His Perfect Wife

by Natasha Bell

  Marc turned to plunge the cafetière. I let him pour me a mug and took it upstairs. Charlotte was in her room, crayons and paper spread over the carpet. “What are you drawing, sweetie?” I said, sitting on the edge of her bed.

  “A princess,” she said, spreading her pages out to show me. “This is her horse and that’s going to be the castle where the prince lives.”

  “Great work,” I said.

  “Mummy, do you know any princesses?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Loads.”

  “Who?”

  I scratched my head. “Oh, well, let me think. There’s Princess Pip and Princess Fran and Princess Lizzie and Princess Charlotte.”

  “No, I mean real princesses,” Charlotte said, picking up a blue crayon. “Not just people we know.”

  “Okay, sorry,” I said. I looked at my daughter coloring a cloud-dotted sky for a moment. “There is this one princess, Princess Amelia, who’s not like any of the princesses you’ve seen in your storybooks.”

  Charlotte looked up from her pictures. “Why not?”

  “Well, she used to be like them, like your princess here. She was looking for her prince and dreaming of a castle. But then one day she realized she didn’t need a prince or a castle to make her happy, because she had everything she needed already within her.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She lived happily ever after, of course.”

  I sipped my coffee and watched Char scratch her knee before returning to her drawing.

  October

  Eight Months Gone

  “Tell me what you told the police,” Marc said.

  Fran folded her arms and glared at him on her doorstep. “Hello to you too,” she said.

  Marc wanted to shake her. “Alex phoned you,” he said. “Just before—”

  “I missed the call,” Fran said softly. “She didn’t leave a message.”

  Marc searched her face, but Fran looked genuinely sad.

  “You’d better come in,” she said and Marc followed her into the immaculate flat. “It wasn’t weird, her calling me,” she said, putting the kettle on. “We shared a lot of things, Alex and I.”

  “So I hear,” Marc said. He sat on a hard dining chair.

  “I take it you’ve spoken to Ollie,” Fran said, turning to face him. “I’d told Alex I wanted to leave him. She was probably phoning to see how I was. It was just a coincidence.”

  “When did you get so close?”

  “Why does it matter?” she said.

  “Why does it matter? Because you told the police—” Marc took a breath, tried to calm himself. “I want to know what Al said.”

  Fran carried two cups of tea over to the table and sat opposite him. “Marc, about Charlotte’s birthday—”

  Marc shook his head. “I don’t care about that. I just want to hear what you told the police.”

  “The police are pricks,” Fran said.

  “So why didn’t you come to me?”

  Fran looked at him like he was a child asking her to simplify the mysteries of the world. “Would you have listened? Last time I saw you, you threw me out of your house.”

  The muscles in Marc’s neck tensed. “I’m sorry,” he said with some effort. “I shouldn’t have said…I’m listening now.”

  Fran stared at him for a moment, her hands cupped around her tea. “I still don’t know if it’s anything,” she said. “Ages ago, we were having drinks in town. It must have been before Christmas because I remember the lights had just gone up. Alex asked me if I’d look out for the girls if she wasn’t around, if anything happened to her. I said sure, if she’d do the same for me.”

  “Is that it?” Marc said.

  “I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s what I remembered when she disappeared. She was so serious when she said it, like it had been playing on her mind.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me?”

  Fran sighed. “The police didn’t seem to care and then they found Alex’s blood by the river. Ollie told me to think about what it would do to you if I pushed it. He was right. Obviously something awful happened to her, so I put it out of my mind. I couldn’t see the point of dragging all this up if it wasn’t relevant. I decided, even if it was significant, if somehow Alex knew what was going to happen to her, then what she said must have been in confidence. She talked to me because she knew she could trust me, she knew I could understand.”

  “Understand what? Fucking hell, Fran. How would she have known? You had one morbid conversation and you think Alex had some psychic premonition?”

  Fran leant away from him. His clenched fists and raised voice seemed to confirm her position. “I told you, Marc, Alex wasn’t happy,” she said. “Not really.”

  Marc took an exasperated breath, tried to calm his frustration. He swallowed a mouthful of saliva and dared himself to ask the question he was most afraid of. “Was there someone else?”

  Fran shook her head. “All I know is she felt torn. We spoke about our love for our families warring against our hopes for ourselves, our ambitions: our identities. Alex wanted more—”

  “But we talked about that,” Marc said. “She was going to do her PhD.”

  Fran shrugged. “Was that her dream or yours?”

  Marc studied her, taking in her tailored suit and neat hair, not recognizing the woman he knew.

  “We used to talk about why it’s like this,” she said. “Why men can’t understand how much a woman sacrifices. I told the police about all this and they didn’t care. They thought I was just some whiny woman. I know it seems like things are evening out, that both parties now have to compromise, that every newspaper has an article about ‘striking the balance,’ but even that’s just a subtler form of oppression, just the newest way to pacify us. It’s still always the woman who changes her desires to meet the man’s. It’s still a world built for you and not us.”

  “Bullshit!” Marc said. “Do you know how patronizing this is?”

  “Is it?” Fran said, challenging him to meet her gaze. “Would you have given up your PhD to move to Chicago with Alex? Would you have stayed at home to bring up the girls while she climbed the career ladder? Why was it only this year that she was concentrating on her own thesis?”

  “Alex never asked me to do any of those things. They were choices she made. What she wanted.”

  “She didn’t need to ask. You’d never have done them. The most you would have offered would have been some moderated version: a long-distance relationship or full-time child care. Alex knew the only way to live your lives as you did was for her to make those choices. So she changed what she wanted. Women do it all the time. We adapt our wants and desires to meet those of our families, while men adapt the structures of their families to meet their wants and desires.”

  “What about you and Ollie, then?” Marc said. “He’s a stay-at-home dad, you can’t say he hasn’t sacrificed anything.”

  Fran laughed. “Come on, he was working in a pub kitchen when I got pregnant, he was hardly going to support us as a family. That fell to me, but just because I kept my career doesn’t mean I got everything I wanted. Alex and I joked that between us we were one complete woman. Between us we had a full life.”

  Marc tried to speak, but Fran cut him off. “I’d have liked to take Emma to nursery sometimes, you know? To be the parent she ran to. I’d have liked to share the financial responsibility too. To be the carer now and again, the softer side of us as a couple: the one that wowed our friends with delicious meals and who they called to ask for favors, not the cranky one always getting in late from work and thinking of practicalities. This wasn’t how I saw my life. I wanted a partner, someone to share it with, not dole it out fifty-fifty.”

  “Why couldn’t you just have told us?” Marc said.

  “You wouldn’t have understood,” she
said. “It’s not that we were ever unhappy, ever choosing anything we didn’t want. But constantly changing what you want—who you are—takes its toll. And I really think that’s something only women can understand: the rewriting of our dreams to fit the world around us. It’s sewn into history.”

  Marc pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, you think that because Alex couldn’t talk to me, she found someone else?” He hesitated, unsure if he could finish the question. “A woman?”

  Fran looked at him with pity. “I’m sorry, I know this is hard. I know you’re a good guy, Marc. Maybe you would have tried to understand if Alex had given you a chance. She never said anything specific. I just got the impression she felt there was another option—somewhere and perhaps someone with whom she could pursue herself.”

  They were both quiet for a moment.

  “And I don’t think it could have been a man,” Fran finally said. “Regardless of all this, she loved you. That was what was so hard for her. She hated lying to you about these feelings. She wanted them out in the open.”

  Marc wanted to argue with her, pick holes in her logic, shout and growl if he had to, but deep down he sensed the futility. “Did you know about her mum?” he asked before he left.

  “No,” Fran replied. “But I’d be lying if I said I was surprised. Alex was more complicated than she let any of us know.”

  * * *

  “Is there anything you want to say to me?”

  I stare at the floor, pray he’ll leave. I don’t have the energy for this today. I dreamt about Lizzie and Charlotte. One of those lovely, normal dreams where we’re playing in a park and laughing as if no tragedy could ever touch us; one that is utterly devastating to wake from.

  “Suit yourself,” he says. “I’m almost done with you anyway. You’ve got a week left here and then…” He trails off and waits for me to look up, then gives what I assume is meant to be a meaningful stare. I catch his eye, breathe through my nose.

  If I squint my vision, I can almost see my husband before me: the color of the light on his hair, the line of his jaw, the way the shirt hangs from his shoulders. But then this monster clears his throat and the illusion is lost. He can threaten me all he wants. I refuse to show him my fear. Deep down he’s a weak man who, like the rest of them, is deluded into thinking he’s in control. I am stronger than him. I’ve been through more than he can possibly imagine. I will get through this.

  2012

  3/6/12

  Al,

  I can’t do this anymore. Remember that song that goes, “If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right?” I feel kind of like that. If all this is wrong, then I’m not sure I want to be right. I don’t want to rationalize it and realize everything I’ve worked toward is total bullshit. I just want to go on thinking it’s right. Because it feels right. It’s the only thing that does. I know you understand. I know you have all these other thoughts that complicate everything and stop you thinking clearly. I know you have responsibilities and fears. But I also know you can figure it out. I know you’ll choose the right thing in the end. You have to. Because I can’t keep doing this. I won’t survive. That’s a promise. I need you more than anyone. I will die if you don’t figure this out. How will you feel then?

  Think about it.

  Am x

  SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2012

  Charlotte had just begun her brief stint at Saturday morning karate, which Lizzie told us she had “zero interest” in getting involved in. Marc had volunteered to drive Charlotte, suggesting perhaps he could take her out for lunch afterward and maybe Lizzie and I could spend the day together. He was being sweet, I knew, but it irritated me that he felt the need to orchestrate time between us. Lizzie was only nine, but I could already feel that teenage attitude rolling in like a bad storm. She was such a Daddy’s girl that Marc didn’t see it, but lately I’d been subjected to worryingly frequent eye rolls and door slams.

  “Why don’t you go to the cinema together or something?” Marc said.

  I nodded, but thought to myself I could do better than that. I had an idea. Lizzie’s class had been drawing still life for a couple of weeks and it amused me that I kept coming down to find our fruit bowl arranged next to a jam jar and a bottle of squash.

  “Pop some clothes on, Liz,” I said after the other two had left. “We’re going out.”

  “Where?” she asked suspiciously, but did eventually head upstairs to get dressed.

  “Bring your sketchbook,” I said when she re-emerged.

  We caught the 10:23, arriving in Manchester just before midday.

  “What are we doing?” Lizzie asked for the dozenth time, an unmistakable note of excitement in her voice. “Are we shopping?”

  I shook my head and we wound through the busy streets to the art gallery.

  “Oh,” she said when we stopped outside.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

  She followed me obediently inside and I picked up a leaflet with a map. “We don’t have to see everything, I just want to show you some different versions of still life. Then we can go shopping if you like. Okay?”

  Lizzie sighed, but nodded.

  We wandered through the rooms, honing in on fruit bowls and objects arranged before windows. Lizzie wasn’t totally disengaged, I noted happily. We talked about the things her teacher had said about light and shadow and I took a moment to study my daughter’s serious profile as she gazed at a Vanessa Bell.

  “I like that you can’t see what’s rolled up in the papers,” she said. “It’s like it’s just from someone’s house and they might come home and pick them up at any minute.”

  I glanced from Lizzie to the painting and back again. I almost wished Marc was here to witness this. I tentatively put my arm around Lizzie’s shoulders and kissed the side of her head. She didn’t return the hug, but she did lean slightly into me. Then she pulled away and walked toward the next room.

  “How about this one?” I said, grabbing her hand and turning her toward a canvas of flat, irregular blocks of color.

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “That’s not a still life.”

  I pointed toward the writing next to the painting: “1946 (composition, still life) Ben Nicholson.”

  “It’s just colors, though,” Lizzie said.

  “It’s abstract,” I said. “Look, there’s a mug there. See the handle?”

  Lizzie folded her arms. “I don’t like this kind of thing.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Anything like this.”

  “That’s quite a blanket statement,” I said.

  She shrugged.

  “It’s okay not to like this one painting,” I said, “but you should be careful about dismissing things you haven’t even seen yet.”

  “Mum, I like normal art.”

  I frowned. “What’s normal? Why is this not normal?”

  “Because it’s not. It’s stupid.” She snapped. “You like stupid art and you want everyone else to like it too, but me and Dad and Char like normal stuff.”

  I turned to face Lizzie, unsure what had just happened. “That’s not a very nice way to put it,” I said. “People are allowed different tastes, it doesn’t mean they’re stupid.”

  “It does,” Lizzie said, her cheeks growing red. “You don’t see how stupid it is that you try so hard to be different all the time. Why can’t you just be normal? Why won’t you let us be normal?”

  I blinked at my daughter, aware of the other people around us. “What is this about?” I whispered.

  Lizzie shrugged. “I feel like you want me to go back to school and draw something like this,” she said, waving at the painting. “But can you even imagine how badly I’d get laughed at? Do you even care?”

  I frowned. “I don’t want you to do anything,” I said. “I just want you to open your mind a bit, think a lit
tle differently.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “Everybody hates you if you think differently.”

  “That’s not true. The world is shaped by those who do.”

  Lizzie snorted. “Not in my class. Your life is made miserable if you’re different.”

  “That’s really sad,” I said, looking at Lizzie’s clenched jaw and pursed lips. “But it’s still not a reason to wish you were normal.”

  Lizzie glared at me.

  “Most people who do anything worthwhile in this world have probably been miserable at some point,” I said. “But sometimes pain has a higher purpose and it can lead to something good in the end. If every artist and inventor, every activist and revolutionary had given up at their first moment of misery, the world would be a very different place.”

  Lizzie rolled her eyes. “Mum, you don’t know what it’s like.”

  “You might be surprised,” I said, hoping I sounded soft and caring.

  “Urrgh!” Lizzie sighed in frustration. A woman on the other side of the room glanced at us. “You don’t! I just want to be liked and not have to worry about who’s going to hang out with me at lunchtime and whether they’re whispering about me behind my back.”

  “Baby,” I said, leaning forward to take her hand. Lizzie shrugged me off. “Anyone who’s whispering behind your back doesn’t deserve to be your friend. I know it’s hard to believe now, but this is all going to make you stronger. You’re going to do brilliant things.”

  “What?” she said. “Like you?”