The Third Wife (20 page)

She thought of the young ones in the kitchen, with their tattoos and their piercings and their smartphones and their pouting and for a moment she stood there in the centre of the room, clutching her paper plate, swaying gently in the terrible, squalling realisation that she did not belong here. She had been so desperate to be a part of this, had watched the machinations of this life from a distance all those months, marvelling at the magical glow of it all: the Islington townhouse, the trophy wives and darling children, the weekends away en masse, the ramshackle parties, the legends, the traditions, the glittering story of them all and their sprawling mass of friends and people. She’d seen it, she’d smelled it and she’d wanted it. And now it was hers. And, like a shiny thing seen and coveted through the plate-glass windows of a fancy shop, now she had it in her hands it had lost its allure.

She drew in her breath and smiled at Adrian. She gestured that she was heading back to the kitchen and saw the old friend’s face drop slightly with disappointment. She took her plate and left the room. She hovered at the cusp of the kitchen, but couldn’t quite bring herself to walk in. She could hear the screech and overwrought hilarity of the youngsters and she suspected Luke was in there too. She opened up the door to Susie’s snug, a tiny room off the hallway where Susie had a desk and a sofa and a huge collection of vinyl records housed in reclaimed cubbies. She sat on Susie’s chair and rested the unwanted plate of food on the desk. The walls in here were covered in photographs, a mosaic of vintage mismatched frames, barely a gap between them. And there it was, yet again, a physical reminder that she was an interloper in this world. The decades of life that had been lived before she’d arrived, the children born and raised and grown, the holidays and birthdays and Christmas mornings without her. And the only thing that could possibly bring her truly into this world was a baby of her own. And the baby would not come. It refused to come. It was almost as if the baby knew that it was only wanted as a golden ticket. Because Maya didn’t really want a baby. She wasn’t broody. There was no clock ticking. Just a desperate urge to belong to this club of which she felt like an off-peak member.

The emailer was right. She was nothing. She was a shadow in the wings.

She ran her finger along the frame of a photograph of all four of them: Susie, Adrian, Luke and Cat. Susie was California pretty in faded jeans and a checked shirt, her pale hair long and plaited, a crescent of creamy cleavage showing at the V of her shirt. Adrian was full-cheeked and handsome, his arms draped around Cat’s neck from behind. The children were chunky and small, around four and six, Maya estimated, much more similar to each other than they looked now that they were adults. Behind them was a range of golden sand dunes and a puffy blue and white sky. Where was this taken? Maya didn’t know. She would have been a teenager when this photo was taken. She would have walked past this young family at the beach and thought nothing of them.

She jumped slightly as she heard the door hinge creak slowly.

‘Hi.’ It was Luke.

‘Hi.’ She felt her face fill with colour.

He joined her alongside the photograph. ‘Norfolk,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I’ve never been.’

‘We used to go every summer. My uncle had a cottage there.’

‘I didn’t know you had an uncle.’

‘Yeah, Mum’s brother, Pete. He killed himself. A couple of years after that photo was taken.’

‘Oh God.’ She grimaced. ‘How awful.’ How did she not know about Uncle Pete? Who else did she not know about?

‘Yeah. And then Dad left. A year later.’

Maya glanced at him. He was like a walking wound sometimes.

‘Was it hard for your mum?’ she asked. ‘When he left?’ Adrian had always talked fondly of the transition from wife one to wife two. Almost as if it had been a wonderful piece of serendipity that had led him from Susie to Caroline, from Hove to London.

Luke looked at her as though she was dim. ‘Of course it was,’ he said. ‘I mean,
look at us
.’ He directed his gaze back to the photograph. ‘Look how happy we were. Three years later he’d gone. I was nine.’

‘But your mum, she was OK about it?’

‘Well, yeah, kind of. But that’s only because she was off her tits all the time.’

‘Susie?’

‘Yeah. She knew what was happening. She knew about Caroline long before my dad told her. She was always leaving us with our grandparents and going clubbing, raving. I think she thought it was better than staying at home and waiting for Dad to get back. I think she was just getting ready, you know, for the big revelation, so she could make out that she didn’t care either way. But she did. She didn’t used to be like this, you know’ – he gestured towards the living room – ‘scatty and scruffy. She used to be quite cool.’ He looked back at the photo and sighed. ‘Anyway. How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘You?’

‘Yeah. I’m OK. I’m sorry I haven’t been writing or calling or anything. It’s been a bit …’

‘That’s OK,’ she replied hastily. ‘I understand.’

‘I really need to apologise,’ he said, turning to face her. ‘For what happened. It was … it was totally out of order.’

‘It’s fine,’ she said, glancing anxiously through the crack in the door, listening for footsteps. ‘Really, Luke. I was flattered.’

He issued a dry bark. ‘I wasn’t trying to flatter you, Maya. I was … oh God. I shouldn’t have said anything. Look. Let’s just …’

‘Yes,’ said Maya. ‘Yes. Forget it happened.’

‘Yes,’ Luke agreed. ‘Yes. Thank you.’ He sounded relieved.

Maya smiled sadly. She did not feel relieved. She felt sad and anxious. She felt as though she was smothering something tiny and precious, something that had barely drawn its first breath. She clutched his hand, squeezed it hard, and then dropped it at the sound of the door hinge creaking again.

‘There you are!’ It was Charlotte. She glanced from Maya to Luke and back again. ‘What are you two doing in here?’

‘I was just showing Maya some old family photos,’ said Luke, pulling Charlotte towards him by the waist and kissing her on the cheek.

Maya tried not to look, tried not to feel anything. She forced a smile and said brightly, ‘Look! Look at the cuties!’

Charlotte followed her pointing finger to a photo of Luke and Cat sitting one on each end of a seesaw, both in brightly coloured anoraks and woollen hats. Her face scrunched up and she said, ‘Oh. Adorable! Look at how adorable you were!’ She kissed Luke on the cheek and rested her head against his chest.

Maya picked up her plate of uneaten food and turned to leave the room. The last thing she saw as she did so was Luke’s blue eyes fixed upon her over the top of Charlotte’s head, meaningfully and desperately.

Adrian didn’t listen to the voicemail from the unknown number until he got home from work on Monday. The voicemail icon had been flashing at him since nine o’clock that morning but he simply hadn’t had a free moment. He was shutting the office early during the Olympics, so that his employees wouldn’t have horrible nightmares getting home on London transport and miss dates and bedtimes and hot suppers. In theory his employees would be working remotely once they got home and nothing much was going to change. But in practice it appeared that his employees were all going home and planting themselves straight in front of the TV with a can of lager, and Adrian kept finding himself in the office at nine p.m., answering phone calls and desperately trying to pull various issues together with no backup.

It was almost ten o’clock by the time he got home. Luke was watching the Olympics highlights with a lager in his hand and gave Adrian his customary greeting involving the use of approximately three facial muscles. Adrian joined him with a heavy sigh and his own can of lager and finally dialled up his voicemail service.

Hello, Adrian, this is Dolly Patel. I spoke to you a while ago about the mobile phone? Listen. Funny thing. I found my phone. Or at least my little girl found the phone. It was in her toy box. Right at the bottom. Completely flat, of course. So it wasn’t actually in my bag when it got stolen. Which means it can’t be the phone that woman left in your flat. So, listen, I just spoke to my boss and he says he thinks he knows what happened to Tiffany’s phone. I told him about your wife and he’d like to help. So maybe you could give him a ring? His name is Jonathan Baxter. Here’s his number: 07988 033460. Take care. Bye.

Adrian sat up straight, staring hard at his phone as if it had just spoken to him.

‘You all right?’ said Luke.

‘Er, yeah. Yeah, I think. Hold on, just got a call to make.’ He stopped and glanced at the time on his phone. ‘Is ten o’clock too late, do you think?’

‘Too late for what?’

‘To call someone.’

‘Depends who you’re calling.’

‘An estate agent.’

Luke raised an eyebrow.

‘No, not for anything like that. It’s the phone. You know, the stalker’s phone? There’s a man who thinks he might know who’s got it. He’s an estate agent.’

Luke sat up straighter, too. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said. ‘No, it’s not too late. Call him. Call him now. He won’t answer it if he doesn’t want to.’

Adrian swallowed down a wave of nervous excitement and dialled in the number.

‘Hello?’ said an uncertain voice.

Adrian leaned forward, his knees touching the coffee table. ‘Hi, is that Jonathan Baxter?’

‘Yes, speaking.’

‘Hello. I’m so sorry to be calling you so late. My name is Adrian Wolfe and—’

‘Ah, hello, yes, I’ve been expecting your call.’

‘Is it OK to talk now? I can call tomorrow if that’s more convenient?’

‘No, not at all. I’m just here watching the sports. It’s easier to talk now than when I’m at work. So, this phone?’

‘Yes, Tiffany’s phone.’

‘I gave it to my son,’ said Jonathan Baxter. ‘About four months ago. He said he needed it for his business. He’s a … Christ, I’m not sure actually, something to do with the internet. Anyway. He said he needed a couple of cheap phones and I had a load of them rattling around in a drawer at work; we upgraded everyone to smartphones a few months ago, so they were kind of redundant. I handed them over to Matthew, didn’t think another thing.’

A flash of blue-white clarity exploded through Adrian’s consciousness. ‘Sorry, sorry. Matthew? Your son is called Matthew?’

‘Yes. Why? Do you know him?’

‘Well, no, not exactly. But the third time I met the woman who left the phone in my flat, she was with a man called Matthew. On a date.’

Jonathan Baxter grunted. ‘Not my Matthew then. My Matthew is gay.’

‘Well, I assumed they were on a date; she was holding a rose. But is he tall and dark, your son? Short hair? Very good-looking?’

‘Yes, I guess that does kind of describe him.’

‘Youngish, about thirty?’

‘He’s thirty-one.’

‘Does he live in north London?’

‘Yes. He lives in Highgate.’

There was a short silence. Then Adrian said, ‘Does your son have a friend called Jane?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Or Amanda?’

‘Again, not that I’m aware of. But he does have a lot of female friends. He shares a flat with a girl. Has a lot of girls working for him. I’m not sure I could identify one from the many.’

Adrian sighed. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘she is remarkably beautiful.’

‘All Matthew’s female friends appear to fall into that category.’

‘This one’, he continued, ‘has odd-coloured eyes. One is blue and the other is blue with an amber section.’

Now Jonathan Baxter sighed. ‘Really,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t know. I might well have met this woman but I honestly wouldn’t remember. They all kind of blend into one amorphous beautiful young woman.’

‘Well, would you … do you think you might be able to give me your son’s number? Maybe I could have a word with him?’

‘Oh, now, I don’t know …’

‘Or at least give him my number. Ask him to call me?’

‘Yes, yes, that I can do. Of course. But remind me, what exactly did this mysterious woman do, this Jane? Dolly gave me the rough outline but …’

‘It’s all very strange,’ said Adrian. ‘She seemed very keen to track me down, stalked my daughter, purposely bumped into me on the street that night and then disappeared. Mine was the only number on that phone. And I would have let the whole thing lie, but since she came in and out of our lives, we’ve uncovered some poison pen emails that were sent to my late wife. Emails that appear to have contributed to her death. And I can’t shake the feeling that she had something to do with it.’

‘Something bad?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

‘In which case, and assuming my son knew why he was giving her the phone, he might not be too keen to give her up. Listen. I won’t say anything just yet. But let me have a word with my ex-wife and Matthew’s sisters. They would probably have more of an eye for detail. They’re more likely to remember something like odd-coloured eyes. Leave it with me, Adrian. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘What was that all about?’ said Luke once Adrian had switched off his phone.

‘I think’, said Adrian, ‘that that man might just be able to help me to track down the mysterious Jane.’

Adrian stared intently at the menu, glancing from time to time at the clock on his phone. Caroline was ten minutes late. Caroline was always ten minutes late. It had been one of the many things about her that had started off beguiling (always being ten minutes late clearly meant that she was better than him and Adrian did want to be with a woman who was better than him) and ended up infuriating (what made her think she was any better than him?). Sitting here now he felt the fresh thrill of it again, that will she/won’t she turn up edginess that had reeled him in so effectively thirteen years ago.

Finally, at eleven minutes past eight, Caroline appeared at the door. She shook out an umbrella and passed it to the waiter who greeted her. She was wearing a navy Pac-a-mac which she pulled over her head and folded into a ball. Adrian felt a stab of disappointment. A Pac-a-mac. He felt fairly sure she didn’t wear Pac-a-macs when she was out with Paul Wilson. Under the Pac-a-mac she was wearing a classic Caroline outfit of jeans and a Liberty print shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Probably what she’d been wearing all day, he mused. She arrived at their table smelling of the street, of London rain and wet umbrella. No aroma of freshly washed hair or just-spritzed perfume.