The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

Photo evidence aside, I don’t believe her. Charlie’s body had a head injury. It’s like some sort of sick game, was it a rock, a cooler or a metal pole? For now, I’ll let her deny away. It’s not as if I don’t have enough on my plate, and Nina isn’t here—as we all well know—to corroborate or dispute her story. I go along with the polite chitchat.

  “Sorry about...” I say.

  “It was a ridiculous stunt, but I understand now why it’s been so hard for you having me and Louise back here. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  Jack makes a sound. We both turn and stare at him. He remains asleep.

  “So... Greg,” she says. “Guess why he dumped me?”

  I shrug.

  She lowers her voice. “I asked him if he’d had a fling with Nina.”

  I glance at the closed study door as if Stuart could be on the other side, listening.

  “Talk about an OTT reaction! He was furious. I’m scared.”

  “I’ll find out what Greg knows. It sounds as if he’s just put two and two together and come up with—”

  “Exactly four,” says Camilla.

  “He can’t have proof,” I say.

  “What if Nina gave him some, even if she didn’t realize it?”

  “I have an idea...”

  Camilla throws me a look of such hopeful gratitude, that—briefly—I forget how much I detest her.

  I phone Greg.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I say.

  He agrees.

  * * *

  I will keep my plans a secret until Sunday. Meanwhile, Stuart fusses. He opens and closes windows, drapes blankets on and off Jack. He cooks healthy stir-fries when I just want to eat a pack of cookies or a bowl of cereal. The children show intermittent interest in their half sibling. It takes all my willpower not to shoo them away from Jack. He looks so fragile in comparison.

  Deborah comes in and takes over for hours at a time. I let her.

  Stuart keeps trying to tell me “how to do it.”

  Midwives visit and give me forms to fill in to ascertain whether or not I am at risk of postnatal depression. I am not. I know what depression feels like and this isn’t it.

  But something isn’t right.

  There’s an expectation to be happy after having a baby. I am not over the moon. I am anchorless, fearful and in a constant state of fight-or-flight.

  I write charts, religiously figuring out how much sleep I haven’t had. Naturally, it’s unhelpful, but I can’t stop myself. When painkillers ease off between doses, barely controllable anger flares, which I know is wrong because I have a healthy baby. I must be more grateful. Flashbacks start one night and increase in intensity.

  The agony.

  The shortage of midwives.

  Being alone with no clue what was happening, I think my baby and I are dying but no one has told me.

  Seemingly insignificant little things all seem to add up, one on top of the other.

  Young trainees are sent in each evening to ease the burden of the exhausted staff, one of whom picked up Jack when he started to cry, held him upright and, staring at him, said, “Not on my watch!” gripping him as though she were about to give him a shake.

  Why didn’t I tell her to put my baby down?

  The casual cruelty and lack of empathy still leaves me reeling.

  Why didn’t I speak up, stand up for myself more?

  Other women manage to give birth without drugs, without fuss, breastfeed without being curtly told, “It’s not that difficult.”

  I become obsessed with thoughts of old, vulnerable and sick people and other pregnant women, wondering what I can do to save them.

  I encourage the steady stream of visitors at home because without distractions, my thoughts threaten to tip me over the edge. I consider calling Christian for an emergency phone consultation, but no one can help me but me. I must keep busy.

  On Sunday, I announce that I have a surprise. I bought Felix and Em new outfits online in colors that suit their complexions and Stuart a new T-shirt, which I ask them all to wear.

  “Let’s go outside, guys!”

  It’s a beautiful afternoon, a good sign. It’s so nice to feel in control of something, I feel almost manic with joy. I prepare a picnic with all the children’s favorites. I even buy some meat sausage rolls to show that I’m being open and happy to compromise.

  I lay the table outside, creating a magazine-perfect picture. The crockery and napkins match (peach, Emily’s favorite color at the moment). I fill two jugs of water, one plain for the children, adding freshly cut slices of limes to the other. The tablecloth edges waft gently every time a slight breeze picks up.

  My phone rings: Greg.

  “I’m outside your front door,” he says.

  I let him in with all his camera equipment and show him out to the back.

  “Right, everyone, Greg has come to take some informal portraits of us all,” I say with a grin I’ve seen so many times on children’s TV presenters. “The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can have our yummy picnic with lots of special treats!”

  “What’s all this about?” says Stuart.

  The T-shirt is too tight on him; having me looking after him has made him regain all the weight he lost after Nina’s death.

  “I’ve asked Greg to take some new family portraits,” I say. “They’re overdue. We need Jack and Goldie in them.”

  “I’m not keen on the guy,” Stuart says under his breath.

  “Well, he’s here now,” I say. “It’s too late to send him away.”

  Perhaps Stuart did suspect or sense that there was something going on between him and Nina.

  Greg has a surprisingly authoritative voice while he’s working and does not come across as the sort of person that anyone would want to disagree with, which is a relief as neither Stuart, Felix, Emily, Jack or Goldie are acting thrilled with the impromptu photo shoot. Their sulky expressions (not Jack or Goldie, of course) grate.

  By the time it’s over, even I’m glad. It’s hard being on the other side of the camera—I don’t think I’ve ever fully appreciated that. It will make me a better, more patient photographer when I return to work. The children are hungry. They pile a random assortment of food onto their plates. Goldie hangs around, ever-hopeful that the children will feed her something under the table.

  Greg declines my offer to eat with us, thankfully (Stuart invented an excuse to escape almost as soon as the final picture had been taken), so I accompany him back to his car.

  “Thanks, Greg. Any chance you could get these to me as soon as possible, please?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He loads his bags into the trunk. This is my opportunity to talk to him.

  “I know it’s none of my business, but...”

  “You want to know why Camilla and I broke up?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re right, it is none of your business. I thought I could make it work with her, but I have too much baggage. I do have something to tell you, though. I’ve been trying to hold it in or time it properly, but I’ve realized that there’s no perfect time or way.”

  My heart thuds.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “There really is no easy way to say this, but, Marie, Nina was a murderer.”

  Thirty-Seven

  “What on earth makes you say such a thing? Who, exactly, did Nina murder?”

  “Because it’s true.” He doesn’t answer my second question.

  “Why do you think Nina was a murderer?”

  “She told me.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Not in so many words. But who goes looking for the relatives of some guy they hardly knew when you’ve had a terminal medical diagnosis? Something didn’t add up. She spun some story, but faile
d to convince me.”

  “What was the story?”

  “That she was on holiday with you and Camilla and a bloke went missing. She felt bad for his family and it was something that had always preyed on her mind.”

  “Yes, that’s true. But it doesn’t sound like much to me. What good would it do raking over it? Think of her children.”

  “That’s what she said to me when I started probing.”

  “Well, then. You definitely told me in your office that you did some work for her but hadn’t reached a conclusion.”

  “I wasn’t sure of all my facts then, hadn’t quite put everything together.”

  “As you know, I was on that holiday as well, and believe me, it was a tragic accident. If that wasn’t the case, it would’ve been investigated more thoroughly at the time.”

  He falls silent.

  “Do you know how long I’ve waited to have a family? I love Felix and Emily as if they were my own. I promised Nina I’d look out for them.”

  The look he gives me isn’t pleasant. “I thought you’d be on my side. But it seems you’ve known all along and worst of all, you seem to find it acceptable. I had you down as a person of integrity.”

  “We do need to talk. There’s a lot I can maybe help you understand. Charlie, the man whose relatives she was looking for, was my boyfriend. I loved him. She was trying to help me.”

  “I know what I know,” he says. “I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, but then Camilla filled in the blanks. Inadvertently, admittedly. There was just too much that was a coincidence. She said that the two of you had fallen out over a man. I was curious as to why she showed up at your house that time and joined the book group. I could sense a story straightaway. Maybe I should’ve pursued a career in journalism—I have a sixth sense when people are trying to hide things. I did consider it before I became a PI.”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you targeted Camilla deliberately?”

  “No. But it helped that she provided the missing pieces of the information.”

  “Did you and Nina...? What I’m trying to say, was she the woman you loved?”

  “Yes. We clicked immediately. But...she was married, unhappily, but she said that her husband had a hold over her. And the only way she could make amends for a mistake she’d made was to stick it out with him. She didn’t love him.”

  “Yet you moved here to be close to her?”

  “She wasn’t happy about it at first, but she came round. We only slept together once more after I moved. It happened so naturally and unexpectedly. We went out for a walk together. I intended to take photos of the bluebells. Nina longed to paint them. There were carpets of blue—we both agreed that we’d never seen them look so stunning. We got carried away, we couldn’t stop.”

  “I get the overall picture, thanks. Think about what you’ve just told me. Can’t you see, Greg, when you talk about integrity, sometimes it’s not that simple?”

  He ignores me. “We knew it was wrong, that she’d never leave Stuart, but I hoped. And then it was too late. She came to me for help, so I gave it, willingly, because I respected her and had feelings for her. But I didn’t know the real her, it turns out. It made me feel like I’d been lied to or misled.”

  For someone who gave me such a live and let live lecture in his office, he is very judgmental.

  Greg hates books where the villain gets away with it. He likes bad people to get their just deserts. He believes in an eye for an eye. He believes in vengeance.

  “This isn’t a novel, Greg. You’ve got conspiracy theories about actual people with real lives who could be gravely impacted. Children, I’m talking about.”

  He doesn’t budge. If I don’t accompany him to a police station (“which will, long-term-wise, help you, Marie. You really don’t need to be an accessory by keeping silent”), he’ll go alone.

  “I’m being cruel to be kind, Marie. One day you’ll thank me. The longer you ignore this, the worse it will get.”

  “You’ve got this all wrong, Greg. You’re going to get fined for wasting police time. I’m sure there’s nothing they can do about an alleged historic crime abroad, possibly caused by someone who has passed away. It will just cause grief for her family. And me. I thought we were friends.”

  “If you knew she’d done absolutely nothing wrong, you wouldn’t be trying to buy time. Do the right thing. I can’t keep such damaging knowledge inside my own head for much longer. It’s unhealthy and stressful. On top of that, her accomplice, or silent witness, whichever you’d prefer, is Camilla.”

  Good Lord. Who does he think he is?

  “There’s guilt in silence,” he says. “It gives away more than people realize.”

  He’s not wrong. If Charlie’s accident had been genuine, I believe that Camilla and Nina would’ve tried to get help and spoken up about what happened. Their guilt was most definitely in their silence.

  I try a change of subject.

  “Greg, did you put all those horrible notes through the door? Was it to scare me off? Was the camera a ploy to throw me off your scent?”

  “No, but I do know that it was Tamsin.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw her putting something through your letterbox one evening.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Believe me or don’t believe me. It doesn’t bother me either way. I thought you’d like to have it confirmed on camera, proper proof and all that. I’m sorry that hasn’t been the case so far. One more thing before I go...Tamsin did voice her disgust to me, and others, on more than one occasion regarding you and Stuart moving on so swiftly.”

  I watch him drive away, wishing he was leaving our lives for good.

  * * *

  Holding Jack in my arms, I say good-night to Emily and switch off her light.

  “Marie?” she says into the darkness.

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Are the photos Greg took going to be better than the last ones?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He took pictures of me, Mummy and Felix when he was still practicing, but Mum said they weren’t his best.”

  Goose bumps snake down my arms. “When was this, darling?”

  “A long time ago. He had a beard then. He made us say ‘pizza,’ not ‘cheese.’”

  “Can you remember what you were wearing?”

  She shrugs.

  “How about if I show you a photo?”

  “Okay.”

  My legs are weak as I walk down the stairs and remove the first ever anonymous picture I received through the letterbox (of Nina and the children) from my evidence collection. Back upstairs, I show it to Em.

  “Yeah, that’s the one he took.”

  “Thanks, darling. You’ve been a great help.”

  I feel such a surge of affection for her. I’ve been too harsh in judging her. She’ll go far, she has a natural energy and curiosity about her that I must nurture and appreciate more.

  Why is Greg trying to frame Tamsin for something he’s done?

  Thirty-Eight

  I’m trapped by all my unwise past choices. As much as I hate what Camilla (and Nina) did, Greg doesn’t have the right to make that decision. One thing makes perfect sense: I cannot allow Greg to break my promise to Nina. She trusted me to protect her reputation for the sake of her (now my) family. If Camilla is investigated for this, she’ll pin all the blame onto Nina because she isn’t here to defend herself. Clearly, she’s spun Greg a version where Nina played a greater role than she did.

  An accomplice indeed! Jack does not need to be connected (however loosely) to something so negative and potentially harmful so early on in his life.

  I take several walks a day, sometimes with Jack in his buggy, but mostly in his baby-sling, which slows me down as I stop every few minutes to check that he’s
breathing. This morning, after school drop-off (it’s wonderful to be back into some kind of routine), I’m braving a longer walk with Goldie by my side. As I head toward the main part of the village, a bird thrashes in a beech tree, making me jump as I exit the pathway.

  I bump into Clare and Ellie from my prenatal classes pushing a designer buggy with a beige canopy. They both look tired, yet so normal. They had a boy, too, also named Jack.

  It’s the first time I’ve met their Jack and vice versa, so we are all obliged to go through the baby introductions and the obligatory sharing of sympathy when it comes to sleep deprivation.

  “Let’s catch up properly next week,” says Ellie. “Florence from the group is going to organize a picnic in the park.”

  “Sounds good,” I say automatically.

  Ellie looks completely fine, serene, even. She does not look traumatized by something as natural as giving birth. Which means that there’s definitely something wrong with me. I turn back.

  * * *

  Camilla is sitting on our back doorstep, waiting for me, clearly desperate for yet another furtive chat.

  “I feel like a sitting duck,” she says.

  I open the door and we walk into the kitchen. “We do need to do something. He blamed Tamsin for the creepy messages, but something Emily said makes me think it was him all along.”

  I outline my plan.

  “Have you gone out of your mind?” Camilla says. “This will make things worse! We’ll never get away with it.”

  I quite like the fact that she doesn’t watch what she says around me. Everyone else avoids certain words which may imply that I’m not coping as well as Nina did. Camilla does no such thing. It’s strangely refreshing and comforting to be around someone with no filter, someone who doesn’t treat me as if I’m fragile.

  “All we have to do is threaten him, make him see that he really has no choice but to shut up.”

  “It’s blackmail,” she says.

  “Well, come up with a better idea. I’m trying to help. Surely you can think of a reason you need to go round to his office? How hard can it be? I’ll come out of this situation mostly all right. You, on the other hand...”