The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

  “Just one small glass?” he says to me.

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to take even the slightest risk. I had a sip of champagne earlier.”

  “Nina had the odd few sips here and there. Felix and Emily are fine.”

  “I’m not Nina.”

  “True, I’m sorry. You’re right.”

  He puts the bottle down, unopened, and pulls me in for a hug.

  I feel like I should say “I love you,” or he to me.

  “Thank you,” I whisper instead, into his chest.

  Weird as it is, I don’t know what else to say. And I genuinely feel like I should thank him because his characteristic compliancy has given me a baby, the thing I want the most.

  Stuart pulls away first. Behind him, two bouquets of guilt flowers (presumably from people who made up flimsy excuses as to why they couldn’t join us, but still wish us well) lie on the side. Several wrapped gifts rest beside them. Some were handed to us today, others have been sent from Stuart’s family in Australia. For something to do, I grab a pair of scissors and snip away at the cellophane covering the flowers. I stop. Their smell is cloying. I put them to one side.

  “Shall we unwrap these?” I say, pointing to the presents.

  “Why not?”

  There are no kitchen utensils, nothing that assumes we are setting up home together. Everything about the gifts screams (to me) second marriage. There is a set of his-and-hers dressing gowns and slippers, a Cooking for Your Family–type recipe book, and the strangest one is an unlabeled, homemade gift: a badly engraved plaque-type thing. I’m not sure if it’s an ornament or something to hang on the wall, with words declaring that love is wonderful but difficult.

  “What shall we do with this?” I say to Stuart.

  “Up to you,” he says. “I really need that glass of wine now.”

  I don’t blame him.

  As he uncorks the bottle, I fill up some vases with water. I lift up the flowers from the kitchen counter and shove them in, not bothering to neaten or straighten the arrangements. I open the first small card attached to the cellophane and read the congratulations and good wishes out loud to Stuart. I don’t recognize the names of the couple who sent them, but Stuart assures me that they’re old friends of his.

  As I open the second envelope, I notice that the white carnations in the second vase are already wilting and browning around the edges. That should have been enough of a clue for me, I realize, annoyed at my lack of awareness as I read out loud yet another spite-filled message, which ends with the line:

  “Hope your marriage lasts as long as these flowers.”

  As Stuart dumps them in the bin, I pour him another large glass of red and take a sip myself.

  “Just put it out of your mind,” he says, taking a gulp. “No amount of misplaced, anonymous disapproval can alter that we’re husband and wife now.”

  True. However much it secretly offends someone, nothing can change the fact that everything that was Nina’s is now mine.

  * * *

  Stuart has left a lot of decisions up to me. He’s “easy.”

  The first decision is my surname. I’ve decided to take his purely because of the children. I don’t want my name to make me stand out as not being their real mother.

  Another elephant in the room decision which has been left to me is Where We Sleep.

  I thought about it long and hard and came to the only decision I could. I decided to move into his. It is the master bedroom, after all. It makes the most sense. I ordered new bedroom furniture, paid for express delivery and to have the old bed, chairs and drawers removed. I will no longer refer to it as Nina’s old room. It is not. It is mine and Stuart’s.

  Yet, something I never considered (or fully appreciated) is that despite my familiarity with the house, I had never used Nina’s shower, never hung a towel on the heated rail, never negotiated my way around her bathroom or sat in front of the dressing table as I dry my hair, put on my makeup or whatever. Even though the furniture is new, it’s mostly arranged in the same positions because of the location of the fitted wardrobes, doors and windows.

  And despite the overriding smell of newness (even the bed linen is new, the colors opposite to the ones Nina chose), I cannot shake the feeling that she is watching. I imagine Stuart feels the same as we both change in the bathroom and slip under the covers. We switch off the light, lie in each other’s arms and talk. We grab at neutral, pleasant, nonthreatening subjects until I feel myself drifting off to sleep, almost too scared to move. I must get over it. I can make more physical changes, yet perhaps—like lots of things in life—it’s only time that will truly make a real difference.

  When I wake up, it is quiet and late.

  There is a note.

  Morning, Mrs. Thompson...

  I cringe at his cloying attempt at jollity.

  I do not feel like a Mrs. Thompson. I feel weird. It’s almost like homesickness, a strange combination of feeling crushed, suffocated or trapped. I don’t understand this feeling.

  Nina didn’t change her name, she remained Nina Beaufort, although she agreed that the children could have Stuart’s name. I had long conversations with her about the decision. She felt it was important that she didn’t lose any sense of herself or her identity.

  I’m glad that I have chosen something she didn’t.

  I am not the second Mrs. Thompson. I am the first.

  My optimism is short-lived as I read on.

  Thought I’d let you get a well-deserved rest. F and E at school. Got something to sort out work-wise so head for the hospital and I’ll meet you there.

  Love, Stuart x

  Today is such an incredible milestone: my twenty-week scan. I’ve dreamed of this day and every step we make along the way to meeting my child. We’ve decided not to find out the sex. Nina found out during both her pregnancies, and Stuart has confessed that he felt robbed of the surprise.

  “Surely it doesn’t matter as long as they’re healthy, clichéd as it sounds?” he’d said when I raised the topic for discussion. “I was so grateful that Felix and Emily were born without any complications.”

  “As I will be,” I say, although I really want a boy, if I’m honest.

  Of course, I can’t ever tell anyone this, but I still find Felix so much more amenable than Em. It’s like she goes out of her way to remind me that I’m not her mother. She has a lot of Nina in her.

  * * *

  Despite leaving plenty of time for the appointment, parking is even more of a nightmare than usual. By the time I obtain a space at the Park & Ride, wait for and catch the bus, I feel weak and a bit tearful. I munch on a fruit bar as I call Stuart several times, but he doesn’t answer.

  In the waiting room, I read the latest book club selection. It’s dreadful, I knew it would be. I tried to steer Greg away from his choice but he insisted that this was an important book to read. It’s not. It’s trying to ram a controversial point home and it makes me uncomfortable.

  There’s no phone signal, so I go outside, half expecting to bump into Stuart, to see him running in, bursting with apologies. He won’t have trouble getting a parking spot; he’s one of the luckiest people I know.

  He’s not. Instead a voice mail, the gist of which is, he’s “so sorry. Held up. Can they reschedule for later?”

  Anger flares. As if they will be able to reschedule for later. Appointments are like gold dust. Plus, I don’t want to. I’ve been waiting a very long time for this.

  Stuart has been through this twice before, it simply doesn’t mean as much to him. I try to recall if he made all Nina’s scans. I can’t. But it’s not something I would’ve thought to ask her or something she would’ve told me. My lack of a much-wanted baby created an unacknowledged gulf between us. Guilt hits. I should’ve risen above my own pain and jealousy.

  Back in the waiting room, eve
ryone is in pairs except me. Mothers, partners, friends. Everyone has someone. I sit up straight in my plastic seat and pretend that I’m fine with my situation.

  “Ms. Langham?” A nurse or midwife stands at the entrance to the room.

  I smile, stand up and follow him along the corridor.

  I lie down. I keep my eye on the screen as gel is smeared across my ever-bulging stomach. The sonographer runs a probe (looks like a wand in my opinion) over my skin, applying pressure, which doesn’t hurt. She points out parts to me. I listen, in awe, to her running commentary. My baby—a real baby—is in front of me with fingers, toes, arms, legs and a head.

  “Would you like to know the sex?” she says.

  I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  It will teach Stuart never to let me down again.

  “It’s a boy,” she says.

  Relief. Until her next sentence.

  “He’s slightly sleepy, though, so I can’t complete all my checks. It’s nothing to worry about, but I’m going to suggest that you nip to the canteen and have a Coke or a coffee, then I’ll arrange for you to pop back in an hour or so.”

  I am worried.

  I want to call Stuart and beg him to come over—what if something is wrong? But then, he’ll in all likelihood discover that I’ve found out he’s a boy. As I sip a cappuccino, I silently pray that he’s all right.

  Stuart’s right. All that does matter is that our baby’s healthy. I focus on my breathing. Outwardly earth-motherly calm, inside riddled with buried guilt.

  Thankfully, caffeine does the trick.

  The technician is able to complete all her checks, and I’m told that the baby is perfectly healthy. (I must stop thinking of him as a “he” or I’ll give myself away.) I can’t stop looking at the black-and-white scan pictures of my baby as I catch the return bus to the parking lot. He’s perfect. He’s real.

  There are several messages from Stuart. I ignore them all.

  * * *

  Emboldened in my new role, I set about making bigger changes. I replace two of Nina’s smaller paintings with ones painted by local artists. I don’t change the largest one in the main hall; I don’t mind keeping that particular one as a reminder of Nina. To remind me of what was. In truth, it’s not the only reason. Due to its size, it would be blatantly noticeable to remove it.

  I swap several photos so that the bulk of the children’s are ones I took of them when they were small. I indulge in a bit of creative editing, as I like to think of it, so it appears as though I’ve been more involved in their early lives than I was. In them, they are having lots of fun with me, walking, dancing, cycling, creating, baking. I’m a true earth mother. I seem to have more of Felix than Emily, but she’s the only one who notices. I tell her that she’s mistaken.

  “You have to remember, sweetie, that Felix is a few years older than you. This means that he will naturally always have more. It’s normal, it can’t be helped.”

  She still sulked.

  Now that the house is mine, I’m not sure I’m that keen on it anymore. The main living areas are actually quite small; there’s little natural light. Even when the kids play hide-and-seek, it’s not exactly hard to find them. It’s claustrophobic. The house, I realize, is all about the grounds: the fantasy, the illusion of an idyllic childhood haven. The reality, like so many things in life, is completely different. Living within it naturally exposes its flaws. The things I used to find romantic about the property are not.

  It dawns on me that perhaps Nina was unhappy, that somehow the house absorbed some of the misery and that Stuart knew but chose to ride it out. I’ve suspected all sorts—an affair, marriage too young, disillusionment—but there’s nothing. If Stuart knows (which I don’t think he does), if Tamsin knows, if Camilla knows, in fact, if anyone knows, they’re not telling me. I’ve lost track of what’s real and what isn’t anymore; what matters and what doesn’t.

  Now that I feel so much better and most of the sickness has dissipated—I’m so grateful, I’m one of the lucky ones apparently—I continue to dig. I accept work for a few hours here and there, mainly on family portraits. It’s tricky to get someone to look after Goldie during the day and a spate of negative reviews have appeared on my website. I leave a notice to say that I’m on maternity leave and try to remain confident that by the time I return, everything will have blown over. Photography, after all, is what I do, one of the few things I’m naturally good at.

  I decorate the nursery, turning my old room into a magical space. It is bigger than Felix and Emily’s, a fact that doesn’t go unnoticed by Emily, despite their apparent nonchalance at the news that they are getting a little brother or sister when Stuart finally agreed that they needed to be told.

  “Why does a baby need a room that’s bigger than mine?” says Em.

  “Because it’s a very special baby,” I say. “It’s not about room size, it’s about making your new brother or sister welcome.”

  “Mum said we weren’t going to have any more brothers or sisters.”

  “This one will be a half one,” says Felix.

  He’s such an adorable peacemaker.

  “But just as loved as you two are,” I say.

  “Does my dad love you?” asks Emily.

  I decide to tell the truth.

  “Not as much as he loved your mum,” I say. “But we both love you very much and we want us to be one big, happy family.”

  “I wish she was still here,” says Felix.

  “So do I,” I assure him.

  It’s only half a lie; the truth is too complex and cruel.

  I take a deep breath.

  “Your mum made me promise to look after you. She loved you very much, as do I. So, that’s why I’m here. It’s for you two, so that you have someone else—as well as your dad—to look out for you.” I take another deep breath; it’s a gamble, Stuart may not like me mentioning it to them first, but I’ll make up a feasible reason why it felt natural to do so.

  “I’m thinking that maybe, to help me keep my promise to your mummy in the best way possible, that I should adopt you.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Felix.

  “It means that I will be your new mummy.”

  “Maybe Mummy wrote about the word adopt in her notebooks,” says Emily. “I can check.”

  “What notebooks?”

  “The ones in the secret place where she kept things for me for when I’m older.”

  “Have you got them?”

  “Yes,” says Emily. “I took one because I am older now.”

  “May I see it, please?”

  Em hesitates before she pulls a beautifully decorated notebook from beneath her bed and hands it to me.

  I sit down next to her on the floor and gently go through the pages, my jaw aching. I stop reading—these are private messages from Nina to her daughter. Emily is advanced for her age when it comes to reading, but these are precious words that need to be kept safe for when she’s much older.

  “I’ll look after it very carefully for you,” I say. “Where did Mummy hide this, Em?”

  There’s no way she could have climbed into the loft on her own, regardless of how wise and capable she is for her age.

  “I’ll show you.”

  She goes into our room and into the en suite. She removes a chair from the bathroom and pulls it into the dressing room. I watch, speechless, as Emily first pulls open the door to Nina’s old wardrobe (now mine, of course, like everything else in this house that was hers), stands on the chair, then pulls my sweaters off one of the shelves. She drops them on the floor, then points.

  On the gray-painted wall at the back is an inconspicuous safe, the same color as the wall. It’s like an optical illusion; I’d never have noticed it.

  “Do you remember the code, Emily darling?”

  “No.”

&nb
sp; My heart sinks.

  “But I watched where Mummy hid the key...”

  “Good girl, Em. Excellent.”

  I herd her and Felix downstairs. I start making dinner for them: veggie sausages which Emily says taste funny. I wish Nina had at least given some of my suggestions a go, it would’ve made life so much easier for me. I don’t believe in fussy eaters; my baby will eat everything.

  “I’ll make you beans on toast,” I say. “Just this once, though. I would like you to try to eat different foods. It’s good not to eat meat.”

  “Is that because of not killing animals?” says Felix.

  “Yes, exactly that,” I say.

  “Mum said that it’s wrong to kill things.”

  “Your mum was wise. Why don’t you go and stick the TV on,” I say. “I’ll be back down in a minute.”

  I put the beans in the microwave and press two minutes.

  I don’t intend to nip upstairs for long, but I am curious. I slide the key into the safe and pull out a small box. I relock the safe and hide the box beneath my side of the bed, fighting the urge to tip the contents out immediately. I return the key to its hiding spot.

  The sound of smashing glass coming from the downstairs, followed by a scream, makes me run.

  Baked beans ooze across the kitchen tiles. Goldie sniffs them as Felix holds up his right hand covered in blood. Emily won’t stop screaming.

  “Move,” I shout at Goldie, trying to save her from getting glass in her paws.

  “Stay still,” I yell at Felix as I rush for a clean tea towel and wrap it around his fingers.

  “Be quiet, Emily!”

  The baby kicks.

  “I just wanted to help,” says Felix. “I heard the beep, so I knew it was finished.”

  Thankfully, we are saved a trip to the emergency room, but by the time Stuart is home, I’m a complete mess. He says all the right things, but the unsaid is clear: Felix never got burned or cut when Nina was in charge. The non-honeymoon really is over. I am a failure as a protector before I’ve even begun. It only makes me more determined to prove everyone wrong.