My Husband's Wife (26 page)

‘How exactly? It would have made us even more overdrawn.'

‘A thousand wasn't enough and you know it.'

‘Get real! It's more than she deserves. Her letters were so pushy …'

Carla almost let out a gasp but managed to stop herself in time.

‘So she
did
write?' Ed's voice rose with indignation. ‘You said you hadn't received anything. Why didn't you tell me?'

Lily was pleading. ‘Because you were in no fit state. And because, as I keep trying to say, we can't afford it. Tom is our priority. Perhaps you should sell some more paintings.'

‘How can I when you've dried up all my inspiration?'

‘Ed! That's not fair!'

She heard a tinkling of broken glass followed by Ed's angry voice: ‘Now look what you made me do.'

Carla shrank back into the darkness as Lily came flying out of the door, thankfully in the opposite direction. Swiftly, she slunk back to her room, shaking. So her first instincts had been right. Lily
had
received the letters. She had lied. As for being overdrawn, she didn't believe it. Not with a house like that.

If she'd had any qualms before, there were none now.

What a relief to be back! London. Work. It may be that strange, half-asleep time between Christmas and New Year, but for us, there is always work to do. Finally I can relax.

I was edgy all the while I was in Devon. Abrupt with everyone, including our guest. I was aware of it before Ed pointed out that I was like a cat on a hot tin roof every time the phone rang or someone knocked at the door. I'm still kicking myself for letting slip to Ed about Carla's letters, which resulted in one of the worst rows we've ever had.

Hardly surprising that I let the cat out of the bag. My mind was still whirling after that encounter with Joe Thomas at Tony's funeral.

There I'd been, all those years since his case, basking in the glory of being a criminal lawyer with a ninety-five per cent success rate. But it was all down to the help I'd received from an unknown criminal.

A man who was considered innocent by the rest of the world. Because of me.

Yet what's really had me jumping at shadows this holiday are Joe's continued allegations about Tom. I kept expecting my old client to ring or, even worse, just walk in through the door and insist (rightly or wrongly) that Tom is his child. After all, he knows where my parents live.

No wonder I was edgy. On the verge of hysteria, more like. Time and time again, I almost told my husband but managed to stop myself. He wouldn't understand. No one could. If my poor mother didn't have enough on her plate, I might even have confided in her.

But one look at her worn face – exhausted with looking after my son who should be
our
responsibility – stopped me. This was one I had to sort out for myself.

In a way, it was a relief having Carla there. A stranger in the midst of a tense, wobbly family makes everyone behave themselves at a time of year when the whole world is meant to be happy. In fact, that's why I'd invited her.

Ed had jumped at the idea and I knew why.

Hadn't I realized at our reunion in the gallery that she could save us? Ed needed to paint her. It would revive his career. Then, at Christmas, I watched him from across the table as he thanked her. ‘I didn't even have to suggest it,' he'd said excitedly later on. ‘She brought up the idea herself. We're going to arrange a sitting in January. Don't you see, Lily? This could be the start of a new phase in my life!'

He was so buoyed up that we almost forgot to argue about Tom. And work. Of course I'd had to check my emails (‘Yes, Mum. Even during the break'), but that was par for the course. And there were a few sticky moments when Carla kept asking about Daniel.

‘Why don't you just tell her he's dead?' Ed finally demanded.

I wanted to scream at him then. Couldn't he understand? Daniel was mine. He was none of Carla's business.

And then there'd been that hideous row about Carla's
begging letters, where Ed accused me of killing his inspiration.

‘Did you have a good Christmas?' asks my secretary as I settle into my desk.

‘Yes, thanks,' I answer automatically.

Then I glance at the sparkling diamond on her left hand. ‘Do I gather that congratulations are in order?'

She nods excitedly. ‘I couldn't believe it. He put the ring in the Christmas pudding! I almost swallowed it when –'

And that's when the phone goes. It's a woman. A frantic mother. Her son has been arrested for drink-driving. He's in the cells right now. Can we help?

Thank goodness for work. It shuts everything out. It seals the gaps where the gas is seeping through. It helps me to forget that Mum is, right now, helping Tom to prepare for his first week back at school, where he will go to bed every night without my bedtime kiss or Mum's.

‘Oh, and one more thing,' says my secretary. ‘It was in the in-tray when I arrived.'

A photograph. It's in an envelope bearing just my name and the word
PRIVATE
in handwritten capitals.

The picture clearly shows a junction without any road marks.

The night porter, who is just finishing his shift, confirms my worst fears. A man with a short haircut gave him the envelope last night.

Slowly, I rip the photograph into little bits and then hand them to my secretary. ‘For the confidential waste bin,' I say.

‘You don't need the information then?'

‘No.'

From now on, I win cases on my own.

Not long after Boxing Day, Carla got up to find that Lily had already gone back to work on the 6.05 a.m. train. ‘A client needs her attention,' Ed had muttered.

After Lily's departure, everyone seemed so much more relaxed. No more snide comments. No more, ‘Please, Tom. Just sit still for a moment, can't you?'

Yet even without Lily's prickly presence, Carla still felt there was something wrong in the Devon house. Lily's mother had been particularly nice to her, but in a way that suggested there was something to hide. She felt sure it was to do with Daniel, the son no one wanted to talk about.

Perhaps they were estranged? Carla considered her own home in Italy, where many of the neighbours continued to snub her for her illegitimate status, even though her mother's ‘disgrace' had happened so long ago.

Carla spent her last day in Devon walking with Ed and Tom along the beach – all part of vital preparation for the next move. Actually, it was good fun! She paid particular attention to Tom, teaching him some Italian phrases, and noted with pleasure that he seemed to like her already. He was a quick learner too, even though he had to hit his knee with his left hand every time he got a phrase right. ‘One of his rituals,' Ed whispered, as if he knew she'd understand.

Carla had also been careful to endear herself to Lily's parents. ‘Tom's at a special school during the week, you know,' his grandfather said to her just before she left for the station. ‘We all find it very difficult. You, though, seem to have the knack.'

‘Come back again,' Lily's mother said, pressing her cheek against hers on one side. Such an odd English tradition not to do the second cheek! ‘You are good for us.'

When the time came to leave for the station, Carla didn't want to go. On the train she was buzzing. She and Ed had arranged to meet to discuss the sitting. ‘I can't wait,' he'd said, squeezing her hand as she'd left.

The hostel had seemed even colder and lonelier when she returned. Despite knowing many of the girls by sight, she hadn't made any friends. They weren't her type with those ugly tattoos and nose rings. As if sensing the same, no one had asked her to join in the hostel New Year's Eve party. Not that she had wanted to go. Instead, she had huddled up under the duvet and swotted up on some new precedents.

She'd rung Mamma earlier. It was a big expense, but Carla needed to hear her voice. The line had been faint though. ‘I love you,
cara mia
,' she had just about made out.

‘I love you too, Mamma.'

Now, lying back on the narrow bed, Carla lit up a cigarette and exhaled deeply as she took stock. It was already January! Yet she still hadn't achieved what she had hoped to by now. Something needed to happen to move things along.

As she fine-tuned her next step, loud music began to
vibrate through her ears. The girl in the room next to hers always had it on so loud! How could she possibly think with that racket? Maybe she'd go and have a shower to get some peace. Grabbing her sponge bag and dressing gown, Carla locked her door and stomped off down the corridor. She'd only been there five minutes or so when there was a hammering on the door.

‘Fire! Fire! Quick. Get out!'

I can still smell.

They say it's the last thing to go.

So all is not lost.

Not yet.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that something is burning.

Even worse, the red stiletto shoe is no longer there.

It's New Year's Day. Ed and I are spending a quiet evening in. Somehow neither of us could muster up the energy to go to the lunch party we were asked to by one of the partners. It wouldn't look good, but there are times, I tell myself, when you have to put family first.

The table is covered with sketches. Presumably, they're from the last couple of days Ed spent in Devon. Carla laughing. Carla bending over Tom. Carla widening her eyes. Carla in thought, her hands round the stem of a wine glass. All that is missing is the subject herself, in the flesh.

The phone rings. ‘Can you get that, please?' I call out.

A pan on the stove is boiling over. I turn it down. The green beans look slushy. I turn to Ed, who is, I now realize, clearly trying to calm someone down. My mother. Tom must have done something. Again.

‘How awful,' he's now saying.

My heart tightens. I knew it. We shouldn't have left. I should give up work and …

‘You poor thing.'

Ed doesn't usually call my mother ‘poor thing'. I hover by the phone, wondering what is going on.

‘But of course you're right to ring. You must stay with
us. Wait there. I will come and fetch you. What is the address again?'

My husband grabs his jacket. ‘It's Carla. There's been a fire at the hostel. She's outside in the street right now in her dressing gown.'

‘Is she hurt?'

‘No, thank heavens. Just scared.'

‘I'll go if you like.'

‘It's OK.' He's already at the door. ‘Maybe you can make up Tom's bed.'

Of course, it's the right thing to do.

When Carla arrives, her beautiful olive face is drawn. She is shivering in a pretty pink dressing gown and her hands are gripped together so tightly that her knuckles are white. ‘It was so frightening. We had to run down the emergency staircase outside. I thought I would fall …'

News of the fire had been briefly on LBC. No one, apparently, had been hurt. Meanwhile, the cause of the fire would be investigated.

Ed hands her a tumbler of whisky. ‘Take this. It will help a bit.'

Any excuse to have one yourself
, I almost say.

‘Sit down. Please.' I remember my manners. ‘You're safe now.'

‘But I have nothing, no clothes,' sobs Carla, cradling the whisky with those elegant hands. ‘And my books are gone too.'

‘They can all be replaced,' I say soothingly, taking her hands. Although I had enough opportunity to examine her at Christmas, I am reminded right now that she really is very beautiful. Those dark, almond-shaped eyes and
thick black eyebrows would look masculine on a pale Englishwoman, but only make her look even more gorgeous, even in her distress.

Perhaps having Carla to stay will be a good thing. Ed and I will no longer be able to argue with someone else here. Our guest will be a buffer – just as she was as a little girl.

‘It will be all right,' I say.

Carla lifts up her downcast face. For a second, I see the distraught look of the little girl I found outside her mother's flat with the big bruise on her face. ‘It is so kind of you to give me a home. Thank you.'

A sudden shiver goes through me.

It's only temporary
, I want to say. But that would sound churlish.

And I tell myself that this strange beat of premonition is nothing. Nothing at all. Haven't I just told myself that she will be good for us?

Besides, it is Joe Thomas I need to worry about.

‘Don't take it so badly,' says one of my partners when I return from court a few weeks later.

But I do, I think. If I had used that photograph which Joe Thomas had sent me, I might have been able to prove that there hadn't been any road marks on the day that my client had failed to stop at the T-junction. There were road marks there now, of course, but that's the name of the game. He'd have been done on the drink-driving, but his sentence might not have been so heavy if I could have proved that those ‘Give Way' lines hadn't been there at the time.

But road marks are allowed to fade. Accidents happen. And then miraculously the council lorry turns up and
paints those lines in. Ask any lawyer. The problem is that you can't always get photographic evidence to prove it.

So much for me being able to sort out cases on my own. Maybe that's why I'm not surprised when a two-line note arrives the following day.

You could have won if you'd used my photograph. How is Tom?

I sit and stare at it for some time before picking up the phone.

‘Do you have time for a drink?'

Ross sounds both pleased and surprised at the same time. ‘Love to.'

We meet at one of my favourite Italian bistros off Covent Garden. I say ‘favourite', but in truth my life doesn't include much time for fun. I'm one of those people who, when asked to write down hobbies, struggles a bit. When you are a lawyer, there's little time to do anything else. I
do
go for a run most mornings, before work. But I see that as part of getting dressed.

‘What's up?' Ross asks.

I look at our old friend across the table in his tweed jacket and jeans. A man of opposites, that's Ross. He'd started out as Ed's friend but soon became just as much mine – especially when it came to giving guidance about my husband, who, as Ross often said, was a complete idiot at times. An idiot whom we both loved.

Sometimes I wonder if Ross is gay. After all, he's never been married. Never had a girlfriend as far as I know. I try not to pry.

‘I've got a problem,' I say. My hands twist with anxiety
under the table. For longer than I can remember, I've been wanting to confide in someone about Joe and the ‘helpful information' he keeps sending me. But now the time has come when if I don't share it with someone else, I'm going to burst. Naturally, there are certain bits I need to omit.

‘Wow,' says Ross when I finish telling the story. ‘You poor thing. What an impossible position to be in.'

I want him to tell me that it will be all right. That there's something I can do to stop all of this.

‘For what it's worth,' he adds, ‘I think you did the right thing, tearing up that photo.'

‘Really?'

‘Absolutely.' He sounds firmer now. ‘You can do this on your own, Lily. You've been doing it on your own for years. Yes, this man might have helped you now and then. But don't let that suck away your confidence. You're a good lawyer.'

I want to tell him about the other thing. But I can't. Instead, my mind goes back to the pub in Highgate. The time when Joe took my hand. That charge of electricity. That attraction which should never have been there. The guilt afterwards because I had drunk just a bit too much to be responsible for my actions.

The real reason for my vow not to drink again.

‘You won't tell Ed? Or anyone else?'

I'm panicking now. Terrified in case Ross's allegiances are divided. Of course I'm talking about the anonymous tip-offs. I can't tell anyone about the Heath.

‘Promise.' He glances at his watch. ‘Afraid I've got to go back now.'

That's the other thing about Ross. When I first met
him, he was an actuary. It had been his knowledge of figures, remember, that had helped me to crack Joe Thomas's code games. But after Tom was born and we asked Ross to be godfather, he changed jobs. Said that our experience had made him see life differently. Now he heads a big fundraising company that helps charities. He's a good man, is Ross.

By the time I get home after another late night in the office, Ed and Carla have eaten. They're sitting at the table, Ed's sketchbook in front of him.

‘I am sorry,' says Carla apologetically. ‘I wanted to wait but …'

‘It's my fault.' Ed is smiling at me. Grinning in a way I haven't seen him do for years. And I know why.

‘Your meal is in the oven, darling.'

He hasn't called me ‘darling' for a long time.

‘It should still be edible. Now, Carla, I want you to put your head slightly to one side. Chin down a bit. Eyes to the left. Perfect.'

Ed is happy because he is painting Carla again. Her idea, he keeps reminding me, as if he is flattered.

Frankly, I'm relieved. It will give me space to figure out what to do about Joe.