My Husband's Wife (31 page)

It hurts. Yes, it hurts to know that they too are building up traditions and patterns of their own. For all I know, she entwines her legs around Ed's when they watch that new series on television that everyone is talking about. They now go for long walks along the sea with my son while I hide myself away at home, telling myself that it's good for Tom to see ‘Daddy'. The thought of another woman playing ‘Mummy' sickens me to the core. Tom is so gullible at times, quite capable of transferring his affection. After one of their recent visits, he talked incessantly about her hair. ‘Why isn't yours as shiny as Carla's?' he asked me. ‘Why isn't everyone's hair like hers? What
makes
hair?'

The first question had run into thousands of others, like it always did with Tom. But I was still stuck on the first one. I don't want to think about Carla's hair or anything else about her.

But this – this hurts more than anything. A child of their own. A child who will be ‘normal', no doubt. A child who won't need watching twenty-four/seven in case he hurts himself, or worse. A child who won't impose the same awful pressures on a marriage.

It isn't fair.

After Ross's revelation, I suddenly begin to feel the anger I should have felt – according to all the divorce self-help books – some time ago. Ed is the one who did wrong. Yet he's come out top here. He's found someone else. He gets to see the good bits of Tom, who is always hyper with excitement after his visits, which often means I have to change the sheets the following morning. (A new development. My research said it can be common in Asperger's children, although it normally ‘dies out' during adolescence. We can only hope.)

Nor does Ed have any of the problems that still haunt me.

Like Joe Thomas.

Months pass. For a while after moving down to Devon, I was on tenterhooks in case he contacted me. I even had to warn Mum, telling her I had a former client who had
stalked me in the past and mustn't be allowed in the house at any cost if he happened to turn up.

Not surprisingly, she was worried. ‘But why can't you tell the police?' she asked, her voice laced with worry. ‘Surely they can do something about it?'

It was on the tip of my tongue to confess everything. But that wouldn't have been fair. My parents had enough on their plate with the unexpected arrival of their daughter. ‘You'd think so, wouldn't you?' I said. ‘But actually there's not a lot they can do.'

That was true. I'd once had a client whose ex-boyfriend had stalked her. The only way we'd managed to get the police to take it seriously was to get him followed by a private detective to show that he was doing the same to other women too. Even then, he only received a caution. The law makes some very odd decisions at times.

Frankly, I'm just relieved that Joe hasn't tried to get hold of us here. The thought of poor Merlin still makes me feel sick. Still sends shudders through me. If Joe could organize that, what else is he capable of?

Meanwhile, I am banishing my fears with work. Work, work, work. It's the only way I can get some peace, the only way to shut out the shrapnel of Ed's engagement and the stress of Tom.

When I first came down, I was worried I wouldn't have enough clients and that after a while, the partners would decide it wasn't worth subsidizing a satellite office. But within a couple of weeks, some parents from Tom's school approached me. They were convinced that their son's epilepsy had been caused by dirty water from an old well which had got into the water system. It so happened that
I knew a specialist who said this was not beyond the realms of possibility. It went to court and we won damages – not a lot but enough to prove that some children's special conditions are not just ‘one of those things', but could have been prevented.

Then a father from Tom's school asked me to look into some hospital notes which had vanished soon after his son's birth. There had been problems, he explained. The cord had been wound tightly round his son's neck during delivery and the consultant hadn't been available. We never found the notes (they would, no doubt, have been shredded long ago). But we did find that the same pattern had occurred a couple of times now, all when a certain consultant had been on duty. That resulted in a class action, with other parents being given compensation as well as my client.

‘You're building up quite a name for yourself, Lily,' emailed my first boss, who had now retired. (We still keep in touch by email.) ‘Well done.'

How is Carla doing?
I want to ask.
Will she continue to work for you when she has the baby?
But I don't have the courage to raise the subject.

Then, one morning, as I am jogging along the front before work, I hear someone running behind me.

This isn't unusual. There are quite a lot of us 6 a.m. joggers and we all know each other. There's even a baggy-eyed mother who runs along with her stroller.

But intuitively, I know these steps are different. They match my speed. They slow when I slow. They speed up when I do.

‘Lily,' says the voice behind me. A voice I know all too well. ‘Please stop, Lily. I'm not going to hurt you.'

Carla looked down at her body in the soapy water. Her fourth bath in four days. But there was nothing else to do in the evening. And besides, it meant she could close the door and be alone for a while.

Since finding out she was pregnant, Ed had not allowed her to lift a finger at home. It was bad enough, he said, that she still insisted on going out to work. She should rest instead. They would manage somehow, despite those demands from the bank. He loved her. He would look after her.

The old Carla would have loved the attention. But life with Ed was not what she'd imagined. It wasn't just his depression over unsold paintings or bank demands. Or even the drinking. Or Tom's behaviour on their custody weekends, which upset Ed and affected them too, especially when she suggested that if Tom was ‘punished' more often, he would improve. Nor was it the latest threatening note, which she had hidden from Ed.

WATCH YOUR BACK
.

No. It was the wedding ring on her finger that really got Carla down. If it was not for the baby, she would not have agreed. Ed's ‘care' had become too controlling. But now she was trapped by her own pregnancy. How could she allow her child to grow up without a father as she had? No child of hers was going to be ‘different'. Look where it had got her.

So a wedding it had been. A small one, at her insistence. Just them and two witnesses off the street. The ceremony, she'd stipulated, had to be here, in the UK, in a register office. If they'd done it in Italy, the sharp-eyed matrons would certainly have spotted the small bump that had already started to appear.

‘So old-fashioned,' Ed had said, kissing the top of her head as though she was the child he had first known. Sometimes, Carla wondered if Ed wished she
was
that little girl still so he could control her completely.

‘I think it's sweet,' one of the girls at the antenatal class had said when Carla had confided that her new husband would not let her do anything in the house. What Carla stopped herself from saying was that he wouldn't even allow her to her put out his empties. Ed now drank far more than he would admit. It had led to a spectacular argument at an art critic's party, right in front of everyone. Later, of course, he'd apologized profusely.

‘I am doing it for two,' he had joked, putting his hand over Carla's own glass when she had reached for the bottle herself. ‘No, you mustn't. I don't care what the latest report is. These so-called medical experts change their minds all the time. Far better to play safe and avoid alcohol altogether during pregnancy.'

Then he had stroked her stomach. ‘You're carrying my child,' he said in a reverent tone. ‘I promise to look after you. Not long now, my darling.'

Six weeks. Yet each day seemed to pass so slowly. How uncomfortable she felt! How heavy. Carla could not even bear to look at herself in the mirror, even though Ed told her, with the smell of whisky on his breath, that she was beautiful. Nor could she bear the touch of his hand on her stomach so he could feel the baby move like some monster inside her.

Soaping her breasts (so huge and the nipples so dark that they were scarcely recognizable), Carla allowed her mind to wander back to when she'd bumped into Rupert soon after the wedding. ‘How are you?' he had asked.

They were in court at the time. She was there to support the barrister. (It was, ironically, a case involving a man who had got drunk at an office party and been sacked for making inappropriate advances to his boss. Rupert was on the other side.)

She found it hard to concentrate on her argument, constantly looking over to where her old friend was sitting. He appeared to be looking at her too. During the break, they sought each other out. ‘I am …' she began. And then stopped. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I am married to a near-bankrupt drinker. A man whose child I am expecting.'

Rupert's eyes widened. ‘I heard you had married Ed,' he said quietly. ‘But I didn't know about the other developments. I think we need a coffee once the case is over.'

Carla hadn't meant to be so open. But it all came spilling out. Ed's controlling ways, which could be interpreted
as simply caring. The constant worry about money. (At the bank's insistence, the house was finally going on the market, but they hadn't had many viewers.) The uncomfortable feeling about living in another woman's home.

‘In the end, Lily left almost everything, even her clothes. It's as though she was trying to tell me that I couldn't replace her.'

And then the note which had arrived out of the blue, threatening her for hurting Lily.

Rupert was clearly shocked. ‘What did the police say?'

‘I haven't told them.'

‘Why not?'

Her eyes welled up again. ‘Because then Ed would make a fuss and not allow me back to the office. He would keep me at home, shut up like a bird, in case someone hurt me.'

Rupert took her hand. ‘This is terrible, Carla. You can't live like this.'

‘I know.' She stared down at the now visible bump in her stomach. ‘But what can I do?'

‘All kinds of things. You could go –'

‘No.' She had interrupted him fiercely. ‘I cannot leave. I cannot be like my mamma. I will not allow this child to grow up without a father as I did.'

Rupert dropped her hand.
Don't
, she wanted to cry.
Don't
.

Then he reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed over a card. ‘This is my private mobile number. I've changed it since we last knew each other. Ring me. Any time. I will always be there for you. My fiancée would like to meet you too.'

‘Your fiancée?'

Rupert blushed. ‘Katie and I got engaged last month. It was a bit sudden, but we're very happy.'

So that holding of hands and the flush on his face … Carla had got it all wrong. Rupert really was just being a friend. Nothing more.

That had been several weeks ago now. Carla kept the card close to her. Often she thought about ringing the number. But every time she did, a sentence came into her head.
My fiancée would like to meet you.

Carla shivered. She had had enough of stealing other people's things. This intolerable situation was her cross to bear for snatching Lily's husband.

‘Carla?' There was a persistent knocking on the bathroom door. ‘Darling? Are you all right in there?'

‘I am fine,' she said. Then she turned on the taps so she couldn't hear his reply, and lowered herself down so that her head was under water, allowing herself to think clearly without Ed's voice hammering through the door.

I pause. Grip the railings on the front. Try to steady myself by looking out over the sea and watching the light of a boat moored there. Bobbing on the surface of the water against the apricot sunrise.

Then I turn round.

Joe Thomas doesn't look like a former prisoner. He seems much older than he did at our last meeting, but it suits him. Gives him a certain gravity. He's grown a moustache, although his hair is still short.

But one thing hasn't changed. Those eyes. Those black-brown eyes which are focused right on me.

‘We need to talk.'

A chill passes through my bones.

‘I've got nothing to say to you.'

He reaches towards me. For a minute, I think he's going to grab my arms. I step back. One of my nodding-acquaintance jogger friends goes past.

Joe waits a few seconds. ‘I need to tell you something. Please.'

He is actually begging. Momentarily, I am swayed. ‘Not here.'

Uncertainly, I lead him across the road to a group of tables and chairs outside a cafe with an
OPEN AT 9AM!
sign. We sit opposite each other, away from the promenade and the occasional runner. ‘What is it?' I say curtly.

His eyes are boring into mine. As though they are trying to suck me into him.

‘You don't have to worry about Carla.'

At first, his words are so unexpected that it takes me a second to absorb them. When I do, I am both scared and – I have to admit this – excited.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Your ex and Carla won't last.'

My mouth is dry. ‘How do you know?'

‘Just do.'

He moves his chair closer to the table. Without looking down, I can feel our legs are almost but not quite touching. A man goes past, his dog sniffing a stray chip left in the road then running on. To its owner, we might be any pair of runners sitting down, catching our breath, admiring the view. Or maybe we could be a pair of tourists staying at one of the hotels on the front, taking a stroll before breakfast.

‘I know it can't be easy,' says Joe. ‘Your husband has married someone else. And now they're having a baby.'

‘So what? I've moved on now.'

Those eyes are peeling away my pretence. ‘Are you sure?'

No. Of course I'm not sure. I want Carla to have never existed. I want the old me to have told her mother that I'm very sorry but we couldn't possibly look after her child at weekends.

But that's not me. At the heart of things, I need to help people. To make up for not being able to help my own brother. For having failed him. For having failed myself.

‘Is that why you're here?' I ask. ‘To see how I am?'

‘Partly.' Little beads of perspiration are breaking out on his forehead. I can feel the same thing happening on my back.

I wait like a mouse waiting to be pounced on. Knowing what is to come.

‘I want a paternity test, Lily. I didn't believe you last time when you said he wasn't mine, and I don't believe you now. I've been watching you, Lily, like I've always been watching you and everyone you mix with, since I got out of prison.'

This is ridiculous. How? Where? ‘Is this one of your lies again?' I say sharply.

He laughs. ‘Even introduced myself to Carla at Tony's funeral.'

‘I don't believe you. She wasn't there.'

Another laugh. ‘Then you couldn't have been looking very closely.'

He draws his chair nearer. I edge back.

‘I'm not far away, Lily, when you pick up Tom from school on Friday nights. Or when you take him for walks along the beach, with Ross.' His mouth tightens.

My heart leaps into my throat. Surely he wouldn't …

‘And just how have you been spying like this without us noticing?' I snap. Fear is making me angry.

‘Spying?' He seems to consider the word. ‘I'm no James Bond, but I was inside, wasn't I? You learn things there. I even paid one of my contacts to do a check on you when I was thinking of hiring you. I wanted to see if you were up to the job.'

There's a flash from the past. That feeling, when I was
newly married, of being followed on the way back from the bus stop. My shock when Joe had known I'd just got married.

Could it be true?

Or is this just the dreams of a fantasist? But then how do I explain his knowing so much about me? About Tom. About Ross.

‘Tom looks like I did as a kid, Lily.' Joe's face is twisted with pain. It's one of the few times I've seen him express emotion. ‘I've seen him. He does the same things. He doesn't like it when things aren't ordered. I know he's mine. I've given you time because of your marriage break-up. But I deserve to know. Don't you think?'

I'd see his point of view if I wasn't so scared of him. If he wasn't a killer.

A pair of joggers run past on the other side of the road, holding hands. I see them every day. Mr and Mrs Newly-Wed, I call them to myself. Joe observes me watching them.

‘Are you lonely, Lily?'

This change of tack throws me. Maybe that's the whole point. My eyes suddenly blur. Of course I'm lonely. It's so unfair that Ed, the guilty party, has found happiness whereas I am destined to be alone. Who would want to take on a child like Tom?

‘You don't have to be on your own, you know.' Joe's hands suddenly take mine. They are warm. Firm.

‘I've always loved you, Lily. In my own way.'

The raw loneliness inside me screams in my ears. I'd like to say I don't know what I'm doing. But I do.

I lean towards him. Let his hands pull me towards him.
Let him lower his lips to my neck. Feel his breath against me, sending heat straight to my groin.

A jogger appears in the far distance by the lifeboat station. I jerk back. Joe's eyes snap open. I leap to my feet, appalled by what I have just done. As I do so, a key falls out of my pocket. It's one I always carry, even though I no longer have use for it. The spare key to my old house with Ed. If you are attacked, I once learned at a self-defence course, you should jab someone in the eye to give you time to run. A key is always good, the instructor said, or else a finger. It's a piece of advice that has stayed with me, whether in London or running along the seafront in the early morning.

Joe bends down to pick it up.

This is a murderer before me. A man who should have been convicted of killing his girlfriend. Yet this polite picking-up-the-key gesture suggests courtesy. And that's the nub of it. Of course Joe is bad. But he also has shades of not-so-bad.

I like to think I am good. But – there's no getting away from it – I have also done wrong. Not just a wrong that affects me. But one that touches Ed too. And, more importantly, Tom.

And as I run back across the road towards the front, the sea now washing smoothly against the pebbles, I finally allow my mind to go back to that evening after the case.