My Husband's Wife (9 page)

My head hurts.

My thoughts are confused.

Sometimes I think I am fifteen years younger.

Sometimes I think I am not here at all, but looking down at everything that is still happening.

Perhaps there really is such a thing as resurrection.

But not as we're taught in church.

Maybe it's the chance to do it all again. Right this time.

Or maybe this is just the rambling of a dying soul.

Never to return again.

Joe Thomas, who was sentenced to life in 1998, is to appeal against his conviction for murder. Thomas claims that his girlfriend Sarah Evans died as the result of a faulty boiler.

Miss Evans's parents described themselves as ‘shocked' when they heard the news. ‘That man took our little girl away from us,' said Geoff Evans, a 54-year-old teacher from Essex. ‘He deserves to rot in hell.'

Mrs Evans, 53, is currently undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer.

My boss sucks in his breath as he scans the story on page two of today's
Times
. ‘So! They're baying for your blood already. You're sure about your brief?'

‘Absolutely. Tony Gordon has agreed to do it pro bono like us. Says it could be a case of national importance.'

My boss makes a ‘well, what do you know?' face.

‘I don't want a woman,' Joe had said firmly. ‘No disrespect meant. Juries might like to watch a woman strut
around and imagine what's under her dress. But it's a man's argument that will sway them.'

I swallowed my response to that.

‘I've seen him in court a few times,' I assured my client. ‘Tony can play the crowds.'

It helps too that he's handsome – in some ways, he reminds me of Richard Burton – with a gift for making female jurors feel as though they're the only ones in the room, and for making male jurors feel privileged to be entrusted with the life of the man in the dock.

With any luck, he'll pull the rabbit out of the hat. First, apparently, we have to make an application to the CCRC, the Criminal Cases Review Commission, for leave to appeal. If it thinks there are grounds, it will refer the case to the Court of Appeal. If the latter allows the appeal, says Tony, we'll seek a re-trial. Meanwhile, he's confident enough to ‘do quite a lot of spadework' first to save time. The courts are rushing cases through at the moment. We need to be prepared.

I return to my desk to continue my briefing notes for Tony. I'm meant to share the room with another newly qualified solicitor, or NQ as we're known for short. But my colleague, a young man fresh from Oxford, is ill with stress.

It's common in law. So easy to make a mistake. To let clients down. To let the firm down. And all the time we have the constant fear of being sued hanging over us for inadvertently making a mistake. It reminds me of something that one of my tutors once said to us in the first year. ‘Believe it or not, the law isn't always just. Some will get away with it. Some will go to prison for crimes they
didn't commit. And a certain percentage of those “innocents” will have got away with other crimes before. So you could say it balances out in the end.'

I'm aware of all this as I lean over my computer. Yet, as if in rebellion, my thoughts wander back to Ed.

‘Why don't we have a dinner party?' I suggested over dinner the other night. My husband of nearly two months looked up from his tray. That's right. We've started having dinner in front of the television: something Ed's mother certainly wouldn't approve of.

But it helps to fill in the silent gaps. The sweet, kind, amusing man I met less than a year ago appears to have lost his sense of humour. Instead of being up and down, he's now firmly down. He no longer tries to cuddle me in bed. But sometimes he takes me in the night – when we are both half asleep – with an urgency that makes me gasp.

‘A dinner party?' he repeated when he'd finished his mouthful of macaroni cheese. Ed is polite, if nothing else. My latest imitation of a Delia Smith dish is distinctly runny, but he is manfully ploughing on. I've ‘progressed' now from undercooked steak and kidney to overcooked macaroni cheese. Even with two salaries, our budget is tight.

‘Yes,' I said firmly.

It had been Ross's idea. ‘How's it going?' he'd asked when he'd rung to see how his information had worked out. His voice reminded me, to my shame, that I hadn't even sent him a thank-you note. And the kindness in it made me well up. It's strange what a bit of thoughtfulness can do. Or the lack of it.

‘Bit tense,' I choked out.

‘Because of Ed?'

‘Why?' My chest tightened. ‘Has he said something to you?'

‘No …'

‘What, Ross?' My hands were clammy on the phone. ‘Tell me. I know he's your friend, but I need to know.' My voice was tearful. I was reaching out to someone I barely knew, but it was true. I did need to know the truth. I was fed up with lies.

‘Are you sure you want to know? I doubt it's anything really. Just people stirring.'

‘Ross, tell me. Please.' Surely he couldn't fail to hear the note of desperation in my voice?

There was a sigh. ‘Davina is going round telling everyone that she had a drink with Ed last Tuesday. I'm sure it's nothing.'

Last Tuesday? My mind spun as I tried to recall the week. He'd been working late. Suddenly I felt angry. This was my husband we were discussing. We might not have got things right yet, but there was still time. I wasn't going to let this woman get in the way of my new start. The one I had planned before even meeting Ed.

‘Look, maybe I shouldn't have said anything. But if I were you, I'd do something about it.'

‘What?' My voice came out like a croak.

‘Have her to dinner this very week. Have lots of people to dinner. Show her you're a couple.' His voice hardened. ‘Davina's not a very nice person. You're worth ten of her.'

Then, before I could say anything else, he added, ‘And don't forget to invite me.'

Quite frankly, a dinner party is the last thing I need now that the case is gathering speed.

‘If we can show there was negligence on the part of the boiler manufacturer, it will have a huge impact on the whole industry,' Tony had told me after agreeing to take us on. ‘But we've got a lot of research and interviewing to do. I'll start with the expert witnesses. Meanwhile, I want you to interview this lot.' He passed me a list of phone numbers. ‘They're other people who have reported extreme changes of temperature in their boilers.'

‘Where did you get them from?'

‘It doesn't matter. We just need to get cracking.'

There's hardly been time for a break. I shouldn't be taking one now. Yet here I am. Eight of us squeezed round the little table in our small flat, which I have somehow managed to make rather pretty with paper lanterns and lilies. Lilies everywhere. I bought armfuls from the market. The smell is overpowering.

I've also taken great care, on Ross's advice, to use the ‘our' word at every opportunity. ‘Our' new sofa, which we bought together. ‘Our' plans for Christmas. ‘Our' wedding photographs. The message is clear. We're a couple now. Maybe that's why everyone could make it, despite the short notice. They're curious to see how we are getting on.

It's not hard to see that I've really got up Davina's nose. In fact, she hasn't stopped sneezing from the minute she got here.

‘I'm afraid I'm allergic to pollen,' she says in between splutters as I remove the large vase from the middle of the
table – just opposite her place setting. Obviously, if I'd known, I'd never have bought them. Probably not, anyway.

Ed's face is a picture as he takes in his ex. He's an artist. He likes things to look nice. And right now, Davina isn't fitting the bill.

Even my coq au vin is quite passable.

I am triumphant.

‘Thank you for a lovely evening,' she splutters before leaving on the arm of the boring man she brought with her. A different one from the last time.

Ross winks at me as he brushes my cheek goodnight.

‘Thanks,' I whisper in his ear.

‘Any time.' His eyes sweep over me. Surely he's not checking me out? Although for once I think I look rather good. I'm wearing a simple white dress that covers the curves I'd rather not show, while revealing the ones that are more acceptable.

‘You look lovely,' says Ed, as soon as the door closes. ‘At least Ross seems to think so.'

The thought occurs to me that a touch of jealousy on my husband's part might not be a bad thing.

‘We might have a drink together next week,' I say casually, as I pull on my washing-up gloves.

‘A drink?' His voice sharpens. ‘Why?'

‘He's been helping me with a case.' I take a glass, heavily stained with lipstick, and wash it angrily in hot soapy water. ‘We're just friends, you know. Unlike you and Davina. I know you met up with her for a drink the other night. Don't deny it.'

‘For pity's sake.' Ed flings down the tea towel. ‘It's you I married in the end. Not her.'

‘What do you mean, in the end?'

He's not looking at me. ‘We were engaged,' he says slowly. ‘She broke it off. I didn't tell you, because I didn't want you to feel threatened when you met her.'

Threatened? Is he kidding? I feel even worse now.

‘When did she break it off? How long before we met?'

‘Two …' He hesitates.

Two years? Two months?

‘Two weeks,' he murmurs.

‘TWO WEEKS? You started seeing me two weeks after your fiancée broke off your engagement and you didn't think to tell me?'

‘I explained why.' Ed's face is red. ‘Aren't there things you haven't told me about your life?'

I go hot. And then cold as the picture of the stables comes into my head. What does he know?
How
can he know? Don't be silly, I tell myself. He's just lashing out blindly. Keep quiet. Say nothing.

Ed is moving towards me now. Placing his hands on my hips. ‘Davina and I had a drink to catch up.' His voice is pleading. ‘There was nothing in it.'

Tears are in my eyes. ‘Did you marry me on the rebound, Ed?'

‘No. I married you because … because you're kind and caring and beautiful …'

‘Beautiful? Now I know you're lying.'

‘I'm not.' He holds me by the shoulders. ‘To be honest, part of the attraction is that you don't know how lovely you are.'

‘I'm fat!' I almost spit out the words.

‘No. You have the shape of a woman. A proper woman.
But more important than that, you're a beautiful person within. You care about putting the world right.'

If only he knew, I think to myself as Ed kisses me softly.

Doesn't he have a right to know?

Do I believe him when he says there is nothing between him and Davina?

Do I have any right to ask when I have hidden so much from
him
?

And – just as vital – who can honestly declare Joe Thomas ‘guilty' or ‘innocent' when we're all capable of evil on a lesser or greater scale?

The doorbell rings as I am lying in Ed's arms. I almost did it, I tell myself. Honest love between husband and wife. Well, affection, at least …

The bell goes again. Wrapping my dressing gown around me and glancing at the clock – ten o'clock already? – I make for the door. A beautiful doe-eyed woman in a black and orange silk dress is standing there, dark curls cascading over her shoulders. I'm still so caught up with Ed and me, it takes me a second to figure out who she is.

‘I am so sorry,' says Francesca. ‘I have to work again and I have no one else to ask.'

Little Carla has already burst through our door as if she lives here. She is dancing up and down. ‘Can we cook like we did before?' she sings.

Of course this is an intrusion. The warning bell in my head tells me that the more I allow it to go on, the more of a habit it will become. And I have work to do. But I am
just trying to form an excuse when Ed comes up, the phone in his hand, his face shocked.

‘That was Davina's boyfriend. She's been rushed to hospital with an asthma attack. Brought on by those lilies.'

‘Is she all right?'

‘Yes. But it could have been much worse apparently.'

To my shame, I feel a flash of regret along with relief. Then the lawyer in me goes on the offensive. ‘You should have told me she was allergic to pollen before I put the flowers out. Surely you knew?'

He shrugs. ‘I forgot until it happened.'

The intimacy of last night is fast evaporating. Suddenly we're aware of the little girl dancing and Francesca waiting impatiently at the door.

‘Carla's mother needs to work today,' I say quietly.

Ed nods. The relief in his eyes matches mine. We both need a distraction from the other. This little girl with the black curls and thick eyebrows is the perfect excuse. We can play Mummy and Daddy again.

‘That's fine,' Ed says, turning to Francesca. ‘Happy to help out. Carla's no trouble. No trouble at all.'

‘May I lick the bowl? Please! Please!' asked Carla, the wooden spoon already midway between her mouth and the delicious-smelling mixture of egg and flour and butter and sugar. Mamma never let her taste anything before it was cooked. But something told Carla she could persuade Lily. Sometimes you just had to know the right way for the right person.

‘Pleeease?'

‘Of course!' Lily was next to her in a spotty pink and white apron. ‘My brother and I always used to do that when I was your age.'

Mmm. Yummy!

‘Not quite so much or you'll be sick!' Lily put a gentle hand on her arm.

Carla pouted the way Mamma did when Larry said he might be late again. Then she remembered that this sometimes annoyed him. She didn't want to annoy Lily. ‘What is your brother's name?' she asked in the hope of changing the subject.

There was a tight pause as Lily put the cake into the oven. She could feel it; rather like that beat between the needle being placed on the record and the sound of the music.

Ed, who had been sitting on the floor, cross-legged,
while sketching, laid down his charcoal stick. Lily took a great deal of time adjusting the position of the cake in the oven before coming back to the table. Her face was red. It must have been hot inside.

‘He was called Daniel.'

Carla knew that sing-song voice. It was the one Mamma used when she said something that was very important, but that she didn't want Carla to make a fuss about. ‘Your grandfather does not wish to see me any more.' Or, ‘One day, perhaps, you might go back to Italy on your own. Your grandmother would like to meet you.'

The English language was very strange. But even though she hated school, Carla paid great attention to grammar. She liked it. It was like a rhyme. A nursery rhyme that Mamma sometimes sang to her in Italian. They were doing tenses now in class. Present. Past. Future.
She walks down the street. He walked down the street. My brother is called Daniel. My brother was called Daniel.

That meant Lily's brother must have changed his name. They'd been reading a story at school about someone doing that.

‘What is he called now?'

Ed's charcoal stick was scratching quickly again. But Lily had turned back to the oven, her back to Carla. ‘I don't want to talk about him any more.' Her voice was unexpectedly cross.

Instantly, Carla's mouth went dry. The sweetness of the butter and flour and sugar had gone. Yet at the same time there was a thrill of excitement running through her. The sort you got when something bad happened – but not to you.

‘Did someone hurt him?' A picture of poor Charlie with his ripped fur next to the misspelt word ‘Theef
'
came back to her.

‘I think that's enough questions for today.' Ed stood up. ‘Come and look at this, Carla. What do you think?'

The girl on the paper looked just like
her
! She was lifting the spoon from the cake mixture to her lips. Her eyes were shining. But at the same time, there was a hint of something sad. How did Ed know that inside she was still hurting for Charlie? The new one didn't smell the same. He didn't love her as much as the real one. She could feel it.

‘Where is Lily? She's not in the picture.'

There was a laugh which sounded deeper than usual. Normally Lily had a high, tinkly laugh. ‘Don't worry about that, Carla. I'm used to it.'

A ripple of unease ran through her. Didn't Mamma say such things when Larry was late or didn't turn up at all?
I'm used to it. Used to your wife coming first. Don't worry about me.

‘Stop.' Ed's voice was low and growly. ‘Not in front of the child.'

‘I am not a child,' she started to say, but Ed was pushing his drawing into her hands. ‘You may keep this, if you like.'

Really? This was hers? She would add it to the special box where she'd put the first one Ed had given her. He must really like her.

‘Why not? It's better than keeping it here. My dear wife might start to be jealous of that too, along with everyone else.'

‘I thought you said, “Not in front of the child”?'

Lily was washing up angrily. Suds were flying in all directions. One landed on Carla's shoe. They were too tight, but Mamma did not get paid until next month. ‘I cannot ask Larry for any more,' she'd said.

But Carla could. Since finding him with the red-lipped lady, she had the feeling that she could ask Larry for quite a lot. The new Charlie was just the beginning.

‘May we go out for a walk?' she asked now, taking Ed's hand in her left and Lily's in the right. Then she remembered something that she had heard Mamma say through the wall, after she and Larry had been dancing. ‘Please? Pretty please?'

By the end of the afternoon, Carla had five more pictures. Carla in the park, on the swing. Carla feeding the ducks. Carla running. Carla thinking with her hand on her chin. Carla eating a Knickerbocker Glory with gooey strawberry sauce that Lily had treated her to.

‘Why do you not have any pictures of Lily?' she asked Ed.

As soon as she said the words, she knew she should not have done. All she'd wanted to do was find out what had upset Lily.

Lily gave a strange laugh. ‘Because I am not worth painting.'

Ed said nothing. But when Carla returned the following Sunday, there was a new picture, propped up against the wall.

Lily looking out of a window. It was as if she might step out of the paper any minute!

And that's when Carla realized. Mamma was wrong.
Lily might be a different shape from her mother. But she was beautiful. Kind. Caring. Carla's heart swelled up inside. How she loved her!

‘It is wonderful,' she breathed.

Ed looked pleased. So too did Lily. They put their arms around each other and looked much happier than she had ever seen them look recently. It made Carla feel good too. If it were not for Sundays, Carla wouldn't be able to get through the week. Monday … Tuesday … Wednesday …

Mamma no longer had to put a note under Lily's door. It seemed to be accepted that on the Lord's Day she went to Ed and Lily's, while Mamma went to work.

‘Soon,' promised Ed, after she'd finished admiring Lily's new picture, ‘I will draw you again. But I need to go out now.'

‘Really?' asked Lily, lifting her head. ‘Where?'

Ed shrugged. ‘Just out. You know. To get some inspiration.'

Carla didn't mind him going. He wasn't her favourite person. That was Lily. Lily who had time for her instead of constantly drawing and getting out a sketchpad when they were meant to be walking.

But it wasn't long before Lily was busy too. ‘I need to go through some work papers,' she said. ‘Can you read to yourself for a bit?'

Carla stuck out her bottom lip. This was usually effective in getting her way. ‘But I've left my book behind.'

‘Do you have a key?'

‘There's one on the ledge above the front door.'

‘Can you get that then?' Lily barely looked up as she spoke.

‘OK.'

‘Thanks.' Lily beamed at her. Instantly Carla felt full of warmth again.

‘Shall I come with you?'

‘You're busy.' Carla was keen to please. ‘I can do it.'

As soon as she put the key in the lock, Carla heard the moaning. Someone was in pain! Was it Mamma sent home ill from work? The sound was coming from her room.

Carla opened the door and then stopped dead. That was Larry's hat on the floor. The rest of him was on top of Mamma. Except that it didn't look like her. Her face was red. Her hair was wet. And her eyes were so wide that they looked as though they were going to pop right out there on to the floor. Was Larry hurting Mamma? But Mamma didn't seem sad. She didn't really seem like Mamma at all.

Carla turned and ran.

‘Where is your book?' asked Lily when she returned.

‘I couldn't find it.'

‘Are you all right? You seem very quiet.'

‘May I just watch television?'

‘Of course.'

‘And could I stay here. For the night?'

Lily gave her a cuddle. ‘We've only got one bedroom, poppet.'

Poppet? Lily had called her that before. Carla didn't know what it was, but it sounded nice.

Then Lily shut her books. ‘Tell you what. I'll do this later. Why don't we make some fudge again? Then you can give your mother a piece when she comes home from work.'

There was the sound of a bell and a voice cooing through the letterbox. ‘Piccola? It is me.'

Carla's heart sank. Instinctively, she knew Mamma was here because Carla had seen her at home when she was meant to be at work. And although Mamma's voice sounded nice, she was bound to be cross when they were alone together.

‘In fact,' said Lily brightly, ‘it looks like she's back early.'