The Perfect Wife

by Kimberley Louise

  "Emma?"

  "Hello, Jean. Can I come in?"

  "Sure."

  Jean showed Emma into the hall. They both stood looking at each other awkwardly.

  "I am not disturbing you. Am I?" Emma asked.

  "No, I was just doing the washing."

  "Oh, great minds think alike." Emma gave a nervous giggle.

  "I'm sorry?" Jean said, confused.

  Emma gave another of her giggles. "What I mean is I've brought Eddie's clothes for you." Emma held the bag up. "I was having a clear out, and I thought you'd like them."

  Jean glared at Emma and took the bag from her. "These are Eddie's things?"

  "Yeah. Well, it makes sense you should have them. I thought it might be best for the boys if we make a fresh start."

  Jean couldn't believe what she was hearing. "A fresh start?"

  "I would have only taken them to a charity shop."

  "It’s quite soon."

  "I think it's time we moved on," Emma said. "Holding onto Eddie's clothes will not bring him back."

  Jean understood this. They were just clothes. But the funeral had been three days ago. Already Emma was having a clear out.

  "But this is crazy. You can't just throw out Eddie's things."

  She looked at Jean with that stunned, unknowing expression of hers. The one that fools everyone, except Jean.

  "You don't want them?" Emma asked.

  "That's not the point."

  "Then what is?"

  "Why do you want to get rid of Eddie's things?"

  Emma rubbed her forehead. "I said I am having a clear out. It's nothing personal or sinister."

  "Don't you dare talk to me like I'm an idiot?" Jean sputtered.

  Jean could feel her blood boiling. Emma had already upset her the previous day when she’d kyboshed Jean’s birthday plans for Ava. She desperately wanted to slap Emma’s cheeky little face.

  "I'm sorry," Emma said with a sigh. "I didn't mean to upset you. I thought you'd understand."

  "Understand what? That you want to get rid of any memories of my son?"

  Emma grimaced. "That's not true. Eddie was my husband, and I loved him. How could you suggest I'd be so insensitive?"

  Emma was good at backing you into a corner. So Jean nodded and took the bag into the kitchen. Emma followed her.

  "We are okay. Aren't we?" Emma asked Jean.

  Emma had that look on her face. She was intent on making Jean feel guilty. It was working. The warm part of Jean wanted to hold her and tell her it would be okay. Jean knew it was manipulation on Emma's part and stupidity on hers.

  "I'll take the clothes, Emma. But maybe you should give yourself time to grieve."

  She nodded and rubbed Jean's shoulder.

  "Take care, Jean. And I am sorry for upsetting you."

  When she left, Jean sat at the kitchen table. The bag was on the floor. She couldn't bear to look inside. Not yet. Jean was livid that Emma had brought it. She might have been ready to forget about Eddie. But, Jean was not. And never would be.

  That afternoon, Jean went to the graveyard. She promised herself that she'd only go once a month, and not so soon after the funeral. But, Jean couldn't help it. She had to see his grave. She needed to talk to him.

  Losing a child was such a difficult thing to imagine and discuss. Jean felt her friends and family were tiptoeing around her, watching everything they said as though she was a child. She wanted them to listen. Don't assume; just listen to her.

  This got Jean thinking about Emma. It was hard for her daughter-in-law. She knew that. Joining a new family was difficult. While the rest of the family members had taken Emma into their hearts, Jean had been less accommodating. But it was only because she was worried Eddie had moved on too quickly from his first wife, Rebecca. Now, Emma was eliminating the grief by pretending Eddie never existed. Did that make it easier for her? It was too soon for the family. Emma should respect that.

  Walking past several carved headstones, Jean smelled fresh-cut grass and floral scents from flowers left on graves. A priest conducted a funeral near where she stood, reminding her of when they'd been there, short days earlier.

  Bending at her son's headstone, Jean touched it, trying to think of what she wanted to say. Maybe she wanted to tell him how much she missed him. The words didn’t matter. She hadn't said goodbye in her heart, not like everyone else had seemed to.

  Thinking of the boys kept Jean going. Her grandsons were her main reason for living now. A little of Eddie lived on in them, and she had to hold onto the fact they needed her. She had to be strong for them.

  Jean's attention shifted when she noticed a fresh bunch of flowers on the far end of the grave. They'd been laid there recently. It was nice Eddie was getting flowers, and that people still remembered him. He'd like that. Jean stretched forward and looked at the card inside. It read: From your loving wife, Emma. From my heart to yours. I knew you'd understand. You wouldn't want me and the boys to be alone and lonely.

  Jean was making dinner in the kitchen while Derek watched the television in the lounge. She thought about Emma's note while she chopped vegetables for the soup. What did she mean? You wouldn't want me and the boys to be alone.

  Jean left the soup to boil and went into the lounge. Derek had fallen asleep on the sofa. He opened his left eye when she switched off the television.

  "Dinner ready?" he said.

  "No, not yet. I want to talk to you about Emma."

  "What about her?" Derek said, rising from the sofa and rubbing his eyes.

  "That bag by the kitchen door. It's full of Eddie's clothes."

  "Really?"

  "Yes. Emma brought them around this morning. She wants to have a clear out."

  Derek raised his eyebrows. "Oh, I see."

  "Don't you think that's strange?"

  "That she wants to declutter the house?"

  "Don't you think it's too soon?"

  "Depends which way you look at it."

  "How do you mean?"

  "It might be her way of dealing with it," Derek said. "Eddie's clothes are a reminder."

  "Doesn't she want to remember him?"

  "It might be too painful for her, love."

  "That's not all. I went to the graveside this afternoon, and I saw a note Emma had left. I wanted to show it to you, but I didn't think I should take it from there. Anyway, she wrote in the note. ‘You wouldn't want me and the boys to be alone. I knew you'd understand.’"

  "What's wrong with that?"

  "Don’t you think that's strange?"

  "Not really, no."

  "What does it mean?"

  "I have no idea. Emma probably meant she's not alone because she has you and me."

  "You think that's what it is?"

  "What else could it be? It's just a note."

  "There’s a hidden meaning in that note. Emma was telling him something."

  "Jean, I think you're over thinking this. Emma may leave notes on her husband's graveside if she wants to. It's not up to us to judge her for everything she does or says."

  "But—"

  "Jean, it's just a note. Leave it."

  "Fine."

  Jean went back into the kitchen and stirred the soup. She then looked at the black bag in the corner.

  When she picked it up to take it upstairs, some clothes inside tumbled out of the bag onto the floor. Jean bent to pick the clothes up. She noticed a black t-shirt with a tropical tree on the front. She picked it up and could tell it didn't belong to Eddie.

  "Derek?" she called.

  Derek came into the kitchen, and she handed him the t-shirt.

  "What's the matter?"

  "I was taking this bag upstairs. The clothes fell out of it, and I found that."

  "What about it?"

  "Look at it!"

  "I am."

  "It's not Eddie's. That's not his t-shirt."

  "How do you know?"

  "Have you ever seen him wearing it?"

  "We didn’t see eve
ry item of clothing he owned."

  "I know Eddie. That shirt is not his."

  "Jean, it might have been. Emma wouldn't have put in the bag if it wasn't. Would she?"

  Jean thought about it. Maybe not. But Emma could have slipped it in the bag accidentally. Jean took the t-shirt from Derek and put it in the bag. She took the bag upstairs and put it in the storage cupboard next to the bedroom. She was still sure that the t-shirt didn't belong to her son.

  At dinner, Derek was silent. He ate his soup and took regular sips of his water. Jean was still thinking about the t-shirt.

  "I wish you wouldn't worry about things so much," Derek said. "It can't be good for you."

  Jean sipped her water. "I'm just sure that wasn't his t-shirt. Just like I'm sure that note Emma left at the graveside had some hidden meaning. I think she's—"

  "What?"

  "I don't know."

  "That's it isn't it? You don't know. All of this is just speculation."

  "I know but—"

  "You have no real evidence to suggest Emma is doing anything wrong. It's just all in your head. You've never liked her."

  "It was too quick."

  "What was?"

  "The marriage. Between Eddie and Emma. It was too fast. They met one moment, and then the next they were married. He didn't know whether he was coming or going. He'd just lost his wife. Emma cajoled him."

  "Eddie didn't mind."

  "He wouldn't. He's a man. Women like Emma know how to get what they want."

  "She didn't get what she wanted, Jean. Her husband died a year after she married him. None of us got what we wanted. You need to accept that Eddie's dead. Please, accept it."

  After they'd eaten, Jean cleared away the dishes and took the rubbish out. It was cold and dark in the back garden, so she rushed back inside. But Jean heard the back gate open. She turned and noticed a shadow moving. Somebody was there.

  "Hello?" Jean shouted.

  Jean closed and bolted the door. At the kitchen window, she peered out to see if she could see anyone. But there was nothing there. Jean turned off the kitchen lights and went upstairs.

  That night, Jean watched Derek sleep. She knew better than to wake him. And, what would Jean say? She might have imagined seeing someone in the back garden. Derek would say as much. But she was sure someone was there. Jean tried to sleep, but she heard something. Going to the window, she parted the curtain. She saw a blonde woman standing by the gate. The woman was wearing a red coat. It looked like Emma. Jean looked again.

  The woman was gone.

  But she had been there. Jean was sure.

  Chapter 5

  “So, how have you been coping since our last meeting?” Sierra Mathews asked.

  Jean had been going to therapy for three weeks now. Her appointments were on Thursdays at one-thirty. A colleague recommended Sierra, who specialised in grief therapy, to help Jean deal with the sorrow of losing Eddie. There was little chance of someone spotting Jean because of the location of Sierra’s private practice, which meant that she could talk to someone confidentially. Privacy was important to Jean. Not that she was ashamed, but she wanted to remain discreet until she told Derek.

  Emma was the only person who knew about the therapy sessions. She’d seen Jean coming out of the practice after one of the sessions. Upset and emotional, Jean confided in Emma. She wasn’t sure why she had told her. It wasn’t as though Jean and Emma were close friends. She supposed she had just wanted to tell someone.

  Receiving therapy didn’t appeal to Jean, which was mainly due to her upbringing. Her parents never encouraged Jean and her siblings to be open about their feelings, and they certainly never had open family discussions.

  But talking to Sierra was a breath of fresh air. She was empathetic, and she listened.

  “I’ve been coping okay,” Jean replied to Sierra’s question. “It was Eddie’s funeral on Monday.”

  Sierra smiled comfortingly. “How did it go?”

  “It was tough. I don’t think my family understood how hard it was for me.”

  Sierra’s brown eyes gazed at Jean. “How do you mean?”

  “Derek seemed distant throughout the day. I needed his support. But, he was—”

  Jean stopped and wiped her nose with a tissue.

  “Would you like a glass of water?” Sierra asked.

  “Thanks.”

  Sierra got up and poured her a glass of water. While she stood at the kitchen counter, Jean watched her. Sierra was fifty-seven years old. But, she looked closer to thirty-five. Her skin was flawlessly brown, and she had long black hair. Sierra had mentioned that her parents emigrated from Jamaica in the fifties. She’d inherited their youthful looks. Jean was not sure if the grief had aged her, but Sierra looked years younger, though they were the same age.

  “You wouldn’t like something hot, like tea? I’ve got Earl Grey.”

  “Water is fine.”

  There was another reason Jean liked going there. She loved Sierra’s office. It was modern with couches and soft chairs, throw pillows, soft lighting, and warm decor. There was a constant smell of air freshener and scented candles. Sierra handed Jean the water and sat back in her chair.

  “Right. Let’s continue. You said you didn’t feel your husband supported you at the funeral?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Something along those lines.”

  “Well, I meant that he was more interested in Emma than me. That’s how it seemed.”

  Sierra scrutinised Jean. “Are Emma and your husband close?”

  Jean shook her head in denial, angry with herself for bringing it up. “No. Derek feels sorry for her.”

  Sierra sipped her water. “When he should have been feeling sorry for you?”

  “You make me sound immature.”

  “That’s not my intention.”

  “Sorry,” Jean apologised. “Derek and I have drifted apart. We don’t talk anymore—not about serious things. But he seems able to talk to Emma.”

  Sierra waited before she replied. “Maybe Derek finds it hard to open up to you. You’ve mentioned that the two of you are not a very loving couple.”

  “No. We aren’t,” Jean admitted. “But, I’ve always been a good wife to him.”

  “This is not about whether you’re a good wife. I’m sure you are. But, your husband could not share his feelings about his son’s death with you. Maybe he feels more able to talk to Emma.”

  “I know Derek needs his friends,” Jean conceded. “But, I need him, and he isn’t there for me.”

  “Maybe he needs someone too.”

  Jean closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I guess so.”

  Jean couldn’t deny Derek liked Emma. When Eddie brought her to meet them, Derek championed and praised his son’s choice. It didn’t matter that Eddie had buried his wife, Rebecca, only six months before. It didn’t alter Jean’s feelings about Emma. She didn’t trust her, and she never would.

  Something was strange when Jean arrived home. Alfie charged towards her wagging his tail, the way he always did whenever she and Derek came back. Jean had left Alfie his dog kennel in the garden while she went to her therapy session. So somebody had let him out. Derek was at work so who was in the house? Tilting her head and narrowing her eyes, Jean sneaked towards the kitchen where she found Emma pouring water into the kettle.

  “Oh, hello Jean. I’m just making some tea. Would you like a cup?”

  Jean’s lips pressed flat. “Emma, what are you doing here?”

  Emma put the kettle on the counter and flicked it on. “I told Derek I would pop round and see how you are. I haven’t really spoken to you since the funeral.”

  “How did you get in?”

  Emma picked up a set of keys off the kitchen table. “I used Eddie’s keys. I hope you don’t mind me letting myself in. How was the therapy session?”

  A creeping sensation itched its way across Jean’s arm. You’re the only who knows about my therapy, Jean thought
. And you’re enjoying sharing my secret with me.

  Jean put the suspicious thought to the back of her mind as she issued Emma with a forced, nervous smile. “It was fine, thank you,” Jean said.

  “Is Derek still in the dark?”

  A frown appeared between Jean’s eyebrows. “I’ll tell him in my own time.”

  “I suppose it’s none of my business. I never told Eddie everything about me either. Every couple has their secrets.”

  “Look, Emma—”

  “Why don’t you take the weight off your feet? I’ll make the tea. All that talking must have given you quite a thirst.”

  Emma added milk and sugar to two cups and waited for the kettle to boil. There was a smell of disinfectant and Fabric softener in the air. The pile of dirty dishes and washing that Jean had left that morning had disappeared.

  “I’m sure there were clothes in that basket this morning.”

  Emma glanced at the empty laundry basket in the kitchen’s corner. She then continued to make the tea. “Oh yeah. I did the laundry. I thought I’d help out.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “No problem.”

  “I mean, it’s fine. I don’t need the help.”

  Emma bowed her head. “I’m sorry you feel like that, Jean.”

  “This is my house.”

  “I know. Anyone would think I’d broken in and murdered your dog.” Emma pointed towards the table. “Drink your tea.”

  “I don’t want any tea.”

  “Come on, Jean.”

  “I said I don’t want any tea. Did Derek ask you to come round?”

  Emma put the cups on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry, Jean. I seemed to have offended you.”

  “Derek didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  Maybe Jean was overreacting. It was just having someone—another woman in her home, cleaning, changing things. Or perhaps it was because it was Emma.

  “I can leave if you like,” Emma said.

  Jean knew where this was going. As soon Emma left, she’d be on the phone to Derek accusing Jean of throwing her out. She’d do anything to make you look bad, Jean thought. Anything.