The Forgotten Wife

by Emma Robinson

  That’s why it was so difficult to tell Dee when she decided to drop out after the first term. And why that might well have been the beginning of their problems.

  8

  Lara

  The house was so tidy that Lara was nostalgic for the pre-Make Way for Joy days when there would always be a pile of papers, a cupboard or a drawer that needed a sort-out. Matt had worked like a Trojan to get everything in its place and now there was nothing for her to do.

  Nothing.

  She hadn’t even had to make breakfast. Matt had insisted she stay in bed and relax while he made her tea and toast before he went to work. ‘There’s no need for you to get up early. Make the most of it.’

  Lying there, she’d listened to him moving about downstairs: the clatter of crockery as he emptied the dishwasher, cupboard doors opening and closing as he put plates and cups away, the rumble of the kettle for her tea. Making up for working late tonight – and time away from home wining and dining with his boss tomorrow evening – by ensuring that she didn’t have to lift a finger around the house. It wasn’t worth even trying to tell him that he didn’t need to. ‘It’s not as if you’re out enjoying yourself. It’s your job, Matt. You don’t need to feel guilty.’ He wouldn’t listen. And she couldn’t seem to make him understand that leaving her with nothing to do at all was worse; boredom made her miserable.

  He nudged open the bedroom door with his knee, put the mug of tea on the bedside table and waited for her to shuffle up into a sitting position and take the plate of toast. ‘You shouldn’t be cleaning the house anyway. Why don’t you do something else? You could call Natalie and invite her over here. She’s still on maternity leave, isn’t she?’

  Inviting her old friend over was the last thing she wanted to do. Something else she had tried to explain to no avail. ‘She’s probably busy. A new baby and a toddler must be hard work.’ Her voice sounded bitter; she hadn’t meant it to.

  He watched her as she picked up a triangle of toast and nibbled at the crust. ‘Still, she’d love to see you. Actually, Chris texted me to check all was okay. It sounded like he’d been prompted by Natalie.’

  That was pretty certain. Chris and Matt weren’t particularly friends. Lara could imagine Natalie prodding her husband into asking Matt why Lara wasn’t returning her calls. ‘I’ll send her a message later.’

  He glanced at the display on the alarm clock. ‘What about your new friend next door, Shelley? What time does she get home from work?’

  Lara took a deep breath and held it. When was he going to stop with this? If she wanted to call or see people, she would. She wasn’t a child. ‘I’m not sure. And I don’t want to keep pushing myself on her.’ It had been okay sorting through the shoes but Shelley hadn’t been overly enthusiastic about getting together again. Maybe I should just let it go?

  Finally, he gave in and took a shower. Lara slid the half-eaten toast next to the mug of tea and wriggled onto her back, waiting for the reassuring tumble in her stomach. The baby always moved most in the mornings; even the slightest shift in her position could make the fluttering stop, so she would lay as still as possible, palms and fingertips splayed on her stomach. Which part of the baby was moving? Was that a hand or a foot? An elbow or a heel? Closing her eyes, trying to imagine an actual baby somersaulting around inside her; it was impossible. Even seeing the evidence on the sonographer’s screen didn’t make it any easier to comprehend. How was there an actual baby in there? Mind-blowing.

  When Matt reappeared from the shower, still towelling his hair dry, she beckoned him over with her fingertips, keeping her voice low. ‘He’s kicking around again. Come and put your hand here. I’m sure you’ll be able to feel him this time.’

  He dropped his towel on the end of the bed. ‘I’d love to, but I’ve just realised the time. I need to get a move on if I’m going to make it in for the Monday briefing meeting.’

  If he was in such a rush, why had he spent so long sorting out the kitchen? Or checking that she was eating her breakfast? ‘It will only take a minute. Just lean over. Put your hand here, where mine is.’

  He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, let her take his palm and place it on the side of her stomach. As usual, the baby stopped moving. He raised his eyebrows. ‘I can’t feel anything.’

  ‘You need to give it a bit longer.’ She was speaking to his back now as he dropped the towel from his waist and pulled on a pair of trunks. ‘Come back and try again. Just give it two minutes.’

  Matt slid the wardrobe door open and pulled out a pair of trousers. ‘You know I can never feel it anyway. You just enjoy it. I’ve really got to go.’

  She hoped the ‘it’ referred to the movement rather than the baby. They didn’t know the sex but she’d taken to referring to the baby as ‘he’ because ‘it’ felt so impersonal.

  ‘Matt, please.’ If he could just feel the baby move, she knew he’d feel better. More connected. But every time she asked him to try, the baby stopped moving, which made it worse.

  He sat down again. Tried the other side of her stomach. She could practically see him counting the seconds in his head. ‘Sorry, love. Still can’t feel anything. And I’ve got to go.’

  He left the room and she let her head fall back onto her pillows. She knew it was hard for him, but it wasn’t easy for her either and she needed him on board. How could he be so focused on her – was she eating, drinking, resting? – but barely want to talk about the baby?

  Twenty seconds later he reappeared. ‘Sorry, I forgot to do this.’ He came over and kissed her. ‘See you later tonight.’ She knew that he loved her and worried about her, but she wanted him to show that love to the baby too. Was she being unreasonable?

  The front door slammed and she pulled the duvet over her head. Now what was she going to do?

  * * *

  Even after a really long bath, painting her nails and straightening her hair, it was still only 10 a.m.. A walk would kill some more time but the sky was threatening rain so she’d be better off leaving that until later.

  It was impossible to shake off the feeling of disappointment from this morning. Feeling the baby kick was a highlight in her day, and she wanted to share it with Matt. If he felt the baby move, it would seem more real to him, she knew it would. He was such a great husband and he would make a wonderful dad. He would. She knew it.

  Downstairs, she picked up the Kindle that he’d bought her to replace the ousted paperbacks, but she couldn’t settle her mind to the thriller she’d been half-reading, always losing the thread of who was who and what was going on. She’d given Make Way for Joy to Shelley so she couldn’t even flick through that.

  It was a shame Shelley was at work, really. Despite not wanting to push herself onto Shelley if she wasn’t wanted, Lara had quite enjoyed starting to sort out that room: feeling useful and productive. And those shoes! It was such a waste keeping them in that box – shoes like that needed to be seen and admired. Although, Shelley obviously hadn’t felt like that.

  Her reaction to them had been very odd. Instruments of torture, she’d called them. But in the next breath she’d said that she’d worn them anyway. What was all that about? Wanting to please her husband?

  And what had he been like? In the wedding photograph which had hit Lara on the head that first day, he’d been handsome and happy, looking at Shelley as if he couldn’t believe his luck. How did you get from that to divorce? What were the steps that took you from ‘I do’ to ‘goodbye’?

  Judging by Shelley’s reaction every time his name was mentioned, Lara could only assume that Greg had hurt her pretty badly. Was it an affair? She thought again of the ‘torturous’ shoes. Could he have been abusive? Maybe it was the thriller she was halfway through sort of reading that was leading her mind to the worst conclusions, but there definitely seemed to be more to the story. Matt called her nosy, but she preferred to say she was interested in people. In her old law firm, she’d witnessed the aftermath of a full range of human behaviour: it would make
you a cynic if you let it. Damaged women weren’t likely to be effusive about making new friendships. Was she being unfair expecting Shelley to be enthusiastic about spending time together?

  Maybe she would risk going for a walk; a few spots of rain wouldn’t kill her. Staring around this bare lounge was making her maudlin. It had been the right thing to do to clear stuff out and ‘make way for joy’, but she’d been a little envious of Shelley’s front room with its coordinated cushions and artistic – if empty – vases. It was strange that someone so tidy wouldn’t have sorted out that box room before now. What had stopped her?

  She sat on the bottom step of the stairs to pull on her trainers. Thought again of those beautiful shoes. What other treasures did Shelley have stored up in that room? Lara was itching to see what else was hidden. If Shelley had been hurt, she might be afraid to reach out to someone she hardly knew. Lara would have to take the initiative. She tore a page from the notebook Matt had left on the table by the stairs for her to list any jobs she thought needed doing around the house. She would scribble her mobile number on it and post it through Shelley’s door on the way out. Maybe they could get together tomorrow night when Matt was out with his boss, and she could get to know Shelley – and her story – a little better.

  9

  Shelley

  Sometimes it was the smallest chance conversation that could send Shelley into the pit. Tuesday, it was a phone call from some utility company about her electricity supply.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Thomas. I’m Justin and I’m calling to see if you’re happy with your energy supplier.’

  The Mrs was the first problem. The Thomas was the second. Could she still call herself that? For how long? ‘Er, I guess so.’

  ‘Because we have some excellent new tariffs which might save you money. Can I tell you about them?’

  Shelley’s head had been thick all day from disturbed sleep the night before. Then her boss Steve had been on the phone to ask if she’d thought any more about applying for the management role in the new company. He’d only emailed it over yesterday and she’d barely had a chance to look at it. Why was he being so pushy about it?

  Steve had only been with the company for about eighteen months. Until relatively recently, she hadn’t seen that much of him around the office because, generally speaking, he was out and about drumming up new business. It must have been the imminent takeover that had seen him hanging around more often. When he first started appearing at her desk unannounced, it had been so out of the ordinary that she and Flora had wondered whether he was checking up on them. Then, with her usual fingernail grip on reality, Flora had teased that he might be plucking up the courage to ask Shelley out, which was clearly absurd. It had been a pleasure to tell Flora that she’d heard him talking to his girlfriend on the phone. Less so when Flora had arched an eyebrow and asked if she was disappointed. Was it any wonder she felt herself flush every time she spoke to him these days?

  Steve’s call about the management role wasn’t the only reason she’d had a stressful day. Most of her colleagues – Flora included – were starting to look around at other job opportunities, and it made for a very unsettled atmosphere. Trying to keep herself focused on the job at hand was exhausting when all around her people were talking about CVs and recruitment companies and what they’d heard on the grapevine about the jobs going at the new company.

  Now, on the phone to this sparky salesman, the little energy she had left seeped out of her and drained away. Gas and electric: that had been Greg’s domain. Paperwork tasks had always been split down the middle: Greg knew all the dates for the car tax, house insurance and utilities. She did all the social paperwork – birthday cards, family weddings, gifts, etc. Now she was doing all of it. And there always seemed to be more to do, more she had forgotten. It had taken four weeks for her to get in the habit of putting the bins out on the right day. And now this man wanted to talk to her about electricity prices.

  ‘I don’t think so. I’ve just got in from work and—’

  ‘It won’t take long. I can see from our records that your husband registered on our website last year to be kept up to date with the latest offers. According to our records, your current tariff expires in four weeks’ time. Is that right?’

  Greg had asked them to call? For a moment she was bewildered and then she realised what the man had said: a year ago. ‘I… I… don’t know. My husband dealt with all that and…’

  ‘Maybe it would be better if I spoke directly to your husband?’

  Shelley’s throat started to close up. When you share a home with someone, there are so many things you take for granted that the other person does. It’s not that you’re not capable of doing those jobs, just that you haven’t been the one to do them for a long time. Or ever. Somehow, over time, jobs become yours or his. You always change the bedding; he always puts the bins out.

  She held the phone in her left hand, her right hand clenched. ‘No, he’s not here.’

  Justin didn’t give up that easily. ‘That’s no problem. When’s a good time to call to catch him in?’

  Pushing, pushing. It was too much. Why wouldn’t he listen to her? Why could he not just stop talking at her? Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. ‘He’s not here. He’s not coming back. You can’t talk to him. Goodbye.’ She slammed the phone down. Hard. Then she picked up the receiver and slammed it down again.

  Being abandoned and having to deal with the rejection and disappointment and loneliness was bad enough. Managing life alone was just about achievable if she wasn’t expected to deal with job changes and room sort-outs and decisions about the bloody energy supplier. She opened a cupboard door then slammed it shut. Then did it again. And again. She roared. Loudly. Why the hell couldn’t people just leave her alone?

  As usual, the rage burned fierce for a few seconds and then died, throbbing pain left in its wake. Shelley slumped against the counter in the kitchen with her hands over her face. Her shoulders jumped as she coughed out tears. Gradually, her body calmed and the tears slowed. She pressed her fingertips into her eyes and squeezed the last of them away. Then she ran the cold tap and splashed water on her face, wiping it away with a square of kitchen roll. Deep breath and on we go.

  She’d stopped at the Tesco Metro on the way home from the office to pick up some salad, but there was no way she was ready to eat now: emotion and digestion didn’t mix well. She opened the fridge to throw the prepared salad inside. There was a bottle of wine there, looking at her. Had she put that in there last night? Maybe one glass wouldn’t hurt. She grabbed it from the fridge and had her hand on the screw top when there was a knock at the door. Who is that?

  ‘Hiya. I’m not too early, am I?’ Lara stood with an armful of packets that looked like olives and humus and pitta bread. ‘I brought supplies.’

  The brain fog, busy day and Justin from the electricity company had driven their arrangement from Shelley’s mind. Matt was out until late tonight at some work function and Lara had suggested she come over for the evening so they could carry on sorting out the box room. Why had she agreed? She was too tired for this tonight. ‘Of course not, come in. Tea?’

  Lara followed her back to the kitchen and dropped the contents of her arms onto the counter. If she’d noticed Shelley’s face was blotchy, she didn’t mention it. ‘Were you just about to have a glass of wine? Don’t stop on my account. You don’t have to be boring because I am.’

  ‘No.’ Shelley returned the wine to the fridge and pulled out the ready-made salad. She reached up into the top cupboard to get a salad bowl and some smaller bowls for Lara’s antipasti. ‘I bought it for the weekend.’

  That was a stupid thing to say. Now she was going to have to make up something she was doing at the weekend. Sure enough, Lara asked, ‘Are you doing anything nice?’

  Dammit. What could she say? Lying got complicated if you didn’t watch yourself. ‘Nothing much, just meeting up with some work colleagues.’

  Lara was transferring the contents of the
clear plastic containers into the small bowls. They barely knew each other, yet here she was making herself at home in Shelley’s kitchen. Why was she here anyway? Didn’t she have real friends to hang around with when her husband was away?

  Lara had clearly had the same thoughts about Shelley. ‘Must be nice to have colleagues you want to hang out with. Do they live around here?’

  Was this a tactful way of asking why Lara never saw anyone come or go from the house except Shelley, who was home alone most evenings and all weekend? ‘Not really. Since I’ve been on my own, I’ve been having some time to myself.’

  Lara nodded slowly as she tapped the bottom of a plastic pot to release a couple of reluctant olives. ‘It can be difficult when a marriage comes to an end, unfortunately. People seem to feel like they have to pick a side. Did you say that you and your ex-husband have a lot of friends in common?

  Until last year, Shelley hadn’t realised that all of their friends were mutual. If she was honest, they were all more Greg’s friends than hers, so it wasn’t surprising that they’d slipped away from her over the last few months. To them she was just Greg’s wife. And now she wasn’t anymore, they probably didn’t know what to do with her. She thought of Dee. Then pushed the image away. ‘Uh, yes, quite a few.’

  If Lara knew how uncomfortable her questions were making Shelley, she didn’t show it. ‘Did you read the foreword to Make Way for Joy? She went through a really rough marriage break-up and the ideas for the book came from that.’

  Shelley opened a cupboard so that the door would hide her face. She didn’t want to admit that she had only dipped in and out of the book. She also didn’t want her face to tell the truth that her lips weren’t ready to. ‘Did she? I skipped that part.’