by Sue Watson
‘Come in, so lovely of you to come along.’ I smile, guiding her through the door.
Move quickly through my hallway, Caroline, or I might be tempted to smash your perfect face into the mirror on the wall.
We walk together into the kitchen and I can tell by the way Jen’s lips are tightly pursed that she’s with me. She looks angry on my behalf and it makes me feel so much better, so much stronger, to know I have my friend with me, urging me on.
‘So, welcome to chez Wilson,’ I announce, introducing Caroline to the other women, the doctors she probably knows from the hospital. But before she joins the gaggle of medics and disappears, I want some alone time with her, so I gesture for her to sit on a stool next to me, which she does easily, clearly happy to mount anything. She’s clutching a flute of what looks like water and I hold up my glass. ‘To new friends and big surprises,’ I say, and use my glass like a battering ram on hers as she tentatively holds it up. ‘So, glad you came after all, Caroline.’ I smile. ‘You couldn’t resist a little taste of what was to come?’ I’m wagging my finger at her, aware I may sound a little tipsy, so put down my glass. That’s enough to drink.
‘Did you get my suggested guest list?’ she asks, looking round, puzzled, as most of her cronies aren’t here.
‘Yes, thanks for that,’ I say, vaguely. ‘It’s just that, most of the names on that list weren’t exactly… Oh, I’m being very indiscreet, but quite frankly Simon doesn’t like them.’ I think it only fair to disrupt his work relationships; he’s ruined all my relationships ever.
‘Congratulations,’ I say, and clink her glass with mine again.
‘What for?’
I nod my head towards her still-flat belly. ‘The baby.’
‘Oh it’s… not … I haven’t told everyone yet. I’d prefer it if you didn’t…’
‘Absolutely. Completely understand – you mustn’t tempt fate.’ I smile as Jen catches my eye and immediately rallies.
‘So, hello, and you are?’ she asks, staggering over to us and giving me an exaggerated tipsy wink that I’m sure Caroline has seen.
‘Caroline Harker. I’m a colleague of… Simon’s.’ She puts out her hand to shake and Jen half grabs it, peering into her face, scrutinising it for a moment too long, and things have become even more uncomfortable. ‘Oh, you’re a colleague. It must be very… exciting being a nurse,’ Jen says, knowing this will be received with some distaste. Caroline’s air of superiority is plain even for tipsy Jen to spot.
‘I’m not a nurse… I’m a surgeon…’
‘Yes, she works very closely with Simon,’ I add, enjoying the show and loving Jen, who then makes it clear to Caroline that we’re all very good friends.
Caroline, if you even try to replace me, there’s a high wall to climb. Her name is Jen.
‘Simon’s always telling us his hospital stories. Oh. My. God. That guy… Marianne, what was it, a car accident?’ She’s waving her hand up and down in my direction like that will give me a clue. ‘He was twenty years old and his heart stopped… for thirty minutes. Everyone thought, that’s it, he’s gone, but Simon just had this feeling, this intuition, and he kept working on him. And, hey presto, he brought him back to life.’
I have to commend Jen for her improvisation. I don’t remember Simon ever telling that story, and as Jen’s only met him a couple of times I have to assume she’s just laying it on thick. Who knew that Jen would provide such fabulous additional PR? She’s certainly earning her keep, despite guzzling vintage champagne like it’s bloody Fanta, but she’s backing me up as promised.
‘Yes… I remember that one,’ Caroline says. ‘That was one of the first operations I assisted on at the hospital.’
So Jen’s ‘improvised’ anecdote wasn’t that imaginative after all, it was real – he must have shared this with her at the school gate. I can only imagine the other yummies joining them as he chatted, rubbing up against him like bitches on heat. I can see Caroline watching the dynamic between us as we laugh about something that happened with the kids. I want her to think Jen and I share this perfect life, with our families socialising, popping in and out of each other’s homes, opening a bottle of wine and chatting, feeding the other’s kids, collecting them when the other can’t. This isn’t how it is at all. Jen’s invited us over to hers a few times and occasionally we’ve said yes, but as Simon doesn’t really like her I’ve had to say no a lot too. In truth I barely see Jen other than at school pick-up – her nanny does most of the school runs – but Caroline doesn’t know that. I want her to think we’re all best friends, that there’s shared history between us built on school sports and fun days out with the children.
So there’s another knot you’d have to untangle, Caroline, if you wanted to be me, and take over my life. So fuck you, Caroline.
‘Where are my manners?’ I hear myself say. ‘Caroline, let me give you the tour.’
She looks a bit surprised, but if she tries to get out of it, I’ll physically force her up those bloody stairs to our bedroom, because that’s what I really want her to see.
I lead her first to the boys’ room. They are on a sleepover tonight, which I’m suddenly a bit disappointed about. Because there’s every chance they might have committed some atrocity before bedtime and the very prospect of being their stepmother might have sent Caroline running for the hills. I’ve put their toys strategically around though, so the room looks lived in, but still very Homes and Gardens. On one of the walls I’ve hung a big picture painted by Alfie and I’m keen to point it out to her.
‘Lovely,’ she says absently.
‘Hardly,’ I sneer. ‘It’s his father being eaten by a dinosaur – it’s clearly labelled,’ I say, going up close and pointing this out like a teacher at the blackboard. ‘The child psychologist had a field day.’ I laugh.
This isn’t strictly true, because Simon wouldn’t allow any of his kids to see a child psychologist. ‘Nothing wrong with him,’ he said, when he saw the painting. He was also adamant when Charlie tried to strangle Alfie, calling him ‘a jealous psycho’, that he had no idea what he was saying, but Simon and I both know where he’d heard the words, and I made a mental note to close our bedroom door from then on. #PillowTalk.
Caroline isn’t sure what to say. She stands hesitantly in the doorway and any minute I’m expecting her to ask ‘why are you showing me your kids’ bedrooms and their unhinged paintings, you crazy bitch?’ But she doesn’t because her curiosity is getting the better of her.
I then knock on Sophie’s door. ‘She’s revising,’ I say. ‘Our Sophie takes after her dad – wants to be a doctor, a forensic doctor in fact. She’s crazy for CSI and all that.’
‘Oh…’ Caroline says. ‘Don’t disturb her… it’s fine, I don’t need to see…’
‘She won’t mind,’ I say and, as Sophie calls ‘Hi’, I open the door. She’s sitting on her bed, books all around her. She looks lovely, just sitting there, long hair brought round in a knot on her shoulder, glasses on the end of her nose. She’s pretty, with small features, and looks a bit like Nicole, but people who don’t know we aren’t biologically related say she looks like me. We both like it – gives us a sense of belonging to each other.
She looks up. ‘Hi Mum.’
‘Darling, this is Caroline. She’s a friend of Dad’s; she’s here for the party.’ I bring Caroline into the doorway. She really doesn’t want to be presented to the daughter of the house and shuffles in the doorway.
‘Oh…?’ Sophie goes back to her books. Sophie can be monosyllabic like most teenagers, but she’s never rude.
I want this inveigler to see how close my stepdaughter and I are. Through my gentle, loving Sophie, I want Caroline to see yet another wall that she can’t penetrate. But Sophie’s reticence might give her a false dawn, a chink of light in the darkness, imagining she is difficult and hates me and she’s looking for a new mum.
‘Sophie, darling, it’s usual to say “hello” when you’re introduced to someone,’ I half r
oll my eyes at Caroline. Teenagers.
‘We’ve met before,’ Sophie mutters, and Caroline shuffles again in the doorway.
‘Oh, of course, in Waitrose when we were all buying lemons.’ I laugh.
‘No, we met before that,’ Sophie says disinterestedly, going back to her laptop. My stomach drops like an elevator and is now crashed on the ground floor.
Who, what, when, where, why?
‘Oh, I didn’t realise.’ I keep smiling, even though it hurts my face.
‘Yeah… we met at the tennis club. Hi again, Sophie,’ Caroline tries, but my daughter doesn’t raise her head, just mutters ‘Hi’ and pretends to work.
‘Okay, we’ll leave you to your studies, sweetie,’ I say, feeling like the rug’s been pulled from under me. ‘But do pop downstairs if you’re peckish and say hello to Jen.’
‘Jen?’ she asks. She’s barely even met Jen, but that doesn’t match with the ‘all families together’ image I’m trying to present, so I close the door quickly.
Tennis. Fucking tennis. Taking her to his club to play is bad enough, but to introduce our daughter to the woman he’s shagging is unbelievable, and makes me feel violated. I don’t care any more what he does, but I do care when he’s bringing our kids into it.
Incandescent at the audacity of him introducing Sophie to her next stepmother, I am unable to speak as I guide her to the bathroom. I try to come up with an interesting story about the tiles to give me time to compose myself and also to justify this grand tour. I’d like to smash her head against my tarnished metallic tiles and then put her head under the waterfall bath filler. ‘I mean, who still has taps?’ I laugh, running my hands under the bathroom equivalent of a minimalist Niagara Falls.
‘So, you’re a member of the tennis club too?’ I ask, feigning disinterest.
I can’t probe too much because if I do, it’s clear I haven’t a clue about Simon, or what he does. To be honest that’s true, but I don’t want her to know that.
‘Yes, I joined a few months ago. I haven’t seen you there?’
‘Oh, I go… sometimes. Simon’s always nagging me to join him for a game,’ I say, and even I think that sounds desperate. I ignore the bathroom and push open our bedroom door so we can move on. ‘Anyway, this is mine and Simon’s room, the master bedroom,’ I add with a flourish. I long to tell her we had sex here last night, that it was wonderful – loving sex between two people who’ve been together a long time and know each other well. I want to tell her it didn’t involve anyone being hurt, that it was warm and emotional. But I resist saying any of this; it wouldn’t be appropriate. Or true.
She’s looking around, taking everything in, almost sniffing the air. Fresh flowers, staged rugs and cushions, books placed strategically on bedside tables. I’ve planted a few contemporary classics on mine. I felt Jane Austen would be a cliché and suggest a buttoned-up life/wife. So I’ve piled Jack Kerouac, Tom Wolfe and Fifty Shades. I want her to think I’m wild, artsy and sexy too. The tragedy is – I think I was all these things once, before Simon. I’ve played my own little joke on him and put the Kama Sutra and Harry Potter by his bed, to which I gesture with my hand and remark, ‘Says it all about men, doesn’t it? Little boys who love sex.’ I let it hang – the implication’s clear that the two of us are at it like rabbits, but he’s so insatiable he then goes off and gets it where he can.
Work that one out, Caroline.
‘Nice… nice colour on the walls,’ she says. I can see her faltering but still clocking every little thing, including the pants from my red silk underwear lying on the floor. Staged of course, which I think is a really nice touch. I’m even more creative than I’d realised.
Enjoy your inventory, Caroline – it’s the last time you’ll be allowed in my home.
I make an embarrassed face and bend down to pick the pants up and push them discreetly under the pillow.
‘Yes, it’s all right, isn’t it? We like it. Farrow and Ball’s Borrowed Light. It’s in the kitchen too. They describe it on the website as “evoking the colour of summer skies”. That’s what drew us to it. Simon says it reminds him of our holidays in Greece. We went to Crete this year – it was spectacular,’ I say, erasing in one swipe those complaining emails he sent to her. I want to develop the idea that he lied to her when he said he was having a horrible time on holiday with his family. So I tell her what a wonderful time we had and how we plan to go back there alone, ‘just the two of us, for our next wedding anniversary’. ‘My husband is such a romantic,’ I sigh.
I pick up the silk nightgown then that I casually dropped on the bed earlier – a gift to myself recently when I saw another email order for lingerie on Simon’s account. I bought one exactly the same and I’m pretending to fold it, running the silk sensuously through my fingers, making sure she sees the label. I mustn’t miss a thing; this is a small window I have with her and it has to work.
Yes, Caroline, it is exactly the same as the one he bought you, ‘for being a good girl’. Not that good, eh?
‘Wedding anniversary… when is…?’ She can barely get her words out, so amazed is she at the marital love-fest I’m laying before her.
‘It’s not til next summer.’ I smile. ‘We’re going to renew our vows… Simon’s already chosen the hotel, the meal we’ll have and even told me he plans to work out the moment the sun will dip into the sea on that night – give or take a few minutes. He’s all about the detail is Simon. He chose the villa we stayed in with the kids – he wanted the one where the master bedroom was on the other side of the building, for obvious reasons.’ I roll my eyes in mock annoyance, but my voice is laced with affection and, I hope, sensuality. ‘We love the Greek islands,’ I sigh. I want her to believe that her textual and email presence in our lives didn’t affect our family holiday, or our marriage, because he’s been lying to her all this time. ‘You too?’ I ask, clutching the nightdress, being deliberately provocative.
‘What?’ she snaps, confused, unable to take her eyes off the nightgown. She must think she’s going mad. Been there, done that, got the pills.
Caroline, welcome to my world.
‘The Greek islands? Do you love them too?’ I ask innocently.
‘Oh… yes….’
‘Oh, we love Greece… and the South of France. We had a fabulous time there.’ I leave a pause, like I’m remembering a beautiful moment – a sun-drenched beach, my husband’s hand in mine, tangled sheets and warm bodies. ‘But it isn’t just about the location, is it? For us a holiday’s about the family being together. There’s nothing quite like it – no one else, just us in our bubble. The kids in bed with us each morning, Simon making pancakes for everyone. It’s the happiest I’ve seen him for a while; he said he dreaded coming home,’ I add, just in case she’s in any doubt. Of course, it wasn’t like this, but then neither are the stories he tells her about me. We’re both perfect liars. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ I suddenly say, like I’ve only just thought of this, ‘but for him to dread coming back from holiday – well, it’s not like him and I have this feeling something’s troubling him… at work. I wondered if…?’
‘Oh?’ She’s gone a bit rabbit in the headlights. I could just drive right over her.
‘Do you know if there’s anything…?’ I leave it hanging, look into her face, waiting to see what she’ll say to this. It’s obviously upset her to think he wanted to stay on holiday with his family… away from her.
‘No, I don’t know anything… I really… I don’t get involved in other people’s business.’
No, just other people’s husbands.
‘Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing, it’s just he’s seemed a bit down recently, says he doesn’t enjoy being at work like he used to.’ I sigh, laying the nightdress neatly back on the bed, running my hands along the silk gently. ‘I expect someone on the team is pissing him off… It happens.’ I suddenly put my hand to my mouth like I’ve said something I shouldn’t. It’s Oscar winning; my talents in this field have surprised eve
n me. ‘Oh… how tactless of me, Caroline,’ I gasp. ‘Obviously, when I said someone on the team… I didn’t mean you. No, not at all… I should hate for you to think Simon has a problem with you… in all honesty he’s never mentioned you, even in passing – so nothing to worry about there. Oh, except that time when we bumped into you in Waitrose, and he said you were new to the job and he was really father-like about the fact that you were struggling a bit? He does like to take people under his wing.’
‘Does he?’ She’s visibly shocked at this. Perhaps the penny is finally dropping. If he can say all those awful things about the apparently sane wife and mother in the happy marriage standing before her, what lies might he tell about her?
The truth according to Simon number 59,983.
I’m standing on one side of the marital bed now, her on the other, both braced over the battleground.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, putting my hand over my mouth like I’ve spoken out of turn. ‘Here’s me, standing in our bedroom with one of Simon’s colleagues, being very indiscreet. Forgive me – we’re very close and I just know when my husband’s unhappy at work. You get a sort of sixth sense as a wife.’
‘Beautiful nightie.’ She changes the subject. ‘Where is it from?’
‘Not sure – it was a special gift for being a good girl.’ I wink and see the blood drain from her face. I wait a moment for this to sink in, then give her a big, beaming smile. She doesn’t respond; she’s clearly processing everything she’s seen and heard and with that baby brain she’s probably all over the place. ‘Oh, Caroline, you mustn’t mind me. I’ve had a few drinks and I’m being very naughty – though I sometimes get gifts for that too.’ I laugh loudly at this, and put my hand back over my mouth. I do think it’s quite funny, but not as hilarious as the look of sheer horror on Caroline’s face.
