They must sense me as they both turn around.
Seeing the two of them looking so cosy yanks back memories of Nina and Camilla. Talking. Shutting me out. It physically hurts, so much so that I clutch my stomach. I have a genuine moment’s panic before I reassure myself there’s nothing wrong with the baby.
‘Are you all right?’ says Stuart.
‘Can I have a word please, Stuart?’
‘Sure thing,’ he says. ‘Are the kids all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll come back another time when it’s more convenient,’ says Camilla with her irritating, oh so understanding smile.
Stuart sees her to the back door. He stands and waves as she heads back to our bloody guesthouse where she has seriously outstayed her welcome.
I feel strangely close to tears, like a child who has to share their favourite toy with another child – a sibling or cousin – who they didn’t even invite around to their home.
Stuart surprises me. He hugs me, pulling me in close, and it feels the most natural it ever has between us.
‘I’m pregnant,’ I say.
He releases me. ‘What did you say?’
I repeat myself.
What I’m growing to appreciate about Stuart is that he’s a fully rounded, responsible adult. Not that (I hope) I’ve set my sights too low. He doesn’t immediately react with any negative clichés or assume that it’s my problem which he’ll try to wriggle out of. He doesn’t ask if it’s his or insult my intelligence by asking if I’m sure. He trusts that I wouldn’t drop such a bombshell without being certain.
Nonetheless, he’s silent and stares at me for a few seconds.
‘Take your time,’ I say. ‘It was a shock for me, too. A pleasant one, of course, especially given my history, but clearly not how either one of us would have planned it, and it’s awful timing.’
‘Yes, I am shocked. I don’t know what to say right now but . . . life is precious. We’ve both learned that.’
He pulls me close, hugs me tightly.
We both stand still; it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to him.
Behind his back, the door opens.
‘Only me, I forgot my phone.’ Camilla’s voice.
She stops. Her expression can only be described as murderous.
‘You two?’ she says. ‘Of course, stupid me.’
Stuart releases me and swings round.
‘Oh my God.’ Camilla looks straight at him. ‘You’ve made a big mistake. Marie always wanted Nina’s life. You promised there was nothing between you, that she’d move on. Have you no respect for Nina’s – your wife’s – memory?’
‘Of course I have!’
‘Oh, Stuart, for God’s sake, open your eyes! Next you’ll say that life goes on,’ says Camilla. She strides towards the back door. ‘When we all know that it doesn’t.’ She opens the door. ‘No wonder you didn’t want me round here,’ she says directly to me. ‘That’s why you bought a dog. Don’t kid yourself, Stuart, that it was anything to do with helping your precious family heal. Marie is the ultimate smiling assassin; she plays the wronged girl next door card to a T!’
‘Camilla, please come and sit down—’
She slams the back door without hearing the rest of Stuart’s sentence.
He paces the kitchen.
Despite the moment, real joy at becoming pregnant, after all the heartache and disappointment, finally takes hold. Finally I can tell my mother, make her happy again. I can’t wait to see her face. I’m so relieved that Stuart seems cautiously pleased.
‘I can’t believe that I’m going to be a father again.’
Again. Such a small, insignificant word, yet it needles me. The stark reminder that he’s had this kind of conversation before, but with Nina.
I notice that Stuart has gone silent.
Now the news is sinking in, he’s fully realizing the enormity of our situation.
‘What’s wrong?’ I say.
‘I’m going after Camilla,’ he says. ‘I need to talk to her.’
‘Why?’ I say. ‘You’ve done more than enough for her. We don’t owe her anything.’
‘I want her to keep quiet. You and me, we can tell people when we’re ready. She’s becoming a loose cannon. I’ll calm her down.’
‘There’s nothing really to tell,’ I say. ‘She only saw a hug. She doesn’t know about the pregnancy.’
It does not change Stuart’s mind. He leaves, shutting the door firmly behind him.
Sickness unfurls. His desperation to speak to her doesn’t make sense.
I check the children are both asleep. I won’t be long.
I follow in Stuart’s footsteps, taking care in the dark as I don’t want torchlight to give me away.
The lights are on, but the curtains are drawn. The front door is shut. My heart is beating so hard it hurts. I circle the house, but there’s nothing to see. There’s only one thing I can do if I want to find out the truth, put my mind at rest. I take out my keys to the cottage. I slide them into the lock and push the door open.
Chapter Sixteen
A scream. Louise is downstairs on the sofa, her big brown eyes wide, staring at me. A musical blares from the TV in the corner.
‘I’m so sorry, Louise. It’s only me. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I just need to see your mother.’
Camilla and Stuart both appear at the bottom of the stairs, no doubt summoned from wherever they were by Louise’s reaction to my entrance.
‘What are you doing?’ Stuart asks me.
‘I’m here to ask you both the same thing,’ I say.
They look at each other, like parents silently acknowledging the best way to deal with a difficult child.
‘What about the children?’ says Stuart, like I’m the one wholly responsible for their brief stint home alone.
‘Goldie’s there.’
‘Goldie is a dog, Marie.’
‘Thanks for pointing that out.’
‘Mum?’ says Louise.
‘Everything’s fine,’ says Camilla to her daughter.
‘Yes, it is,’ says Stuart. ‘Your mum and I were just clearing something up.’ To me, he says, ‘Let’s go.’
We leave, the cold of the night air only now hitting me.
I’ve never seen Stuart angry before, but I refuse to feel like I’ve done anything wrong. He strides towards the house. I don’t even try to keep up with him.
Inside, he makes a show – in my opinion – of going upstairs to check on the children as if they’d likely have been kidnapped in the short space of time they’ve been alone.
When he returns, he appears to have regained his more usual Stuart-like composure. ‘I don’t like being spied on.’
‘I don’t like telling someone that I’m pregnant, then having them bugger off to have a cosy chat with another woman.’
‘I wasn’t going to burden you with this, but you may as well know that I’ve received more unsavoury cards in the post. It wasn’t a one-off. I didn’t want you to know. I thought that Camilla was behind it, that’s why I went over there now, but she’s assured me she isn’t. I want to put a stop to it, especially now.’
‘Do you believe her?’
‘Yes, I do.’
My stomach knots. ‘Then, who? If it’s someone local . . .’
‘Nina was well liked in the village,’ Stuart says. ‘It could be a number of people who are judging our lifestyle.’
‘I know.’
Nina embraced local causes, supported local businesses, raised money for charity – including the hospice where she spent her final days – even before she was diagnosed. Although I’ve tried my best, I’ve tended to base my good deeds around school-based activities. Maybe I should cast my net further, show that I’m here to stay, put down real, long-term and well-intentioned roots.
‘There was a strange photo, too . . .’
I unpin the photo from the corkboard and hand it to Stuart, grateful that we’re now united in a common goal
as we dissect and discuss if not Camilla, then who? I insist that he show me the cards, which are not dissimilar to the one pushed through the letter box the night we slept together.
You’re wicked and immoral. No good can come from making a life off the terrible misfortune of another.
I hate it when things I fear actually do come true. It makes it more likely to happen again in the future.
‘And falling pregnant so swiftly will only make things worse. I am sorry,’ I say. ‘You and the children, you don’t need this.’
‘We’ll protect them,’ he says. ‘We didn’t plan this.’
I wish my conscience was as clear as his.
Every therapy room is different. The common themes, however, are usually two chairs opposite each other or a small sofa, a box of tissues, glasses of water (not a given). Those who work in a home environment tend to have books (with carefully chosen, relevant titles, never anything frivolous or that gives away their fiction-reading tastes) lining wooden bookshelves, and for some reason, there is always a vase. Some empty, some with fake flowers. There are never any personal photos.
Christian has a filing cabinet in the corner of his room, with a key. Sometimes, when the words don’t flow and the quietness is unbearable, I distract my mind by trying to guess some of the secrets hidden inside.
Christian congratulates me on my baby news.
Silence.
I tell him about Camilla and the fact that her daughter is my ex-boyfriend’s.
‘The thing that annoys me the most – well, actually, there’s a lot that annoys me – but it’s that she lied. When I confronted them about it, they said that it was all in my imagination. Yet, it wasn’t. Louise is that proof. Camilla calls her Lulu.’ I roll my eyes.
Christian smiles, and because he appears to agree with me that it’s a ridiculous nickname, it motivates me to continue.
‘Nina knew,’ I said. ‘That hurts, too. I can understand why she didn’t want to tell me, especially as Camilla moved away, but she just buried it, didn’t tell anyone, not even Stuart.’ I pause. ‘Which strikes me as odd.’
Saying the words out loud forces me to consider and properly analyse what I’ve just said.
‘In what way?’
‘As soon as we returned from our Ibizan holiday, Nina and Stuart were together. She was that into him, which was strange, too, as although she liked him enough on holiday, I really didn’t see enough there to think that it would continue in the way that it did. Nina wasn’t that traditional either. She was only twenty-one. Yet it was engagement, marriage, babies. Bish, bosh, bash. She and Stuart must’ve talked to each other about their shared holiday together and the people they were with, especially after the end to our holiday was so brutally abrupt.’
‘How?’
I hesitate. I’m not sure I want to tell him. I never tell anybody because I’m afraid that I will confess to the tiny part I played in the catastrophic chain of events. Charlie was my first love, Camilla my nemesis, dramatic sounding as it is. I’m not sure I would know where to even begin.
I change the subject.
‘Nina and I had time to talk. There was no reason for her to hide anything from me. One time that stands out in my mind is an afternoon out – just the two of us – at a nearby well-known garden to see the rhododendrons and azaleas. We both photographed them. We ordered afternoon tea in the cafe – scones, Earl Grey, cupcakes decorated in sickly icing, the full works. Nina painted me a picture of the flowers and had it framed, which she gave to me as a – well, I wouldn’t call it a goodbye gift – but in essence, that’s what it was. She called it a forget-me-not present. That’s something Nina has robbed me of. Rightful grieving. Was she a true friend or not? I don’t know how to feel.’
I reach for the tissues.
‘Stuart is the father of my baby,’ I tell him (as if he wouldn’t have guessed) and now that I’m confessing the words pour out. ‘I mean, what kind of a person does that make me? Here I am, moaning about the secrets Nina kept, yet what I’ve done is worse.’
‘Why do you say that? From everything you’ve told me, it seems that Stuart has encouraged your presence, welcomed and requested your help. I don’t see how you could’ve entered a relationship alone.’
‘I fell pregnant.’
‘Not without his assistance, I imagine.’
My turn to smile. ‘I guess we can be happy enough. We’re both willing to make a go of the situation.’
Funny how expressing things out loud makes anything seem not quite so . . . mysterious or as daunting. I relax a little. I fear I’ve not allowed myself to enjoy my pregnancy so far because I don’t deserve happiness.
I take a deep breath as I study the book titles on Christian’s shelf. Divorce, bereavement, sexual problems, illness, debt. The topics of human sadness and frailties are never ending.
‘Stuart says that he thought it was Camilla who was writing the notes. He confronted her, but she denied it.’
‘Why did he suspect her?’
‘I don’t know. They’ve always seemed to have got on, generally. It soured my baby news. He dashed off to speak to her because she’d walked in on us hugging and guessed something was going on. I followed him and he was angry when I turned up. I’ve never seen him angry before. Ever. It was unsettling.’
‘Why was he angry?’
I don’t want to tell him that I left the children alone; it makes me sound neglectful. Which I’m not. Obviously.
‘He just was. We left together. He told me what he’d accused her of and then proceeded to tell me about the other notes, which he’d kept hidden from me.’
I update Christian on the venomous comments, mostly directed my way, referring to me as wicked.
‘Why did he keep them a secret from you?’
‘He said he didn’t want to burden me.’
Silence.
‘And do you believe that’s the reason?’
The question is left hanging between us.
‘I guess so,’ I finally say. ‘It’s the sort of thing Stuart would do. I’m hoping it will all naturally die down once people accept us.’
‘Or there are practical ways to catch the culprit if it puts your mind at rest. Cameras aren’t too difficult or expensive nowadays. That’s one solution that springs to mind.’
‘True. Or perhaps I deserve it. At school, I shared false information about another girl who got too friendly with Nina. I didn’t spread the rumours, I simply lit the fuse, so to speak, then watched as others were only too willing to fuel the flames of gossip. It worked. Now I’m on the receiving end of negative reactions and can fully appreciate what it feels like, it makes me feel even more remorseful. It’s payback.’
The fact that Christian doesn’t look too shocked makes me feel slightly better.
‘Take good care of yourself,’ he says at the end of our session.
It’s not until I’m back home with Stuart that Christian’s choice of words strike me as uncharacteristic. Rather than finding it comforting, it leaves a lingering sense of unease, which I’m unable to shake off all evening.
Chapter Seventeen
Reality is not my friend. Near-constant nausea kicks in, forcing me to break the news sooner than I’d have ideally liked. I test the waters with my dad first, popping in to surprise him at his local.
He doesn’t even try to hide his surprise.
‘But aren’t you pleased?’ I have to ask him more than once.
‘Cautiously pleased,’ he says. ‘I can’t pretend that I’m delighted with your choice of child’s father. He’s taken advantage of you because he’s lonely.’
‘Dad, this is the modern world. I had a say in it, too. Stuart and I have always got on, and now we don’t have much choice but to make the best of things,’ I say.
‘I would’ve thought you’d have got on in the way that friends should with their friends’ partners,’ he says. It doesn’t sit well with me. ‘I love you, and I’ll always support you, but I had such hopes f
or you. They certainly didn’t involve you being shackled to Nina for the rest of your days.’
‘Don’t tell Mum yet,’ I say to him. ‘Please.’
His reaction has tarnished the moment. I know she’ll be happy, but not if she is influenced by Dad’s negativity. She trusts his opinions.
He shakes his head.
‘Promise?’
‘Marie, love. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. All both of us wanted. I wish there was a way to make the right decisions for your child, to stop them making mistakes. You’ll learn that soon enough, but it will be too late for you.’
‘Dad, please be happy for me.’
‘I will be. I just need time to come round to the idea.’
His disappointment makes my chest ache. My mood shaken, I decide to tell my mother another day. I want to break it to her in the right way. I’ve waited this long, a while longer won’t (I don’t suppose) make much difference.
After several days, nausea becomes full-blown sickness. It’s not just in the mornings; it continues until late in the afternoon, leaving me wrung out. Yet I don’t have any choice but to cope.
Stuart and I take Deborah out for Sunday lunch to break the news.
It’s a cautiously sunny March day. There is a slight turn in the temperature hinting at the possibility of a warm spring.
‘Let’s sit outside,’ I say. ‘It’s too lovely a day to be cooped up inside.’
I can’t bear the darkness inside and the smell of roast pork and lamb emitting from the carvery.
While the children play on the slide and run up and down a bridge in the play area, Stuart, Deborah and I perch uncomfortably on a wooden bench.
‘I know something’s up,’ says Deborah as she sips her lime and soda, focusing on watching the children, not looking at us. ‘Look at those poor little people. It breaks my heart.’
‘Mine, too,’ says Stuart.
He visibly takes a deep breath.
‘You’re right, Deborah, something is up.’ His voice is gentle, his manner respectfully calm. In that moment, I feel the most affection I ever have for him. Relief. Our baby is not a mistake, it’s meant to be.
My relief is short-lived.
The Last Wife: The addictive and unforgettable new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller Page 13
