The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

  He is standing next to the slide, watching Georgia climb up the steps, and he turns as Johnny and I arrive. As usual, he looks like he has stepped out of a Crew catalogue. Blonde hair just the right side of wind-blown, wearing a T-shirt, jeans and flip-flops. I glance down: he even has nice feet. I can feel him looking at me, but I can’t meet his gaze.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here, I was worried about you,’ he says, trying to catch my eye.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Adam, I’m sorry I got you involved. I should never have phoned,’ I ramble, still looking at the floor.

  ‘I was going to call or text, but then I thought I might make things worse.’ He puts a hand on my arm. ‘How are you?’

  I look up, and he smiles at me, dimples in his cheeks and the beginnings of a tan highlighting long dark eyelashes. In that moment I feel a choir of angels is singing in the sycamore trees above us; that Cupid himself is sitting cross-legged in the bramble bushes. I cringe internally, thinking something so embarrassingly cheesy. I feel ridiculous around him; just remembering the dream from the other night is making me blush: what we did, what I orchestrated. Honestly, I tell myself, this crush is getting out of hand.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I mutter, ‘really.’

  We sit down on the grass next to each other, watching the kids. Johnny is hitting a tree with a stick, cackling with laughter, as Georgia looks on, more hesitant. She sits down next to him and starts picking the daisies in the grass around her. Adam abandons his flip-flops, stretching his legs out in front of him.

  I decide to be brave. ‘What’s your wife like, Adam?’ I ask.

  ‘Wife?’ he asks, looking at me with those big brown eyes.

  ‘Georgia’s mum?’

  He laughs, quietly. ‘Sadly, no. Georgia’s mum left us when she was a baby. So now it’s just the two of us. Me and Georgia against the world.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling nothing of the sort.

  He smiles. ‘It’s okay, we get by. Better that than being with someone who doesn’t want to be there.’

  I nod and put my hands behind me on the grass, holding my face towards the sun, closing my eyes and enjoying the warmth. I like the quiet; I like being with someone with no demands, no expectations.

  ‘I dreamt about you, that night.’ I turn to look at him and he glances away from me, embarrassed. ‘It sounds crazy, but that’s why I came over so quickly when you phoned. I had this feeling something was wrong. It woke me up.’

  ‘What were we doing? In your dream?’ I ask. I can feel the red creeping up my neck, the sun hot on my face.

  ‘I don’t really remember.’ He frowns. ‘We were at a party, I think. I felt very close to you …’ He shakes his head. ‘Dreams are funny, aren’t they? Some you remember for years and others fade as soon as you wake up.’

  He turns back to the children, happily absorbed in a playhouse under the slide. They seem to find great mirth in running round, ducking and hiding from each other behind the simply constructed walls.

  ‘Do you … do you ever wish for a different life?’ The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  Adam turns to look at me, then back to the grass, picking a daisy and rolling it around in his fingers. In the silence, I regret my honesty.

  ‘I would never wish for a life without Georgia.’ He stops, and pulls up a handful of grass, letting it fall between his fingers. ‘But would I have made some different choices along the way? Yes, I think I would.’

  ‘What would you do differently?’

  He sighs. ‘Georgia’s mum, for a start. I’d stay away from her. But then I wouldn’t have Georgia, and that’s unthinkable.’ He smiles, an expression that transforms his whole face. ‘It’s hard: we are who we are because of the choices we made. You can’t turn back the clock; you can only be more careful about what you do in the future.’ He pauses. ‘What about you?’ he asks softly.

  ‘Well, you’ve met my husband, and he’s just lovely.’ I try to laugh, but a strange sound comes out instead. My eyes feel hot. I clear my throat. ‘It’s knowing what choices to make in the first place that’s the difficult thing.’

  Adam nods, and passes me one of the daisies he’s been holding. ‘Any time you need anything …’

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

  The Old Boatman

  ‘Is it? It is something you want to go through with?’

  Jack and Annie were sitting together somewhere new: Jack’s choice, an old-style pub, dark and atmospheric, with worn sofas and aged wooden benches. Jack had a tankard of beer in front of him and Annie a glass of white wine. There was a hum of music in the air and a buzz of conversation around them. They were near the sea, Annie guessed, from the smell of salt in the air, and it must have been winter. A fire burnt enthusiastically in the fireplace next to them, and every now and again someone would blow in from outside, rubbing their hands together to warm them up from the chill.

  Annie nursed her wine. ‘There’s no guarantee it will work, is there?’ she said.

  ‘No, but there’s no guarantee it won’t, either. This isn’t going to be easy, it’s not going to be a try-once-go-back-and-redo-it-later sort of thing. We just don’t know. You try to kill your husband in his dreams – in your dreams – and you might have actually done it.’ Jack was looking at her intently, trying to read the look on her face. He was worried.

  ‘He’s a bastard, Jack. He’s a cheating, womanising, horrible man.’ She held back, leaving out the worst part.

  ‘Divorce him, then.’

  ‘He’d never let me divorce him, it would ruin his reputation.’ She shook her head. ‘He would take Johnny. He’d take my son and have that awful woman bring him up, and they would destroy him.’

  She looked at him, trying not to let her emotions come out in her voice. ‘Johnny’s such a sweet, loving child. They would take all of that from him. Bring him up to be a man, whatever that is. I’d certainly never see him again, and I couldn’t stop David. He has money. Lawyers. I wouldn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘Is he really that bad?’ Jack asked quietly.

  ‘Worse. All he cares about is his reputation and his money.’ Annie looked at Jack. ‘To him, they’re the same thing. He wants people to see him as the powerful man he is – powerful men don’t have wives that walk out on them, and they certainly don’t have wussy little boys. I need to stop it now, while I still can.’

  ‘He’d be without his dad, though. Surely a bad dad is better than nothing.’ Jack stopped for a moment, staring into his beer. ‘I grew up without a father. It’s no fun, you know.’ He waved the statement away with a swipe of his hand. ‘I’m just saying, make sure you’re certain.’ He took a final swig of his beer. ‘Another one?’

  As Jack left to get another drink from the swarming bar, Annie cupped her hands round the cooling glass of wine and thought about what he had said. Was a crappy dad better than nothing at all? Maybe it was; maybe she wasn’t doing what was best for Johnny, just what was best for her.

  As she pondered, she reached over into the fireplace and plucked out a flame. She swirled it around in her hand, feeling its warmth but knowing it wouldn’t hurt her. She rolled it into a ball, watching the reds and yellows flicker inside, then popped it into her mouth. It tasted of smoked paprika; of burnt toast, and barbecues.

  Jack came back, another tankard of beer in his hand.

  ‘I’ve thought about what you said, Jack,’ Annie said. ‘About whether a bad dad is better than no dad.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t think it is. Johnny shouldn’t grow up thinking it’s okay to treat women as David does. He needs to know that people are more important than money and that he is the top priority in his dad’s life, not the third or fourth. David sees him as a commodity, as something to show what a great man he is.’ She spat out the word with distaste. ‘He sees Johnny as an accessory so he can demonstrate how he has it all: the son, the wife, the house, the car. He doesn’t see us as people. Johnny needs to be enc
ouraged and praised, not shouted down and terrorised. He needs love and cuddles and to be able to throw baked beans on the floor like any normal toddler. He doesn’t need David in his life. And nor do I.’

  She paused, her hands grasping the edge of the table. ‘He’s worse than you could possibly imagine.’ Her voice cracked and she swallowed, taking a gulp of wine. ‘I found videos, films he had taken, him with other women. He shags anyone he likes, he abuses …’ She felt ashamed; she couldn’t look at Jack. ‘He hits women. He hits me.’ She stopped, cheeks wet and mouth dry.

  Jack nodded and reached over, wordlessly wiping the tears from her cheek with his thumb. He took her hand gently, and squeezed it. A gesture of solidarity, of understanding. ‘Okay then,’ he said. ‘So what are we going to do?’

  26

  Maggie phones in the morning to give her formal decree for the birthday dinner.

  ‘Beef Wellington,’ she declares. Crap. ‘It’s so kind of you to offer to make it all from scratch. Nothing beats that home-made touch,’ she finishes, sealing my fate.

  She knows bloody well I can’t make pastry, let alone all the bits and pieces that go into a Beef Wellington. Steak? What sort of steak? That mushroom stuff round the edge? Something to do with ham or bacon, and pastry – shortcrust or puff? I scowl at the beautiful pictures online; it all looks horribly complex. Johnny stands next to me, fat fingers smudging the screen.

  ‘Sausage roll,’ he says, looking up at me.

  ‘If only,’ I mutter back.

  Thursday evening rolls around and David comes home to an immaculate kitchen, Johnny bathed and sleeping peacefully in bed, and a Beef Wellington on a baking tray, ready to go in the oven. The buttery puff pastry is glazed with egg wash, the side crimped to a perfect zigzag, ready to be cooked at 180 degrees for a crisp golden finish. Vegetables are chopped and in a saucepan, kettle boiled and ready. Roast potatoes already cooking in the oven. A chocolate cake with a mirror glaze of ganache stands on our crystal cake stand, one silver candle in the centre. The table is laid with our best plates and cutlery, ironed white napkins folded precisely, wine glasses rinsed with hot water and shined.

  He looks at it all and grunts, taking his jacket and tie off without a word. He hands me a small purple jewellery case. I open it and gasp, seeing a delicate bracelet shining on a velvet pillow. Tiny diamonds glisten all round the diameter, refracting in the bleak overhead kitchen light, throwing out triangles of colour and sparkle.

  ‘Wrap it quickly,’ he says. ‘Mother will be here soon.’

  I snap the top shut. David forgot my last birthday. For the one before, he got me a steam mop.

  The doorbell rings, Maggie forsaking her key for a bit of formality. I hear their cooing salutations as I come back into the kitchen, placing Maggie’s present on her place mat and tweaking the ribbon.

  ‘Annie,’ she says, holding me at arm’s length and air-kissing me on both cheeks. ‘It looks like you’ve outdone yourself.’

  ‘Only the best on your birthday, Maggie.’

  ‘Still, the proof is in the tasting, isn’t it?’ She smiles.

  ‘Dinner will be in about thirty minutes,’ I say, and turn to put the Beef Wellington in the oven.

  ‘Thirty?’ Maggie reaches out a bony finger to prod the pastry as the tray passes her. ‘I would normally go for forty-five. Still! You’re the chef, Annie, who I am to interfere?’ She laughs, a little girlish tinkle.

  ‘Come and sit down, Mother,’ David says, bored of the talk of cooking. ‘And open your present, I think you’ll like it.’

  Maggie’s face when presented with the steaming Beef Wellington is something to behold. David cuts thick handsome wedges, and for the first time I can breathe with relief. It is bloody perfect: beef cooked on the outside, rare in the centre, delicate flakes of pastry, precise layers of mushroom and ham.

  David gives little moans of pleasure as he eats it; Maggie picks at her plate, chewing slowly, her nose wrinkled.

  ‘We’ll make a good wife out of you yet,’ David says, not meeting my eye. ‘What do you think, Mother?’

  ‘Delicious,’ Maggie agrees. She looks at me, ready for the kill. ‘You’ll have to tell me your secret, Annie. Who is your caterer?’

  David’s head snaps round to face me. ‘Someone else cooked this?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I say smoothly. ‘All done by my fair hand. Even the pastry.’

  ‘Well then, you must tell me how,’ Maggie replies.

  ‘A good chef never reveals her secrets.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Annie. Tell Mother how you made it.’

  I take a deep breath, and step by step recite the method for making puff pastry. How much butter, how many turns and how long in the fridge to let it cool. How I made the mushroom duxelle, how many slices of prosciutto and how long I pre-cooked the beef.

  ‘How much flour?’

  ‘Two hundred and fifty grams.’

  ‘What sort of beef?’

  ‘Aberdeen Angus, fillet.’

  Maggie quizzes me like a prize interrogator, her face screwing up into a grimace each time I answer correctly.

  ‘How much white wine?’

  ‘Just a splash.’

  ‘And where’s the rest of the bottle?’ David chips in.

  ‘In the fridge,’ I reply, pointing unnecessarily.

  Maggie gets up and walks across to it, pulling out the bottle and looking at the little bit gone from the top.

  ‘Mother, are you doubting Annie?’

  She giggles and comes back to the table. ‘Not at all, David. Just want to know so I can make it for my girls next time they’re over.’ She spears another mouthful and chews, her expression as if I’ve served up a plate of bush tucker and dog scraps.

  I smile. ‘I hope you’re enjoying it, Maggie. I wouldn’t want it to go to waste after all my efforts.’

  She narrows her eyes. ‘The roast potatoes aren’t as good as mine.’

  ‘No, no, they’re not, of course.’

  We sing ‘Happy Birthday’ and Maggie blows out the candle, her eyes screwed shut. We eat delicious moist slices of cake and David prepares the coffee as Maggie and I move to sit in the lounge. On the way through, she catches my arm, holding it surprisingly tightly with her spindly fingers.

  ‘I know you didn’t make that dinner.’

  I look down at my arm, and slowly prise her fingers away, one by one.

  ‘But I did, Maggie. Haven’t I proven that already?’ I reply sweetly. I’m feeling brazen. ‘Check the bins for the wrapping, look for the receipts, do whatever you need to do: you’ll find no evidence.’

  ‘I have,’ she says abruptly, then clamps her mouth shut. She continues in a whisper, glancing back to where David is humming in the kitchen. I can hear the whirr of the coffee machine and the clink of mugs. ‘Don’t think you can edge me out. I am here to stay. I am the most important person in his life. You don’t deserve either of them; if it wasn’t for my David, I’d worry about how that little boy was being brought up. This is what I do best; you are nothing but a pathetic copy of me, a substitute.’

  I raise my eyebrows. ‘Except tonight I wasn’t, was I, Maggie?’

  ‘I know you didn’t make that dinner,’ she says again. ‘I know you didn’t.’

  I sigh, and slump down on the sofa. ‘Whatever you say.’

  My apathy makes her mad. ‘He is my boy!’ she spits. ‘Mine. Look at this!’ She waves her scrawny wrist in my face, the bracelet glistening in the light. ‘He bought me this because he loves me the most. What do you have? Nothing!’

  ‘What are my girls talking about?’ David interrupts, coming into the room and placing the tray of coffees on the table. Maggie moves away from me and sits on the sofa opposite, smiling smugly when David sits next to her, offering her the first mug and putting in the cream.

  ‘Just chatting about you,’ I reply. ‘It’s always about you, David.’

  He laughs. ‘And so it should be.’

  Mad old cow, I th
ink, as I sip my coffee. All that effort, and she doesn’t appreciate it one iota. She just doesn’t understand what I’m good at: lying like a seasoned grifter, memorising procedures and recipes from YouTube videos, working through every possible move to hide my tracks. Of course I didn’t make the sodding dinner.

  Staring despairingly at the photos earlier that week, I remembered a shop I’d seen months ago when I was out shopping one day with Johnny –‘Home-prepared meals cooked just for you’. A professional-looking place, disregarded at the time, but a lifesaver now. Johnny and I raced into town. Beef Wellington? Chocolate cake? Sure, no problem, they said. Keep it quiet? Of course, discretion is our middle name.

  And sure enough, it arrived this morning, delivered in a nameless van by a disinterested bloke, all laid out perfectly in two brown cardboard boxes. I paid by cash, as underhand as any dark alleyway drug deal, and disposed of the cardboard in the public dog bin on the way to the park with Johnny. There, done.

  I look over to the pair of them, David mid-conversation. Maggie glares back at me, saving her fight for another day, shrivelled up in her corner of the sofa. I can’t bear the sight of them, with their arrogance and entitlement. They believe they can do anything they want to me; they believe they own me, and that I am too weak, too stupid to stop them.

  I smile and take another sip of my coffee, enjoying the moment.

  Because tonight it’s all going to be over. Tonight I’m going to kill my husband.

  Evergreen

  Annie found him quickly. The hatred that ran from her connected them like a bungee wire; she practically flew to his dream. All she had to do was imagine his smug smiling face, the feeling when he arrived home, the fear, the uncertainty, the dread in the pit of her stomach, that slightly sick, retching lurch, and suddenly, there she was.

  Today, the dream was cold. It was winter, with tall evergreens dusted with white, and a pale-blue sky; Annie heard nothing but the crunch of her boots as she stepped through the snow. It was deep, at least a foot, and hard going as she walked through the clearing towards a picture-book old-fashioned log cabin. It had a pitched roof, a small red-brick chimney with smoke coming out of the top, and a red front door. It was David’s dream, but the pretty scene seemed at odds with the filth she knew to be in his subconscious. She hesitated and looked round; she needed to take him by surprise.