My Husband's Wife (30 page)

Every other weekend, for some months now, Carla and Ed had gone down to Devon to see Tom. At first she had been nervous. What if the boy refused to talk to her? She genuinely felt something for him: an understanding between two people who had never fitted in. But when Ed had picked him up from the house – they'd decided it was better if she stayed in the car while he did this – he had come running up to her all gangly-legged and toothy with excitement. ‘Carla,' he had said, nodding. ‘You are here.'

She wouldn't allow herself to think of Lily, who must be waiting inside. A mother forced to give up her son to another woman for the day. Lily deserved it, Carla told herself. She had neglected Tom so that she could follow her career. She had neglected her husband too. It was the only way Carla could cope with that little nagging voice in her head. The voice that had been reflected in the letter from her mother.

‘I hope you know what you are doing, my sweet,' her mother had written. ‘Looking back, I regret the pain I caused Larry's wife. Be very careful.'

And then, one Saturday morning when she and Ed had been lying in bed, came the note through the door. Luckily she had got there before him.

YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS
.

That was all.

Clearly it referred to breaking up Ed and Lily's marriage.

The writing was in spidery capital letters. Who had sent it? Lily? Yet somehow Carla knew it wasn't her style. Someone at work then? Even though most were friendlier now, there were still some who talked about their former colleague with affection. How she'd set up a new branch (with flexible hours apparently), focusing on cases where parents had children with special needs. How ‘she deserved to do well'. This last bit had been said by Lily's old secretary with a meaningful look towards Carla.

Was it possible one of them had sent the note? Once more, she read it to herself.

YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS
.

Part of Carla wanted to show Ed so he could banish her fears. Tell her it was all right. But what if it stirred his conscience? Made him feel guiltier than he did already? There were times when she often found him looking at pictures of Tom with a wistful gaze. And he was always in a difficult mood after their weekend visits. Did he regret leaving his son for her, Carla? Was it possible that he might leave her and return to Lily?

Such humiliation! She couldn't end up like Mamma.

So instead of telling Ed about the note, she ripped it into little pieces. And just to make sure he didn't find it like he'd found Rupert's, she dropped the pieces of paper into the rubbish bin down the street.

For a few weeks after that, she felt nervous, looking over her shoulder every time she went to the office, out-staring the secretary. But nothing happened.

At home, Ed's infatuation with her made him clinging and controlling. ‘Where have you been?' he demanded one night when she came back late after sorting out an urgent land contract. ‘I tried to ring you but there was no answer.'

‘I had it switched off so I could concentrate.'

But when she came out of the shower that night, she found him stuffing her mobile quickly back into her bag as if he'd been checking it.

‘I'm not hiding anything from you,' she said, annoyed.

‘Of course you're not, darling.' He draped an arm around her. ‘I just thought I heard it hum. Look, you've got a text.' He rolled his eyes. ‘Your work again.'

That stifling feeling increased.

Then an important client cancelled a commission for a portrait of his wife. ‘Apparently she disapproves of the press publicity over us,' said Ed, shrugging. ‘Never mind. Commissions come and go. The important thing is that I've got you. You know, I never felt I really had Lily. She was always thinking of Daniel or Tom or her career.'

Meanwhile, bottles of wine were disappearing from the cellar at an alarming rate. ‘I took them into the gallery,' said Ed when she questioned him about it. But later in the week, she found the bottles at the bottom of the recycling bin at the back of the house.

Carla, still on a high from having briefed a barrister about a case that looked as though it was almost in the bag, began to feel a stirring of frustration. Was this how Lily had felt?

Then, one Sunday when Ed was out sketching (again), she did a great tidy-up, partly to expunge Lily's lingering presence in the house. Ed's study was sacrosanct: no one went into it. But when she peered inside, she could see the desk was overflowing with bits of paper. Cobwebs fluttered in the corners. Dirty mugs were on every surface. Just a quick bit of rearranging wouldn't go amiss.

Underneath the half-finished sketches, she found a pile of unopened post.

Some had ‘Urgent' stamped on the envelope. Others, ‘Open Immediately'.

So she did.

Aghast, Carla sank on to Ed's chair. He owed thousands on his credit card. The mortgage hadn't been paid for two months. There was a letter giving them three more months, ‘following your request'
.

But after that, the money would have to be paid.

‘It will be all right,' Ed said when she confronted him as soon as he got back. ‘It's just a question of cash flow. I've got the new exhibition coming up. My agent is very optimistic. I'll sell more than enough to keep us going.'

Then he looked at her disappointedly as though
she'd
been in the wrong. ‘Please don't go into my study again. It's not as though I've got anything to hide.'

The next day, she found the letters had gone.

The exhibition opening almost distracted Carla from the doubts that were building up. It was such fun to be photographed on Ed's arm! He looked so handsome dressed in his tuxedo. ‘Shall I refer to you as Mr Macdonald's companion?' asked one of the journalists.

Ed, hovering at her shoulder, had stepped in. ‘Put fiancée, would you?'

Carla started. They hadn't even discussed marriage! But Ed was speaking as though it had all been arranged.

‘Why did you say that?' she asked as they walked home.

Ed's handgrip tightened. ‘I thought you'd be pleased.'

‘I am.'

But inside, she really wasn't sure. Instead, Carla thought back to the night when he'd first made love to her. She'd adored his impulsiveness then. But now it felt as though she was being treated like the child she'd been when Ed had first known her. He was making all the decisions. Huge ones which she should have a say in too. Did she really want to get married? It no longer seemed so important.

The following night, when she was working late at the office, Ed rang. ‘Have you seen the
Telegraph
?' he demanded tersely.

Carla felt a quickening of apprehension. ‘No.'

‘Then get one.'

There was a copy in reception for clients. Swiftly Carla skimmed through until she reached the arts pages. Dear Lord.

Artist Edward Macdonald fails to live up to expectations …

‘Sorry,' she said to one of the partners. ‘I've got to leave.'

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You've finished the briefing?'

‘Not quite. But I've got an emergency.'

‘We'll have another if you don't have everything ready first thing in the morning.'

‘I will.'

When she got home, Ed was slumped on the sofa.

‘It will be all right,' she said, bending down to kiss him on the forehead.

‘Will it? We'll have to sell the gallery. I just can't afford to keep it going any more.'

Never had she seen a man cry before.

‘I'm sure …'

Then his arms opened and he pulled her towards him. His breath stank of whisky and his mouth was wet as he pushed her down on the sofa. ‘Don't, Ed, don't. It's not safe.' But he continued to kiss her, and it seemed easier to let him than carry on protesting.

The following week, she received a letter from Mamma.

Cara mia,

You will not believe what has happened! Larry has left me a little money. I have only just found out – his widow fought against it but the judge ruled I should have it. My Larry changed his will at the end, apparently. It shows what a good man he was, don't you think? …

So her visit had achieved something after all.

Yet Carla felt physically sick. Yes, her mother would be financially secure now, judging from the amount mentioned. No wonder the widow had challenged it. But where did that leave her, Carla? Had she put herself into this awful position with Ed for nothing?

Perhaps it was time to get out.

‘He's nearly here, he's nearly here!'

Tom is pacing up and down, patting his hands on his knees as if playing the drum. This is another habit associated with his condition. The action, according to the experts, soothes the person concerned. Even if it plays havoc with everyone else's nerves.

‘There's his car, Mum. There's his car!'

Ross always has this effect on him. If there was one thing that Ed and I got right, I tell myself, it was choosing his friend as godfather.

Ross was gratifyingly shocked when Ed walked out on me for Carla and then demanded the house. ‘As for “unreasonable behaviour”, that's ridiculous,' he said when I'd gone round the following day, my face a mess, barely able to stop crying.

I'd shrugged, looking round at Ross's place. The washing-machine door was off, lying on the side of the kitchen counter as if waiting for someone to call the repair man. The kitchen sink was stacked with several days' worth of crockery and there was a pile of newspapers on the floor by the bin. Half a bottle of Jack Daniel's sat on the
side. Yet Ross himself was always impeccably turned out in a sharp suit and dapper tie. It occurred to me then, as it occurs to me frequently, that one never really knows a person properly. Especially ourselves. Every human is a melting pot of contradictions.

‘What grounds does he cite for this unreasonable behaviour?' continued Ross.

‘Always working late. Not taking holidays. That sort of thing.' I gave a short laugh. ‘Unreasonable behaviour can mean anything nowadays. I had a client who got a divorce because her husband dug up her vegetable garden without asking her permission first.'

My fingers gripped the side of Ross's cream worktop. Imagine if Ed's lawyers knew the truth … No, I tell myself. Don't go there.

‘What are you going to do?' asked Ross. He was coming closer now. For a minute, I thought he might be going to give me a cuddle. Until then, we'd only exchanged brief ‘kiss greetings' on the cheek. It felt odd. So I stepped backwards.

‘I don't know.' All I could think of was the geometric pattern on the terracotta floor. Since last night, small details seemed big. Maybe it was the mind's way of coping.

‘I've got an idea.' Ross was walking towards the window now and looking outside. His flat was in Holloway; the view wasn't as pleasant as from our home in Notting Hill. An ‘our' that would soon be a ‘their'.

‘Get out of London. Make a fresh start. Set up your own practice in Devon so you can be on hand for Tom. I seem to remember that you and Ed talked about this before.'

I winced at my husband's name. ‘It's a big step. What if my clients don't come with me?'

Ross's face conceded this was a possibility. ‘Suppose you suggest to the firm that you set up an offshoot in the south-west? Then they might encourage you to take some of their cases.'

I hesitated. Leave London? Go back to the place that I swore I'd never live in again after Daniel? Yet it did make sense. It would put distance between That Woman and myself. And, more importantly, it would take the pressure off my parents. Tom might be at school during the week. But I couldn't expect them to carry on for ever at weekends.

So that's what happened. Even now, as I wash up Tom's special knife and fork and place them back on the table under his watchful eye, I wonder how we coped in those first few weeks. The firm had been very understanding: true to Ross's suggestion, they were quite amenable to the idea of setting up a south-west branch. It helped too having my parents there, happy to welcome us to their home. Although it was weird coming back to my old room with its dusty maroon and royal blue Pony Club rosettes in the desk drawer. ‘Just until I find my own place,' I said.

Yet once there, it seemed easier to stay; be cocooned by my parents. Protected. Hoping that Joe Thomas would now leave me alone in peace.

No one, I told myself, must know the truth.

The door knocker breaks into my reverie now as I stir the soup. Butternut squash. Soothing. Comforting. Devon in the winter months is much darker and colder than London, but I am slowly growing used to it again. There's
something about the determined way in which the tides go back and forth with reassuring regularity; it's like a comforting grandfather clock.

I've always loved the sea. Tom loves it too. When he's home at weekends, we spend hours walking up and down the beach, looking for driftwood. Mum has got him a dog too. A small schnauzer. The ones that look like old men with beards. Tom spends hours talking to Sammy. Like Daniel used to with Merlin.

Sometimes I find myself doing the same.

‘He's here, he's here,' crows Tom, now dancing around. He never makes this much fuss about his father coming down, I say to myself as I walk across the hall. Then again, I try to make myself scarce when Ed pays his weekend visits. Since the decree nisi, our ‘meetings' are more of a quick nod at the front door before Ed takes Tom out for the day.

I can only imagine what those outings must be like; it's awkward enough for a single father to entertain his children outside the home environment. With a child like Tom, it would be even more of a challenge. How does Carla cope? I wondered. Hopefully not very well. Despite that engagement gossip piece in a tabloid that one of the partners had awkwardly shown me, there had been no announcement of a wedding date.

I am relieved about that, although annoyed with myself at the same time for such a reaction. It means, surely, that Ed isn't certain. Carla, I am convinced, would jump at the chance to have a gold ring on her finger.

‘Forget him,' Ross is always saying. ‘You're far too good for him.'

I know he's just being nice. But I appreciate it. Ross has become important in our new lives. Tom always loves his visits, not least because he usually arrives bearing enough gifts to suggest it's Christmas, whatever the month. My parents enjoy his company too. ‘I can't understand why that man has never got married,' Mum keeps saying.

‘Hi!' He's beaming now on the doorstep, staggering under the weight of flowers and boxes. ‘How are my favourite friends?'

Tom frowned. ‘How can you have favourite in the plural? If you like one person best, it has to be in the singular. You can't have more than one person as favourite because then they wouldn't be your favourite, would they?'

It's the type of pedantic question with a certain logic that I am tired of, however intelligent it is. But Ross merely grins. He makes as if to rub Tom's hair, like a godfather might do to his godson, but then stops, clearly remembering that Tom hates his scalp being touched.

‘Great point.'

Mum appears beaming behind me. She's taken off her apron and frowns at me, indicating I should have done the same. ‘Come on in. You must be starving after that drive. Supper's almost ready.'

Ross gives Tom a wink. ‘Don't tell anyone, but I stopped off for a burger on the way down. But I'm still hungry.'

Tom giggles. The conversation is a ritual, one they have every time. It's a narrative that soothes me as well as my son. Indeed, it does the same to my parents. It helps to bring a normality to the house that is rarely there when it's just the three of us, all trying to rescue Tom from himself,
desperately making sure that what happened to Daniel will never happen to him. It's the unspoken fear. The challenge that haunts us all.

No one, unless they have a child like this, can understand. I remember once, when Tom was younger, talking to a woman in a supermarket queue. Her son – about ten with gangly limbs flying everywhere – was in a wheelchair. People made way for her. They were sympathetic when he reached out to knock the tins flying from the conveyor belt.

Although I would never wish Tom to be in a wheelchair, I can't help thinking that at least it would mean others would be understanding. When my son misbehaves in public – jumping on a wine glass in a pizzeria to see how many fragments he could ‘make' is one recent example – I receive stares that say,
Why can't you control your teenager?
Or even,
That kid should be locked up
. It makes my blood boil.

My research warns me that as Asperger's kids get bigger and less ‘cute', their melt-downs and challenging behaviour can turn others against them. The other day, there was a newspaper story about a cafe owner throwing an autistic-spectrum teenager out of his shop because the kid kicked up a fuss when given coffee with milk instead of without. The teen in question fell awkwardly on the pavement and broke his arm.

I would personally kill anyone if they hurt my son.

After dinner, Ross and I go for a walk with the dog. It's another ritual. Sometimes Tom begs to come too, but it makes me fearful. The rocks on the edge of the beach are so high; it's hard to check in the moonlight when he's
scampering on ahead that he's not going to climb one and then fall. Tonight, to my relief, Tom announces that he's tired. He'll have a shower in the morning – he hates baths – and if his special Man United towel isn't ready, we'll all know about it. Bit by bit, I have got used to these ‘rules', which are set in stone.

Difficult as he is, however, I find myself thinking that I am blessed in a manner that not everyone would understand. I might not have a conventional child. But my son will never be boring. He has a constantly enquiring mind. He looks at life in a way that others don't. ‘Did you know that the average person produces enough saliva to fill two swimming pools during their life?' he asked me the other day.

‘How are you managing?' Ross now says as we walk under the overhanging cliff, gazing out at the lights flickering from boats on the horizon. It could be another world. One in which we live normal lives.

‘We're fine, thanks. Tom's school, touch wood, seems to be happy with him, and I'm building up quite a decent client base. I've also taken up spinning at the gym to give myself “me-time”, like you suggested.'

He nods. ‘Good.'

Something's up. I can feel it. ‘What about you? How is work?'

‘OK, although to be honest, I feel there has to be more to life.'

‘I know what you mean.'

We stroll on, past a plump seagull pecking at a discarded bag of crisps. Past, too, a couple arm in arm who give us a meaningful nod. They think we're like them, I
tell myself. It makes me feel like a fraud; one who needs to put Ross at his ease so he doesn't think I have any feelings in that direction.

‘I really appreciate the interest you show in Tom,' I begin.

‘It's not just Tom I care for.'

I hold my breath.

‘I'm worried about you, Lily.'

He takes my arm and I feel a slow warmth down my spine. At times, I tell myself that I've learned to live without Ed. Sometimes he seems like another life away. Sometimes he seems like yesterday. On those days, I want him here. Next to me.

‘There's no need,' I say. ‘I'm fine. I've moved on.'

My words are so clearly a lie that even the sea doesn't believe me. It lashes angrily against the rocks. Liar. Liar.

‘There's something I've got to tell you,' says Ross.

As he speaks, a plume of spray leaps up. We run ahead – him pulling me – but it catches us anyway. I'm not one of those women who look good with wet hair.

Ross takes my hand and strokes it, like a parent trying to soothe a child.

‘Ed and Carla have set a wedding date.'

Did he really say that? Or was that the sea again?
Shh. Shhhh
, it's saying now. Like a soothing lullaby.

‘I'm sorry?'

Ross's face is looking down at me. How stupid of me. His expression is one of pity, not admiration.

‘Ed is getting married. To Carla.'

Ed. Carla. Marriage. Not just an engagement which can be broken at whim.

So she's got him. Just like she gets everything she's ever wanted.

‘That's not all.'

I begin to shiver from the cold and the wet and the anticipation.

‘She's pregnant, Lily. Carla's expecting a child.'

In a weird way, Ross's news is a relief. Just as it was when I found Ed and Carla outside the hotel. The shock haunts me still. Yet at least it was living proof that I hadn't just imagined Ed's behaviour towards me.

And now Ross's early warning of a definite wedding date – soon to be heralded in the gossip pages – tidies things up. Shows me that there is no chance of Ed and I ever being reconciled, even if I wanted to be. Which I don't.

That's the other odd thing about a long marriage ending, at least for me. However bad it was, there were also good patches. And it's those that I tend to remember. Don't ask me why. I don't dwell on the rows when Ed was moody or drunk. Or how he used to hate it because I earned far more than he did, and how he'd throw strops when I was home late from work.

No. I think of the moments in between when we'd lie on the sofa as we watched our favourite weekly drama. Or how we'd take long walks by the sea with our little boy, pausing to point out a particular shell or a crab scuttling under a rock.

The thing that really breaks my heart is that Ed now does these things with Her. I remember reading an article once about a woman whose ex-husband had married someone else. Two things had struck me. First, she'd been unable to say the other woman's name, only referring to
her as ‘Her'. ‘It's because it sticks in my throat,' she'd explained. ‘Makes her feel too real.'

I can see that.

The second was that this woman had been unable to comprehend how there was now another out there, bearing the same surname and sharing the same habits with the same man the first wife had once known intimately.

And that's exactly how I feel. There's something really odd about your husband having another wife. Carla will soon be Carla Macdonald. We will both be Mrs Macdonald. She will be my husband's wife, because – even though Ed is technically no longer my husband – you can never really wipe away a marriage. A piece of paper is not a rubber or a bottle of Tippex. It can legally negate the ‘contract' between two parties, as a lawyer might put it. But it cannot expunge the memories, the traditions, the patterns that spring up between a couple, no matter how good or bad the state of their relationship.