by Jill Mansell
‘Oh, I don’t need an—’
‘No,’ Theo cut in, ‘we won’t be buying one of those.’
Which had come as a relief at the time. Except she’d wildly underestimated the degree of planning that had gone into this evening’s proposal.
Leaving the restaurant at eight o’clock, they headed over to the hospital before visiting time ended. Now she knew why they’d eaten dinner at six. As they entered the ward, Betsy turned her head, the unspoken question radiating from her yellow-tinged eyes.
Sophie saw Theo nod at his mother, and Betsy visibly relaxed, breaking into a smile. The next moment Sophie found herself being manoeuvred round to face him. And there and then, in the middle of the ward, in front of everyone, Theo dropped to one knee. Grasping her left hand, he cleared his throat.
‘Sophie …’ His voice was deliberately louder than usual, like an actor on stage, so that all the nurses, patients and other visitors could hear. ‘I love you so much. You mean everything to me. Will you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?’
She knew why he was doing it like this; it was so his mum could see him proposing, could be a part of it. Which was obviously a lovely, thoughtful thing to do, if pretty embarrassing for her. The back of her neck had gone all prickly and hot.
But what could she do, other than go along with it? The rest of the ward had fallen silent; everyone was waiting. And the smirking teenage boys who were here to visit their gran in the next bed were clearly longing for her to say no …
‘Yes.’ Sophie smiled down at Theo and nodded. ‘Of course I will.’
And then everyone was clapping and going aaaahhh and the smirking teenagers were pulling disappointed faces at each other and Sophie watched in disbelief as Theo took something small from his jacket pocket and began putting it on her finger.
Oh, good grief, he had bought her a ring …
Then her stomach did a weird little squeeze of dismay as she realised her mistake. No, he hadn’t bought her a ring; this one belonged to his mother.
It was small and delicate, in the style of a flower, with a central diamond and garnets for petals. She already knew that Betsy’s parents had given it to her on her twenty-first birthday and that Betsy had worn it ever since. OK, maybe this was just for show, for the benefit of their audience. As it slipped into place on her third finger, Sophie said, ‘It’s your mum’s ring …’
‘Not any more.’ Theo rose to his feet and put his arms around her. ‘She wants you to wear it. It’s yours now.’
He kissed her briefly on the mouth – it wasn’t the place for anything more full-on – then led her over to Betsy’s bed. There were tears of joy in Betsy’s eyes.
‘You have no idea how happy you’ve made me,’ she said as they hugged. ‘I know it sounds silly when I’m stuck here in this bed, but this is one of the best days of my life.’
And who knew how many days she had left? As Betsy took her hand, Sophie said, ‘I can’t wear your ring. You must keep it.’
But Betsy was already shaking her head. ‘No, no, bless you, I want you to have it. Nothing would make me happier. Look how lovely it is … it’s just beautiful on you!’
Oh dear. Sophie knew at that moment that there was no wriggling out of it. The ring was pretty, but it was the kind of style she would never have chosen for herself in a million years. Her own taste in jewellery was sleek, chunky and modern. This was like asking Lady Gaga to wear a beige knitted cardigan for the rest of her life.
But what else could she do, when it was pretty much Betsy’s dying wish?
Chapter 13
The doctors had already warned them that Betsy had only weeks to live. What no one had bargained for was the effect the word wedding could have on a potential mother-of-the-groom. Rallying almost immediately, she began making plans for the forthcoming nuptials. Theo was overjoyed. Sophie was pleased too, of course, but at the same time inwardly alarmed that what had only been meant as a vague promise now appeared to be going ahead. Still weak, but spurred on by her own enthusiasm, Betsy came home from the hospital and got busy on her computer, organising the register office, the reception, her own outfit and dozens of other must-have items for the big day.
Her recovery was miraculous. Everyone said so.
And three months later, Betsy was there with them when they got married. Resplendent in caramel silk splashed with pink peonies, she beamed with pride throughout the ceremony, afterwards telling everyone that she had the best daughter-in-law in the world.
And yes, of course it had all been down to emotional blackmail, but Sophie told herself it was OK to have been steamrollered into the wedding; it was just happening a couple of years earlier than it might have done otherwise.
Betsy was happy and that was what mattered. Look at the amazing recovery she’d made. It really was a miracle.
Except it turned out, sadly, not to be so. Within ten weeks of the wedding her condition deteriorated once more; she was readmitted to hospital and then transferred to a hospice.
Aware of the prognosis, she told Sophie and Theo to look after each other and be happy. ‘I’m going to miss out on seeing my grandchildren,’ she croaked, her voice barely audible.
‘Oh Mum …’ Tears sprang into Theo’s eyes as he clasped her thin, almost translucent hand.
‘And you’ll make such wonderful parents,’ Betsy whispered, her own eyes filled with love for her son.
‘If we have a girl,’ Theo promised, ‘we’ll call her Betsy.’
Feeling like the worst kind of daughter-in-law, Sophie silently amended that if they ever had a girl, Betsy could be her middle name. It wasn’t going to be the one that got used every day.
‘And if you have a boy,’ Betsy went on, ‘will you name him after your grandfather?’
Sophie managed a slight smile to cover the horror; Betsy might be dying, but there were limits. No way was any future child of hers going to be called Brian.
Betsy died later that night. The funeral, held a week later, was an emotional affair. Once it was over, Sophie expected Theo to grieve for a while, then gradually become accustomed to no longer having his mother around. After a few months, she thought, he would still miss her, of course, but the worst of the mourning would be over.
What she hadn’t imagined was that it would be the other way round; twelve months after Betsy’s death, the grief was worse.
And if it had been the hardest year of Theo’s life, it had been difficult for Sophie too. They were living in Betsy’s house, and she was working shifts in a call centre whilst attempting in her spare time to learn as much as possible about photography. As Theo’s wife, it was also her job to help and support him and do everything she could to cheer him up.
But nothing worked; he had neither the inclination nor the wherewithal to cheer up. Six weeks after the funeral he had walked out of his job and had subsequently shown no interest in finding another one. He was clearly depressed, but refused to see a doctor. At times he’d be silent and withdrawn for days on end. At other times he would go out and stay out, drinking too much in an effort to numb the pain. When he was at home he did nothing around the house, nor was he grateful for anything Sophie did. It was like being saddled with the kind of room-mate you’d run a mile from in ordinary life, and it was no fun at all.
Which only made Sophie feel more guilty, because this was her husband and it wasn’t his fault. She knew perfectly well this wasn’t what he was really like. And they’d exchanged vows: for better, for worse, in sickness and in health. She had to be patient and understanding and help him through this.
Eventually, surely, worse had to become better.
But Theo wasn’t making it easy for her. He resented the fact that she was carrying on with life as if nothing catastrophic had happened. He accused her of not caring. Sometimes he told her she was the only thing that kept him going. At other times he announced bitterly that she’d only married him to please his mother.
Which was true, although she never
admitted it. But the whole scenario was a nightmare. What was she supposed to do?
And then it took another turn for the worse, with Theo getting it into his head that the reason he wasn’t feeling any better was because they hadn’t yet fulfilled Betsy’s other dearest wish.
If they had a child, everything would be resolved.
Funnily enough, the prospect of giving birth to a baby called Brian wasn’t a tempting one. Sophie couldn’t allow him to think it was going to happen. This was when the arguments escalated; Theo swung between angrily accusing her of not wanting him to get better and begging her to change her mind. Nothing she said could make him believe she wasn’t being unreasonable. Eventually Sophie was forced to pretend to go along with what he wanted, while secretly taking the pill in order to ensure it didn’t happen.
By now she was feeling trapped in a nightmare with no way out. Her friends were telling her to leave Theo, but how could she do that to him? If they could just get through the next few months, he might turn the corner and go back to being himself again, the real Theo she’d first fallen in love with.
Then the worst bit of bad luck meant that the truth came out. While Sophie was at work one day, Theo happened to pick up the DVD case of Bridget Jones’s Diary, which was lying on the carpet beneath her side of the bed. For some reason, maybe wondering idly if the DVD itself was inside it, he’d opened the case and discovered it wasn’t. Which just went to show, you might think it would be the safest possible place to hide your contraceptive pills, but sometimes even the most watertight plans could go awry.
Sophie never forgot the look on Theo’s face when she arrived home from work that evening. He told her she couldn’t possibly love him if that was the level of deceit she was capable of sinking to. He then announced that he didn’t want to live in the same house as someone who only pitied him. Finally, ignoring her protests, he said it was pretty obvious that the reason she was taking the pill was because she was having an affair with someone else.
Nothing Sophie said could change his mind, which was made up. He loved her but she clearly didn’t love him. The marriage was over and she could move out as soon as she liked.
It was horrendous but also, secretly, a relief. Maybe a break, a breathing space, was what they both needed. Who knew, after a few months apart, the situation might improve …
Sophie moved out a couple of days later. She rented a tiny flat in Aston; by no means lovely, but at least it was cheap. And she met Tula, who lived in the flat below.
This turned out to be the most fantastic stroke of luck; the two of them hit it off from the word go. Within a week, returning home from work became a joy rather than something to be silently dreaded. What had been an ordeal took on that last-day-of-term sense of lightness and anticipation. It was like turning the corner and discovering a wonderful new world of infinite possibilities.
Guilt mingled with the relief, needless to say. Sophie knew she’d failed as a wife. Everyone told her she’d done her best, but perhaps she should have tried harder to help Theo. He’d announced that since seeing her was just too painful, they shouldn’t meet up for a while. Which was probably a sensible idea.
Without the benefit of hindsight, she had no way of knowing the worst was yet to come.
The following Friday was Tula’s birthday. She was holding a party in her flat and everyone was invited.
‘You have to come,’ she told Sophie. ‘It’s going to be brilliant!’
Delighted, Sophie said, ‘Perfect, I’ll definitely be there.’
At four o’clock in the afternoon, just as she was arriving home from work, her phone pinged with a text from Theo. Her heart sinking, she opened it:
Hi. Want to come over tonight? Just for a chat?
Sophie exhaled slowly. Any agony aunt would say it was too soon. She’d only moved out ten days ago. Even if she didn’t have Tula’s party to go to, it would be too soon.
Rather than mention the party – because that would be plain mean – she sent back a text saying:
Sorry, can’t make it, have to work late tonight.
She hovered a finger over the x. Every text she’d ever sent to Theo had ended with kisses. As had his messages to her. But he hadn’t sent any today. Maybe adding kisses would make her look needy, prompting him to think she was desperate for a reunion.
No kisses, then. She would follow his lead. She pressed send and heard the whoosh of the text spiralling out into space.
The next moment Tula banged on her door and called out, ‘Will you be an angel and come to the supermarket with me? I need help carrying all the food back for the party.’
Right, stop thinking about Theo. Pulling the door open, Sophie plastered a bright smile on her face and said, ‘No problem. Let’s go!’
It was a great night. She’d forgotten how it felt to have fun and be carefree. There were new people to meet, slices of pizza to eat, music to dance to and drink to drink. By three in the morning the soles of Sophie’s feet burned, her throat was sore from shouting to be heard over the music, and the muscles in her face ached from laughing so much.
It wasn’t until you felt young again that you realised you’d spent the last couple of years feeling far too old. She was only twenty-four.
At five in the morning, as the first light of dawn was spreading across the sky, she climbed the stairs to her own tiny flat and fell into bed, happy and exhausted.
Waking up at midday on Saturday, Sophie made herself a cup of tea, then returned to bed and lay there for an hour, idly watching an old rerun of Friends on TV and checking her mobile, smiling at some of the photos she’d taken last night.
Just after one o’clock, making her way downstairs to see how Tula was faring, she glanced over the banister and saw a slew of post lying on the mat by the front door.
Thinking there might be some belated cards among them for Tula, Sophie went down and collected up the envelopes. Yes, two were definitely birthday cards … She stopped in mid turn, realising that the third envelope was addressed to her. In Theo’s writing.
How odd; why on earth would he choose to send her a letter in the post rather than an email? And one with a second-class stamp?
Opening the envelope, she began to read.
And her blood ran cold.
Chapter 14
Dear Sophie,
It’s five o’clock on Friday and you’ve just told me you can’t come over. (No kisses at the end of your text – yes, I noticed.) That’s OK – I wanted to see you one last time but it doesn’t matter. I’m putting this in the post with a second-class stamp so you’ll get it next week, by which time I’m sure you’ll have heard the news.
Anyway, I’m really sorry to do this to you, but life just doesn’t seem worth living any more. I love you so much, Sophie, but I know you don’t love me. Nor do you deserve to be stuck with someone you’ve stopped loving, just because you feel sorry for them. I bet the last couple of weeks have been a lot more fun, haven’t they? I’m not saying that in a sarcastic way, either. It’s a genuine question.
I love you.
I really love you, Sophie. You have no idea how much. Sorry if me doing this makes you feel sad – you’ll get over it in no time. And no need to feel guilty either. Don’t let what’s about to happen spoil your life – you don’t deserve that. I want you to be happy again. Sorry about the whole baby thing too. When the time comes, you’ll meet someone else and have beautiful babies.
Right, enough. You’re probably bored with reading this now, if you’ve even got this far. (I know, why do suicide notes always have to be so depressing?)
Anyway, goodbye. I love you too much to want to carry on without you in my life.
Be happy, Sophie. Sorry again.
All my love,
Theo xxxxxx
She hadn’t read the whole letter; skimming through the contents had been enough. After that, everything was a blur. She had no memory of doing it, but she had somehow managed to drive – still in her nightdress – across
Birmingham to Theo’s house.
The front-door key, thank goodness, was still on her key chain.
She vaguely remembered her hands shaking so badly it had taken several goes to unlock the door.
And there he’d been, up in the bedroom, on the bed. Theo, whom she’d loved with all her heart. Waxy-skinned and with his eyes closed, deeply unconscious but still breathing. Just about.
There were empty pill bottles on the bedside table. She called 999. An ambulance arrived … and police. The paramedics worked on Theo until he was in a stable enough condition to be moved, then whisked him off to Queen Elizabeth Hospital. No one could say what the prognosis was; it might already be too late to save him. This had been no cry for help; Theo had planned not to be rescued in time. He’d undoubtedly wanted to die.
If the second-class letter had arrived when he’d meant it to, he would have been dead long before he was found.
And it could still happen.
The second letter had been almost worse than the first. In the minutes before the ambulance arrived, Sophie had spotted the sheet of paper on the same table as the pill bottles. It was folded in two and had her name handwritten on the front.
Inside, it said:
Hi again, darling,
Had second thoughts after posting that letter. Thought I might walk over and wait for you to finish work. But it turns out you weren’t there after all. So I came over to your flat just before midnight. No reply when I rang your bell, but I could hear the noise from the party going on on the first floor.
Then I saw you, through the window. At the party, laughing and dancing without a care in the world. The music was Beyoncé singing ‘All the Single Ladies’. Which was appropriate. If you’d looked out of the window, you’d have seen me standing outside on the pavement. But you didn’t. Never mind. I’m glad you were having fun.
Txxx
Sophie felt sick. Theo might not have said it in so many words, but the implication was that she might just as well have picked up a knife and stabbed him through the heart.
