The Husband Who Refused to Die

by Andrea Darby

  Tash giggles, head still hanging over her phone. I’ve endured endless jokes from Mark about the article. But I’m indulging him – relieved that things appear to be back to normal between us, our friendship seemingly intact. I can’t contemplate losing what we had.

  ‘So, what’s for lunch today? Eww, rice cakes, gross.’ Tash is rummaging through the small pile of food on top of Mark’s groaning in-tray. He’s ignoring her. They now have daily diet-offs, challenging each other to see who can consume the fewest calories without collapsing over the photocopier.

  Later, I ask Mark to give my 800 words a final scan. He’s still sat at my desk when I return with drinks. ‘Not bad,’ he declares. ‘Though you could cut down on the ‘buts’.’

  ‘Stop! No more puns or this goes over your head.’ I hold the steaming mug above him.

  Tash is pinning a print schedule on the cork noticeboard. She bundles over, looking puzzled.

  ‘I don’t get that one.’

  ‘Butts, you know, with a double ‘T’,’ I explain.

  ‘Oh cringe.’ Tash flicks Mark’s ear, cuffing him at the same time.

  ‘Hey, this is office abuse,’ he says. ‘Seriously, the article’s great. I’ve cut a couple of superfluous sentences. And there’s one bit I’ve underlined that needs re-jigging.’ Mark taps my shoulder, ambling back to his desk.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, sitting down to do the amends.

  I have an intense wave of satisfaction – and, as I’ve been sat for so long, a feeling that I’d been subjected to the bum-prodding horror I’ve written so much about – when I finally email the article to Lorex’s PR manager at 3.57pm, three minutes before deadline. I have to stay late to finish all the other postponed tasks. Even Mark leaves before me. He’s got another date with Georgia.

  Before heading home, I ring Ashley, determined to catch him before he sets off for his performance. We had another day together at his flat last weekend as Eleanor was camping on the school field. I spent lots of time staring at his bedroom curtains – we barely set foot outside the door. He’d seemed even more contemplative than usual, saying something that took me by surprise as I lay in his arms. I’d said that I’d love to see his show, how I’d read several great reviews; and how I missed London. ‘You could always move back here.’ I turned, searching his eyes for meaning, willing him to elaborate. He didn’t.

  We haven’t communicated for several days – he’s hard to get hold of – and I’m missing him. I’m keen for him to come to Tetford – to meet Eleanor – on his next free day. A biggie. On the phone, I mention it again. He’ll see if he can work something out. I ask after his nephew. He’s back at home after a short stint in hospital. But a donor hasn’t been found. I feel desperately sad. What an awful thing for a seven-year-old to go through.

  Then I ring Imogen to ask about her sex counselling session. We both roar when she recounts how she and Ben had to list five things they liked and disliked about each other.

  ‘It took me back to primary school. I had to do a similar thing after I’d had a fight with my friend Heidi over who’d have the last bit of pink paint to finish our fairy pictures,’ Imogen says. ‘It was ridiculous. I haven’t gone off Ben, I’ve just gone off bonking!’ She isn’t convinced the sessions are helping, but she’s being referred to a specialist for hormone and various other tests, as her doctor suspects a physical cause.

  ‘That’s great news. I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of it,’ I say, relieved her recent emotional swings may be due to some simple chemical imbalance that can be easily fixed.

  ‘He mentioned a testosterone patch,’ she adds.

  ‘Yikes, Imogen. So you might have a beard and bollocks the next time I see you.’

  She shrieks.

  ***

  I find Eleanor spread across the corner sofa, simultaneously watching TV, texting and reading Heat magazine.

  ‘You’re late.’ I chuckle. Being chastised by your teenage daughter is still something I can’t get used to. ‘Kirsten called round. Wants you to call her.’

  ‘Kirsten?’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know who she was at first. Then I remembered she used to be Dad’s secretary. She looks different.’ Eleanor looks up from the magazine. ‘Her car’s gross – it’s all battered on one side. I’ve seen it parked in our street a couple of times.’

  On the phone, Kirsten says she wants to see me; would I mind going to hers as the children are just back from their nan’s house? I’m bemused.

  Half an hour later and I’m sat in Kirsten’s living room, watching her two girls fight over the electronic till in their pretend shop, while their brother looks on. The smaller boy I’d seen with his mum in the street that day is sprawled across the floor in the corner, colouring in a picture, surrounded by a stash of toys and games. Her baby’s already in bed. Pleasantries over, I’m desperate to know why I’m there.

  ‘Right, time for bed, drink up,’ Kirsten warns for the third time. No movement. This time, she jumps up, grabs both girls by their wrists, yanking them to their feet.

  ‘OK, OK,’ one protests.

  ‘And you,’ the eldest says spitefully to her brother, giving him a kick. ‘Ow,’ he groans, kicking her back.

  ‘Stop it,’ the girl snarls. The youngest boy follows them out.

  ‘Right – wash, teeth and pyjamas on. I’ll be up later,’ Kirsten yells after them through the door.

  ‘Sorry about that.’ Kirsten sighs, vibrating her lips noisily. She’s barely sat down since I arrived, dashing in and out of the kitchen to fetch bedtime drinks and snacks, scuttling back and forth across the laminate in bare feet to wipe noses, clear toys and put tops on pens. She settles on her aubergine armchair, facing me, tugging repeatedly at her ponytail.

  ‘Well, I didn’t want to tell you this, but …’ she scratches at a stain on her leggings, ‘… Dan and I had an affair.’

  Shock constricts my breath. I don’t believe it. No. ‘When?’

  ‘Before I left. It’s why he sacked me. He ended it. He chose you.’ Kirsten fidgets, a pained look on her make-up-free face, upper teeth nibbling her lower lip.

  ‘But … he,’ my voice is hoarse, ‘… how long?’

  ‘Only a couple of months.’ She swallows. ‘I think my four-year-old – Jayden – is Dan’s child.’

  There’s a crashing sensation in my chest, a rush of agony. I gasp. The whole room’s spinning, my thoughts with it. None of them stay still long enough for me to grab hold of. Kirsten ignores a shout of ‘Mum’ from upstairs.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  I stand, limbs so light I almost topple. I can feel tears.

  ‘Are you sure? Couldn’t it be someone else – your boyfriend?’ I try to picture the little boy. He’s dark, robust.

  ‘No, I’m pretty sure.’

  ‘Why are you telling me now – not before … not when Dan—?’

  ‘I didn’t want Dan to know. But Jayden’s growing up and I think it’s right to ...’ She rubs her nose. The freckles on her neck and chest are obscured by big, red blotches. ‘I’m on my own now. I can’t get work—’

  ‘You want money, is that it?’ Of course. She’s been prompted by recent stories about Dan’s donations, his legacy. She wants her due.

  ‘Mum!’ Her eldest girl appears in the doorway in floral pyjamas. ‘Ethan won’t clean his teeth.’

  I turn my back to hide my face, swiping at the damp skin under my eyes. ‘I must go.’

  Kirsten turns too, yanks her ponytail up into its purple scrunchie.

  I sniffle my way out of the house, then drive in a trance, trying to drive away a mental image of Kirsten perched on Dan’s desk, wearing only a plunge bra, lacy knickers and red heels.

  I circle our house in the car, then park up a side street, staring at the dashboard through thick tears. I can’t go back yet. I need to get myself together. I ignore a text from Ashley.

  Kirsten said Dan sacked her. Yet he’d claimed he encouraged her to leave, it was all amicable. S
he’d been pretty useless at her job in the end, with so much to contend with in her home life; two toddlers and a baby back then, a boyfriend on drugs.

  So Dan had cheated. It would explain all the healthy living and fitness madness. I’d always been proud not to be jealous, that I didn’t read his emails, track his phone or sniff his shirts like a spaniel, as some wives did. Dan wasn’t flirtatious, he was loving and romantic, we still had regular sex, he was still attentive – when he wasn’t worshipping at the temple of longevity – so I didn’t need to, did I? I’d never seen Kirsten as Dan’s type; a threat. How had I been so stupid? Complacent? Conceited? Just because he bought me flowers and didn’t throw himself at women. Just because an affair wasn’t on a ‘to do’ list. I wonder what other secrets I may have missed.

  I hunch over the steering wheel, heart pounding in my ears, tears silently falling. There’s one thought I can’t bear: that I couldn’t give Dan the boy he wanted, but his mistress had. Worse still, he’d never get to see his son, but it was something I’d have to live with.

  At home, I manage to conceal my distress from Eleanor. I hide away in the bath for ages, then busy myself with mindless tasks. I dart around the house as if demented, arriving in rooms with no idea why I’ve headed there. Imogen’s adamant that Kirsten’s lying.

  ‘No way. Not Kirsten. Is she the ginger one …’ she hesitates ‘… with four kids by three different fathers?’

  ‘Five kids – she’s had a baby quite recently – and, of course, FOUR dads now, so it seems.’

  ‘Stop! No. No way.’ Imogen falls quiet. ‘Dan wouldn’t—’

  ‘It would be an awful thing to make up. Surely no one would … no, it seems we all misjudged Dan, that he burst out of his loyal husband straitjacket, lost all self-control and got his toned leg over his flabby secretary.’

  ‘No. Kirsten knows you can’t prove paternity now that Dan’s passed away. She’s bloody trying it on. She’s got no evidence. Did she have a boyfriend at the time?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Then he needs to have a DNA test first.’ She pauses. ‘And any other contenders.’

  ‘The little boy …’ I could barely say his name, ‘… Jayden – has dark hair and dimples, and—’

  ‘Just like about half the toddlers in the population. Come on, really.’

  A thought strikes me. ‘So it’s Kirsten who’s been phoning – the silent calls. The hate mail must be from her, too. And the scratch on the car. Eleanor said she’d seen Kirsten’s car parked in our street a couple of times.’ I wonder if it also explained CrykeyMoses’ comments on the forum about Dan’s ‘little problem’ and the stud reference.

  ‘What a bitch,’ Imogen says. ‘I just don’t believe it. How did you leave it with her?’

  ‘Her kids were there. I just walked away.’

  ‘You have to get some advice, speak to her again. You can’t leave it like this.’

  ‘Yes. I know. I just need time to think.’

  CHAPTER 24

  It’s hard to carry on as normal, but I have to. I’m in a horrid mess for several days, all over the place. There’s a loud, incessant hum in my head, a background babble of crowded thoughts, and a tightness in my tummy.

  Thinking about what Imogen said about proving paternity when a dad is deceased, I’ve looked into it. It’s possible, it seems, but involves taking DNA from close family members. I can’t involve Eleanor – not yet.

  I’m beginning to share Imogen’s doubts about Kirsten’s claims. Dan wouldn’t do it. I’d have known. I have absolutely no evidence with which to convict my deceased husband of being a love rat; certainly no justification for the persistent image I have of him covering his naked secretary with Post-its before giving her one in the walk-in stationery cupboard.

  At other times, though, it all seems to make perfect sense. Dan was keeping fit for a younger woman, to keep up with a mistress. He’d had his ten-year itch, and given it a good scratch. He wanted to eat his metaphorical cake whilst denying himself the real thing.

  I’ve called Ashley several times, burdening him with my woes. I’m desperate to see him, to hug him, but, sadly, he can’t get away.

  I crave Mum’s support but, while we’ve talked on the phone, it’s hard to have a proper conversation, with so much I’m keeping from her. I still can’t bring myself to tell her about Ashley, there’s no way I’ll tell her about Kirsten, and I don’t want to worry her with the menacing mail and calls.

  Apart from Ashley and Sheena, Mark’s the only other person I’ve told. He shares Imogen’s utter disbelief. He says I need to tackle Kirsten; he hopes I won’t give her a penny without proof. I haven’t told him I’ve contemplated writing a huge cheque and asking her to emigrate to New Zealand.

  I decide to call Kirsten. She doesn’t answer, so I bail out and leave a message, saying I’m ‘considering things’, I need time, and requesting her discretion as I’ve not spoken to Eleanor.

  For several nights I struggle to sleep, then I oversleep three days in a row, arriving late for work and getting a roasting from Pete.

  Then, out of the blue, I get an email inviting me, at short notice, for a first interview for the theatre job in Birmingham. Doing some last-minute preparation, I discover the venue’s much larger than I’d envisioned and has recently been rebranded and relaunched as an arts centre, with several studio areas used for a variety of events, workshops and rehearsals.

  It’s an impressive space – all glass, curves and bold colours – with light bouncing in from every angle and local, modern artwork adorning exposed brick walls. The young manager who interviews me is interested in my background, emphasises that, aside from marketing and publicity, there’s plenty of scope for writing, in the form of a newsletter and in-house reviews displayed in the foyer. I come away keen and excited, but uncertain how well I’ve conveyed myself, with my mind so unfocussed.

  Later, I visit Mick. He’s not long been discharged from hospital – but there’s talk of him returning. He’s in bed, looking extremely frail, when Sunny and I arrive, though he manages a strained smile.

  ‘Raaaayyy,’ he says, dragging a trembling hand out from under the sheet to meet mine.

  I watch Sunny’s crinkly plum skirt swish around the room as we chat. She rearranges cushions, tugs the curtains open another few inches to let in more sunlight, swaps a bottle of ‘unpleasant’, sugary squash for some elderflower cordial, then smothers Mick’s dehydrated, cracked lips with a balm she’s made with beeswax and almond oil.

  I’m sure I can see trepidation in Sunny’s eyes, but she bats it away with calm blinks as she strokes the patchy, weatherworn skin on her dad’s forearm and curls up a false smile that frames her gappy front teeth. Mick looks shattered – only his lips shining out from the dullness.

  Sunny’s spell of compelled composure is broken when the regular carer comes in to talk about the doctor’s visit.

  ‘I appreciate he feels Mick needs rest, sweetness, but I’m sure he’d benefit from a little walk.’

  And the poor man gets a grilling when he brings Mick a fresh jug of water, at Sunny’s request.

  ‘More nasty pills. What are these for?’ She drops Mick’s hand, points an accusing finger at a plastic bottle on his cabinet. I’m embarrassed. Considering Mick’s fragile state, it’s surely not the time for her to be screwing up her New Age nose at modern medicine. The carer gives a good-natured shrug.

  ‘I’ll have to check his notes.’

  It turns out to be blood-thinning medication. For the first time, Sunny responds with, what appears to be, a look of resignation, her shoulders dropping several inches.

  I’m convinced I can feel the faint breeze of an inaudible sigh of relief in the room when I offer Sunny a lift home. She’s tiring. Mick’s exhausted.

  Next day, I’m a little late for work again.

  ‘No Mark?’ I ask Tash, stepping over a collection of tools spread across the office floor and nodding a greeting to a spotty lad in a green polo shir
t who’s fixing the photocopier.

  ‘He’s in later. Pete’s not been in yet, you’re OK.’ Tash stops typing. ‘Apparently that accountant’s due in again later. It’s about time we were told what’s going on.’

  ‘I agree.’ I sigh. ‘It’s already unbearably hot in here.’

  ‘I know, babe. We so need air con.’

  I tilt the blinds, checking the window’s fully open. ‘He’s there again,’ I say. ‘The old man. Would you believe it – he’s still got that bloody anorak on?’

  ‘On a day like this – what a nutter,’ Tash says.

  ‘Actually, hang on, I think he’s taken the hood off.’

  Tash laughs.

  I sit down just in time for the morning inspection. It’s the same routine each day. Somewhere between 9 and 9.05, Pete – trailed by Barbara, glasses bouncing between her bosoms – come striding in to greet us. ‘Morning, troops,’ he’ll say, and she’ll echo, or ‘Aren’t we busy bees?’

  The pair burst in as expected, both looking perturbed by the obstacles at ground level. Barbara’s waving a minifan by her flushed face. Pete’s mocking her, frowning at the mess.

  The spotty lad takes two hours to fix the photocopier and Pete flits in and out, bald head sweating profusely due to the heat and dread of a big repair bill. Tash turns quiet and then uncharacteristically cranky when, returning from the kitchen with a glass of water to take some painkillers, she trips over a set of screwdrivers, spilling the drink over the twins and down her new ivory prom-style dress.

  She’s having another one of her ‘brain pains’, as she calls them. Doctors think they’re migraines but Tash self-diagnosed on the internet yesterday and attributes her symptoms to the holiday whiplash injury. ‘I knew your loud gob, and that bloody shrill laugh, would get you in the end,’ Mark had said, unsympathetically, receiving a two-fingered ear flick.

  Later, with our visitor gone and Pete safely tucked away in a meeting, I’m having some crafty computer time when an email drops in from Sheena:

  Hi Carrie. I’ve been worried about you. Have you decided what to do about Kirsten? Keep strong. And take lots of advice. I had to share this with you – there’s an article in today’s newspaper about a wife who’s returned after being missing for THREE years!! It suggested depression may have been a factor. There’s a lovely photo of her reunited with her husband and little boy. I cried buckets. I might just email the story to that ignorant reporter writing that ‘missing people’ story! Seriously, I’m feeling more positive again. Abi seems more settled and the school’s monitoring her closely. Maybe Geoff and I will be in the news next – though I hope it doesn’t take that long!! Always here. Sheena xxx