The Subsequent Wife

by Priscilla Masters

  I slumped in my seat, suddenly depressed and looking for solace. And underneath that I was worried. Something wasn’t right but I didn’t know what. And I didn’t know how to heal it. I looked to her for something positive. ‘Do you think most honeymoons are a bit of a disaster?’

  She picked up on it at once. ‘So that’s what it was like?’

  I immediately backtracked. ‘No. No of course not. It was …’ I summoned up every single ounce of enthusiasm. ‘Brilliant.’ Spreading my arms wide to encompass all that was good in this world. Except it didn’t fool her. She was far too streetwise and experienced. Inside me I felt something sour, something hollow, which was leaching through my skin, giving out messages. I already knew something was missing from my marriage. But I wasn’t sure what it was. And then I realized. It wasn’t that something was missing. It was that something was present that was poisoning it. Margaret and the attachment Steven had felt for her and which still existed even though she was dead. Or was she? I hadn’t seen her death certificate. I’d taken his word for it. So what if …? Minnie had called him Coffin Man. And now I felt as cold as if I was inside a coffin.

  Scarlet hadn’t been taken in by my little play-act.

  ‘Oh, Spinning Jenny,’ she said, her voice laden with even more sympathy, and she put her arms around me and gave me a hug.

  A couple of customers came in then. Stan, still storing his mother’s stuff – for ever – or at least until he died and joined her in tatty-furniture heaven, Teresa Simpson, today minus her son who was, I guess, probably in school. Without the teenager by her side she looked even smaller and more vulnerable as she struggled with a couple of chairs, trying to fit them one way or another into the back of her Vauxhall Corsa. There was something so sad about the droop of her shoulders that I went outside to give her a hand and was treated to the first smile ever. She must have been pretty – once. Which reminded me – looks don’t last for ever.

  The solicitors played their usual brief visit, their greeting terse nods as though they were angry with us for charging them for the storage space. They were always resentful even though they were handing over money which they wouldn’t miss. It was the act of paying for something that ate them from the inside. Serena was obviously having a day off. Our customers these days were a sad lot. All too busy to stop and chat. To my dismay, Tommy Farraday and the rest of the group had moved out following the police raid. I missed them. It’s one of the shames of working in a store. Our customers are transient. They go through a period in their lives when they need us. Then they give notice and vanish. And that’s the end of that. They forget about us. Of course, you soon find replacements who do exactly the same. Len, who liked a bit of banter, had moved in recently with the contents of his tool shed which had blown down in the wind, but he too would probably find somewhere else to store his tools. Or build another shed. As I checked the database I realized we were almost always full. And only a few stayed for more than six months. But Steven was turning into one of the long-term customers. He’d given no indication that he had any intention of moving out any time soon. I wondered when he would start moving the boxes out. And where he would put them? Belatedly to the charity shop? Or was his plan to sneak them in to the house behind my back, somehow bringing her home with her Light Blue scent.

  I wouldn’t be surprised if even Serena, one of our longest-serving customers, opened her own salon at some point. And then she wouldn’t need us either. Just as I was thinking this she walked in. ‘God,’ she said, dumping her enormous black leather Marc Jacobs handbag on the desk as though it weighed a ton (and it probably did), ‘you looked gorgeous on your wedding day, Jenny.’

  At least she had appreciated my beautiful wedding dress, making me twirl and pose, taking pictures with her phone ready to put on Snapchat or Facebook.

  ‘I’m glad you let me do your hair. You looked fab. I bet Steven was bowled over,’ she continued.

  Not exactly. He’d said little about my wedding outfit but his silence had said it all. I’d sensed that he’d hated the look, realized it was second-hand, pre-owned, cheap-looking.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said casually.

  Showing a sensitivity rare for her she looked hard at me. ‘You all right?’

  I shrugged, close to tears. The trouble was I knew I wasn’t all right. I was frightened and worried.

  She looked at me a minute longer then nodded. ‘Post-wedding blues,’ she said wisely. ‘Common as morning sickness in pregnancy. You put your all into the detail, guests, dress, food. Forget that at the end of it is just simple, humdrum married life. You fold the dress away and put it on eBay.’ She grinned. ‘After you’ve had it cleaned, of course.’ (So she’d noticed the mud splatters.) ‘You share toilets, listen to him snore, go back to work. And bingo, you go down like a sinking ship, romance floating away on the tide. It’s like the baby blues. Oh,’ she finished, putting her arm around me and bringing her face up close. ‘Poor you.’

  But then Serena reverted to Serena and changed the subject. ‘I think I can manage a smaller rental,’ she said. ‘Save costs. I don’t seem to need such a big place any more.’

  Scarlet had come back, and she was frowning. ‘I’m not sure we’ve got any spare of the smaller ones,’ she said, putting – rather pointedly, I thought – two mugs of coffee down. ‘I think Steven took the last one. Being cheaper they don’t come up so often.’ She slurped her coffee in a slightly rude way. ‘You could ask him if he’s OK to move it out?’

  They both looked at me then, Serena voicing both their thoughts. ‘What does he keep in there, Jenny?’

  I responded without thinking. ‘Margaret’s stuff.’

  Serena gave me a sly look. ‘Well surely he can dump it now he’s got you?’ They were both looking at me, waiting for my response.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said lamely. ‘I’ll ask him again if you like.’

  Serena jumped in then with both feet. ‘Would you?’

  I nodded and drank my coffee until their attention was caught by yet another row over the grey images of the CCTV between Teresa and Philip, who had just turned up, only this time erupting into violence as she raised her hand, took it back as far as it would go and slapped him right in the chops, while we all stared, open-mouthed, waiting for his reaction. We were in for a disappointment. There was no reaction. He just stood there, apparently too shocked to react. And then, surprise, surprise, he covered his face with his hands and looked as though he would burst into tears. ‘Shi–it.’ Serena provided the expletive.

  For the first time since the warring couple had first appeared, months ago, I felt sorry for the errant Philip. He looked sheepish, old, shrunken and silly, while Teresa appeared to have grown in stature in the last ten seconds. So what was going on there?

  But while there was enough drama to keep them distracted, I slipped away. My curiosity was reaching bursting point.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I stood outside the padlocked door. The name Margaret, to me, spelt whispered secrets. If I opened D5 I would learn something about the man I had married and my predecessor. Did I want to hear these whispered secrets? I wasn’t sure. But the questions were lining up.

  Scarlet was standing behind me, the key around her neck. She fingered it as she looked at me.

  ‘Darling.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  She shrugged. ‘Yes and no.’ She tried to reassure me then. ‘Probably nothing there,’ she said. ‘Just a few of her dresses. Personal stuff like that.’

  I realized then even more that The Green Banana was the place where people stored their inner fantasies, lost dreams, failed hopes, damaged memories and dirty secrets.

  And in a way, though I hadn’t taken out a storage facility, I’d joined their ranks with my vulnerability. I’d been needy, desperate for a job, and Scarlet had taken me in. I’d made a choice and I was only now realizing where this choice had ultimately led me. I’d met Steven, ignoring the fact that our relationship was strange, that a connection was missin
g. I faced that now. I had tried to sanitize his behaviour, explain away his actions and predilections, normalize them. But I needed to face up to something. His wife had died, so he said. So where were the people who had known them as a couple? Where were her family? Her death certificate? Why was he hiding her from me, at the same time as trying to mould me into her? How was it that both Gwen and Noah claimed she had stayed in the seaside cottage after Steven said she had died? And ringing in the back of my mind was the fact that neither had seen her.

  ‘Let’s open up.’

  Scarlet gave me a look asking the question. You’re sure?

  I nodded.

  One of the most evocative of the five senses is the sense of smell, particularly in the muted light of the store. Inside the scent of Light Blue was strong, almost overpowering. Scarlet used the torch on her phone to illuminate the interior.

  The boxes were still stacked neatly at the back, the suitcase by its side.

  Scarlet stood in the doorway, keeping watch.

  ‘It’s his secret,’ I said. ‘He wants to keep it. I feel I’m being disloyal.’

  ‘Don’t do it if you don’t want to.’

  I imagined they contained loving memories, photographs, things she had treasured. I touched the top box.

  Scarlet was waiting.

  I slit the parcel tape with my thumbnail and opened it. As expected (Steven was a very neat man) the contents were folded. At the top a peach-coloured nightdress, its label dangling. ‘She never wore it,’ I said. ‘Just like the other stuff of hers he’s given me.’

  There was a layer of white tissue paper next. It rustled as I lifted it. Underneath were several pairs of knickers. I spread them out on the floor. They too were new, still on the plastic hangers. I put it all back, the layer of tissue paper between, and sealed it again with tape. ‘This is just new stuff,’ I said, turning round. ‘She never wore them.’

  Scarlet was frowning, like me, trying to work it out.

  ‘Let’s go.’ I needed time to try and puzzle this out.

  She tried to make a joke of it. ‘Well at least he hasn’t got her head in there or some chopped-up bits.’

  It wasn’t funny. I turned to look at her and she immediately tried to rectify her statement. ‘Sorry, darling. Sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  Sorry for what, I wondered as we locked the padlock and returned to the office. I was frightened now as I tried to piece it all together.

  She’d been ill. He’d bought her clothes in the hope that she would recover but she hadn’t.

  And out of sentiment he’d saved them. Aaagh. Sweet, one could think.

  Coincidentally, that very day, he turned up at five o’clock. I saw his car swing in through the gates and panicked. Had I put the stuff back exactly as I’d found them? Folded them in the right way, put the tissue paper back? Had we locked the padlock? Alarmed, I looked at Scarlet and she read my panic, put a hand on me and whispered, ‘It’s OK,’ just at the moment that he walked in, looking jaunty.

  ‘I thought I’d give you a lift home. Save you the bus.’ I was relieved. He wasn’t going in there … But then he said, ‘I just want to pick something up first. Won’t be a minute,’ and the anxiety bubbled up again.

  Minutes ticked by while I waited. How would he respond to my intrusion, because he would know it was me. It had to be me.

  I watched him on the CCTV as he approached the doors, disappeared inside. And now I waited.

  Until he emerged carrying something. He crossed the yard and the office door opened.

  It was a sweater, pale blue, still with the scent on it. ‘Ready?’

  ‘I’ll lock up,’ Scarlet said, watching me for my reaction. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’ She was trying to reassure me with her smile.

  But that evening something changed. The game rules were different. As soon as we were home he handed me the sweater. ‘Wear this,’ he said. ‘Please?’

  ‘I’ll maybe shower first.’

  I emerged from the shower to find him standing in the bedroom looking agitated. Silently he handed me my bottle of perfume. I looked at him, wanting to tell him, You can’t turn me into her. I am not her. She is dead … but the words dried up in my throat like a wadi in the dry season. Margaret might be dead; he was trying to make me replace her. No, it was worse than that. He was trying to turn me into her.

  Initially I felt powerless, and then something bubbled up inside me.

  It was fury. Margaret was dead. I was not. I still had my life to lead. I was Jennifer Lomax.

  No, you’re not. You’re Jennifer Taverner now, and that strength which had seemed so powerful shrivelled up. I watched him, concerned. He was rocking ever so slightly forwards and backwards. ‘Steven?’

  The look he gave me was confused. I put the sweater on but he was still looking at me as though I was a stranger. His mouth was working as he struggled to find words.

  ‘Steven,’ I said, putting my hand out to steady him. ‘Darling.’

  And then he came to, shook himself like a dog. ‘Jennifer. You look nice in that sweater. Mmmm.’ He breathed in with a noisy sniff. ‘You smell nice too.’

  There was only one response I could make. ‘Thank you. Shall I make tea tonight?’

  ‘That would be nice.’ He wasn’t looking my way now. Even his response sounded stilted and false.

  I managed some pasta with salmon and anchovies, a recipe I’d found on the internet. I don’t think either of us enjoyed it very much. I was trying to analyse our situation. Something between us had shifted. Did he know I had spied on the contents of D5? Why should he be so defensive? There was nothing in there that should be hidden.

  But something was very different.

  That night I climbed into bed warily, but I must have made some movement. He grabbed my hair, pushing my head on to the pillow. ‘Don’t move.’ It was a warning.

  I believed what he wanted to say was don’t breathe.

  I was frightened and lay as quiet and still as I could as he climbed on top of me. As he climaxed, he murmured her name. ‘Margaret.’

  And I felt fury shoot through me like lightning.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  I spent most of that night shallow breathing. Maybe I dozed.

  Next morning, he was quiet and subdued enough for me to try and reach out to him.

  ‘Steven,’ I said, ‘what’s happening?’

  He gave a silly little smile, embarrassed. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was miles away.’

  I took a big leap into the dark then. ‘Steven …?’

  He looked up.

  ‘Are you still grieving for Margaret? Have we perhaps married too soon?’

  He put his head on one side and seemed to think about it. I got the impression he was pleased I’d asked. ‘You think that?’

  I had no answer except to try. ‘There are counsellors, you know, people who can help you through grief.’

  ‘I don’t need a counsellor,’ he said. ‘But thank you for asking, Jennifer. It’s nice of you.’ There was something different in his tone, something childlike.

  The next sentence I hurled at him was unashamedly a cliché but I didn’t know what else to say. ‘If ever you want to talk …’

  He shook his head, almost back to normal. ‘I’m fine, Jennifer. I don’t need counselling or grief advice or anything else. I really am fine.’ He reached out for my hand. ‘But thank you for being considerate.’

  I left it at that. But there were still great gaps, too much missing. I wanted details now. I wanted answers, finally, to my questions.

  ‘I can’t remember if you told me,’ I said casually, leaning back in my chair and taking a sip of coffee.

  ‘Told you what?’ Unconcerned, he lifted a spoonful of cornflakes to his mouth.

  ‘Which church you were married in.’ I struggled to keep my tone casual.

  ‘Mmm.’ He turned his attention back to his breakfast while I waited. And got no answer.

  I followed that up with, ‘Was Margaret Welsh?
’

  Now that question had surprised him. ‘No. Why?’

  ‘Oh, I just wondered …’ I put on an act of being flustered. ‘The name of the house. It’s Welsh, isn’t it?’

  He was on his guard now. His whole body stiffened. ‘Jennifer,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘you know I don’t like you asking questions about Margaret. We have each other and she is in the past. Forgotten.’ He stood up. ‘And now I must be off. I don’t want to be late for work.’ He gave me a bright smile, his hand resting on my shoulder. ‘You catching the bus in?’

  I nodded and he was gone.

  I cleared up the breakfast things and went to get ready for work, spraying myself with Light Blue which released a whole raft of emotion.

  On the bus I sat, musing.

  The sense of smell registers largely in the subconscious. Novelists convey it with a wonderful variety of words: stink, aroma, perfume, scent, whiff, pong, sniff, reek and so on.

  Forensic scientists use it. What draws people to the dumping ground of a body? Putrefaction. Vultures smell it from over a mile away. Sharks smell blood from a kilometre away in oceans of water. Scent can evoke love, beauty, loyalty, arousal as well as revulsion, hatred, fear, loathing. It can incite violence or lovemaking, fear as the smell of burning. There are plenty of words to describe this powerful tool and these words invariably have two meanings. Yes, the smell, but also the emotions tucked behind that word. We talk about the stink of tobacco but the aroma of fresh ground coffee or newly baked bread. Having worked in an old people’s home, I could recognize the stench of a soiled bed or the reek of stale urine from forty paces.

  Conversely I have always loved Estée Lauder’s Youth Dew, not because I particularly loved the smell but because one of the sisters I worked with at The Stephanie Wright Care Home was so kind to me. She would let me splash some on my wrists and neck from her handbag spray if I’d had a particularly hard shift. The very waft of it made me feel comfortable and happy, though it wasn’t my favourite. I’d sneaked into Boots and sprayed on the most expensive perfumes from their testers. Once I’d even slipped one into my carrier bag. But I was so terrified of being arrested and marched out of the shop by the police that I’d chickened out and put it back on the shelf. If I was rich and beautiful, I used to dream, I would wear nothing but five drops of Chanel No. 5 to bed (like Marilyn Monroe).