I stop reading at this point every time, wondering why she didn’t delete it. Thinking about it again, perhaps it makes sense. Toward the end, Nina became even more brutally honest. Our conversations didn’t dwell on trivialities. She got straight to the point, or so I thought.
I don’t need to read on—I know what it says—but I do anyway. Every time I hope that something new will leap out at me, and I’ll come up with a better interpretation.
There’s not much about you online, other than you still live and work in Canada. Long shot, but any chance you’ll be in the UK within the next few months? I’m not sure how long I have. I’m not up to traveling too far. All my time now will be spent with family. I know you’ll understand why I needed to get in touch. I need to tie up all the loose ends, make amends and ensure that my conscience is completely clear. We must speak.
Much love, Nina xx
Forty-eight hours later...
Hi Nina,
I do check this mail. I’ve been expecting to hear from you subconsciously, I think, and somehow, it almost wasn’t a surprise to see your name in my inbox. I’m so, so, sorry to hear your news. How utterly devastating! My daughter, Louise, is eleven. My partner and I are on the verge of splitting up. I’ve been thinking about moving back to the UK for a while, strangely enough, but obviously it’s a big decision to make. I’ll do what I can.
I’d love to see you again. It was all a bit rushed, way too sudden toward the end. Please send pictures of your children, a pigeon pair, how lovely! How is Marie? Still the same? :)
(The smiley face really bugs me. What does it mean?)
Much love, hugs, kisses and millions of good wishes, Camilla xoxo
There isn’t much I don’t know about pregnancy, babies and young children. Technically, according to my many hours spent online figuring out how the hell to get pregnant and reading endless random pieces of information, a proper pigeon pair refers to boy-and-girl twins. An old belief was that pigeons sat on two eggs at a time, resulting in a male and a female. I have a strong, almost irrepressible urge to message Camilla and tell her that she was wrong.
But I know what it’s really about because it’s something that I actually have managed to discuss in therapy. I was jealous that Nina had children with such ease when for me, it has been an ongoing struggle filled with disappointment. The fact that it clearly wasn’t hard for Camilla either reignites fresh feelings of being the odd one out.
I read on.
I cannot tell you the relief that you may be coming over!!! We so need to talk, to catch up before it’s too late. A great weight has been lifted. Marie is fine, she’s been a good support (of course).
I’ve got important decisions to make and share with you. It’s increasingly playing on my mind. Please try to get here asap. If my situation wasn’t so dire, it would be different, but I’m tired. Some days are worse than others, and sometimes I have nightmares that I run out of time with so much left to say to so many people. I hope this is isn’t oversharing, but then again, what the hell!! :)
Much love, Nina xx
P.S. I had a feeling you’d have a girl!
The next day:
Nina—hang in there. You’ve done the right thing reaching out to me personally. It’s entirely normal that you’re worried. Call me on the number below. Any time. Or give me your number. Let’s have a general chat.
Love and hugs, Camilla xoxoxo
Why would you specify a general chat with someone who was terminally ill? It doesn’t make sense.
After that, there was a six-week gap between emails. Which means they only spoke on the phone or in person, leaving me with no possible way of finding out what was said or shared.
I’m glad we got to speak. It’s not goodbye, it’s farewell!
Nina xx
Did Camilla definitely visit during that time? I check my own diary to see how often I visited Nina during that period earlier this year. I covered a wedding on Valentine’s Day and the two weekends on either side of it. Nina said that she and Stuart weren’t going to do anything particularly special for Valentine’s A) because Stuart doesn’t agree with “being forced to be romantic” by card companies and B) because they had their date night every Tuesday (the day they first met in Ibiza), which they’d stuck to religiously for as long as I can recall. Valentine’s Day this year was on a Wednesday. If Camilla visited during that time period, then it would make sense why she didn’t come to the funeral. Two long-haul trips in short succession would probably have been impractical and expensive.
What doesn’t make sense is that they met in secret, why Camilla kept her visit from the rest of us. Things I don’t like to think about resurface. Seeing the words going back and forth between Nina and Camilla still have an incredible amount of power to wound. Heat warms my face as one such unsettling example plays out in my mind.
Nina couldn’t sunbathe for a few days in Ibiza as she’d been badly burned the previous day. We hung around in the shade reading before setting off to have an early dinner at the bar where Camilla worked. As we arrived, Camilla stretched out her arms and enveloped Nina into a hug.
“Careful,” I said. “Nina’s in pain.”
Camilla muttered something to Nina that sounded like, “Is she playing Mum again?”
I acted like I didn’t hear, that I wasn’t crushed. I didn’t look at Nina to gauge her response. Maybe on a subconscious level, I was scared of what I’d see.
“I hate being the peacekeeper,” Nina had said to me more than a few times.
The way she said it, it was as though it was my doing, however much I tried to get her to understand that I just wanted us both to be happy.
Instead, I tried to act cool and not look disapproving. Camilla’s job involved writhing around in a barely there, see-through bikini in a giant champagne glass filled with water. After each twenty-minute stretch, the person taking over from her would climb up the adjacent makeshift, red-painted wooden steps and hand her a towel as they swapped places. In the chill-out zone on the terrace, masseurs offered head massages, and aromatherapists and fortune-tellers entertained in among the bar staff hard-selling two-for-one cocktails and shots.
It was me who initially spotted an impossible-to-miss Stuart—he was blatantly out of place with his sweater over his shoulders, the arms wrapped in a neat knot. His trainers were new; there was no attempt to scuff them up a bit and make them look a little worn. He was pristine and smiley with white teeth and clean trousers.
I was weaving my way back from the toilets and he stood there, looking so...taken aback (or was it disapproving?) that I took pity. We made eye contact. When I smiled, he smiled back. It transpired that he’d got the venue wrong; he was supposed to meet his friends at the place next door.
“The sunsets are better from here, anyway,” I said. “Come and join us for a drink on the terrace.”
I wasn’t being totally selfless. When Nina and I had booked the holiday, I hadn’t factored in my boyfriend, Charlie. He worked in a bar near our college. He’d been a bit distant lately and overly casual about his summer plans, but I nonetheless felt guilty when I realized that I couldn’t afford two holidays, so Charlie had joined us for our final week.
Except, it didn’t make things all right between me and Charlie again. The first few days were good, our brief time apart had helped, but by the third day, he was slipping away. I could sense it. He laughed more when Camilla was around, sat a little straighter, looked more...awake.
Words can be tailored to sound more palatable: actions are the biggest giveaways.
When Stuart sat down beside Nina, it was the most natural gesture. They hit it off from their first few sentences. Our holiday picked up after that. Stuart’s friend had a villa with a pool, a sea view and a small speedboat moored nearby, and he introduced us all to a different world. Stuart’s mate—Dan—was a jolly, sociable person who welcom
ed guests “as long as they restocked the bar and fridge.”
Camilla packed in her temporary job and hung out with us instead. It was impossible not to be intoxicated by the glamour of it all.
And now, here I am—alone—in an anonymous hotel room on Christmas Eve. How things change. This does not feel like the best progress. I shut the laptop, place it on the bedside table, lie back and close my eyes.
I sit up and open my journal. At the back I list all the things that Nina shared about her relationship with Stuart, everything from the Tuesday date nights (those two words make me cringe, I wish someone would come up with a better description) to her love of buying him ties. His and her dreams, their plans. Stuart’s love of sailing, jazz and decent red wine.
Camilla has no chance of wrecking our family situation, whatever her agenda is. She’ll be gone within a month; I’ll do whatever it takes to get rid of her, to win Deborah and everyone else round. Stuart and I need time alone without outside pressures so I can mold our fledgling relationship into what it needs to be.
I’m glad that the Christmas period will soon be over. The first of every significant date will be hard, and the festive season has been looming ominously since the first sign of tinsel and gifts in the shops. Clichéd as it may or may not be, a new year is a good time for change. I will tailor my interests and energy so it’s as if I was always there. I accepted second best when Nina was alive, but there’s no need to be sidelined anymore.
But still...why did Nina get back in contact with Camilla? What were they trying to hide from me? The answer, when it comes to me, is so bloody obvious, that rather than reveling in my cleverness, I’m annoyed at not having twigged immediately and heartsick at what it means.
Thirteen
My newfound knowledge is eating me up. I want to confront Camilla in person, hear the words from her directly, but I won’t be able to until she’s returned from Canada. Christmas is an effort as exhaustion hits. Feeling utterly disconnected from the rituals, I mentally tick off each one—presents, lunch (even though I have no appetite), crackers, paper hats, the Queen’s speech, drinks with the neighbors, Boxing Day—everything a painfully slow countdown until I can escape the constraints of tradition to give myself space to think clearly, to rewind my memories, to piece it all together with the benefit of fresh knowledge. If my suspicion proves right—which I’m convinced it will—the past takes on a completely different meaning.
I keep busy, distracting myself with to-do lists and outings with the children. I post photos of our woodland walks, museum visits and horse rides on social media under delicately worded captions so they don’t—hopefully—come across as too much.
Ben messages me not long after my latest post.
I know you don’t want to hear it again, especially not from me, but please believe that I did love and care deeply for you. Don’t let Stuart over-rely on you. Help out occasionally, but don’t let him suck you into Nina’s world again. I knew this would happen. You can be a support and a friend without sacrificing your dreams for a family of your own.
I hope you meet someone decent like you deserve. Please don’t think I’m trying to be patronizing, but I couldn’t not say anything.
Unexpected tears form as I unfriend him, but staying in touch—on social media—is clearly not healthy. Ben liked Stuart but felt that he was an opportunist.
“Aren’t we all to varying degrees?” I said at the time, keen to rush to his defense.
“There’s a difference between seizing opportunities and taking advantage,” he replied.
I delete Ben’s message. His supposed care and concern expired the moment he chose to be unfaithful. Quite why he thinks it’s fine to give me advice when he is one of the reasons I’m in this situation, I don’t know.
Yet I can’t deny, his words resonate on some level. I like being needed.
* * *
On Stuart’s birthday, the third of January, he is out for most of the afternoon visiting some important client. It’s perfect timing as it gives me and the children a valuable few hours. When he returns, looking tired but no doubt expecting a homemade cake and a few balloons, Goldie (as Felix and Em have renamed her) has taken up residence in her new home.
He is genuinely shocked and keeps asking if “the dog” is really staying?
“It’s a sweet gesture, Marie,” he says when the children are distracted, getting her to chase them around the house. “I know you mean well, but I’m barely managing as it is. I just can’t cope with any more responsibility right now. And you can’t do this, you can’t try to fix us with surprises as a fait accompli. Nina wouldn’t have done something as momentous as adopting a rescue dog without consulting me. I feel hugely manipulated seeing as the children obviously adore her already. It’s not as if you’re going to be around forever.”
That’s what he thinks.
Despite my inner indignation, I assure him that I’ve thought of everything: training school (if need be, but apparently Goldie—formerly Lady—is “a dream”), vet’s appointments, pet insurance and that I’m on hand to bear the bulk of the care. However, his harsh words sting, long after he’s apologized and admitted that maybe it’s a good thing after all. I try not to hold it against him; he is not yet in his right frame of mind. I am the one holding it all together. I am their rock.
Camilla is due home sometime today. I keep an eye out for a taxi. I intend to head over later and confront her with my discovery, hopefully while she’s still jet-lagged and feeling a little overwhelmed in her new surroundings.
However, Stuart throws me.
“A friend of mine is going to pop in later for a drink.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sounds fun.”
“I was wondering...” he says.
“Yes?”
“If you’d mind babysitting for a couple of hours so that we can nip to the pub?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m sure Goldie will keep me busy.”
But I’m miffed, of course I am.
I go through the motions of lighting and blowing out candles, singing “Happy Birthday.” Our hearts are not in it, but the children are putting their all into it, and that’s what counts.
They smile, taking genuine pleasure in having made and decorated the cake themselves. It gives me hope that I’m doing something right.
When Stuart’s friend arrives, I say hello and hang around for a while making polite chitchat. James makes a huge fuss of Goldie.
“I’d love a dog,” he says. “But my wife isn’t keen.”
I’m secretly thrilled because it shows me in a good, tolerant and generous light.
“Can I get you both something to drink?” I say. “We’re still trying to get through the Christmas champagne.”
“No, thanks,” says Stuart.
He doesn’t waste any further time grabbing their coats, as if he doesn’t get out immediately, the opportunity will be lost. However, he bends down to stroke Goldie before he leaves, and I am so relieved that I nearly cry. Honestly. I thought I’d made a huge error.
I hear the front door close.
Apart from Goldie, I am alone, which feels heightened by the party leftovers I’ve been left to clear up.
The house already feels colder, which I know can only be my imagination. Rising frustration that I can’t go over to Camilla’s, that I’m trapped because I’m responsible for the children and Goldie, increases my restlessness. I pour myself a glass of champagne—why not—and wander around, memories keeping me company.
I helped Nina write thank-you cards for her wedding gifts one evening.
“I’ll feel bad if I don’t do it soon. People chose specific gifts for a reason. They were kind enough to come to our wedding. The guilt will get to me.”
We’d both laughed.
The guilt will get to you, was something our religious studies teacher used to say to us.
We had a fun evening making up gratitude paragraphs about vases, kitchen utensils and suchlike. It had given me hope that nothing would change between us. I’d been happy.
However, now the guilt is getting to me, in giant waves.
These are the type of complex feelings I should bring up in therapy. Not sit there yacking away telling stories and divulging unrelated snippets of my life.
I pour the remainder of my champagne down the sink. The acid is burning the back of my throat. I hope I’m not coming down with a cold; I can’t afford to be ill. Maybe it’s the thwarted desire to speak to Camilla that’s causing the problem. I go upstairs and check on the children. I hesitate outside Stuart’s room. There’s no longer any point in searching for clues of potential fairy-tale, wicked stepmothers now that I’m here. I’m Nina’s stand-in, the best protector of Felix and Emily. Another woman on the scene could change my relationship with them or muddy the waters.
I go to my own room and shut the door firmly, as if the gesture itself will prevent me from any temptation to pry.
I sit on my bed and take out my journal. The words don’t come.
Instead, I take out Nina’s paperwork and rework through the figures, making careful notes. Nina was siphoning off and hiding money in dribs and drabs. A few hundred here and there, but all differing amounts. The main pattern is that she did it regularly, once a week usually, starting several years after she began earning money from her various small businesses.
Annoyance builds. I wish Nina had opened up to me. We had opportunities, not just toward the end, but before that. We went to church together once because she said she didn’t want to go alone. It wasn’t during a service—the place was empty. We sat in silence, near the front, for a good ten minutes in the cool darkness. Neither one of us had prayed since school, so we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it in front of one another. Silly, maybe, considering. Still, it was peaceful, until we were disturbed. The church door banged. Nina leaped up, as did I, but no one was there. It was odd, as we’d both heard footsteps.
The Last Wife Page 10
