The Subsequent Wife

by Priscilla Masters

  I had the feeling this wasn’t true but covered up my doubt with a bland statement.

  ‘Not very old then.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Was it cancer of the breast?’

  He shrugged. ‘I can’t really remember, Jennifer. In the end she had it everywhere. I don’t want to dwell on it.’

  I was quiet while I thought this through and made my decision.

  Steven, with his quiet ways, was better than my usual dish of life’s gifts. He was not another bad man to add to my collection. He was just different.

  My man of mystery stood behind me while I tried to untangle knotted mysteries and supress doubt. He draped his arm around my neck and we both gazed at the portrait. ‘I told you you looked like her.’ He sounded pleased with himself. And me.

  I wondered then. What had her life been like with Steven? Happy? Until she got sick.

  ‘How long were you married?’

  Again, the simple question seemed to throw him.

  Then. ‘Six years,’ he said curtly.

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘What was she like? That’s a strange question.’

  ‘Not really.’

  I looked into the painting and thought I recognized something else. Had she too had a difficult life before she’d met Steven? Had men been unkind to her too? Had she always picked the wrong guy – until she met Mr Right-Guy Taverner? Had the wrong men been attracted to her as they were to me, sticking like flies to flypaper?

  I wondered.

  ‘Like you.’ He nuzzled the back of my neck and I felt his groin harden against me. At last, I thought, with a touch of triumph. It had taken six months to get to this point. I didn’t turn to see where his gaze was focused. I felt simply triumph while his wife watched. I felt relieved. He was normal after all and I did have the power to turn him on. I ignored my own response, simmering. Did I want him? Yes? No? I made my decision, turned around and returned his kiss, licking his lips and pushing my tongue inside his mouth. Which was when his desire seemed to cool, his erection shrink. He held me at arm’s length and looked hard into my eyes.

  ‘No,’ he said gently. ‘Jennifer, no. Not like that. That isn’t the way.’ He held me close then. ‘Do nothing.’

  I felt oddly ashamed. I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. I’d only encouraged him with a saucy kiss, but he held my chin in the angle of his hand between thumb and forefinger. ‘Are you ready for this?’ he whispered.

  I wasn’t sure what the question meant. I’d never been asked it before. Guys just assumed I was up for it. I felt myself redden, shrink back, unsure. Men have a physical sign their desire is waning. Women’s wilting desire is more subtle. Hidden deeper. Harder to interpret. I nodded anyway. It was going to happen sometime. If we were going to have a normal relationship, sex had to play its part, so if not now then later. He took my hand and led me back along the hallway, turning right and pushing the door open.

  The bedroom walls were painted white with a couple of flowery prints and a plain blue carpet. It had that fusty scent with the underlying Light Blue that I was already beginning to recognize. The bed was covered with a thin duvet with a blue and white spotted cover and a valance hiding the base, pillowcases with frilled edges.

  Men don’t keep house as well as most women. And once you enter a bachelor’s, widower’s or divorcé’s lair, you see a man in his most human and vulnerable form.

  He was aroused. I could tell by the film that covered his eyes, by the slow, heavy, deliberate breathing, by the way he was pressing himself into me. And the obvious. But instead of dissolving in a sea of lust, my mind was filled with facts, delving into D5. I saw the boxes standing on the concrete floor, the suitcases, the name written in the thick black marker pen.

  My spine was frozen so he had to back me towards the bed hard enough for me to fall.

  ‘Take your clothes off.’ I have heard more romantic overtures, but most of my past boyfriends had simply ripped off any articles of clothing without so much as a by-your-leave. I complied, slipping my dress over my head and stood, a bit embarrassed and exposed, in my bra and pants, thankfully matching purple from New Look.

  But he shook his head as though I was disappointing him. ‘Everything.’

  I was frankly mortified. Call me a prude, but naked as the day you were born doesn’t quite match up to a purple push-up bra and lacy matching thong. I looked at him with a silent plea. He could have held me then, touched me, kissed me, loved me, reassured me, aroused me. But he didn’t. He just stood back, cold as a block of ice, as I slipped out of my two minuscule remaining garments. He was appraising me as though I was a cow in the farmers’ market. If I had felt any warmth towards him, any sexual desire, it would have melted away as I shivered. I felt awkward, exposed, embarrassed and, for some unknown reason, ashamed.

  I was conscious of something else. The bedroom was on the ground floor, the window overlooking the drive. It was dark but a lamp was on and the curtains weren’t drawn.

  What if someone called?

  ‘Now lie back and close your eyes.’

  This was foreplay?

  I did as he asked, aware that none of this was going according to plan. I felt an odd sense of confusion. Where was the romance?

  ‘Jennifer,’ he said, speaking so low and close into my ear that I felt the drum vibrate. ‘Don’t move. Lie perfectly … still.’

  I looked up at him. Puzzled. ‘Close your eyes.’ And then he was on top of me. I felt his erection against my belly.

  Later, he drove me home.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Two nights later.

  ‘Weirder and weirder,’ Stella said when I gave her a potted version of the event. Sanitized, of course. I was too embarrassed to describe my situation in graphic detail. Then she started giggling. ‘You have to admit it, though, Jen.’ She opened her eyes wide. ‘He just wants you to lie back and think of England.’

  I was uncomfortable as I nodded. That wasn’t it. It wasn’t England I had been thinking of. And as for Steven – what had he been thinking of?

  ‘Bloody hell.’ And she took a long draught of wine. Then she frowned. ‘Jen,’ she said seriously, her hand on my arm. ‘I know you think Steven’s a great catch and the answer to all your problems …’

  Sensing a but hovering in the air I felt bound to stick up for him and protested. ‘Well, at least he’s not a wanker like the rest of them.’

  ‘Jen,’ she said again, frowning now. ‘There’s all sorts of men out there. There’s wankers, accepted. But there’s weirdos too.’

  ‘I know that.’ I felt bound to put in, ‘You’re just jealous.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’ I knew that was the truth as she continued. ‘I know he seems nice. But there’s obviously something strange about him. Something … not right?’

  I defended him hotly. ‘You’ve hardly met him. Once at the store and another time when you called in on your way to your holiday and we were just heading out. You are jealous.’ I counted his attributes on my fingers. ‘He has a good job. A nice car. He’s not a married cheat. He’s available. He doesn’t get road rage. He isn’t mean. And he has a lovely …’ But I stopped at that, knowing I was heading towards what it was that made me uncomfortable. The dead wife who hovered around the house. The portrait which could almost have been me, the contents of D5. And worst of all the lovemaking, which felt nothing like it should. Not one of my boyfriends had made me feel as though I was descending into … What? I could hardly put it into words – not even to myself. And then I did. Had his fantasy been that he was making love to his dead wife?

  Stella gripped my hand then. ‘Don’t even think …’

  ‘Think what?’

  ‘You wouldn’t … move in with him?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think it’s his scene. He’s more the …’

  She clutched my arm. ‘You wouldn’t marry him? No. Jenny, no.’

  I tried to turn it into a joke. ‘He hasn’t asked me yet.’r />
  She looked aghast.

  And I turned on her. ‘Look. It’s OK for you, Stell. You have a life. You’ve got a lovely husband, a child. A house. A family. A mum and dad who help you out when they can, in-laws. I’ve got none of those and I’m not likely to get them either. For some reason I’m always left with the rotten apple in the bottom of the barrel. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s some vibe that I give off. But that’s the way it is. This is my chance. Probably the only one I’m going to get.’

  ‘Don’t.’ She still looked a bit frightened. She pulled my arm. ‘Please. You’re my friend.’

  I carried on, steamrollering over all her reservations. ‘I don’t have any qualifications that are likely to see me into a super-job. I have no money behind me. I barely scratch out a living. I rent one small room in a small house. And Jason and Jodi can’t wait for me to leave. And then what, Stell? My mum and dad don’t want me and I don’t earn enough to have a nice clean place all of my own. I’ll be homeless again. On the streets. I’ve been there, Stell. It’s shitty. It’s also dangerous and very cold. You get dirty and everyone thinks they can just hit on you because you’re a druggy or desperate. And that’s the trouble. You are desperate. I’m desperate.’

  ‘Rent another room.’

  ‘They’re not much better.’

  She drew in a sharp, frustrated breath and I carried on trying to convince her. ‘Don’t you see it? Steven is a way out of all this. He has a lovely place in a pretty village. He’s quiet and he’s my lifeline.’

  ‘And he loves you?’

  I answered as honestly as I could. ‘In his own way.’ I thought I’d spoken with dignity and finality. But Stella countered with, ‘Which is?’

  And that, even I with my verbal gymnastics, couldn’t answer. Or rather didn’t want to. Put it into words and it would have seemed too real.

  Stella’s eyes were wide as she waited.

  And my response sounded pathetic. ‘Stell, I want something, someone of my own.’

  And now she looked alarmed. ‘Jenny,’ she said, ‘you’re sounding dangerously desperate.’

  And the truth was I was. Life was slipping by. I know I was only twenty-three but I felt much older. I wanted that home, a family of my own. OK, Steven didn’t set me on fire, but he seemed safe. I hoped he was safe. I believed I could be with him. And if what he wanted was a compliant, naked wife who lay still as a dead person, if that was what aroused him, I could hack that. There were worse ways of having sex. I’d experienced most of them. Sordid, violent, as near to rape as stayed this side of the law. I could play-act for now because that would mean security. It would be worth it. People who have never lacked security don’t know what a precious thing it is, to be able to sleep at night, in a bed, secure, safe, comfortable. Warm, well fed. Try being homeless when a kick or worse will wake you from a freezing cold nightmare into some new terror. Try wandering the streets because you daren’t sleep. Try having a couple of drunks stumble over you and have a go at raping you but they’re too pissed. Try being so cold you’ve forgotten what warmth even feels like. Try being so hungry you practically vomit at the thought of food. Just try it. And then pass judgement on me. Steven was decent and he seemed to love me – in his way – which was, admittedly, unusual. There was always the chance that he would change. Forget about Margaret and replace her with me. And then he would be the ideal husband. It would just take time. That was the version with which I convinced myself.

  When Mum and Dad split up, just before my GCSEs, they had sold the house for less than they’d paid for it; the property market at that time had plummeted because of the economic downturn and their semi had nose-dived even more because prospective buyers sensed the misery and desperation. This dumped them into the nightmare land of negative equity. Lives that are going wrong result in their own economic downturn. Everyone wants a happy house. My parents had, disgruntled, gone their different ways, searching for the elusive land of happiness with new partners, but with the albatross of debt hanging around their necks. That was the time that I had nowhere to live. (‘Oh come on, Jen, you’re a big girl now. You should be able to look after yourself,’ and, ‘You wouldn’t rob your old dad of this chance to be happy, to be really happy, with a gorgeous stepmother, would you?’)

  Parents can be so selfish.

  So yes. I joined the homeless. Became one of the great unwashed. An inhabitant of cardboard city. The sky was my ceiling, the pavement my floor. Anywhere my bathroom and toilet.

  I’d used up my friends’ sofas and goodwill and my grandmother didn’t want me. So I slept rough and it was hell.

  TWENTY-SIX

  I absolutely loved Scarlet. She was funny, interesting, clever, kind and honest. I liked her style and her happiness. That was her abiding characteristic – a joyous, golden optimism. I trusted her too. The question was, should I trust her judgement?

  She was sitting, swinging her legs from the stool as we chatted.

  She was looking proper hot today – in skinny faux-snakeskin silver jeggings and a cropped top she could have passed for a girl of seventeen, except for her face which was ravaged, sun damage plus cigarettes plus a sort of streetwise, wary look. Scarlet was beautiful but she looked as though she’d had a hard life. I didn’t want to have a hard life. I wanted an easy one.

  But at least she knew about life – and men. Not like Stella, whose experience outside Sonny was limited. They’d been together since school. And she was not above a little cattiness and envy. I was learning not to trust my best friend.

  I knew that whatever Scarlet said I’d listen. Besides, she knew Steven. Not well, admittedly, but better than Stella. And her life experiences must have included quite a few ‘unusual’ men and probably a few ‘bad sorts’ among them.

  So I risked it. ‘What do you think of Steven Taverner?’

  She drilled right into me with those black gimlet eyes. She looked a bit startled and a bit wary. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just wondering.’

  ‘He seems a decent sort. But, Spinning Jenny, I can’t say I really know him. Not like you do.’

  She hesitated before adding, ‘He’s quite a bit older than you.’

  And followed that up with, ‘And he has been married – and widowed.’ And then she twigged. ‘Is something wrong between you?’

  I tried to sound both nonchalant and sophisticated. ‘No. We’re getting along just fine.’

  ‘So why are you asking?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘If everything’s so fine,’ she said perceptively, ‘why are you kind of checking up with me?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Come on, Spinning Jenny,’ she coaxed. ‘You can confide in me.’

  ‘It’s our—’

  She guessed. ‘Sex life?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  She burst into great guffaws of laughter. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘show me a couple whose sex life is satisfactory.’ Then, ‘Maybe he needs a few lessons.’

  ‘But he’s been married. He must have—’ I stopped short but I was listening to her.

  That was my first mistake.

  She touched my hand with hers (long scarlet nails with big silver rings on every finger). ‘How well do you know him?’

  ‘We’ve been going out for more than six months now.’ I knew my response was prickly, defensive and ultimately uninformative.

  She repeated her question. ‘I mean, how well do you know him? What do you know about him, Spinning Jenny?’

  ‘As well as …’

  ‘For instance,’ she continued, ‘do you know what job he does? Have you met any of his friends, his family?’

  I knew the answer to all this. No.

  She put her arm around me. ‘Wait until you know him better before you make any sort of commitment. Don’t be in a hurry. Don’t rush into anything.’ She tapped my nose with a long, painted nail. ‘And if, at any time, you just have to find out a little more about him, there’s always …’ She dangled the key to the
top drawer. ‘This.’ She leaned in. ‘A sneaky little preview?’

  I was tempted.

  ‘Be careful,’ she said. Then added, ‘How serious is this relationship?’

  And that was the trouble. I couldn’t answer because I didn’t know. After that one visit to his house we seemed to have returned to our previous footing. A ‘date’ a couple of times a week. We were returning to our old haunts now. Bar staff and baristas were recognizing us as regulars. I wondered if in that one encounter I had disappointed him. After our evenings together he’d drop me off with a chaste goodnight kiss. There was no more sex. Not even weird sex. Which had set me thinking. Men like sex, surely? Hadn’t he enjoyed it? Did he have someone else? Was he still grieving for Margaret? Was he a closet gay? I couldn’t work him out and wondered incessantly. It ate me from the inside like a canker.

  And then, quite suddenly, seven months, one week and two days after our first date, he asked me to marry him. And I nearly died of shock.

  It was November. We were at the Mermaid Inn, a beautiful, remote pub high over the moorland with views that stretched for miles in all directions.

  A Mermaid Inn? So elevated and far from the sea? The inn is named after the nearby pool. There are two legends which explain how the mermaid came to be there. The first is effectively a rather charming love story between water nymph and seafarer and claims that she was taken there hundreds of years ago by the sailor who was from the nearby town of Thorncliffe. But when he died the mermaid became angry and – unable to return to the sea – started to haunt the place.

  The other legend is more sinister and tells of a beautiful young woman who rejected the advances of a local man named Joshua Linnet. Unable to accept the rejection, Joshua accused her of being a witch and managed to convince the local townsfolk to drown her in what was then called Black Mere Pond. Mere being a local term for a pond. With her final breath the young woman muttered a curse against Joshua and three days later his body was found by the pool, his face covered with claw marks. It is said that her spirit still haunts the pool in the form of a demon mermaid. Which is the true version? Take your pick. In my opinion neither. But up here, so remote, so far from civilization, it is only too easy to believe in these legends of demon mermaids and water nymphs, convince yourself that somewhere, in the murky past, there was a true haunted, tragic history. And you might fear to be up here, on a dull lonely night. The name must have originated somewhere.