“Do you know what, Tamsin, I’m sure the others will be happy enough. Perhaps you’re right. One thing, I’d like to continue to hold it at...” I hesitate. What sounds best? My place? Nina’s old house? I settle for “Stuart’s. It was Nina’s idea and it feels very important that I continue her traditions for the time being. I hope that makes sense?”
“Of course. Sorry, I should’ve checked. I get carried away sometimes.”
“No harm done. See you at the next meeting.”
* * *
I’m at work the following afternoon, figuring out the best angle to make the most of the fading daylight when loss, Ben and our nonexistent baby hits me. The bride’s stomach shows a barely perceptible yet unmistakable swell of early pregnancy. I direct her and the groom to stand to the side of a pillar and request that she holds her bouquet a little lower as I focus and click.
I want to get this over and done with, to go home, cry in the bath, curl up on the sofa and watch whatever Saturday night TV is on. But I can’t. If I go back before Felix and Em are in bed, I’ll have to pretend to be happy. I don’t want to lock myself in my room like a teenager.
Doubts at my impulsive decisions form. Perhaps I did swoop in to the rescue too soon? It was a fine line. Too long and it could’ve been too late. Even so, I could’ve held back, let Stuart feel his way in the dark for a while longer, make his own mistakes. I’m not a miracle-worker.
No, I decide, as reason takes hold. I had to let Ben go without a fight, there’s no way I could possibly have ignored a baby with another woman. Our relationship wouldn’t have stood a chance. He gave up on us, not vice versa. My conscience, on that front, is clear.
Back in my car I do something I’ve resisted until now: social media. I scroll through Ben’s friends and followers to figure out who she is. He hasn’t posted anything new since we split up and despite what he did, Ben isn’t a cruel person. He wouldn’t rub my face in it. There are two women who are the most likely candidates because they work for the fire service, but they don’t share much, so unless I put more effort into my online digging to give my wound a good poke, I haven’t learned anything useful.
I pull away from the five-star-hotel venue and turn right, opting for the long route. Without initially meaning to, I drive past my new therapist’s house. In this low moment, I hope that by being in close proximity to him, it will be enough to calm my mind. It doesn’t work. I consider people I could call to see if they fancy a drink and a chat, but most of my friends now were Nina’s, too. However much of a positive spin I can put on my current living conditions, I cannot face their unspoken judgment. Neither can I tell them the complete truth. A promise is a promise. Nina trusted that I’d be discreet.
As I slide my key into the lock and push open the front door of my new home, all appears quiet, yet the inviting smell of food draws me in.
“Hi,” says Stuart. “Have you eaten?”
“No,” I say.
“Good. I’ve made a vegetable curry.”
The fact that he’s bothered to cook something vegetarian, (something that always frustrated Ben about me because he’s such an avid meat-eater) makes me want to cry for a different reason. Pent-up pain dissolves as I sit opposite Stuart. Warm relaxation replaces stress. I have done the right thing, for both of us, for now. We can give each other what we crave: for me, it’s a distraction while I build the foundations for a new life. For him, it’s comfort.
It’s something I share with Christian in my next therapy session, that it feels good to trust my own judgment after so long second-guessing myself. I’m going to give the process a proper chance this time. Christian appears wise; he’s much older than Stuart with a long beard, kind eyes and lines that crisscross his forehead like he’s heard a tale or two and is unshockable. We’ll see.
Christian, however, has a different agenda.
“I’m interested in discussing some of the things you brought up in our introductory session.”
I mentally rewind. I’ve got a good memory. I discovered from a fairly young age that it’s best to remember what I’ve said and when. I’d been careful, kept the conversation bland. Perhaps that was the problem? I read online that people who insist they had happy childhoods—yet don’t appear to remember them in much detail—often didn’t. Denial isn’t the case with me because mine was secure enough. Nonetheless, some of my teenage mistakes gave me vital life lessons, although it didn’t feel like it at the time. Despite knowing this now, shame remains embedded in my psyche.
“Your friend Nina.” He looks up from his notes at me through his glasses. “You said that you feel an overwhelming responsibility toward her family.”
He places emphasis on the word overwhelming to guide my response.
“Wouldn’t anyone?”
Christian doesn’t reply.
“It’s hard to explain. However, obviously I’m here and she’s not. She trusted me to carry out her wishes.”
“Her wishes?”
I’m unwilling to share too much, too soon. How do I know if I can trust him? That is the flaw with this type of thing. There are no testimonials, other clients remain a secret, time slots carefully managed to ensure we never meet. All I can do is tread carefully, use my instinct. Or park on his street at random times to suss out what kind of people his other clients are. But what would it tell me, really? I’d love Nina’s opinion.
The now-familiar ache builds. I have no one to fill the gap.
“She trusted me to carry out her wishes. She was scared, she wanted to make sure that someone protected her family.”
“Scared?”
“Well, you would be, wouldn’t you?” I say.
“Different people react in different ways,” he says. “And not always how you’d expect.”
On his online bio it states that he spent many years volunteering at a hospice. It’s partly why I chose him. I never really believed that Nina would actually die. Yet she did, and she’s gone. Ben has left me and I don’t blame him. Some of the things he accused me of were true.
For the first time ever, I break down in front of a stranger.
It isn’t cathartic, and I’m really pissed off at my weakness. All week it niggles at me, yet I feel compelled to stick with him for now. He managed to puncture me in a way that no one else has, and I feel a grudging respect for him. Perhaps I am getting better at judging people and situations.
Life does not work that way, however. There is never a constant upward spiral because when I walk into Nina’s—no, my—living room to host the book group, full of burgeoning optimism that I’m on the right life track, sickening dread punches me in the gut. Because on the sofa—as if it’s perfectly acceptable—sits a person I assumed I’d never have to face ever again.
Seven
Somehow, I snap into hostess mode.
“Camilla! What are you doing here?”
“Hello, Marie.”
In the silent seconds that follow, I study her as if I’m about to take her photograph. She looks like she’s come straight from work dressed in a pale pink trouser suit with a cream floral blouse. Her fair hair is curly, I’ve only ever known it straight, and she’s wearing killer black heels. My hair is pulled back in a ponytail and I got splashed in the face when I bathed the children, so I wiped any remaining makeup off.
“You know each other?” Tamsin says. She almost sounds disappointed.
“We went to art college together before I moved to Toronto,” says Camilla.
“Small world,” says Tamsin.
“Not that small,” I say. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you get in touch beforehand?”
“I didn’t put two and two together.”
“But surely Tamsin told you that this was Nina’s book group?”
“Everything’s been a bit of a whirlwind,” she says.
“But you’ve had time to joi
n a book club?”
“Tamsin was kind enough to offer.”
“How long have you been back?” I ask.
I think she says “a few weeks,” but it’s hard to take in because my mind reels back to the last time I saw her and the relief I felt when she announced her move to Canada. I want to know why she’s here, why now and why she didn’t attend Nina’s funeral, but I don’t want to ask her outright. I’ll dig in my own way. For now, she is safe, surrounded by a cluster of people—my friends—as introductions are made. I listen to everything she says.
I offer drinks before I get everyone talking about the book, but it’s an act (a bloody good one, considering) because I can only think about Camilla. She has a daughter. She is a real mother. She really is back.
I feign tiredness to coax everyone to leave as early as possible. I need time alone to process what her return means to me and what impact it could have on my fresh start.
“Where’s Stuart?” Camilla asks as I tug her jacket from a coatrack by the front door which I left ajar after the previous person left. “I’d like to say hello.”
“Don’t you have a babysitter to get back for?”
“Lulu is with my grandparents.”
Camilla was practically brought up by them as both her parents worked away often. Behind us, Tamsin walks back and forth between the living area and the kitchen carrying glasses and bowls, even though I’ve said twice that there’s no need.
“Stuart’s exhausted, he’s probably gone to bed,” I lie—he’s a night owl. “Besides, we have things to catch up on, too.” I pull my phone out from my pocket and open our family calendar. “Let’s see...Stuart and I are free on Saturday at three. How about you come round here with Lulu, did you say your daughter’s name was? Felix and Emily would love to meet her.”
“Yes. It’s short for Louise. I’d rather—”
“Stuart and I would love to meet Louise, too.” I lower my voice. “It’s early days still, things can be overwhelming. Saturday will hopefully be a better day.”
“Sure. I understand.” What else can she say?
“What’s your number?” I ask, adding her to my contacts as she says it out loud.
It feels strange typing her name. It jolts me into remembering that she’s the type of person with whom it pays to be firm. I pull the door open wider and shudder. I should put my car in the garage; the windscreen will be covered in ice by morning.
“Tamsin?” I call out.
She appears.
“Thanks for all your help,” I say.
Despite the cold, I stand at the door watching as they head for their respective cars. I don’t want them to feel comfortable enough to hang about and bond further by discussing my haste to get them to leave or my obvious protectiveness of Stuart. I wave as they pull away. By the time their lights disappear and I close the door, I’m shivering. I email Christian requesting an extra appointment with him tomorrow. He responds within minutes.
As luck would have it, I’ve had a late cancellation...
Did he really? I’m naturally suspicious. Perhaps I judge people by my own standards. I wasn’t really expecting him to come to my aid, I just like the safety blanket of mentally having someone to fall back on. He has availability at eight thirty, which will be right in the middle of the get-them-to-school mayhem. Stuart will have to deal with it alone.
Despite a long bath and a chapter of a new novel (I always download the next book club choice immediately), I can’t settle. It’s not just Camilla I think about—who, annoyingly, I discovered, still isn’t much into social media—it’s Nina, Ben and even Stuart, who remains downstairs in the study. I didn’t say good night, I can’t face mentioning Camilla to him yet, so I left him a note on the kitchen table.
Didn’t want to disturb you. I’ll be out early in the morning so see you tomorrow night! Mx
* * *
“Have you ever tried journaling?” asks Christian.
I feel stupid for making an emergency appointment because clearly there’s nothing wrong with me now; I was just unsettled at having been caught off guard in my own environment.
“Not really.”
“Some find that it helps. Different things can help different people. Other clients have tried art therapy, meditation or they write down their dreams.”
It sounds wishy-washy to me, but I don’t wish to appear ungrateful, so I smile and nod as though I’m giving his ideas serious consideration. As a result, I feel compelled to talk about something to make this charade worthwhile for us both.
“I feel contaminated by Camilla’s return. I don’t like it. She’s someone from the past I don’t want around, especially not while I’m trying so hard to build a new life after Ben’s betrayal.”
“Contaminated?”
“It’s hard to explain without making it sound too possessive or trite, but Nina and I were a definite duo. Friends came and went, as, of course, they naturally tend to, but we were always there for each other. Camilla shoehorned her way in to the friendship. She’s a very forceful character. Nina, especially as we got older, liked to think of herself as a free spirit in a floaty, artistic, ‘aren’t I chill?’ kind of a way, so she wasn’t always great with boundaries. It was all ‘easy come, easy go, the more the merrier.’ Expect it wasn’t merrier for me.”
“In what way?”
“Nina and I went on holiday to Ibiza after we left college. Camilla was there, too, although she went out earlier because she got a summer job—a seedy one, in my personal opinion—and spent her time off with us. My boyfriend at the time, Charlie, flew out toward the end of our break.”
I stop.
Christian doesn’t respond or react.
Was that the holiday that did it? Melanoma. Nina was unlucky apparently. Her diagnosis was late; caught up in the demands of motherhood and real life, she’d neglected herself.
It is quiet. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, mute, reliving the past in my head, barely aware of Christian. I wonder how he does it, just sits there watching someone who isn’t speaking? It’s unnerving.
I lost a best friend once before, when I was young, Amelia. Her parents moved her to a new school because—apparently—I wouldn’t “allow” her to be friends with anyone other than me.
Thankfully, Nina was moved to my class not long afterward. I studied her from the seat behind. I watched what she liked to do at break time, learned what her favorite subjects were (art, PE and drama). She had a packed lunch every Monday, so I did, too, otherwise we had to sit at different tables. I invited Nina to tea one Friday and persuaded my mother to buy all her favorite foods. From then on, Nina and I were inseparable.
“It was me who suggested Ibiza,” I say out loud. “And me who insisted on staying on the beach all day. I tan easily. Nina never did.”
“You sound like you blame yourself for a lot.”
“Nina told me that the holiday ruined her life.” When I tried to remind her of all the good times and how she wouldn’t have met Stuart if we hadn’t chosen that particular trip, or the bar where we first met him (true serendipity), or as a result of their meeting have had her beautiful children, she was dismissive.
I falter. I don’t know why I’m talking about this, it’s so long ago. It’s Camilla, she’s riled me.
I glance at the clock. Thank God we’re nearly out of time because I know how it works. Christian will gently discourage me from getting into anything too upsetting at the eleventh hour. Because I know I won’t have the opportunity to dig too deep, or elaborate, I take a breath and get something off my chest.
“The end of the holiday was truly dreadful, though. Perhaps it was inevitable that it eventually soured everything, in one way or another.”
Delighted when the session is finally over, I leave the past behind with Christian, an exorcist with my ghosts.
The fu
ture—Felix and Emily—are what matters. I don’t want to dwell on loss anymore, I’ve been surrounded by too much one way or another. I’m going to be brave and start putting pictures of family life on social media. I thought that it would be insensitive and too soon, but why should I hide my pride and joy? If I fade into the background, it’s giving the impression that I have something to be ashamed of. Which I don’t. Nina didn’t hold back when it came to sharing things and she didn’t ask me not to. I should celebrate their lives and achievements.
I stop at a supermarket, a more expensive one than my usual. As I push my cart around the aisles, I feel absurdly content. I’m going to cook us all a special family meal tonight. As I consider all the products Nina would’ve bought—she was big into brands—a thought occurs.
I replace “her” choices back on the shelves and instead, select all the ingredients I need for cottage pie, substituting the mince with a vegetarian alternative. No one will notice because I’ll use one of Nina’s recipes. I made it often enough when I babysat. While Nina got ready (she was rarely on time for anything), I’d take over in the kitchen. Stuart would sometimes assist, one of us would stir, one would chop, and we’d have shared at least one glass of red by the time Nina appeared.
I pick up a behavior chart and pop it in among the groceries before I head for the checkout. Hopefully, it will encourage Emily to become a nicer child. I’ll continue to put these small, yet positive, changes in place. I love thinking like a mother: the children’s welfare always at the forefront of my mind. It’s no longer all about me, and that can only be a good thing.
My phone rings.
“Hi, Stuart.”
“Felix is ill, he’s got a temperature. I’ve picked him up from school, but he’s really not well. I’ve got an emergency appointment at the doctor’s. Are you okay to pick up Em?”
The Last Wife Page 5
