The Last Wife

by Karen Hamilton

  “Yes, I know. He’s trying to have me investigated for murder.”

  “Well then, even better. You have a perfectly valid reason to visit him. Persuade him he’s got it wrong. Use your imagination.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” she says. “I don’t have a choice. What am I looking for?”

  “Client records we could threaten to leak to make his business lose credibility or, better still, proof that he was behind all the threatening cards. We received a ridiculous plaque-type thing as an anonymous wedding gift. While not threatening, it may help prove something.”

  “Greg is not stupid,” she says. “If he’s gone to all the trouble of executing some malicious campaign to scare you, he’s not going to use a traceable debit card to buy them or nip down to the local convenience store to be served—and remembered by—Mrs. Miller, is he?”

  “Fair point, but he’ll have slipped up somewhere.”

  I hope.

  “I doubt it. He wouldn’t be so keen to run off to the police if he thought he’d get caught, too. He’s a private investigator. He must have loads of nifty techniques.”

  “Didn’t he ever share any information with you?”

  “No. And why would he want to scare you?”

  “I think he was more in love with Nina than he admitted to and he felt betrayed by her. I think he is getting back at me because he can’t and couldn’t with her. Or he felt that he was looking out for her by frightening me away.”

  Camilla shakes her head but doesn’t tell me that I’m wrong.

  “It’s creepy to think that I slept beside that man and didn’t suspect a thing.”

  “It is.”

  But not as creepy as Camilla admitting that she has no choice but to carry out the plan. There’s no way she’d be this desperate if she’d made it all up as she now claims.

  We agree to meet the following afternoon.

  “We can surprise him at his mate’s fishing lodge with our findings. He goes nearly every Thursday,” says Camilla. “We can talk to him without interruptions or being overseen.”

  “Well, it’s either that, or we set the place on fire with him in it.”

  “Sometimes, Marie, I can’t tell whether you’re serious or not.”

  Mess with my family, mess with me.

  It’s another day for visitors, as no sooner does Camilla leave than the doorbell rings. I spy through the camera (the one I insisted in installing myself) and spot Tamsin clutching an actual mini olive tree in a cream plant pot.

  “Congratulations,” she says as we politely sip Assam tea. (Another gift, from whom, I can’t remember.) It crosses my mind that I’ve never drunk as much tea in my life as I have since I’ve had a baby.

  “Jack’s gorgeous,” she continues.

  Everyone tells me that my baby is gorgeous before they can move on to what they really want to talk about. It’s the rules. I’m not complaining. Jack is gorgeous. I realize that my mind has drifted. Tamsin is speaking.

  “I’m sorry that I haven’t got round to visiting until now. Please let’s start again. I’m sorry I lashed out. It was just brutally unfair that Nina died so young. My sister had a health scare around the same time and it frightened me. I took some of it out on you. We miss you at the book group.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “How’s the online dating going?”

  She pulls a face. “You wouldn’t believe some of the creeps on there! Do you know, one of them asked me to pay him back for the meal he insisted on paying for because I wouldn’t go back to his place! The cheek!”

  I pull a sympathetic face.

  “I have something awkward to ask you,” I say. “It’s very awkward, which is hard because we’ve only just made up and you know...” I nod at the olive tree standing on the kitchen counter.

  She looks nervous.

  “The nasty cards you’ve been sending...”

  She frowns and tilts her head. “Cards?”

  “Yes, and the creepy flowers?”

  She looks over at the olive plant as if she’s made an error and brought flowers instead without realizing. The thing about lies is that if you’re not a bloody good actor, it’s deceivingly hard to act surprised. She doesn’t ask for any details, which is another giveaway. Perhaps I should give her lessons in how to lie.

  “Why are you asking me?”

  I take a risk, run with my hunch. I need to know, was it Greg or Tamsin?

  “Just something we caught on camera,” I say, keeping it vague. “But I don’t want to report it to the police because I’d hate to do that to a friend. I just want them to stop,” I say. “I understand if people initially disapproved, but it’s time to move on, live and let live, don’t you think?”

  “Very wise,” she says.

  “I’m prepared to leave it at that,” I continue. “Although I will keep the footage. I hope I won’t need to use it.”

  Tamsin holds a smile in place, clearly trying not to give away her relief, but it’s visible to me nonetheless.

  So, Greg wasn’t lying.

  I’m happy to play the let’s-pretend-it-never-happened game. I’ve bigger things to worry about as long as she behaves in a less Midsomer Murders-like fashion in future. If I hadn’t thrown out the wedding gift plaque, I’d return it to her now. I should feel angrier, but I’m too tired, and it’s quite fun watching her discomfort as she sips her cold tea, then glances at Jack, asleep in his baby chair as if willing him to wail. He remains chill. Well done, Jack!

  She opts for another tactic by rummaging around in her bag.

  “I also came round to invite you to this,” she says, handing over a leaflet, which opens out into three sections. “It’s to raise money for new sports equipment for the school.”

  I study it. It’s an art exhibition with small photo samples of some of the exhibits. Greg (no surprise there) is taking part, and there are pictures of his photos.

  “Did you decide which photos he’d use, or did he?”

  “We selected them together, actually. He said he’s going to help me sort out my own collection. They’re all just saved to my laptop and I never look at them.”

  “How long have you been friends?”

  I’m trying to figure out if she had access to the photo he took of Nina and the children. Tamsin appears oblivious, seemingly grateful that she’s off the hook.

  “Oh, ages! We matched on a dating app a long while ago—don’t tell anyone, please—but we both agreed that there was no way. I mean...Greg. He’s just, well...Greg, don’t you think?”

  I don’t trust myself to reply. Instead I give the leaflet further attention. The samples of Greg’s photos are of a bluebell wood in among shades of mauve, blue, green, purple and brown. An easel holding a canvas stands among the bluebells. A woman with long, dark hair, her back to the camera, is painting the woodland scene, capturing it perfectly. It is Nina’s unmistakable style.

  I shiver. Is Greg about to go public with his affair with Nina? If so, it means he’s beyond caring and his threats are real.

  The urge to see Christian is overwhelming. I tell Stuart that I need him to watch Jack while I go to a medical appointment alone. I catch a bus, which takes an age, but I enjoy staring out the window at the passing forest scenes with nothing to do and only myself to think of.

  * * *

  All therapy rooms are the same but different, I know that, yet Christian’s should feel familiar by now. It doesn’t. Something has changed. I look around the room, at the throws over the chairs, the jade cushions, the books on the shelves. Same titles, same human problems. I half considered going to seek the help of a new therapist, start afresh. But I can’t face repeating the bland facts detailing my early life.

  So, here I am, back with Christian. It’s comforting. I’m out of sorts and I can’t seem to find the right words, despite his familiar presence maki
ng me feel safe. I’m vulnerable, so much so, that if someone is too nice to me, I will crack. He isn’t the overly sympathetic type, and I need that right now.

  I tell Christian about the helplessness I felt during Jack’s birth, the anger at losing control, the avoidable indignities, the rage that won’t go away, the pregnant women I want to warn, yet can’t because I don’t want to frighten anyone. How I feel duped by the classes I went to prebirth that misled by discussing calming playlists and aromatic oils. There was no mention that some women will have no choice but to accept drugs and medical intervention. No balance, however well intended. How I’m amazed that the human race continues, how any woman has more than one child.

  “But,” I say, desperate to lift my mood, “my dad visibly melted the moment he met Jack, despite his reservations about the father. The best thing out of all of this, the actual moment that has totally erased my doubts, is that the day I placed Jack in my mother’s arms, she smiled. She lit up. It was genuine joy and recognition. I won’t have anyone tell me that it was anything different. Everything I did to have my baby was worth it.”

  He smiles. We drift into silence, and for once, I don’t rush to fill it. He does.

  “It sounds as if you may have suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder or birth trauma. It’s not uncommon, apparently. There is more understanding and recognition surrounding it now,” he says. “I’ve encountered a few cases. The guilt is silencing because everyone knows someone who hasn’t been fortunate enough to have their own child or has lost one, so naturally, they keep quiet out of consideration, out of fear of appearing ungrateful, making a fuss or even the fear that social services will deem them an unfit mother and remove their child.”

  He must’ve felt passionately about it as he breaks one of his own unspoken rules by sharing a rare snippet of personal information: that it affected his wife after their third child.

  When there are mere minutes left of the session, during the usual time when Christian disengages and wraps up our conversation as best as he can, the urge to confess that’s been building all session, the desire for release, is so overwhelming that I blurt out, “I aborted Charlie’s baby.”

  Apart from what I shared with Camilla, I’ve never said these exact words out loud to anyone. Deciding to trust Christian has (at times) felt like being given a key to unlock my subconscious. Although painful, telling the truth, the real story, isn’t as frightening or as exposing as I feared. Strangely. I already feel better than I do when I lie or mislead.

  I recall an ex-friend telling me that people feel as if they are wasting their time and energy on a liar. I understand a little better now what she meant, although I was furious with her at the time because clearly she was having a go at me.

  Discovering who Louise was—it was such a monumental punch in the gut. I was hurt when Charlie started to distance himself from me, even before the holiday. I thought that he—we—were too young, unprepared, too everything-wrong or not-ideal-circumstances. I thought he’d feel trapped, pull away further. I’d read this article in a magazine about attraction that stated that people could sense neediness, that it acted as a subconscious repellent. A part of me felt I’d done the right thing, or so I thought. But, of course, afterward, during the horrendously shocking aftermath and the months that followed, it dawned that I’d killed a part of him, too.

  If only I’d known about Camilla’s pregnancy, I’d still have felt pain, of course, but it wouldn’t have been as all-consuming.

  It’s not until after I leave that I realize it wasn’t the room that was different. It was me.

  * * *

  The session leaves me feeling disconnected, my mind crammed full of disturbing thoughts. A part of me had hoped before the session that Christian would somehow sense that I’m on the edge of doing something dangerous and desperate. I wanted him to intuitively see beneath the chitchat, to push and probe beneath the look how well I’m coping veneer and save me from myself.

  In my darkest moments, I regress to a childlike state and want someone to give me permission to silence Greg.

  There’s a side of me emerging that scares me; the desire to protect what I’ve given so much up to attain is so overwhelming, so powerfully strong that I feel frightened of what I might do and how easy it would be to lose sight of what’s right and what’s wrong.

  Thirty-Nine

  Stuart hovers in the kitchen as I zip up my jacket and fill a water bottle.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? As in, all right, all right? You’ve been quiet.”

  “Fine. I just need a long walk.”

  He doesn’t look convinced. “What route are you walking and how long will it take?”

  Stuart has developed an annoying sixth sense when I’m up to something. It’s disturbing and ups my anxiety level another notch.

  I make up a route and mutter something about being “a few hours” and “stunning early autumn leaves.” He doesn’t question me further because Jack saves me from more interrogation by wailing through the baby monitor. Stuart goes upstairs to console him.

  I hesitate before I shut the back door behind me. I want to cocoon myself away, snuggle up with Jack. I could tell Stuart the truth and get him involved. But Nina trusted me with her dying wishes. She wouldn’t have wanted Stuart to find out about her fling with Greg either; she trusted me to hide her secrets. Just like she trusted me to protect her family. Me, not him.

  * * *

  Camilla opens the guesthouse door with a cup of coffee in her hand.

  “Want one?”

  “Go on, then.”

  As I watch her brew it, I already know what she’s going to say.

  “I’m sorry, it was impossible to get into his office, let alone sniff around and hunt down potential blackmail information undisturbed.”

  “So, we are left with no choice but to visit him at the fishing lodge and appeal to his better nature or make him see sense.”

  “I’m going to reason with him,” says Camilla, as if my disappointment has spurred her on. “Let’s go. Two against one.”

  I mull it over. “No, I think it’s best if I go alone. I haven’t done anything wrong. He thinks you deserve to pay for what you did, along with Nina’s family, too. I’ll be firm, emotionally blackmail him. I’ll tell him about Felix and Emily’s nightmares and force him to understand.”

  “I can’t let you go and see him alone.”

  “Why not? He’s hardly likely to turn violent when he’s utterly convinced by the notion that he’s way up on the moral high ground. Plus, he won’t be expecting me there, he’ll be caught off guard.”

  “I’ll babysit, get Stuart to go with you.” “No, don’t. He doesn’t need to hear about the affair. I can handle this, really.”

  “He can’t stake a claim too high up the morality mountain if he terrorized you with the notes and creepy flowers.”

  “It was Tamsin, not Greg.”

  I update her on my discoveries. Afterward, still seemingly fearfully reluctant, she gives me directions to the lodge and watches through the upstairs window as I walk in the direction of the river. It starts to drizzle.

  It takes a good forty minutes because I’m mindful not to push myself too hard. I have to rely solely on Camilla’s description; there’s no hope of using any phone maps in the woods. As I approach what must be the correct property—because it’s the only one in the right spot—I notice the rain has stopped. It was impossible to tell beneath the dense trees. I spot a rainbow. Such an auspicious sign buoys me up.

  The lodge is more of a large wooden shed with a raised outside porch. There’s a sign near the open gate stating that it’s private, but the flimsy fence around the perimeter of the grounds is in bad need of repairs and not conducive to blocking out unauthorized access.

  I hang back by the trees. The place is deserted. No way is Greg here. His car is not in the drive and
the desolation is freaking me out. Perhaps I’m not quite right, as Deborah is fond of suggesting lately.

  A couple of hikers walk past the lodge, soon followed by someone on horseback along the nearby bridleway. It is comforting, especially when I notice that kids have tried to build a den a few meters away, which means that I’m not a million miles away from civilization. I inhale the coolness of the approaching evening, feeling the best I have in a long time, in fact. Almost myself again. It gives me hope.

  It’s time to leave, to admit defeat. I feel strangely at peace with the decision until I hear the sound of a car approaching, growing louder. I stay put, out of sight.

  A smallish black truck drives past, flattening the wild grass in the center of the track as it does so and parks by the gate. It’s not Greg’s, which is bloody disappointing. Yet a part of me feels relieved. This was clearly a crap idea of mine. I’ve tried my best. My conscience is clear.

  Yet it is him. Either he’s bought a new vehicle or he’s borrowed one. I watch as he unloads bags and equipment, losing my nerve. I manage to convince myself that it’s not my problem after all. Yet really, it is, because Nina isn’t here and I am. My hands start to feel numb. The sun is disappearing and the rainbow has dissipated. I pull on my gloves and a woolly hat, before walking alongside the grounds to warm up.

  Greg is setting up by the river to the far right of the grounds where there is a gap in the lush foliage. He looks as if he’s settling in for the evening or night. He is erecting a proper, sturdy-looking tent, not like some of the more flimsy ones I’ve noticed fishermen use by the local rivers and lakes over the years. He sets up a camping stove, a canvas stool, various kinds of fishing equipment, a box and rods.

  Barely dormant anger returns at the sight of him getting on with his life so calmly, not a care in the world, while he has the power to upend mine.

  I open my mouth to call out to him, a cheery Hi, Greg, I was just out walking and fancy seeing you here...type of thing, but I remain mute.