The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

  “I’ll have the soufflé,” I say. “But I need to Google it first to make sure it’s okay for me to eat.”

  “Nina ignored all the advice and ate what she wanted,” says Stuart, not looking up from the menu. “We were both of the opinion that as long as diet was balanced and varied enough, our babies couldn’t come to any long-term harm.”

  “I’m not Nina,” I say.

  “I know you’re not.” He reaches over and takes my hand. For a moment I think he’s going to say that he’s pleased.

  “Nina was a risk-taker,” I say.

  “And you’re not,” he says. “It’s a good thing.”

  “I agree,” I say. “I’ve got something to tell you. Something really difficult and shocking and I’m not sure how to say it.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this. You’re worrying me. Let me get another drink in first,” he says. “I like to receive any bad news a little numbed nowadays.”

  He goes to the bar to order and I notice an elderly couple staring over at me as though I’m someone to be studied. I feel like giving them a wave as if to highlight this is what a scarlet woman looks like, because they look like the sort of people who would be friends with Deborah.

  Stuart returns with a pint of Guinness and a watered-down G&T.

  “It’s not even a unit, I promise,” he says. “I got them to tip some of it out.”

  “Marie?”

  A woman interrupts us. She’s smiling and looks friendly, but I just can’t place her.

  I smile back, she must be someone from the school.

  “I can’t believe it has been five years!” she says. “How’s your little one doing?”

  Sickening dread, the worst kind, hits as I realize who she is. I need to get her away from Stuart.

  “Darling, do you think you could order me a peppermint tea please?” I say to him. I pat my stomach when he doesn’t react quickly enough. “I’m feeling a bit sick all of a sudden.”

  “Of course,” says Stuart, smiling what can only be an apology at the woman, seeing as I’ve not even tried to introduce them.

  As he stands up, she points to my stomach. How rude! Admittedly, I did start wearing maternity clothes as soon as I could.

  “You’re brave going for another one!” she says. “We stopped at one. It’s so hard juggling work and—”

  “It’s lovely to see you,” I say. “And I really don’t mean to be impolite, but I must find the ladies’.”

  She does look hurt, but I really had no choice.

  I lock myself in the end cubicle, praying she doesn’t follow me. I lean against the tiled wall. Shit, shit, shit.

  It was such a stupid thing to do. I knew it, even at the time, but I felt utterly compelled to do it. I was beyond desperate. Nothing seemed to work; I just couldn’t fall pregnant. I even spent over two hundred pounds on some supposed fertility herbs: a brown paper bag full of twigs and leaves, which I had to boil twice a day into a liquid that looked like tar. The noxious smell permeated the house.

  I’d found an article on infertility that suggested that if I immersed myself in the world of babies I would automatically draw children into my life. In desperation, I went to a prenatal meeting—that’s where I know her from. Only twice. I wore baggy clothes and pretended I was earlier on in my pregnancy than the other attendees. It backfired. It was torturous because I wanted to be there for real and I felt even more wretched than I did already. The worst was when someone asked me to hold their one-year-old baby while they went to the toilet. I felt murderous, rather than maternal, that she was having a second shot at motherhood so soon.

  I left the group, made up some excuse about moving away from the area (it was in a town on the other side of the forest, I wasn’t that careless) or lied about being too busy with work, I forget the exact details.

  I can’t hang about for too long because Stuart will worry. He may even ask the woman—I still can’t remember her name—to check up on me. The thought of them talking about me, of her telling Stuart where she met me, me having to come up with yet another lie on the spot, is enough to drive me out of the toilets. I wish lies had a shelf life.

  I emerge, still feeling sick. There is no sign of her.

  I sit down opposite Stuart and sip the tea.

  “Are you all right?” he says.

  “No.”

  I check that no one is in earshot, maybe a little too obviously, but nonetheless, I lower my voice and blurt out all I’ve discovered about Nina, a lot more crudely than I’d intended.

  He listens. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t doubt me. But most strangely of all, he isn’t shocked. It dawns on me why. I’m not telling him anything he doesn’t know.

  He knew. All along.

  Twenty-Three

  “So, Camilla cracked,” he says. “She’s been avoiding my calls.”

  “You’ve both been keeping this from me?”

  “I didn’t know if you knew or not,” he says. “I didn’t think so, but you can be a bit of a dark horse. But when I saw the two of you yesterday acting suspiciously in the woods, well, it wasn’t hard to figure it out.”

  “Of course I didn’t know. As if I’d keep quiet about something as monumental as this!”

  He shrugs. “You’d be surprised.”

  “I can’t keep this to myself, I just can’t. It’s too...big. It makes me feel complicit, like one day someone who knew Charlie will come knocking and hold me responsible.”

  He leans over the table and grips my arm.

  “You’ve no choice but to keep quiet,” he says. “Just like I’ve had to. Emily and Felix will not be known as the children of a murderer.”

  “You’re hurting me.”

  He eases his grip.

  “What do you mean, a murderer?”

  “Sorry, a dramatic choice of words. You know what I mean.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing. You’re in shock. It dies down, believe me. It becomes normalized, something you can eventually push to the back of your mind. It may sound unpalatable now, but sadly, it’s true.”

  I take a large gulp. The unfamiliar sensation of alcohol slides down the back of my throat, hits me hard. Or is it just wishful thinking? I want to drink it all. I crave the welcoming pull of drunken oblivion. I want to write down my thoughts, one by one and untangle them. I want to see my mum, my dad, Christian.

  His tone softens. “Think of the future, Marie. Our future. Our children’s future. Nina paid a high enough price, believe me. Sometimes I wonder if it was the guilt that made her ill. I appreciate that’s not how it works, but it does cross my mind from time to time.”

  I almost forget to breathe as I struggle to take it all in, for my mind to play catch-up.

  “When I found out, I was angry. I felt duped. Nina hadn’t been as into me as I was her—we all know that. But she came back from Ibiza different. More grown up. More sure of what she wanted. And I allowed myself to believe that it was because she’d missed me, decided that I was who she wanted. Except that it wasn’t the case at all. She’d been horrified by what happened, craved stability and a shot at normal life.”

  “Did she tell you exactly how it happened?”

  “I believe so.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “I thought you’d read her diaries? I’d like to see them, too, when we get home, please.”

  “I don’t want the diary version, I’d like yours.”

  “Charlie and Camilla had an argument. Camilla reacted badly, so Charlie attacked them and fell overboard in the process. A terrible tragedy. Just awful. Poor guy.”

  “So you knew, all along, why Camilla came back?”

  “Yes.”

  I revisit all my paranoia, all the secret little chats. The time he suggested to Camilla that they go b
oating, which seemed so out of context at the time. Oh my God, he was testing her. It seems...cruel and taunting. I remember his interest when I first mentioned Camilla’s surprise return. It seems that we weren’t having a normal conversation as I’d thought at the time; he was also fishing for information.

  “No good, Marie, can come from speaking out. Camilla and I have come to an understanding. We think it’s best if she leaves the area at some point. You and I, we can move on from this. I’m glad that you know. It’s been a weight on my mind.”

  I can’t see Camilla moving away. Especially not now that she knows I know. She’ll want to keep an even closer eye on me.

  “But you lied. The night I told you that I was pregnant, you said that you’d gone over to accuse her of being the mystery-note sender!”

  “What was I supposed to say? I panicked, I was afraid that once Camilla knew about us that she’d crack, fear that I was going to tell you. Don’t you get it—the more people who know, the more dangerous it is.”

  I truly don’t know what to do, but the weight that Stuart talked about is now sitting heavy with me. I don’t know what to believe.

  “Promise me?” he says.

  I nod, knowing that by doing so, I’m implicating myself ever more deeply in this tragedy now, too. Right now, I don’t feel as if I have a choice. I’m buying time to give myself space to think.

  On our walk home with flashlights, I ask something else that’s been playing on my mind. “Do you know who is behind the notes and flowers?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I search his face for clues that he’s lying, but his expression and demeanor give nothing away. But then, it hasn’t before, has it?

  Back at home, as I’m removing my makeup in front of the bathroom mirror, Stuart comes up behind me.

  “I have a gift,” he says. “A wedding one.”

  I stare at him in the mirror. “It feels inappropriate, like you’re trying to buy my silence somehow.”

  “Open it.”

  I can tell by the shape of the box that it’s jewelry.

  It’s a silver charm bracelet.

  The same thing he bought Nina as a wedding gift, and not too different from the one nestled among her precious things to pass on to the children.

  I hold my breath as he clasps it around my wrist.

  “I’ll add to it each anniversary. I appreciate Nina had one similar, but yours has different charms.”

  “It makes me feel uncomfortable,” I say.

  “Only if you let it,” he says. “Now, where are those diaries? I assumed that she had only written notebooks full of advice for the children to read when they’re older.”

  I hand over the latest one only.

  * * *

  I wake up in the early hours, briefly disoriented. My son kicks.

  Stuart is asleep beside me. Clearly, he didn’t find Nina’s journal that riveting.

  My wrist aches. I fell asleep with the bracelet on, and it’s made disfiguring red welts deep into my skin.

  I remove it and place it in the bedside table. I feel hot. I take several sips of water. At first I wonder if I’m ill, if the minute amount of gin I drank has had an adverse effect, but no, something else is wrong on top of everything else.

  It’s a Tuesday night.

  Is Stuart trying to mold me into his old routines?

  Wide-awake, I study his face for clues that something isn’t right. Of course, there’s nothing. But what I must face up to is that I don’t truly know the man I’ve married. Any more than I thought I knew my closest friend. They both kept secrets from me, big ones. It makes me fearful for what I’ve let myself in for and what else I’ve missed.

  Meanwhile, I’ve been left with a bitter choice: justice for Charlie or keeping my longed-for family intact. One or the other, but clearly not both.

  Twenty-Four

  I can’t deny that I have secrets, too.

  Thankfully I have an appointment with Christian the following morning. Exhausted, I drive over to his office, oblivious to my surroundings. When I walk into his consulting room, it’s an instant relief. I’ve bottled too much up.

  Usually, the things I tell him are so random and inane, sometimes they lead somewhere, but even then I’m never sure if what I’m talking about is what I want to talk about. I never come out of a session feeling like I’ve achieved or learned something useful, yet I must have. Surely? Most of the research I’ve undertaken suggests that it is beneficial, retelling stories to a stranger, but I have moments when I look at Christian and think, can I really trust you? I mean, who is he really when he’s off duty? Responsible? Kind? Law-abiding? Does he gossip? Sometimes, I think in advance about what I’m going to say, but then I always veer off topic.

  But not today.

  “I think I’ve made a huge mistake,” I tell him. “Stuart’s been lying to me about various things. But worst of all, I let him do it. Do you remember the holiday I’ve mentioned before, the one the three of us girls went on?”

  “Ibiza, yes.”

  God, he has a good memory, I like to flatter myself that it’s because I’m memorable, but really, I know it’s because he’s clearly a good note-taker.

  “Looking back from the position I’m in now, I’m frustrated at how much I adapted myself to fit in with Nina by default and always went along with what she wanted me to do. I never thought about myself and what I wanted. My first thought whenever arrangements—like which bar, club or restaurant—were discussed was to first consider what the others would like to do or how they’d like me to respond, then try to pretend that’s what I wanted to do, too.”

  “Why do you think you did that?”

  “Because I was scared that Nina wouldn’t like me anymore if I didn’t go along with what she wanted, and also I knew that whatever she and Camilla wanted to do, they would. So, by pretending to agree with them, to go where they wanted to go, it saved me having to deal with the embarrassment or face up to the knowledge that I was at the bottom of the food chain.”

  I pause.

  “I’m annoyed with my younger self. Camilla and I had a drunken argument over her flirting with Charlie and I stormed off. But all that happened was that I ended up being on my own in our shared apartment. They stayed out, had fun and I was left simmering in envious bitterness. Or so I thought. The night they had didn’t turn out that well in the end.”

  Sometimes, I play things down for Christian. He looks like such a gentleman that I don’t want to shock him, which I know is silly and pointless. I decide to explain it better.

  “It was more than a drunken argument, actually. It was quite brutal, nasty and ugly. It got physically violent when Charlie became embroiled in the conflict.”

  I slapped Charlie. He grabbed my arm to stop me doing it a second time.

  And then...I remember waking up on the sofa to the smell of the ashtray lying on the coffee table. Lipstick on my beer glass. My makeup bag. (I don’t recall why I had decided to get that out.) All the sad, hopeful debris of me staying up alone, hoping that Charlie would return.

  Old wounds reignite, pain burns acid-like inside my chest.

  “The thing that really gets me and is the beginning in a long line of punches to the gut,” I say, “is that I wasn’t wrong. I’ve recently found out that Camilla had Charlie’s baby. Nina knew, Stuart knew more than he let on, and I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

  “Can you talk to them about it?”

  “I have. I fear I’m only a little the wiser. Another thing I’ve been blaming myself for is that all this time I thought it was me who pursued Stuart. I promised Nina that I’d look out for him and the kids, but also that I’d make sure that any women he formed relationships with were, you know, suitable. I understood that. I mean, you don’t want just anyone around influencing your children, do you? And I let my desperation for a chi
ld cloud my judgment, too.”

  “Are you saying that you think Stuart took advantage of the situation?”

  “In a way. It was mutually beneficial. But Ben was right to be pissed off.” I glance up. “I mean, angry...”

  Christian smiles. “You can speak candidly. You’d be surprised what I hear in here. If you’re pissed off, you’re pissed off. That’s okay.”

  I grin.

  “Ben was right. I did put Stuart ahead of my relationship with him. If he called, I ran. I thought it was a good thing, but now...I’m not sure. He called me once to say that there had been an attempted burglary...yet, I also feel it was just another good enough reason or excuse to get me round. To make me feel like he needed my help. It’s my weakness.”

  “Have you spoken to Stuart about how you feel?”

  “Kind of.”

  Christian waits for me to say more.

  “I fear I’ve rocked the boat enough. I have a child on the way, Nina’s children to look out for, financially I’ve been a bit careless, turning down work. I know the worst of his secrets now.”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, I believe I do.”

  “Do you love Stuart?”

  “I thought I did. Maybe I even convinced myself I did. Now... Well, I thought I loved someone I didn’t know. I do enjoy his company, he’s an excellent listener, a good father.” I pause. “Whatever way I look at it, I’m embedded in the situation.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “There are children involved. They’ve lost their mother and I need to find a way to make the best of the situation. We’ve pooled our resources and I don’t mean financially or practically. I’m talking about emotionally when I factor in Felix and Emily and our baby. Investments of the emotional kind are the most difficult to get out of.”

  I want to tell him how I’ve read up on Rebecca syndrome: when the second wife or partner feels they can’t match up to the image of the first. Not in this instance. My situation is completely different. But I don’t get the chance to untangle my thoughts any more.

  “We’re running out of time, I’m afraid,” says Christian. “But we can continue this thread in our next session if you’d like to.”