The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

  There’s something heart-wrenching about the way he’s spread his belongings out, as if by doing so he’ll disguise Nina’s absence. The last time I was in here, Nina made me make promises. It gave me goose bumps: the intensity in her expression as she refused to break eye contact, the urgency of the way she grabbed my wrist as I stood up to leave.

  “Please, Marie. No matter what, make sure everyone remembers the kind of person I truly was.”

  It was the first time she’d used the past tense. I think that’s when it actually hit me, that’s when I knew she was going to die, because if she believed it, then I must, too. There was no one else she could turn to, not really, because I was the only person who understood the intricacies of her life. Our friendship was forged when we were at primary school. Still, I wish I’d listened better even though it took all of my self-control to remain strong while I agreed to all she asked without pushing for a proper explanation.

  I sit down on a white wicker chair in the corner, folding one of Stuart’s ties over the armrest. It slithers to the floor. I used to pull this seat up, close to Nina’s side of the bed. I read to her on the days she was too tired to talk properly. I thought Nina would prefer uplifting stories; however, she said it gave her strange comfort to experience fear in an alternative way to her reality, so we stuck to crime and horror.

  I’m grateful for those peaceful memories. I tried not to overwhelm her because there were so many genuine offers of help, despite the feeling of shared helplessness. Nina absorbed all the love and care, meanwhile I tried not to betray my utter devastation and frustration at the unfairness of the situation.

  “I think this time I’m pregnant,” I say out loud. “It just feels...right.”

  If Nina really were here, I’d say more. Obviously. She was pleased when I met Ben, she’d offer good advice when it came to dealing with his aloofness. Her absence is stark. I lean down and pick up Stuart’s tie from the floor. It’s too...red. He has loads. Nina and Stuart had this thing where she’d buy him one every anniversary because she thought he looked handsome in a suit. I roll it up and push it into my jacket pocket. The past can hold people back; I’m here to help him heal. Christmas isn’t far off and I feel a twinge of pleasure at now having a decent gift idea for Stuart.

  Yet, all this is a delaying tactic because I’m not being decisive enough to do what I really came up here for, and I’ll be frustrated if I don’t. I can’t waste any opportunity. I slide open Stuart’s bedside drawers, check beneath the bed and open the wardrobe. After a quick scan of the bathroom, my heart rate slows. There’s nothing incriminating. Which is good, because I feel slightly grubby at having poked around. But it’s not as if I can ask him what I need to know outright, so for now, stealth is necessary.

  As I walk down the stairs, my footsteps are muffled by thick carpet. Nina hated her feet getting cold. A large print, one of the first she completed at our art college, is framed in the middle of the wall, exactly halfway down. I briefly stop and study it, even though I could paint it myself from memory. It’s alive, rich in primary colors.

  Downstairs is child-friendly, no glass tables or sharp corners. Two giant bean bags, one green, one blue, take up space in the living room between the oval wooden coffee table and the TV. It’s not quite to my taste, yet I’ve spent many happy evenings here watching movies with the kids (Paddington being the most popular choice lately) or discussing books with Nina’s book group friends.

  My favorite place, however, is the kitchen, with its black marble island, underfloor heating and built-in wine racks. Nina was a gadget person (I’m not sure what the purpose of some of them even are) but they look interior design–magazine chic.

  The guest cottage to the rear of the back courtyard is designed to be a true haven. Nina came up with the idea to rent it out as a vacation rental when we first viewed this house. It’s hard to think that was less than two years ago. Before...we all knew. There were no obvious signs; innocent times.

  Stuart was doing well, there was no reason for them not to put in an offer for the spacious five-bedroom family home, complete with an acre of childhood-heaven-like grounds. It was very late in proceedings to put a halt to the buying and selling of their old and new homes—Nina didn’t want to rent—so they went ahead. Denial? Maybe. Or perhaps it was a desire to inhabit the future family home, however briefly.

  Nina had further plans: help organize family holidays, team up with a local horse-riding business and a nearby canoeing club, sell artwork (prints and pottery) at local markets. She was so utterly determined to be there for her children. Ever since Felix, her eldest—my godson—started primary school, she worked hard to ensure she could control her own working hours. Life is cruel.

  However, my dreams aren’t totally dissimilar to hers: I’d like to sell more prints. I could learn to enjoy horse riding, for the children’s sake. There’s no harm in being flexible, I will alter my future plans so they’re more in tune with Nina’s.

  “Hello?”

  I stop. Nina’s mother is at the bottom of the stairs looking up.

  My brain kicks in. “Hi, Deborah. Stuart asked me to take the children to school. Felix mentioned a cuddly toy he’d lost, I thought I’d search his room and leave it on his bed for when they get home.”

  “I got such a fright. Seeing you, walking down...”

  Surely she must’ve seen my car? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a shock.” Still, she stares. It gives me the creeps. “Shall I make you some tea?”

  “What, here?” she says.

  I push my hands into my pocket and grip the smoothness of Stuart’s tie. “Um...”

  “Which toy?” she says.

  My mind races. “His lion,” I say softly. Nina bought it for him on one of their last ever days out at a zoo. “Stuart also asked me to help out because they had an attempted break-in last night.”

  “Oh, my! Not again! Are the children all right?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine. I waited for the locksmith. All sorted. What do you mean, again?”

  “Someone tried to break in eight or nine months ago.”

  “Stuart didn’t mention it.”

  “Well, anyway, it was nice of you to help out. I’m going to check on the guest cottage, there are people arriving tomorrow for a long weekend.”

  “I can help,” I say.

  “You do enough.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  She looks past me as though she expects Nina to follow me down. I take my hand out of my pocket and gently walk past her. She turns to follow me, and as she does so, I see her place her hand in the small of her back and wince slightly.

  I stop.

  “I promised Nina I wouldn’t let you do too much,” I say, truthfully. “Please let me help.”

  She nods her acquiescence.

  I unlock the back door. We walk down the steps and cross the courtyard. To the right are empty stables. Two metal pails, left by the previous owners, hang off a white-painted side wall. Déjà vu hits.

  Nina and I looked around here together when it first came on the market. Stuart was away somewhere—Glasgow, I think—at the time, and Nina had such a strong feeling that this would be The Place that she hadn’t wanted to postpone a viewing. Nina asked me to keep it to ourselves though; she knew I wouldn’t mind lying by omission. This meant that after they’d moved in, I had to ensure my surprise and awe appeared genuine. It wasn’t hard; it is impressive.

  Deborah and I walk side by side along the paved path edged with rose bushes that leads to the guest property. There’s always a disconcerting moment as I push open the cottage door. Are the previous guests still here? What odd items will we discover they’ve left behind?

  “Hello?” I call out as we open the front door.

  The sound of the back door slamming shut makes us both jump.

  Silence.

  There i
s no sign of anyone as I check the back door. It’s unlocked. I relax as I glance around because the cleaning company have definitely been and gone, I can tell by residual smell of furniture polish and bleach. The door must’ve been left open by the cleaners. In fairness, a rare oversight.

  While Deborah fills a vase with carnations, which she takes out of a basket I hadn’t noticed she was carrying, I flick through the guest book, skim-reading multiple paragraphs of compliments. Clean, stunning location, wonderful attention to detail, comfortable. I make a note to add the latest testimonial to the website.

  “I’ll make us some tea,” I say. “I’ll clean up afterward,” I add before she can object.

  I drop Stuart’s tie into the bin, along with the tea bags and mini-cartons of long-life milk. Although it’s only little by little, I’ve removed yet another unnecessary reminder for Stuart. It’s rewarding. This is just one example of the many small but effective ways I can help.

  I make Deborah’s tea extra milky, exactly how she likes it.

  “Thanks,” she says as I hand her a mug decorated with poppies.

  “Shall we sit down?” I say, pointing to the sofa.

  “No, we shouldn’t. We’ll leave creases. I’d rather stand to be honest.”

  Grief makes me want to control things, makes me furious, makes me want to live. I mute my irritation; standing it is then. She sips her tea with obvious non-enjoyment.

  As I struggle to think of something neutral to say (a contrast to our relationship pre–Nina’s diagnosis), I compare my own surroundings with these luxurious ones. Our semi is nice enough, there’s nothing wrong with it, but it’s new and the walls are thin. It has a temporary feel to it as if the big bad wolf could blow the house down with one breath. Here, the old stone walls give off an air of permanence and security. I would feel happy and safe if I lived in a place with history. I’ve suggested to Ben a few times that we move; it’s time to bring the subject up again.

  It’s the word Stuart that jolts me back into the moment.

  “Pardon?”

  “His parents have offered to come and stay,” Deborah says. “I think it would be a good idea, it would give him the support he needs from the people best able to provide it.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  He hasn’t mentioned this to me.

  “People mean well, I’ve seen the steady stream of...” she pauses “...women—mostly—knocking at the door with a shepherd’s pie, a casserole, a lasagna, books or an offer of this, that and the other, but that’s not what he needs. He’s a grown man, and it’s best if he concentrates on the children for now, without distractions.”

  “People want to be kind and help. As you say, Deborah, he’s a grown man.”

  However, she’s not wrong. Still, I have the situation in hand. I wish I could tell her that. It’s not something she needs to worry herself with.

  “Stuart loved Nina, no, he adored her,” I continue. “He isn’t going to lightly replace her with some random woman in the near future just because she can cook,” I say with what I hope is a reassuring smile.

  It doesn’t work. She washes up the mugs, wiping them dry with kitchen paper so as not to dirty a tea towel, while I remove the bag from the trash, tie a knot at the top and replace it with a new one.

  “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

  I want to give her something else to focus on, I want to draw her back into my confidence, to trust me again. It’s not a complete lie because you can do tests so early nowadays, my news is only a week or so premature.

  It works. I can physically sense her warming toward me again now that she’s got proof that I don’t have designs on her son-in-law (technically, is he still)? She smiles and comes over to give me a hug.

  “That’s wonderful news!”

  “It’s very early days,” I say. “So it’s vital to keep it to yourself.”

  Deborah locks up while I dump the trash bag in the outside bin.

  She asks all the questions I’ve been dying for people to ask me as we amble back to the house: due dates, scans, boy or girl preference, plans for work afterward. It feels good until she changes the subject to her disappointment in the latest gardeners Stuart has employed. Time to say goodbye.

  * * *

  I reverse. Bumping over the cattle grid, I exit the village as I head back to my own responsibilities and worries. Red, yellow, orange and brown leaves scatter the lane. I love the colors at this time of year. Smoke wafts from a cottage chimney, reminding me of my childhood home because Mum lit fires early on in the season. I loved going stick-gathering with her in the woods. A yearning to visit her as soon as possible forms; it’s been too long.

  As I slow down to avoid a trio of ponies huddled together, a horrible thought forms: Deborah will go upstairs and spend time in the children’s room. I know she will, she always does. Felix’s lion isn’t on his bed. Lies work better when I go easy on the details, stick to my own tried and tested rules. It would be careless not to keep her on my side if I’m to figure things out in a way that works best for me.

  I’ll bake a Victoria sponge with the children on Sunday and use some of her homemade raspberry jam. Ben will be at work, and Stuart has never turned down an offer of child-entertainment assistance. We’ll drop it round to Deborah’s afterward as a surprise. She can’t fail to be softened by the gesture.

  And, thinking about it, how can Deborah realistically react if I say that I (or she) was mistaken about a mere toy lion? There’s not much she can do or say. It’s not as if she can accuse me outright of being a liar, not without proper proof. Anyway, it’s because of Nina—her daughter—that I was forced to make something up.

  I must relax and quit the overthinking. Stress isn’t good for a baby.

  Three

  Parts of Nina’s life became off-limits after Felix was born. She hung out with people from baby groups (as I referred to them), and these strangers offered her something I couldn’t. I understood that, yet I envied her reaching a life-altering milestone, having her focus shifted away. I despised my petty reactions—why couldn’t I be genuinely happy for her like a normal friend—still, I responded by going out, making new friends, posting my happy, child-free life on social media. Nina was too busy, too distracted, too in love with her baby to care.

  It was then that I contacted a therapist because I wanted to hand over all the negative emotions to someone else to take care of. It didn’t work like that. I wasn’t brave enough to reveal the real, messy stuff, and when my counselor pushed, I moved on to a new one. Judy is my third. (I’ve never told her that). She lets me meander, set my own pace, and sometimes I dislike her because she lets me get away with it.

  I did admit to something once: when Nina’s tiredness truly kicked in after Emily’s birth, as she naturally relied on me more by accepting my offers of help, our friendship equilibrium was restored. Because Nina’s plight made me feel better about myself, I was frightened about what kind of a person that made me. My then-therapist helped me to accept that I wasn’t a monster.

  However, something I’ve come to learn about therapy is that therapists can only work with what their clients reveal. I framed it so it sounded as if Nina had asked me for help even though I’d been waiting a while for the right moment to step in. I knew from books and online forums that she’d find it tough at times.

  I was happy to babysit, to give her and Stuart time to go out alone. I felt at home in their place, with the children snuggled on either side of me on the sofa, cocooned and safe. Some weekends, they’d go to an art exhibition or horse riding. Stuart loved taking her to his yacht club, even though Nina hated sailing, so they’d eat seafood and socialize on the terrace instead. While they were out, it gave me time to bond—properly—with Felix, despite not having been around as much as I’d have liked to have been during his formative years. It’s regrettable (for all our sakes) that Nina was too overcauti
ous when he was little. She’d hover around when I picked him up, roll her eyes if I dared to offer gentle suggestions to help them both get some more sleep.

  Several months into her illness, when Nina asked me to host her popular village book group (of which she was the founding member), was a pivotal moment: I’d been fully let back in. I was good enough. Nina’s other life automatically demystified as her friends became mine, too. I loved being included in the organizing of school events, fund-raising, barbecues, picnics, parties. I had different spreadsheets, more messages and emails than I could sometimes keep track of. Even my phone rang more; it was no longer used primarily for work. I was there for my oldest friend. When Stuart confessed how grateful they both were, dramatic as it may sound, I felt like my true purpose had been restored.

  Tonight is important: it’s the first meeting of Nina’s book club since she’s been gone. We agreed to take a six-month break, to mourn privately. She did make us all promise to keep it going. “I want things to carry on, otherwise what was the point in anything?” I wasn’t sure what Stuart’s reaction was going to be when I asked if we could host it at his, but he was up for it.

  “It’s the evenings when I’m never quite sure what to do with myself,” he’d said. “It will be a welcome distraction.”

  I hope he didn’t think that I meant him to join in? We’re a tight-knit bunch, his presence might upset the balance, despite his link to the group. As I rehearse a tactful letdown should the need arise, Stuart emerges downstairs. He surveys my careful preparations: black-and-white skeleton cakes, ghoul-shaped crisps to go with the dips and orange napkins. He helps himself to a carrot stick. The crunching grates; I hate the sound of people eating.

  “Wine?” I say.

  “God, yes,” he says. “Emily just asked about Nina. It stabs every single bloody time. I know it’s good that she feels able to ask questions, but it’s so utterly heartbreaking, and there’s nothing I can do. Nothing! I’m her father, I’m supposed to be able to make anything and everything better.”