The Subsequent Wife

by Priscilla Masters

  We were sitting outside underneath a huge orange umbrella which, angled against the sun, threw a long shadow across the grass, when he put his arm around me. I leaned in to him and thought how very nice and clean he smelt. He was stroking my hair, winding it around his fingers, his eyes half closed. And he too looked relaxed, almost asleep, his breathing steady. He gave a tiny snore. Perhaps, I thought, I might tease him about it later. I drew in a deep breath. If anyone was going to broach this most sensitive of subjects it was going to have to be me because Steven was too shy. It had to be here and it had to be now. The time was right.

  Or so I thought. ‘What a lovely evening,’ I began, looking at him. He was dressed less formally this evening, as the weather was unseasonably hot, the Indian Summer we all enjoy so much and value over a fine summer’s day. The Indian Summer is a bonus tacked on to the tail end of summer, tucked in just before the onset of autumn.

  He was wearing a short-sleeved, pale blue open-necked shirt, khaki trousers (he never wore jeans or shorts) and brown Vans instead of the brown leather shoes. Yes, I thought. He looked OK. And I felt a stirring of pride and desire. I wouldn’t mind him making love to me … and we could have children. Perhaps soon he would invite me back to his house and there, on his bed, we would finally make love. Everything would be all right. Maybe what was holding him back was the fact that it would be in Margaret’s house, Margaret’s bedroom, Margaret’s bed. Perhaps, like the suicide ghost of poor old Ted in B7, her ghost was still there and that was inhibiting him from taking me there. More than ever, I wanted to exorcize this dead woman. Meet her and dismiss her. So I touched his mouth, put my finger inside and waited for him to suck it. A well-known preamble to the act. Not for him. He removed it gently, as a mother might remove a child’s hand from a biscuit tin, reprovingly. He half opened his eyes, giving a lazy smile. ‘What are you up to, Jennifer?’ Maybe his tone should have warned me. Cold and rapidly distancing.

  I took the bull by the horns and whispered into his ear very softly and, I hoped, extremely seductively. ‘Do you want to sleep with me?’

  He opened his eyes wide. Shocked? Then took my chin in his hand and gripped it hard enough to hurt. ‘Do I want to sleep with you?’

  I nodded.

  He laughed and the tension was over, or so I thought. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘But first I want to be sure.’

  Sure of what?

  Sure I didn’t get pregnant?

  Sure it was what I wanted too?

  It was neither of those.

  ‘I want to be sure,’ he murmured into my ear, ‘that you are the right one.’

  ‘The right one?’ How many interpretations can you put on this apparently simple phrase? I waited for clarification.

  He took his arm from around my shoulders and moved away, frowning into his beer glass as though the foam created shapes. ‘When I married Margaret,’ he began. And stopped.

  ‘When I married Margaret,’ he repeated carefully, ‘I made a vow. Till death us do part.’

  Which is what had happened.

  ‘Do you want to talk about her?’

  ‘No,’ he said decisively, ‘I do not.’ Then, in a softer tone, ‘I don’t need to any more.’

  Part of me rejoiced. But now I had picked the scab off. ‘Is that because you’ve stopped grieving?’

  He gave me a sharp look. ‘I’ll never stop grieving.’

  I shrugged. I didn’t have a response.

  ‘Jennifer,’ he said gently, closing his eyes against the glare of the sun. ‘Margaret is no more. She’s the past. You are the present. And, I hope, perhaps the future too.’

  I didn’t know what to say.

  But his face was set. He shook my shoulders. ‘Listen to me, Jennifer. I don’t want to talk about Margaret. Not ever. Please don’t bring up the subject again. I do not want you to talk about her or wonder about her. The subject is closed.’

  ‘So why keep hold of her stuff?’

  He had no answer.

  He shook his head from side to side. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t really know.’

  His mouth was moving but no words came.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, touching his hand. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘You haven’t. You just don’t understand.’

  ‘How can I if you don’t tell me anything?’

  ‘Why?’ There was anguish in his face. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Perhaps because …’ I took a chance. ‘Because I like you.’

  The change in his face was as marked and abrupt as though someone had flipped a switch. Off to On. Normal Steven was back.

  ‘That is sweet of you. Sweet. Thank you.’

  I was silent but the questions were stacking up all the same.

  How long were you married for?

  When were you married? Where were you married? Was it a big fancy white wedding?

  What cancer did she die of? Were you heartbroken? Grief-struck?

  And the one that affected me most: Why have you stored boxes and a suitcase containing her new clothes?

  I asked none of them but they wouldn’t go away. They would never go away.

  And now he was smiling but sharing the inner amusement to himself. ‘Perhaps I should take you to my home, Jennifer. Perhaps you would understand then.’

  He was reminiscing now, not really sharing this with me. ‘I sometimes smell her around the house, you know?’

  Light Blue.

  ‘I used to wake in the night and feel her beside me. Expect her to move. But she doesn’t. She lies there. Quite still. And very cold.’ He wrapped his arms around himself and gave a little shiver.

  I could say nothing because I realized he was lost inside himself.

  ‘I hear her footsteps.’ He tapped the table. One … Two … Three.

  I touched his arm, trying to bring him back to the present. I didn’t want some ghost story. I wanted him back. Without her. The thought flitted through my mind. Was my Mr Perfect boyfriend in actual fact just as weird as all the others? A more heavily disguised Scary I or Scary II. Was he, in fact, Scary III? I watched him and he didn’t realize. He was too absorbed in his memories. I felt my heart drop. He was just like all the others after all. I’d attracted another loser. I’d sussed him. He was, I was now convinced, Steven Strange. I’d had Scary I and II, Mr Mean, Mr Married Man and The Wanker. And now I had Mr Strange, Mr Spooky, Mr Downright Fucking Bonkers all rolled into one to add to my collection.

  He was still talking to himself, his eyes half closed. ‘In the mirror, watching me, waiting.’ He touched his right shoulder with his left hand and rested it there. ‘The house,’ he said, ‘is very dark and quiet. It waits,’ he said. ‘It waits.’

  I didn’t want to hear any more. And I certainly wasn’t going to ask what the house was waiting for.

  Then he seemed again to be aware of me. He scrutinized me and then leaned forward and grasped my hand. ‘Do you think it’s fanciful to believe that a house waits for its mistress to come home?’

  I didn’t know where this was heading. He gave me a hard stare. ‘Well, do you?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Houses are made of bricks and mortar. Not minds and feelings. Of course they don’t wait.’

  On my observation there are two sorts of married people: Type A – those who crow about their perfect spouse, perfect marriage, perfect children, lovely home. And then there’s Type B – the ones who do nothing but moan about their ‘other half’.

  Not many married people are honest enough to be truthful, say their marriage is a mixture of A&B. Good and bad. Happy and downright miserable.

  Steven was Type A. Margaret was practically canonized. She had been the perfect spouse. One I could never live up to.

  ‘I was heartbroken,’ he said next. ‘Damaged.’ Then his face changed. ‘But now I’ve met you.’

  ‘I can never live up to—’

  He looked puzzled, tilted his head. ‘But you don’t have to live up to her
.’

  He was Type A and didn’t even know it.

  ‘You remind me of her.’ He touched my hair, but instead of it feeling affectionate or sexy, it felt threatening. He was still smiling and at the same time gripping a lock. I tried to pull away but his grip tightened. A moment later he released it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, bright again now. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  I didn’t respond. My mind was jumping around like a Mexican Bean. I should get out of here – and away from him. This was no dream. This was a nightmare.

  Maybe if I’d had any sort of alternative, I would have done exactly that. But I didn’t. The void that had been my life so far was as unappealing as continuing into the unknown.

  Was my dream slipping downstream? Floating away in the current? Should I swim after it or let it drift? I breathed in and out avoiding reaching a decision there and then.

  He must have sensed we’d reached an impasse because he stood up. ‘It’s time I took you home.’ I stood up too, oblivious now to everything except the urge to return to the safety of my room.

  As we reached the car he put his arm around me and turned me to face him. ‘Next Saturday?’

  I nodded. If I’d tried to speak I wasn’t quite sure how the words would come out.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I’ve bought you a gift.’ He produced a small package tied with a bow of golden ribbon. ‘Perfume,’ he said encouragingly.

  I already knew what it would be.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I felt so uneasy that on the following night I called in to see Stella after work. I wanted to pour my heart out to my best friend, but she was distracted and not in a listening mood. She appeared to be having a bad evening, even though I’d taken round a bottle of Prosecco which usually cheered her up. Not tonight. Geraint was in bed and quiet but there was no sign of Sonny. Maybe that was why she was having a bad evening?

  When I told her about Steven’s first wife she took a gulp of Prosecco and pursed her lips. ‘So what happened to her?’

  ‘Cancer.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She was thoughtful. ‘When?’

  ‘Three years ago.’

  ‘So what’s your problem?’

  And I knew I couldn’t put it into words. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  I shook my head. ‘Oh, Jenny,’ she said. ‘Please, don’t get into another pickle.’

  ‘Not if I can help it.’

  I’d tried to make my voice sound positive but it sounded weak, defeated. Truth was I didn’t want to let this one chance of having a better life slip away from me. I liked Steven. He was sweet and kind and not at all aggressive. He was – I chose the word – unusual. But good chances don’t swing around twice. Call it greed if you like. I call it self-preservation. I was determined to cling on to this one chance. Stella looked at me pityingly. ‘Oh, Jenny,’ she said. ‘Can you never see what’s staring you in the face? If you feel there’s something weird about him there probably is.’

  I threw up my weak defences. ‘You haven’t even met him. You don’t know him. You’re just jealous.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Because I have a decent guy for once.’

  She countered with, ‘You think so?’

  I didn’t respond.

  She took a huge swig of Prosecco. ‘Look at it this way,’ she said. ‘He’s giving you clothes obviously meant for her. He’s buying you her perfume. He tells you that you look like her. I mean, think,’ she appealed. ‘What is he up to? It seems plain to me he’s trying to turn you into her.’

  ‘Men usually go for the same type.’ I didn’t like the way I was sounding, weak and pathetic.

  ‘You think he’s still grieving for her?’

  I shrugged.

  She persisted. ‘So how long can you put up with a grief-stricken boyfriend?’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. He isn’t like that at all. He’s good fun.’

  ‘Fun? Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  Her response was to take a disbelievingly large swig of Prosecco, eyeing me over the top of the glass.

  I sensed something was wrong with her. I could hear Geraint grizzling upstairs and, although it was nearly ten, Sonny was nowhere to be seen. And there was something different about Stella. She’d lost her sparkle (in spite of the Prosecco). She’d lost her confidence too and her mouth looked smaller, tighter. Meaner. Unhappier.

  Married woman A was merging, in front of my eyes, into married woman B.

  She put her glass down on the coffee table. So hard the top shivered.

  ‘Stell,’ I said, feeling a flood of affection for my friend. ‘Are you OK?’

  She shut the subject down. ‘Course. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  I persisted. ‘Only …’

  ‘Some things,’ she said soberly, ‘aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, Jenny.’

  In a sudden burst of confidence and maybe desperation she added with a touch of urgency,

  ‘Jenny, be careful. Marriage isn’t a bed of roses, you know.’

  I tried a joke. ‘More a bed of nails?’

  Though she tried to laugh her face crumpled and she stole an unhappy look at me. ‘Sometimes.’

  I left five minutes later – the first time I’d ever left without us polishing off the entire bottle. I put her misgivings about Steven down to envy and ignored them.

  I didn’t hear from Steven for a couple of days. I wondered if, realizing how young I was, he’d thought the better of our liaison, seen how unlikely it was. And then he rang me on the Saturday afternoon about three o’clock. ‘How about,’ he said slowly, ‘instead of us going out, you come back to my place?’

  It was what I’d wanted but I felt apprehensive as well as excited. Perhaps I would unlock the secret once I stepped over the threshold. I would understand him and our relationship.

  ‘That’d be great,’ I said, lighting up suddenly inside. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘Good.’ He sounded happy, confident, as though he’d just solved a problem. I put the phone down. Scarlet was watching me out of the corner of her eyes, weighed down with the biggest false eyelashes I’d ever seen. They were two great big black hairy caterpillars on her eyelids. She looked at me disapprovingly. And my happiness shrivelled. Grape to prune. ‘Anything you want to tell me, Jenny?’ Her voice was tight, a note I’d never heard before.

  I felt shifty, ashamed and vulnerable and couldn’t find the right words. ‘I’ve been seeing Steven Taverner.’

  ‘On the sly?’

  ‘He isn’t married. His wife died. He’s a widower.’ I realized how much I hated the word.

  She was watching me very carefully.

  ‘You don’t like me dating one of our customers?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said, her face screwed up. ‘I don’t think it’s that. What else do you know about him?’

  ‘Not a lot. His wife died of cancer a few years ago. We’ve been out a few times. He’s invited me back to his home.’

  She still looked troubled and I felt a snag of terror. Was I going to lose my job over this?

  She was reflective.

  While I considered … I got paid well here, I liked the conditions. If this job fell apart, where would I be? I wasn’t qualified to do anything else. And the thought of returning to The Stephanie Wright Care Home for the Bewildered filled me with terror. I just couldn’t do it. Not again. I as good as had no family. My lodgings were unsatisfactory; I might be kicked out at any time. If Steven and I were heading nowhere, I could be scuppered over this. I watched Scarlet and felt vulnerable.

  Then she smiled and put her arm around me. ‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘Takes all sorts. Just be careful, Spinning Jenny.’

  She didn’t say careful of what. I breathed again.

  After fussing around the desk for a few minutes and pretending to give great attention to the silent monitors which were observing absolutely nothing, I went into the kitchen and made some coffee, bri
nging a mug out for her to seal our peace. As for her words? I just tossed them aside. Buried them deep. I could ignore them for now.

  We sat for the rest of the afternoon in uncomfortable silence, neither wishing to widen the rift that threatened to slice our friendship in two. I watched the hands on the big clock turn with painful slowness and was glad when they reached 5.28 and I could shut up shop. I put some lipstick on and sprayed myself with perfume.

  Steven had arranged to pick me up after work and take me straight back to Yr Arch, which I’d translated, erroneously as it turned out, as The Arch. One day I would ask him where the name had come from, and who chose it, him or Margaret. Why Yr instead of The? But at the moment I was feeling too vulnerable to ask questions.

  At five thirty his car rolled in, just as I was locking up. Scarlet was already sitting in her car having an animated conversation with Andrew. I could see her arms waving around and they both glanced across at me as I climbed into Steven’s Ford and, for their benefit, pecked him on the cheek with deliberate warmth.

  But as soon as I shut the car door I was aware that something was different about the relationship between Steven and me. I didn’t want to focus on it but something had shifted. The nearest I can get to it is the smoker who ignores a cough or the woman who ignores a lump in her breast. Ignore it if you like but you know it’s there. That is how I felt, a sense of unease, of a deep malignancy that I was trying to ignore. Steven did not respond to my kiss when I got in but sat very still for a while, as though my kiss had paralysed him. At first, he stared ahead, through the windscreen, out of the car. Then he turned and met my eyes, not quite smiling, but appraising me, maybe wondering what lay behind this forwardness, while the car stayed in neutral, engine running, his feet not touching the pedals, both hands on the steering wheel. I couldn’t work out what this scrutiny meant. What did he feel for me? Love, pity, condescension, exasperation? Lust? I didn’t have a clue because my ‘boyfriend’ was as inscrutable as Buddha. At the same time, thoughts drifted through my mind, but like a rainbow glancing across the water they were elusive, ripples of brilliant colour shimmering across a murky pond, nothing substantial enough to hold in my hand or to interpret.