The Dream Wife

by Louisa de Lange

I listen, but Johnny still seems to be asleep. I think about the dream, but unlike previous ones, the remnants of it are fading from my memory. I take another deep breath and pull the duvet back over me and the pillows into place, curling up in the warmth. It just goes to show what control David still has over me. His legacy remains, inducing claustrophobia and fear when I least expect it. I doze as the light trickles into daytime, still too wary to fall back to sleep.

  In the morning, we get up when we want. Johnny normally wakes about half six, and we take our time. We have breakfast – Cheerios for Johnny and Weetabix for me – and I enjoy my cup of tea while Johnny watches Fireman Sam. I slouch about in pyjamas until I feel like getting dressed, then take a shower and put on whatever I fancy for that day. Usually jeans and a top, the tracksuit bottoms consigned to the bin. Johnny, however, is comfortable in tracksuit trousers and a T-shirt. Then the day is ours. We go shopping and buy meals for one in Waitrose if I can’t be bothered to cook. Some days the house stays messy, covered in garish plastic toys until way past Johnny’s bedtime. I watch trashy American shows in the evening, hand in a bag of popcorn.

  I pile up the heap of paperwork you need to complete when someone dies, untouched. Everything needs to be completed in black ballpoint pen, the same details over and over again. Copies of the death certificate, descriptions from the coroner’s report, National Insurance numbers, proof of who I am, who David was, what he died of and when. Someone’s life reduced to a few numbers in a mountain of bureaucracy. I never get round to even picking up a pen: my attention span is short and I’m easily distracted when faced with the endless unintelligible text, the letters swimming in front of my eyes.

  I debate getting in contact with Becca. I even pick up a pen at one point, to write her a letter, but I don’t know what to say. I missed it all – her wedding, her pregnancy, her baby’s first birthday. David hid her letters from me, that was true, but I didn’t try to contact her either. I could have called her at any time; I could have gone to see her, but I didn’t. I was too wrapped up in my own life, too weak, too brainwashed. Just thinking about it makes me curl up inside with humiliation. I am desperate to see her but I haven’t got the strength for the conversation I know we need to have, the apology I have to make. I put it off, still frail, still ashamed.

  David does have a will, and to my relief, I can get hold of the money. The solicitor, a stale but efficient man, sorts it all out without fuss. I speak to a surprisingly nice lady in the HR department at David’s office. She phones me one day and calmly talks through the policies and procedures that apply to David’s death. I listen, one hand on the phone and the other replacing the food from lunch in the fridge.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she says. ‘David was …’ She pauses. ‘David was an important part of the office here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say automatically, and then stop, the phone still to my ear, standing with a slab of cheese in my hand. ‘Did you know, about David’s …’

  Silence from the other end of the phone.

  ‘About David’s …’ I try again.

  ‘Undesirable behaviours?’ she suggests.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We had heard a few things. We were …’ she pauses, ‘investigating.’

  We go to the park, often our schedules corresponding with Adam and Georgia’s.

  ‘So, did you phone back?’ he asks me once the children are happily running loops on the muddy grass.

  ‘Yes, eventually,’ I reply. Last time I saw Adam, I told him about a call I’d received from an old workmate who’d managed to track me down. ‘They’re looking for an assistant; it’s just an admin role, less than I used to do, but it sounds okay,’ I tell him. ‘Part-time, too, so I can still spend time with Johnny.’ I fidget with my hair. ‘I’ve got to apply yet, and have an interview, so it’s far from certain.’

  Adam smiles and reaches over, touching me gently on my arm. ‘I’m sure you’ll get it.’

  I look at him. He’s turned back to watch the kids and I take in his profile. A nice face, softer than David’s was, more crinkles and creases than jutting jawline. His hair is getting a bit long, starting to curl slightly behind his ears and at the nape of his neck, and I cross my arms, holding myself back from touching it.

  I look at Johnny again, who is now lying on the grass laughing, his legs in the air. I am sure the job will be dull, full of filing and binding and typing up minutes from interminable meetings, but it will be mine. I remember the cards and letters David squirrelled away, reminding me of the friendships I used to have. Going to work isn’t just about earning money. I had friends, I had a life. I need both of those.

  ‘And how did the funeral go?’ Adam asks.

  It rained. Great globlets of downpour pooled in the streets and flooded the car park, forcing the mourners to jump like billy goats around the puddles. Contrary to the latest thinking about funerals, where people are asked to wear bright colours to celebrate the life of the deceased, Maggie opted for a strict ‘black only’ policy. Strangely appropriate, I thought.

  That morning I dressed in the only suitable outfit I had, a ubiquitous black wrap dress from Marks and Spencer, pulling it over forty-denier tights and black heels I was unused to wearing. I wobbled slightly as I came down the stairs, one hand gripping the banister, the other holding a large black handbag that would have to carry everything we needed for the day.

  Maggie had refused to accept that a funeral was no place for a two-year-old, and insisted that Johnny attend.

  ‘What would people say if he wasn’t there?’ she said, one hand fluttering round her crêpey throat. When I replied that I didn’t care what people would say, she shook her head, looking close to hysterics again. ‘He must pay his respects to his father,’ she replied, and turned away from me, her omnipresent handkerchief going up to her eyes.

  I still didn’t know what that meant, but capitulated with a scowl when Maggie brought round a tiny black suit with elasticated tie. He did look sweet, I thought, once I had persuaded him into it, though how I was going to get him to stay quiet through the service, I didn’t know.

  One eye on the time, I quickly stuffed all manner of provisions into my handbag: nappies, wipes, cut-up grapes in a little Tupperware box, banana, raisins, a spare muslin, T-shirt and trousers, Rabbit, a few Thomas books and a couple of cars. As an afterthought, I put in a packet of tissues, for me, just in case.

  The doorbell rang and I answered it, nearly falling over my own feet in the impractical heels. An unfamiliar man stood under a large umbrella, dressed all in black, face solemn and silent. I glanced over his shoulder to the driveway, where a massive black limousine was parked, another man standing next to the open door, Maggie already waiting for us inside. Oh crap, Maggie, I thought. What have you done, how awful is this funeral going to be?

  The question was answered as we drew up to the church. The drive behind the hearse had been excruciatingly slow, Johnny fidgeting on my lap, Maggie uncharacteristically mute. It was the same church David Senior’s funeral had been held at, but this time the attendees were few and far between. When David Senior had died, the church had been packed, with people standing at the back and all down the sides, reciting affectionate and humorous anecdotes before the service started. Today, everyone was silent, clustering together in small groups, cowering out of the rain. They all looked over as we arrived, Maggie clutching my arm on one side and Johnny on my hip on the other. I walked through a large puddle, the water freezing my feet, but I barely noticed.

  Maggie had pulled out her best Jackie O ensemble once again, and sniffed occasionally under her black veil as we took our seats at the front of the church. A lone violinist played as we entered; something oppressive, screechy and grating. Maggie seemed rather dazed, her eyes glazed with the zombie stare of the overmedicated, something I had seen only too often growing up. Johnny perched on my lap, stunned into silence by the massive glossy photo of his father staring out from the front of the pulpit. Dressed in his tra
demark black suit, his eyes followed you wherever you went; even in photographic form he was intimidating.

  The church reverted to a stony silence as the coffin, a shiny black motorcar of a box, was slowly carried inside and placed at the front, a huge bunch of lilies on top. I took solace knowing David was in there, and would soon be in the ground.

  ‘A beacon of dedication, David Sullivan rose through the ranks at Melville Wright without hesitation. He commanded respect, attention to detail and hard work from his colleagues, and those who worked for him knew his unwavering demand for perfection would only work to their benefit.

  ‘God works in mysterious ways, and we can only guess at His plan for taking David away from us so soon …’

  At this Maggie clutched my arm tighter and sobbed into her handkerchief. I wasn’t sure if it had been God’s plan or mine and Jack’s that had put David in his coffin, but I knew He hadn’t done much to help me out when I needed Him the most.

  There was no mention of friendship or love as the eulogy continued, and nobody else got up to make any comment. I had gently implied I hadn’t the mental strength to make a speech at my husband’s funeral; Maggie said it wasn’t her place. Nobody murmured an agreement or laughed at a joke as the vicar spoke, and he fidgeted in his pulpit and frowned at the piece of paper in his hands, looking as uncomfortable as we all felt.

  I had managed to keep Johnny quiet as he jiggled in my lap, in the end offering him a packet of chocolate buttons to get us through the last ten minutes. Maggie glanced over and pursed her lips, but made no comment. For the final hymn (‘He Who Would Valiant Be’), I let him down and he ran up and down the aisle, arms waving. Maggie looked at me pointedly, then, when it was obvious I wasn’t going to do anything to stop him, tried to grab him, but ended up snatching at air. Johnny hooted with laughter and headed off up the aisle, stopping when Jane, the infamous PA, crouched down next to him. Through the din of the singing (‘to BE a pil-grim’) she said something to him, and he showed her the plastic cars clutched in his hand, coming to sit next to her in the pew. She looked at me and I smiled and nodded.

  A row of muttered ‘Amens’ and a sign of the cross from the vicar signalled the end of the service; discordant organ music sparked up and we shuffled out to the back room, towards the rows of curled-up sandwiches on paper plates and warm wine in plastic cups. Most people took the opportunity to make their exit, as Maggie’s ladies crowded round her, patting her arm and offering their sympathies.

  I watched Johnny out of the corner of my eye. He had clearly taken a shine to Jane, and I waited as they made their way over to me, Johnny leading her by the hand, Jane barely making eye contact as she approached.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I said as I picked him up. ‘And thank you for distracting Johnny.’

  ‘He’s a lovely little boy,’ she said. She shuffled her bag and umbrella in her hands.

  ‘He is,’ I said. She was young, now I could see her properly up close, perhaps no more than mid-twenties, slim and pretty. She was wearing barely any make-up and her hair was scraped back off her face, but I could clearly see how attractive she could be, and how she deserved more than my husband had offered.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, blurting it out in the silence. She looked like she was going to cry.

  ‘It’s okay. Just look after yourself a bit better, eat some cake.’ I gestured towards the table, and the lack of people to eat the food.

  She smiled, and bit her lip.

  ‘And stay away from shits like my husband,’ I added, and she widened her big Disney eyes in surprise.

  Johnny, bored at the conversation, tapped me gently on my nose. ‘Mummy?’ he said with a charming smile.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Chocolate cake?’

  ‘Of course, sweetie, whatever you want.’ I turned away, Jane staring after us.

  While Johnny covered his shirt in chocolate icing, I watched the wake from a distance. Nobody seemed keen to talk to me, and Maggie continued to enjoy the attention from her gaggle of ladies, her elegant hat now discarded and a glass of wine in her hand, merrily mixing her sedatives. As people slowly slunk out of the door and back into the rain, I shuffled in my plastic chair, Johnny on my lap surreptitiously starting on a cupcake just within reach, and watched the rain pour down the metal window, breaking through the frame and pooling on the windowsill.

  ‘Wasn’t it a wonderful representation of his life? So nice so many people came.’ Maggie wobbled next to me, her lipstick slightly smudged.

  ‘It was, Maggie, so good of you to organise, thank you.’

  ‘I’m going to head off with my girls.’ She gestured towards the old ladies in the corner of the room, one of them hiding something in her handbag in a napkin. ‘The burial is at two tomorrow,’ she added. I nodded. ‘I’ll leave the limo so you and Johnny can get home.’

  ‘That’s fine, don’t worry, we’ll get a cab.’

  ‘No, it’s yours.’ She leant forward and gave us both a hug. Some of the chocolate icing from Johnny’s face transferred itself to her dress. She touched his head lightly, then turned and was folded back into the mass of black.

  For a moment I envied her. She had friends to look after her. Their motives might not be as pure as they should be – I sensed some were there for the drama, and others the cake – but they would look after her and keep her busy over the next few weeks. Who did I have?

  I looked down at Johnny, who was quietly finishing off his cupcake.

  ‘Come on, little man, enough now.’ I reached into my bag and pulled out the wet wipes, fighting his resistance and cleaning the mess from his face. ‘Let’s go home.’

  Johnny picked up his plastic cars, and I stood, taking his sticky little paw in mine. My heels in one hand and his hand in the other, I walked in my stockinged feet towards the door, past the pretty pictures about baby massage, the Alpha course and yoga. I looked up, and I stopped.

  She was standing in the doorway, shaking the water off her umbrella and wiping the back of her hand across her dripping face. She looked older and more grown up but she was the exact same girl I had known all those years ago. She glanced up and saw me, a nervous grin spreading across her face.

  ‘Hi, Annabelle,’ she said.

  ‘Hi, Becca,’ I replied. Johnny pulled at my hand, anxious to get moving again.

  ‘This must be Johnny,’ she said, bending down to put her face at the same level as his.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Chocolate cake.’

  ‘Did you have chocolate cake?’ she asked. ‘Was it nice?’

  Johnny looked up at me. ‘Yes.’

  Becca stood up again. ‘I’m sorry about David. I saw the funeral notice in the paper.’

  I shrugged, feigning an ambivalence that she would never believe, then felt my legs buckle slightly. Becca grabbed me, holding me tight around my middle as I gave way to an avalanche of relief, sadness, grief, regret, anger; everything I had held inside released in a tsunami of tears and snot and dribble. Seeing me, Johnny started to wail and Becca steered us all onto the plastic chairs lined down the side of the corridor. I pulled Johnny onto my lap in a big cuddle, taking the tissue Becca offered and blowing my nose.

  ‘He was a bit of a shit,’ I offered.

  ‘I thought he might have been,’ Becca said, wiping her own eyes and mopping down the mess I had transferred onto her shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get in contact,’ I muttered into my hands. ‘David took your letters but I should have called, I should have got in contact. I should have done something. I just … I just let you go, and I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry.’

  Becca nodded and took my hand. ‘It’s not your fault. I should have done more too. I should have come round, I should have knocked on your door.’

  ‘You weren’t to know. I don’t think I realised myself, not really. Not until recently.’ I blew my nose again, and pushed the decimated tissue into my pocket. ‘Are you busy now? Johnny and I are heading off home. Do you
want to come back with us?’

  ‘I’d like that. Do you need a lift?’ A small green Ford Ka was parked at an angle at the end of the path. I could see the child seat in the back.

  ‘And I’m sorry I missed Rosie’s birthday.’

  Becca smiled. ‘Mum said she saw you. I can imagine she was less than friendly.’ She gestured towards the car and I picked Johnny up. ‘Let’s go, we have a lot of catching-up to do.’

  I smiled back. ‘We do,’ I replied.

  ‘It was okay,’ I say to Adam at the park. Cold, stressful, boring, glad it’s over. ‘An accurate reflection of his life.’

  Face-down photo

  The house was clean and tidy, decorated in muted browns and beige. Here and there sat a small ornament in turquoise: a vase or a candleholder. The curtains were accented in blue, the cushions fawn, brown and navy stripes. It was night, and a few table lamps at the corners lit the room. All perfectly co-ordinated, but with a slightly messy air, relaxed and homely.

  Annie wandered the room, unclear as to why her subconscious had dumped her here, but glad it wasn’t the white room again. It had all the usual things you would expect – a bookcase, but with titles Annie didn’t recognise, a spider plant cascading from one of the shelves. A posh television dominated the room, more technical-looking than anything she had ever experienced.

  There was a display of photos across the mantelpiece, some facing outwards – a handsome older man and woman hand in hand smiling out – but the majority face down. Annie went to pick one up.

  ‘Annie?’

  She paused, and turned to face Jack. He stood in the doorway of the living room, his hands in the pocket of his jeans.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I was looking for you.’ Annie smiled and went over to him, taking his hands in hers. ‘We did it, Jack, we did it. He’s dead.’

  Jack smiled back and gave her a hug. ‘You did it, Annie.’

  ‘And it worked!’ Annie moved and sat down on one of the beige sofas. ‘He’s gone. Everything’s going to be fine now.’ She looked up at Jack. ‘Johnny’s going to be fine.’