time alone. I think it’s what we need to sort out our past differences. However, I do completely understand if it’s not possible.
He responds almost immediately with a thumbs-up emoji. It makes me think that he wasn’t that fussed about coming anyway.
Camilla’s phone beeps not a minute later. Greg’s name flashes up on her screen before disappearing. I can’t read it all, it disappears too quickly, but he’s gone along with my request, no questions asked.
I go upstairs and wait for Camilla to digest the news that she and I have the next twenty-four hours with only each other for company. The quiet of the house without the others is already beginning to unnerve me. Yet, I must see this through. I silently work through my options.
Thirty-Three
As I walk downstairs, clutching the metal railing attached to the wall, I re-rehearse what I’m going to say. Camilla is on the sofa, feet curled up beneath her thighs, flicking through a magazine she clearly has zero interest in.
“Greg is delayed,” she says.
“I know. It’s my fault,” I say.
She puts down the magazine and looks up. “What do you mean?”
“I explained that we needed time alone to talk.”
She frowns, a bit too theatrically. “What about?”
“I’d like the truth about what happened to Charlie. Deborah spun a good story, but I know it’s not the whole truth. Please tell me exactly what happened that night.”
She looks around the sitting room as though expecting a camera crew to appear from somewhere, or the police. I understand how she feels. It’s hard nowadays not to fear that every move is being captured, ready to be held in future evidence against you.
I try to put her at ease. “It’s just you and me,” I say. “No cameras, no one else listening.”
She gives a little laugh. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just that Nina told me that she’d told Deborah everything.”
“She gave Deborah a PG version. It was entertaining, it had me hooked while I was listening, until I twigged that there has to be an X-rated version that’s being kept from me.”
“For God’s sake, Marie. Charlie fell off a boat. It was an accident. End of. You have a baby on the way. Move on.”
“I can’t. I need to know. I thought my future was with Charlie. I thought that he and I would have children. We talked about it.”
“I’m sorry. For what I did. It was wrong, but you have to let it go. I’m not discussing this anymore. If I’d known you’d planned a confessional session, I’d never have come. I thought you merely wanted a change of scene or a break from the kids.” She stands up. “I’m calling Greg to tell him that you made a mistake. If you don’t want to stay here with us, and really, why would you, I’m happy to give you a lift to the station.”
“What do you know about Greg’s ex?”
“Which one?”
“The one he moved to the village for.”
“Nothing much. I’m not that fussed about who he was with before me. We enjoy each other’s company. It’s early days. Why are you so interested in his exes?”
“Because I think he and Nina had a fling or something.”
She sits back down.
Now, I’ve got her attention.
She dismisses my theory instantly. “Why would he have pursued me so intently if that were the case? Wouldn’t it be a little creepy?”
“Has he ever asked you about your past, anything to do with Nina, the holiday?”
“No...” She stops. “Actually, yes. I have a picture of the three of us on an Ibizan party boat. He asked about where and when it was taken.”
My pulse quickens.
“Anything else?”
“Just...you know, the random stuff you talk about when you first meet someone. I didn’t think anything of it.”
“You didn’t think anything of what?”
“He questioned me about any stupid things I’d regretted, but I thought he was referring to dodgy exes. The holiday with Nina came up because she was, apart from you, our common link. I even told him about my stint in the ridiculous fake champagne glass.”
We both laugh.
“But he did seem interested in Charlie’s death. Which, thinking about it now, considering he’d never met the guy...” She stands up again and paces the living room. “This is screwing with my head way too much.”
I up the pressure; I need her to crack.
“He is a PI. Being inquisitive and curious is his job. He likes to unmask the bad guy.”
“I’m going for a drive.”
She picks up her bag and leaves before I can persuade her otherwise.
* * *
This wasn’t in my plan.
I’m trapped, unless I give up completely on the weekend and my plans. Camilla’s belongings are still here; it gives me confidence she’ll return. She’s already moved her stuff into Louise’s much nicer old room, and to while away the time, I have a good look around. What I’m hoping to find, I don’t know. She has two pairs of sneakers, a pair of heels (for the countryside! It reminds me of Nina), no books and three cosmetic bags bursting with makeup. I place a bottle of water on her bedside table, it makes me feel less guilty about coming in here. All it needs is a chocolate on the pillow and it would look really quite professional.
Still restless, I go through the pile of Greg’s paperwork, hoping to find hotel receipts or gifts I’d recognize as belonging to Nina, but there is nothing. Having run out of entertainment options, I open the fridge door, briefly mulling over dinner choices, then close it again. I pace the kitchen and living areas, all the unanswered questions building up further in my mind. I sit at the dining table, nursing a cup of ginger tea, and come up with potential solutions to prevent me from driving myself into unbearable frustration. An idea forms. It’s not ideal, but I have to work within the constraints of a real situation, not my fantasy or preferred one.
Tiredness hits. I lie down on the bed, but I can’t settle. I feel exposed and vulnerable, alone in the middle of nowhere. I go and bolt the front and back doors before going back upstairs. Again.
Heavy banging pierces my dream about being on holiday in a desert. For several seconds I have no clue where I am. I sit up and take a large sip of water. The knocking continues. Groggy, I clutch the rail and walk slowly downstairs.
“Marie! Marie! Answer the bloody door!”
Camilla.
She pushes the door open wider as soon as I open it. “You had me worried.”
“Where did you go? Did you get in touch with Greg?”
She holds up some shopping bags. “No, I did this instead. Retail therapy. I even bought you a gift.”
She hands over a bag. I accept, but hesitate to look inside. Gifts are tricky things—they make me feel beholden.
I give in. “Thanks.”
I peek inside. Layered among flimsy blue tissue are lemon and raspberry bath bombs. The smell is cloying.
I escape to the bathroom to wash my face and to properly waken up. And that’s when it hits me what has been bothering me about the photo of Charlie, Nina and Camilla: a memory.
Nina hadn’t been keen for me to sift through her photos when I asked for ones of Charlie. She wanted to select them herself. No wonder. She knew I had a keen eye for detail. I thought it was because she was being sensitive, perhaps by protecting me from potentially unsettling memories. How stupid and naive of me. Despite knowing what I know now, the sense of betrayal hits me afresh as my mind reruns the story.
They said they left Charlie behind at the party. By the time I left, Nina had already broken her shoe and had changed back into sneakers. In the photo, she is not wearing her heels. Yet, I clearly remember her changing into them beforehand because we all laughed at her as we walked in the direction of the loud music while she struggled along a narrow, uneven beach
pavement.
I take out the picture. The coloring of the sky reveals that it is later than I initially appreciated. The party was slightly away from the harbor, so if it had been taken there, the boats would not be visible in the background. This is physical proof that they lied—it proves that they all left at the same time.
I shudder. This is surely the last photo ever taken of Charlie alive and it’s a macabre thought. So many niggling things that didn’t quite make sense at the time are coming together. Fresh waves of grief, pain, rage and humiliation hit because it’s as if by having something tangible, it makes it even more real somehow.
Back downstairs, Camilla is microwaving a ready-made lasagna.
I slide out a bottle of white wine from the fridge and offer her a glass.
“Hoping to get me drunk to prize out a better story than Deborah’s?” she says.
“Yes,” I admit, pouring her a large glass.
I’m not going to tell her about the photo evidence yet. I want to hear the truth from her first.
“You’ll have a long wait,” she says.
The evening is not the bonding, confessional one I planned. Camilla has clearly decided on several safe topics for discussion and won’t allow me to veer off her preplanned course. All she’ll say is that she’s not going to mention anything about what we discussed to Greg.
“It’s not as if it will lead to anything serious anyway. We’re too different.”
She takes a large gulp of wine as she tries to convince herself that her words are true. I discreetly check the bottle; it’s almost empty. My agitation grows as I watch the hands of the kitchen clock move ever later. I open another bottle while she loads the dishwasher and top up her glass.
She catches me.
“Nice try, Marie. But luckily for you, I’m in the mood to get pissed enough to get through tonight.”
Good, she’s going to need anaesthetizing.
I run the kitchen tap and pour myself a large glass of water.
Finally (thank you, God) she heads upstairs.
“I’m going to change into my PJs. Don’t top up my glass any more just yet,” she says. “And by the way, I know how much is left in the bottle. I’m not that far gone!”
“Don’t worry, I promise not to get you drunk enough to push you down the stairs.”
Shut up, I tell myself. I’m waffling. I’m going to give myself away.
I wait for a few seconds before I follow her up. It isn’t easy doing it quietly—the stairs creak. My heart hammers. I remove the key from the pocket of my maternity jeans and turn her bedroom door lock.
I spent far too long overthinking the whole situation. When, in the end, it’s usually the simple solutions that work best.
Thirty-Four
Camilla wastes no time in pulling on the doorknob.
“Marie, this isn’t funny.”
I pull a chair out of Felix’s old room and make myself as comfortable as is possible, given the circumstances. “I agree. Tell me what really happened to Charlie, and I’ll let you go.”
“I have told you.” She yanks some more. The door shakes.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Marie! This is bloody ridiculous. Really, what do you think you’re going to achieve?”
“I want the truth.”
She kicks the door next, the pounding echoes. My poor baby kicks, too. I stand up.
“Desperate measures,” I say when she gets bored of trying to smash the door down. “This is your fault. We can do this quickly or slowly.”
“Aaaaah!” she screams.
Her phone rings downstairs. It’s still ringing by the time I reach it. I snatch it up off the counter.
Greg.
I open the back door and walk outside. The bashing noises subside.
“Hi, Greg. It’s Marie. How are you?”
The sun is setting. How can it not be dark yet? This day has gone on forever and if Camilla remains stubborn, it’s only going to get longer. Golds, yellows and oranges streak the horizon. It reminds me of Ibiza. It’s a sign; it strengthens my resolve.
“Where’s Camilla?”
“Getting into her pajamas.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“I get the impression she’s going to be a while. Shall I get her to call you back?”
“Tell her I’ll be there by tomorrow lunchtime. Are you two having the catch-up you wanted?”
“Kind of. Thanks, Greg. I appreciate you giving us the time.”
“Bye then.”
I nearly ask him about Nina, but now is not the time. I want to see his face when I do pick my moment.
I hang up, slide the phone into my pocket and as I return to Camilla, a strange resolve descends. I have to do this. For my own sanity and for Charlie’s memory. And for the baby we didn’t have. It motivates me to keep going. I crouch down (it’s not easy given my size) and peer through the keyhole. It’s dark. Realization dawns that it’s because her eye is peering back. It’s freaky. I yank my face away and sit back down on the chair.
“Greg sends his love.”
“Are you two in this together?”
I reassure her that the answer is no. However, if she’s banking on the thought that he’s going to rescue her—worst-case scenario—tomorrow, she may well try to hold out until he arrives, so I mention that he’s not sure of his latest arrival time.
“Camilla. Please. So we can both get some sleep tonight, just tell me what I need to know.”
“If you think I’m spending the night under the same roof as you, you really have lost it. What the hell is wrong with you, Marie?”
“I was pregnant. With Charlie’s baby. You stole the child that I should’ve had. Imagine what it feels like for me seeing Louise. You have no sensitivity, no awareness, no conscience.”
It goes silent.
“Now, will you tell me?” I say.
“I am sorry, Marie. Let me out first and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“No.”
The kicking starts up again. I’ve had enough for now. My back aches, my legs ache. I ease up out of the chair and walk to our bathroom. I run a bath. The water further muffles the sounds of Camilla’s escape attempts. She needs time to reflect and I need a break. The bathroom mirror mists. I wipe it and stare at myself. What have I done? How did I turn into this person? Why am I not at home, in my own bed?
I ease into the water and close my eyes. It lifts some of the tension immediately. I almost give into the tiredness until I hear the creaking sound of the bathroom doorknob twisting. Oh my God!
I jolt up and grab a towel to cover myself. The door opens but no one appears.
“Who’s there?” My voice cracks.
Silence, apart from the loud, rhythmic thudding of my heart.
“Camilla?” I call out.
I hear someone breathing. I freeze until I hear Camilla’s curt voice. Relief floods my entire body.
“You’re lucky you’re heavily pregnant,” says Camilla, still hidden from sight behind the wooden door. “Otherwise I’d do a lot worse. Where is my phone?”
My legs are still shaking as I clamber out, dripping water all over the bath mat as I rush to dry myself.
“Who let you out?”
“The lock broke. You’re paying for Greg to get the whole door fixed because I’m not. Now where is my phone?”
It’s still in the pocket of my jeans, which are crumpled on the bathroom floor. I pull her phone out, turn it off and slide it beneath the bath mat.
“Um...”
The door flings open and Camilla stands there. Her face is flushed, her expression is demonic. “Get dressed and give me my phone before I pull the whole place to pieces!”
She looks around, sees my clothes on the floor, picks them up and gives them a s
hake before slamming the door.
I dry myself too quickly. As I pull on the same jeans, they stick to my legs. I nearly fall over. I can hear Camilla in my bedroom, pulling open drawers and slamming them shut. I open the door.
“Listen, Camilla—”
“Don’t ‘listen Camilla’ me, give me my phone, you thieving cow! I should’ve known better than to let myself be talked into this ridiculous break. To think it was me who persuaded Greg that you were a reasonable, rational person who could be trusted to rent his property. Never again.”
“I’ve hidden your phone outside, you won’t find it in here. I’ll return it when you’ve told me what I want to hear.”
She screams and storms out the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
I open it and follow her downstairs. The door to her bedroom is wide-open. The chair I was sitting on lies on the floor.
Camilla is clutching her car keys. “If you won’t give me my phone, I’m still getting far away from you.”
“You’re drunk,” I say.
“I don’t care,” she says.
“Do you want to hurt someone or worse, potentially kill another person? Are you trying to get yourself sent to prison? Think of Louise, think of someone else other than yourself for a change.”
“I need to get away from here.”
“Let’s go for a drive. I’m insured to drive other cars. You tell me what I want to hear. I’ll give you back your phone as soon as we’re done.”
She stares. She really is quite drunk.
“You gave me such a fright creeping into the bathroom like that,” I say. “I might need to be close to a hospital to get the baby checked out. I’m feeling a bit panicky, suddenly a bit too cutoff from everywhere.”
It’s not a complete lie, I did feel a twinge of pain as I walked downstairs.
It does the trick.
“Let’s get in the bloody car then. But I want my phone.”
“As soon as we get back, I promise.”
We both climb into her car. I have to adjust the seat and move it quite far back so that I can fit in behind the steering wheel. Luckily, her car isn’t dissimilar to Stuart’s, which I’ve driven on occasion. I press Record on my phone (for what it’s worth) and place it down by the side of the driver’s door, out of her reach, then adjust the rearview mirror.
The Last Wife Page 25
