The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

  Something I read has always stuck in my mind: we can choose truth or happiness. I have always chosen the latter. Perhaps it’s time to change my whole outlook. Starting with whatever is hidden inside Nina’s mystery box.

  Twenty-One

  Stuart takes an absolute age to go to sleep. The box lies beneath me. I had a peek while he was in the bathroom; it contains Nina’s journals. When I’m certain he’s been asleep for a good ten minutes, I lock myself in the baby’s nursery.

  There are two five-year diaries, four lines for each day, starting from when we were both ten, until she switches to plain notebooks with more sporadic entries. I skim, but can’t help stopping every few pages or so when something funny or poignant catches my eye. Nina changed pen colors: green, red, blue, black depending on her mood. (Black, of course, is sad. Red for things she wants to remember. I know this because she underlines them.) It’s strange seeing memorable events written from her point of view. It distorts my own memory.

  Realizing that this will take me weeks, I skip to the last diaries. It’s compelling and fascinating, this insight into Nina’s mind. I justify this by telling myself that I may find useful things that will help with Felix and Emily. There’s a lot of mother-guilt: deep, unsettling, contradictory emotions, the remorseful kind.

  In the months leading up to her death, Nina rewrote parts of her old diaries. She’s named the rewriting process Hindsight. It’s fascinating, as I flick back and forth through the befores and afters, the different viewpoints, I read faster as if to trying reach the end of a book.

  I’m back in Ibiza. Naturally, Charlie’s disappearance and death clouds the end. Except, it’s more than that. Another chapter has been inserted. I know I should stop reading, that if I continue, something big will shift, but I can’t. I open my eyes wider, read faster. Nina’s voice from the grave is dominant, she is back here with me.

  Original: Spending time at the villa, it was almost like Stuart and his friends hadn’t left. Dan said we could use his villa during the daytime. After lunch, I lay on the tube, my feet dangling over the edge in the pool. Bliss. I’m so going to be rich! But now, lying on the sun lounger, I feel restless. If Stuart was here, we’d be having a cheeky so-called siesta or heading out on his friend’s boat. Perhaps I’ll take the key...ha ha. I am good at handling it. Stuart said I am a natural, said I hardly need any lessons.

  Hindsight: Reading these words makes me want to cry. I want to go back and stop my younger self at this point. We were living the dream, until we weren’t.

  Why? I remember that day. I was glad Stuart had gone because it had meant that I could bend Nina’s ear about my concerns regarding Charlie and Camilla.

  We did take the key to the boat. Well, Nina did, but the rest of us encouraged her. We went out a lot with Stuart and his friends; we’d hang out with others who owned boats or yachts, too, jumping off the edge every now and then to cool off. Sipping sundowners. Snacking on olives and bread. Drinking beer straight from the ice, condensation dripping down the edge of the cans.

  We packed the cooler, promising out loud that we’d replenish what we borrowed. But before we reached the jetty, loud music beckoned. There was a party at a nearby bar. The DJ was out on a platform on the beach and had already drawn in quite a crowd.

  We dumped the supplies on the boat, Nina removed her heels from her small backpack and swapped them with her trainers. I untied my hair so that it hung loose rather than wearing it scraped back in a ponytail, the three of us put on some lipstick, and then, with those minor party preparations complete, we went to join in.

  I was happy because Charlie and I were back on track. That afternoon, Camilla had been tired after finishing off her last contracted shift at the club the previous night and had dozed by the pool. When Nina had done the same, we crept off to the day bed, which was swathed in netting, to have sex. Twice. This memory felt relevant then and for ages afterward because it had given me a fresh confidence that he wasn’t being unfaithful with Camilla, too. My suspicions had briefly dissipated. I cringe at my naivete.

  Nina’s original version is similar to my memories of the beach party:

  We all danced, smiling at each other now and then. We felt alive.

  She’s added in ironic in a different-colored ink as one of her hindsight comments.

  Camilla bought some pills. She was always the best at getting us stuff. Dealers sniffed her out.

  Like that’s a good thing, I think. Nina must’ve written this when she got back to the holiday apartment. They thought I was asleep (I wasn’t, I was sulking, I saw them come in) but I heard them up for ages afterward, whispering. It was nearly light—they couldn’t have got more than an hour’s sleep—yet they hung out by the hotel pool all the next day as though everything was fine.

  Marie and Camilla had an argument about Charlie (again) and Marie stormed off before I could reassure her. By the time I ran after her, she’d gone. I was torn. I really wanted to go back to the party, it was fun being without Stuart. Because he is older, he doesn’t fit in the same way that Charlie and Camilla do. It was nice to feel free, off guard. We never took the boat out. We lost Charlie at the party. I guess he went after Marie, so that’s eased my conscience.

  Hindsight: We took the boat out, me, C and C. We shouldn’t have.

  I race through to the end; the details are scant.

  Afterward we both agreed on a pact of silence, despite our matching stories. Dramatic as it sounded, it was the only thing that gave us hope that maybe our dreadful mistake would never come to light.

  When I’m finished, my hands are shaking, my head full of disbelief and rage. No one—but me and Camilla—would’ve understood the significance of what I’ve just read. They told me they’d last seen Charlie at the party. Nina’s mention of a conspiracy of silence has sent my mind reeling, coming up with all sorts of scenarios. But I now have a suspicion as to why her guilt was overwhelming. My closest friend was a liar (at best), and so is Camilla. However, reading between the lines, I’ve got a bad feeling that the lies are not the worst of it.

  I don’t know how I’m going to keep this to myself. It’s lunchtime. I cancel my appointment with Christian. I don’t trust myself not to tell him what I’ve just discovered. I can’t divulge this to anyone, not yet. But there is one person I can confront: Camilla.

  Everything slots further into place. Of course that’s why she’s returned. She must’ve been terrified when Nina got in touch. She’s here to find evidence and destroy it. My being here has thwarted that.

  I can’t sit. I can’t concentrate. I take Goldie on her longest ever walk while I come up with a plan.

  I phone Deborah and ask her to pick Felix and Emily up from school and cook them dinner. I don’t give her the chance to say no, I simply insist that it’s an emergency. I walk to the guesthouse, let myself in and wait for Camilla.

  She walks in with Louise. She stops.

  “Hi, Louise,” I say. “Deborah and the children are expecting you at the house for a bite to eat.”

  Camilla looks as if she’s about to object, but she’s not stupid. After all, she’s been half expecting and dreading this moment for so long.

  “That’s right, sweetie.”

  Louise looks confused—of course—but acquiesces, nonetheless.

  We both wait until the door shuts behind her.

  “I guess you know why I’m here,” I say.

  She doesn’t question me.

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  Camilla opens the door. I follow her out. We walk along the track to the forest at the back in silence. When we reach a secluded clearing, she takes a cigarette packet out of her bag, pulls one out and lights it.

  I could do with one, too.

  “Well?” she says.

  “You and Nina—you killed Charlie.”

  For a brief moment, her expression is one of barel
y perceptible terror.

  “Of course we didn’t. It wasn’t like that.”

  Hearing her confirming the words is freshly shocking, yet it’s an equal relief to hear her almost dismiss it. I thought she’d deny everything outright, but it’s unreal that she’s so quick to admit defeat.

  “How was it then?”

  “It was an accident. Really, it was.”

  “You’ve lied about so much.”

  “You’ll know what it’s like, the moment you give birth. You’ll do whatever it takes to protect your child. I can’t ruin Louise’s life any more than Nina could ruin Felix and Emily’s.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Nina wrote an update to her diary.”

  Camilla gives a wry smile. “I knew she would do something.” She pauses. “Well, I imagine that’s a good thing, in a way. I guess she described how everything was an accident?”

  I ignore her question. “Is that the real reason you came back? Have you been looking for something?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I knew it wouldn’t be an outright confession, she wouldn’t take the risk of Felix and Emily finding it. Can I see what she wrote?”

  “No.”

  I’m not going to give her the chance to read it so that she can match her story with Nina’s so-called accounts. I’ve also made copies in case she gets hold of them.

  “Did you try to get in before?” I need to know.

  “Yes. It turns out it’s more difficult to do than I thought. Nina mentioned in conversation that Stuart was really bad at locking the interconnecting door to the garage. Turns out he wasn’t. And you nearly caught me in the guesthouse, you and Deborah. I knew it was highly unlikely that there would be anything incriminating hidden in the cottage, but I felt I had to do something when I couldn’t find a spare key to the main house. I’d focused my attention around the front door area when the one by the back door was in such an obvious place. Stupid me.”

  She grinds her cigarette into the ground.

  “Nina sensed that someone was out to get her,” I say.

  “Well, I wasn’t out to get her. I merely didn’t want her to drop me in it, leaving me to face the consequences on my own. She swore to me that she wouldn’t leave anything incriminating, but I knew what she was like. She needed to confess, however cryptically. I suggested she talk to a priest. She said she had, but it hadn’t helped. That’s when I knew I was in trouble.”

  “I thought that whoever-it-was was after me now instead, so it’s a relief to know that it was you.” I tell her about the messages, the plaque, the photo, the wedding flowers.

  “Those were definitely not me.” She sighs. “I’m happy enough to be rude to your face. I don’t need to hide behind snide notes and actions. But, Marie, what did you expect? Really? Of course people will naturally judge. How can they not?”

  “How can you stand there and say that after what you’ve done?”

  “I don’t make the rules. What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know. I really don’t. It doesn’t sit right with me. I loved Charlie. You—but Nina especially—knew how much I blamed myself because of the argument that night. I initially thought that he was upset, that he’d wandered off after you’d left him at the party.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “If I could change anything, I would. It was horrific. A real-live nightmare that never left us. It will never leave me.”

  “What happened?”

  She sighs. “We took the boat out. We lost control. Charlie fell overboard, nothing to do with us.”

  “And you just left him?”

  “There was no way he wasn’t dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We looked for him. He was gone. I’m not going into any more details. It’s too painful. Anything we did, we had no choice.”

  “Really? Why did you use the words incriminating and confess when you said that you didn’t want Nina to drop you in it? And why did you cover it up if was totally a tragic accident?”

  “Really, Marie. I’m telling the truth. They are just words, I didn’t mean anything in particular by them. We were so young—teenagers still, really—we were in a foreign country, scared that we could get accused of all sorts of things. We panicked. Please, get rid of what she wrote, for all our sakes. You won’t want your child tainted with this either, and they will be, trust me. Nothing stays secret anymore. Nothing.”

  “This has.”

  “Only if we keep it that way. Look, if it helps in any small way, Nina was saving up money to donate anonymously to his extended family. Only, there is hardly anyone apart from an aunt and a cousin, apparently. I don’t have any details about them, though. She was unable to track them down so she said I was to use it for charity. I’ll pass it on to you.”

  At least that’s one mystery fully solved: where the money Nina hid went to.

  Camilla names a charity that helps people whose family members go missing abroad as Nina’s preferred choice.

  I want to cry. Nina cared for me, even at the end. If she cared about Charlie, she cared for me. I’ve made such a huge mistake in resenting her, hiding away her things, taking over completely.

  “Nina was frightened, understandably. She wanted a comforting voice, a listening ear. I provided that,” Camilla says. “I gave her lots of reassurance.”

  Meaning that she bullied or manipulated Nina into not airing her version of events.

  A rustle startles us both: Stuart, with Goldie.

  “I wondered where you’d got to,” he says. “Lulu directed me this way, although I was worried. Deborah said it was an emergency, so naturally, I feared for you and the baby.”

  “Sorry,” I say automatically. “I needed some air, a break from all the responsibilities. I’m ready to go back.”

  “All okay?” he says.

  Camilla doesn’t reply.

  “Yes,” I say.

  What else can I do? To break the news to him that his wife was responsible for a death (or covering one up) is going to take a great deal of preparation and diplomacy. There’s no way I can keep this kind of thing to myself and no way can Stuart have proof sitting in his safe like a time bomb.

  Deborah eyes my stomach suspiciously as we return.

  “Everything is okay, I presume?” she says.

  “Yes. Thank you for helping out,” I say.

  As I open the front door to see her off, my mind still elsewhere, I nearly trip over a bouquet of flowers. Lilies.

  “From a fancy man?” says Deborah as I pick them up.

  “Must be a mistake,” I say.

  Yet the envelope is addressed to The Husband Stealer.

  She watches as I slide out the card.

  Roses are red,

  Violets are blue,

  This life isn’t yours,

  And everyone knows it, too!

  A part of me wants to laugh. Who, over school age, makes up Roses Are Red poems? Still, anger overtakes because it’s not funny, not at all.

  “They’re not for me,” I say to Deborah. “I’ll let Stuart deal with them.”

  I stand and wave, clutching the flowers to me. I hope whoever delivered them is watching. I hope they can see how blatantly unaffected I appear to be. Who has time for this kind of crap? Who?

  Yet I watch, rooted to the spot as she drives off, as though if I can stand still, everything else will stop spinning.

  Twenty-Two

  I tell Stuart that we need to talk, so he organizes a babysitter for the following evening. It will be good to get away from the house. I’m desperate to escape for a bit. As we walk to the local pub, I can’t shake off the sense that I’m being watched. I crave a drink for the first time in a long time. I choose a corner table for two, so we won’t
be overheard too easily.

  I order a tonic water with an extra lemon slice. As I sip it, I pretend it’s a G&T. I’ve plenty of time to allow my mind to wander as Stuart spends an absolute age studying the food choices.

  I’ve learned not to interrupt when he’s concentrating. It’s counterproductive as he will only start from the beginning of the menu all over again because he’ll have forgotten.

  Nina and Stuart came round for tapas at our place once. Nina was in a niggly mood because Stuart likes to be on time. Nina was always late.

  Stuart and I loved drinking games.

  Ben and Nina did not.

  By the time we were on our third cocktail, Ben and Nina had bonded like indulgent parents humoring difficult children.

  Nonetheless, it was all good-natured until Nina, out of the blue, staring at my photos I had framed all over one wall, made a strange comment.

  “You have more pictures of the children than even I do,” she said. “Although there’s more of Felix than Em.”

  “He’s older. And he’s my godson,” I said.

  “Yes, but...there are so many.”

  She shook her head a couple of times, as if there was something odd about it, as though she was trying to figure out what she didn’t like about them.

  “I told her that, too,” said Ben.

  I glared at him.

  “You should see her photo albums,” he added, dropping me in it—whatever it was—even further.

  I did have pictures of Nina and Stuart, too, plus ones of Stuart on his own or with the children. Some people are rewarding to photograph, some aren’t. It’s that simple.

  “You can turn anything into something sinister if you try hard enough,” I said.

  “Sinister,” Nina had repeated as though she was trying the word out.

  “Are you going to have a starter?” asks Stuart. “There is a cheese soufflé or garlic mushrooms?”

  Food doesn’t appeal, but I feel like he’s waiting for me to say yes, so that he will have one. I’ve got better at reading him.