes tea for the journos door-stepping her unfaithful husband, who keeps a bright smile hoisted no matter what scandal lurks below decks. How had I got here? How had I become something I couldn’t help despising?

  But there was still so much of my life that I loved. My home. And yes, I’ll admit it, my status. The way the other mums’ eyes followed me, as I showed up with my bag and my boots and my BMW. I enjoyed knowing how far I’d come and seeing other people take me, now, for what I only appeared to be. And like a river running deep and strong under these superficial streams, there were my kids. They were behind everything I did and endured.

  Was their security still reason enough to keep this going? I took a deep breath – difficult, when he was squeezing the life out of me, then getting handsy in those old familiar ways.

  Despite it all – the humiliations, the disappointment, the betrayal – it seemed the answer was yes. Here I was, and my body still responded. He was the one I’d chosen, till death did us part. This lovely hotel room, his undivided company for a change, our life continuing on together … these were all things I wanted. I let myself giggle up at him, coquettishly, moved my hand to the buttons of my silk shirt. ‘Come on then, show me,’ I said.

  Later that afternoon, I ran a bath in the deep, white tub, and threw in the entire bottle of Jo Malone bubbles. Why not? There’d be another replacing it in the morning. I was padding around in the white velvet robe, enjoying the feel of the plush carpet between my toes, peeping out onto our magnificent view – actual peacocks on the lawn this time, though the male was sullenly dragging his finery after him, refusing to shake a tail feather at his mangy-looking mate. ‘Don’t blame you,’ I whispered to him. Well, she could have made a bit more of an effort.

  Patrick was downstairs, ostensibly watching the footie in one of the innumerable lounges, probably trying to ring his latest floozie. I smiled. He’d have a job. I’d silently removed her number from his contacts while he’d been asleep, counting on him not to have memorised it. Well, I didn’t want her disturbing our little break.

  I stretched luxuriously, thinking again how magical sex was. I’d been pretty sure I’d be faking everything, today, feeling so stressed and threatened, but it didn’t take much for instinct to override little things like irritation and anger. Now that we’d reconnected, I felt a lot more charitable towards Patrick, despite his lying, cheating ways. He was still mine, after all.

  I padded into the bathroom to turn off the taps. Damn, I’d run the water too hot. Occupational hazard with hotels. The plumbing was always an unknown. I turned on the cold tap, shoved up the sleeve of my robe to fish out the plug. Didn’t want the bath overrunning.

  That’s when I heard it. Wasn’t sure, at first, over the roar of the water, the thuds from the pipes. Old buildings always had air bubbles somewhere in the system. But no, there it was, an insistent, artificial little tune, just rising above the din. I shut the taps off as quickly as I could. That wasn’t my ring tone. And Patrick had his phone on him. I ran into the bedroom, wet feet marking the carpet, and looked around frantically.

  It wasn’t coming from my holdall or Patrick’s, just by the door where he’d dropped it. I bent down and, somewhat ridiculously, looked under the bed. Not so much as a piece of fluff. This was what Patrick was paying stratospheric rates for. I flung open the wardrobe doors. Suddenly it was louder.

  I’d unpacked already. Yes, I’m a tidy person, we know that. But if you stack clothes neatly in a suitcase, then getting them out and putting them on a wardrobe shelf is no big deal. I lurched forward to flip through Patrick’s neat pile for our stay, sweaters, shirts and trousers. Nothing. Just then the sound died.

  But not before I’d realised where it must be coming from. Patrick’s briefcase, in the bottom of the wardrobe. Tucked behind our shoes. I hadn’t put it way back there.

  I took it out and looked at it. It was a fancy number I’d bought him a couple of Christmases ago, from Coach. The smooth tan leather smelt divine. It was bloody well locked.

  I rocked back on my heels, thinking hard. His keys.

  Patrick was no James Bond. This was about the most devious bit of subterfuge I’d ever caught him in. With one corner of my mind, I was impressed. The rest of me was plain angry.

  Now I just needed as much information as I could get. I ran to the bedside table. A creature of habit, he’d emptied out his pockets before he’d emptied himself into me. Along with his small change and some crumpled-up receipts, there were his keys. And at the end of the bunch was a weedy little one. Gotcha.

  Within seconds, I had the case undone and the phone in my hand. It was light, cheap, the type they sell you at dodgy market stalls. I couldn’t quite believe Patrick was stooping to this. But, on the other hand, he knew me so well.

  I’d begun to pore through every manifestation of his flings, I scrutinised his careful pruning of messages. Not at first. But over the years, I’d decided that if there was something going on that was supposed to be out of my control, I wanted to have as much of an overview as possible. While we never discussed any of it, he had to know that I always knew.

  But he’d been getting more secretive recently, making it harder for me to follow his tracks. And now he’d really taken things a step further. A step too far.

  The phone’s screen said it all. ‘One missed call.’ And the number? There it was, large as life. I blinked.

  No. No. I couldn’t believe it.

  It was horribly familiar. It was a phone I rang almost as often as, apparently, he did himself. I collapsed into a heap on the absurdly plush carpet.

  Stacy. My best friend.

  He really was outdoing himself this time. Two bits on the side. The first was nothing, just some intern at work. I realised that he was probably dumping her even as I sat here.

  But this? Stacy? This was my best friend. I looked at the phone for a minute, as though I’d never seen one before, feeling like Pandora. Should I look? Could I face it? But I had to. There was still the faintest possibility that this was innocent, despite all I knew about Patrick. Maybe they were planning some sort of surprise for me? I pressed the message button, not sure if the phone would be code protected, but a line of texts popped up obediently. I scrolled through, nausea rising. Oh, Stacy had been planning some surprises, all right. But not for me. Just for her Big Boy.

  It hadn’t been going on long, but it had got serious very, very quickly. From jokes to nicknames to – and this I could hardly believe I was seeing – words of love. Words he’d never used with one of these women before.

  I couldn’t help myself, I hurled the thing at the wall, and bits flew everywhere. I let them. Patrick wasn’t playing by our rules. He wasn’t supposed to bring anyone, let alone her, on this make-or-break weekend, was he? No, most emphatically not.

  And Stacy. Behind my back, with my husband? Whil
e still pretending we were such great friends. My mind wheeled and whirred, worse than my mother in one of her stupors. I was stunned. Apart from anything, it looked like she might be a better actress than I was.

  For a while, I froze, then the flashbacks started. I breathed heavily, wrestling for control, trying to get my pulse back down to regain some semblance of calm.

  Eventually I succeeded. My mind cleared. And I looked down and thought. The fact that he was screwing Stacy was shocking enough. But if he was sinking, suddenly, to these depths, what else might he be capable of? I looked through her messages again, though it turned my stomach. Some of the most gushing ones were thanking him for a necklace. For a moment or two, I hoped that was just smutty talk. Then I realised, with anger, that he was buying her serious presents. A necklace. A bracelet. Earrings.

  This was new. The intern, for example, wouldn’t have got much more than the dubious pleasure of rushed sex with Patrick for roughly six weeks, the odd dinner if she was lucky. But lavishing gifts? On Stacy? I was quivering now.

  The fling was plenty bad enough, don’t get me wrong. This was enough to turn my world upside down. She’d been my friend; the one person I’d relied on most as the children grew up. The pain cut me, right to the heart. Maybe this was why I found friendships so hard. When they went wrong, it hurt so much.

  I realised wearily I’d have to rethink everything about my routine, the children’s activities; so much of it involved me and Stacy jogging along together. Swapping lifts, swapping rounds of coffees, swapping gossip, swapping laughs. That had been my life for years, now. All that was going to come screeching to a halt.