The Perfect Widow

by A. M. Castle

  Everything I knew about Patrick said no. He was basically decent. That might be an odd thing to say about someone who’d systematically cheated on me for years, but somehow I knew that all his little subterfuges had actually been designed, at some strange level of his psyche, to protect me. He’d never had any intention of leaving me – until he’d decided he’d fallen in love with Stacy – so all the years of deceit had been mainly to spare my feelings, save my face. And possibly to inject a bit of a thrill into his mundane couplings.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t grateful for the deception and I didn’t forgive him for all he’d put me through. Infidelity on an industrial scale meant, yes, he was a habitual liar. But actually, he wasn’t very good at it. I still caught him every single time. So much practice, yet still so rubbish. Didn’t that prove, in a very strange way, that it went against the grain, deep down? That he was honest at heart?

  He’d kept a lot from me. Rocky times at work. The re-mortgage. And all the women. But I remained convinced he hadn’t been squirreling money away to make an escape. He was simply evading reality, in denial about the truly catastrophic mess he’d made, and the only alternative to telling me the truth was running off with someone who didn’t know the full measure of the mess that she was getting into. Patrick might think he’d fallen for her; that he’d finally found someone worth leaving me for. But how would Stacy feel about poverty? She probably thought Patrick was loaded, that the company was making money hand over fist. It was always the image that I’d cultivated. That, at least, made me give a wry smile. That could be my revenge on dear Stacy.

  There was a hiss from the stove. The hot chocolate! I turned back, just in time to catch the Hiroshima cloud as it boiled over. I shoved the pan onto an unlit burner. There were plenty of them, it was a huge range cooker. Another bone of contention. Why did I need one so big, when all I did was reheat Waitrose’s lazy bugger range? Why not? was always my answer. No point trying to explain.

  Patrick came from a past where there’d always been enough. Fridge full, mother upright and cooking when he got home from school. Holidays, sun, skiing, cities, swimming pools. Years of peace, the fat of the land. He didn’t understand it. Or me. Couldn’t.

  No one who’s got home to find the two-bar fire cut off in winter because the electric’s run out, who’s known the distinctive reek of an empty fridge, wonders why it’s nice to have one of those big American jobs you could curl up and live in, if things got bad. Or why, when there’s only a microwave, you might dream of searing, grilling, boiling, even if you never get round to doing it when you can. In fact, not doing it makes it all the better. I could have a hog roast, any day of the week. I love that. Possibilities.

  But the letter, the letter. Taking all that away from me. Reducing it to cold embers. If Patrick had his way, this cooker would be gone. We’d be living separately. In his fantasy, he no doubt saw himself living somewhere swanky, with the new me, Stacy, and she would have a fabulous cooker all of her own. I could be back to a microwave, for all he seemed to care, reheating stuff for his kids every night. But the reality was that none of us would have much more than a cardboard box, the way he was going. And that was not going to happen. Not to my children.

  My mind was churning faster than the hot chocolate I was whipping up. I plonked down the two frothy mugs, biscuits on a plate, stroked Em’s hair as she shied like a pony trying to get rid of a fly, and hovered my hand near Giles’s shoulder, reluctant to ruin his concentration while he glanced at his homework diary instead of his phone.

  ‘This hot chocolate’s hot,’ Em complained.

  ‘Clue’s in the name,’ I said, over my shoulder. ‘Blow on it. It’ll cool.’

  His letter was cool, if you like. I fished it from my bag, darted back to the loo, bolted the door, sat there on the seat. There was a white orchid trembling on the grey marble, a stack of towels so pristine they looked new. They were folded with the edges tucked away, so all you saw was the plumpness of the Egyptian cotton pile. I stroked them. I loved that little loo. It was one of the most perfect rooms in my perfect house. But it brought me no comfort now.

  My fingers were trembling as I smoothed out the note again. Prayed I’d somehow read it wrong. But it was all still there, every last calm, cruel word.

  Part of me was amazed I cared so much. Once, mine had been a passion as vast as empires, but he’d begun to wear away at it long ago, sloughing off a layer with every infidelity. Eventually, he’d become the grit in my shoe. A one-man laundry and mess-making machine, who moved through the house like a tornado, dropping shoes and papers and gadgets and chargers and car keys in his wake, and never able to find anything or pick anything up for himself.

  So he wasn’t the demi-god I’d put on a pedestal years ago, the man I’d breathlessly tracked as I’d worked on reception. But he was still my husband and once the obsession had burned out, as these things do, against all the odds the love beneath it had remained.

  It was this love that had made me keep turning away from the flings, kept me from ringing a lawyer, kept me trying with the weekends away and the endless facemasks and negligees. And it was this heart full of love that was breaking now.

  He had gone. Despite all the tricks he had played on me over the years, despite the thick skin I’d tried to develop, I was destroyed by his departure. I took a shaky breath. Another. Realised I was on the verge of hyperventilating, underarms and forehead clammy. God, he was making me look a mess. I steeled myself to read the letter again.

  It was just a scrawl, dashed off quickly so he could move on to his new life as fast as possible. That was all I’d been worth.

  He could have made the effort. I tutted at my own stupid self. Would it have made any difference if he’d written it with a quill pen, on papyrus? Got a monk to illuminate the initial letter, surround it with curlicues and tiny birds and beasts? Had it etched in stone, or set in gold?

  It was the words themselves that counted. And, though these were as cold as ice, each one burned right through me.

  Chapter 54

  Now

  Becca

  It was amazing what you could find out if you knew where to look, Becca thought, brows steepling, eyes staring. She’d been up for hours, her shoulders were stiff and sore. She had the beginnings of a headache and she knew she needed to sleep. ‘Keep to a regular timetable, plenty of rest and exercise,’ they’d told her, when things had got bad. Easier said than done. She felt her eyelid twitch slightly and put a hand over it, stilling the movement, and concentrated again on her screen.

  Official certificates were often the starting point, helping the whole of a life to lay itself bare before you. They were normally straightforward, a linear path from birth to marriage to death to Becca’s scrutiny. But this time, with Louise, things had been very different indeed.

  Her wedding certificate had been Becca’s first port of call, and immediately, the lies had leapt out off the page.

  To be fair, they weren’t lies, exactly. They were revisions. Louise hadn’t been born with either the first name or last name on that wedding certificate. Obviously, her surname had changed on marriage, to Bridges. Before that, she’d been down as Louise Beecham.

  But Louise Beecham, it turned out, was not the name she’d started out with. It was not even the first name she’d adopted by deed poll, but the second. The first she’d taken up at the age of 16, the earliest point at which a person can change their name without parental consent in the UK. At that juncture, she’d stopped being one Leanne Butcher, and morphed into the much posher-sounding Louise Bullmer. Within a year, she’d adjusted that even further upscale to Beecham. There she’d left it, though Becca now knew you could change your name once a month if you felt like it. There were no restrictions, as long as you could afford the nominal sum it took to cover the paperwork, and the worry lines no doubt caused by changing your details on every bill, bank account and official document every single time.

  Leanne Butcher. It didn’t suit
Louise, not at all. Becca thought about the yards of silky hair, the endless legs, the snooty look. She could see why the woman had done it. There was so much in a name. Mind you, Leanne Bridges sounded fine to her ears. But then, at the age of 16, Louise couldn’t have known she’d one day be married to a man with a solidly spiffy-sounding surname.

  Nominative determinism, that was a thing, right? People ended up suiting their own names. So Butcher could be significant … She could just imagine Burke’s face if she ever tried to convince him that this was yet another valid reason to suspect the woman.

  Becca brought herself up with a jolt. What about her own surname? Holt, halt – she hoped that meant she’d be making plenty of arrests. Starting, she thought with a tiny chuckle, with a certain Leanne Butcher.

  Because it wasn’t just the name thing, was it? The more she dug into Louise/Leanne’s past, the more there was to find.

  Chapter 55

  Then

  It had been easy enough to tell the children that Daddy had been forced to dash off on a business trip. It was a lie that had become well-worn over the years, covering Patrick’s liaisons. And of course, sometimes it was even true.

  I knew he’d be too much of a coward to tell the children he was leaving himself. There was no danger he’d ring them that night, and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t want a little chat with me to sour his mood as he finally got together with his new lady love. Stacy.

  I remembered the gorgeousness of that feeling, requited love, from our first date, long ago. The way my bar stool had been poised on top of the world, and only the gentle pressure of his hand kept me tethered to this earth.

  I spent the evening allowing Em’s favourite show to wash over me. Giles was upstairs, no doubt spending far too long gaming, but for once I’d leave him to it.

  I yearned to go upstairs myself, pull the duvet over my head, and never leave my bed again. I felt the same the next morning. But that couldn’t happen. Life went on, relentlessly. I had to get the children to school.

  This, of course, would involve seeing Stacy at the gates. I steeled myself for it, gritted my teeth, did my best unconcerned stroll. Then saw she wasn’t there. Another mum was dropping Violet. I didn’t know whether it was tactical or not. Was she with Patrick already, steamy in some hotel bed? Planning her life with him – the life that belonged to my kids by rights? Well, she’d find out soon enough what all his promises were worth.

  I’d seen her once since the make-up weekend, on the Monday, and not shown her by so much as an eyelash that I knew her filthy secret. Another mum had taken and fetched Violet on Tuesday. But now here we were on the Wednesday and Patrick had upped the stakes. He was leaving me for her. Yes, I had my reactions under control, but how long would it last? I needed to burst the boil.

  I spent the day gearing up to it, making pointlessly sure my armour was unbreachable – my hair, nails and make-up were beyond reproach, not that it mattered one jot. Apparently none of it had ever been about appearances at all.

  When I was as perfect as I could be, I got in my car, then marched right up to Stacy’s door. I’d timed it perfectly. Close to the school run, but not too close. She’d be in, surely, unless the excitement of getting my man had thrown all her good mother credentials to the wind.

  I’d played this scene a million times in my head. What was I hoping to achieve? Nothing concrete. I knew I couldn’t change Patrick’s mind. He wasn’t at home, for me to work my wiles on. His phone was off, his office was telling the same story as me, that he was away on business. Without access to him, I couldn’t turn his head the way I’d always done before. And I wasn’t expecting Stacy to beg my forgiveness and throw him back at me, either. He wasn’t a parcel, an object for us to bicker over. More’s the pity. He’d made a decision, and while I didn’t respect it, I had a bad feeling that it was irrevocable.

  No, I just wanted to see if she really loved him. If she was a worthy victor. If she’d care for him, the way I had all these long years.

  The look on her face, when she opened the door to me, was so comical it was almost worth the pain they’d put me through. Almost. She was terrified.

  Did she imagine there’d be a catfight, here on her doorstep, with the neighbours tittering behind their curtains? She really needed to give me a little more credit.

  I made my voice broken, my eyes were filled with tears. It really wasn’t hard. ‘Can I come in? Just for a moment?’

  She backed away, ushered me through. I surprised her by bobbing my head into her sitting room as we passed. Messy, but no sign of upheaval. No case anywhere in the hall or kitchen. What was going on? Then I got it. Patrick was leaving first, to show he’d actually go through with it. She must have had her doubts. Or wait, maybe this was a strategy? To make sure Stacy didn’t get any of the blame, that her husband didn’t kick off because she was scarpering with another man. That would give her a clearer shot at full custody of Violet. Oho. Now I saw her game. I took a seat at her kitchen table as she automatically filled the kettle.

  I broke the uneasy silence. ‘Something terrible’s happened,’ I said, peeping at her through lowered lids.

  She turned ashen. ‘Oh!’

  ‘I think Patrick’s got another woman.’ I saw her hesitate as she got down two mugs. I let the pause go on, didn’t say a word more. Her hand, which had stopped in mid-air, moved again when she realised I wasn’t going to add the clincher. When she turned back, her face had been correctly arranged but her movements were suddenly faster, less full of fear. She thought I had no idea.

  ‘God, Louise. That’s awful.’

  She didn’t ask the obvious question. Who?

  Well, she knew the answer, didn’t she?

  I batted it all back and forth, tried to dig. Had she seen the signs? Any suspicions? I let slip my view that whoever it was must be a gold digger, after all Patrick’s millions. Not a blip. So even true love hadn’t convinced my husband that honesty was the best policy. She didn’t know a thing about the perilous state of the company. She evaded my questions like a boxer ducking blows. Top marks, Stacy. I could see the thoughts going round her head. Just look astonished, amazed, make sympathetic noises but actually say as little as possible.

  I was beginning to get annoyed. There was a box of matches in the mess on the table, the sort they keep in a glass dish at the reception desk at posh hotels. I picked it up, looked at the name. Five-star, only a few minutes’ drive from here. Why would anyone with a house on the doorstep bother going there? Why on earth. But Patrick always loved a mini-break, as I knew all too well. And I’d just seen the bill for this one on his credit card statement.

  I eyed Stacy carefully, slipped a match out of the box, admired its deep pink tip. She’d got up again, couldn’t seem to sit still. Almost dropped her empty mug in the sink. She’d swigged it back, no doubt hoping to encourage me to do the same. But I was enjoying sipping mine slowly. Now she was faffing about over by one of the work surfaces, piling up papers. A picture came free of the stack she was trying to make, wafted to the ground. I reached down and plucked it out of the air, before it got ruined on the stained floor.

  ‘That’s the project Violet’s been working on. With your Em. They’ve got their presentation next week,’ she blathered.

  I put back the match, slid the box closed, looked at my watch. The school run. ‘We’d better shoot off, pick them up,’ I sniffed, dabbing my eyes again.

  ‘No, Violet’s going back with Belinda today. I … I’ve got an appointment,’ she explained. Couldn’t miss it. Of course not, bitch. The door clicked shut behind me. I could just imagine her slumping to the ground, thanking God I’d left. She didn’t know the half of it.

  On the drive to school, knowing Stacy wouldn’t be picking up Violet herself, I relaxed and went back over the scene in my head. What had I learned?

  That my best friend really was a prize performer.

  And that she had no idea about Patrick’s financial mess.

  And that she defin
itely didn’t deserve to share my husband’s future.

  Still, the meeting had helped me. It had been cathartic. I now knew that I could face her from now on without crumbling, without flying at her, without screaming, without letting anything slip. And this would give me time, the time my family badly needed, to regroup. To sort everything out, as we women always do.

  I tried even harder than usual, that afternoon, to come up with the perfect impersonation of a normal mum when the kids came out, nervous they’d see through it, today of all days. But they didn’t notice a thing. The silent car journey suited them perfectly, headphones plugged in to rival soundtracks, no interest to spare for their mum. In a flash we were back at home. Em dragged her brand-new designer must-have school bag along the hall tiles in a way guaranteed to wear it out and set my teeth on edge in one easy motion, Giles bumbled along, head in his phone, earbuds still in.

  It was good that they were both so distracted, it gave me time to think. About all the mistakes I’d made, the signs I’d misread, and the way I was going to put it all right. So that my lovely kids would never find out how badly their dear dad had fucked up.

  Chapter 56

  Now

  Louise

  The clunk of the Volvo door has a sombre finality about it today as I slam it shut, bleep it locked, get my key in the front door. Em and Giles are standing, heads down, pretending to be on their phones, but I know that their hearts aren’t really in these constant updates from their friends.

  What is there to say about the journey home, anyway? Why be in contact twenty-four-seven? This world they’ve made for themselves is exhausting. But I know they are only going through the motions, not really participating. It makes it easier not to talk to each other, though. And not to talk to me.