I push open our bedroom door.
I make my way to our bed and drop into it; duck-down cushions my fall. I don’t change. I don’t wash. I’ve no energy to think. I’m done. This is the turning point. I can't fool myself into thinking that clarity can ever come. Rachel’s right about acceptance.
I lift myself enough to climb under the covers, wrapping up on Ellie’s side of the bed. Her perfume sits on the bedside table, residue on her pillow from the last time I sprayed it. I lie there, eyes closed.
And then I realise: I never close our bedroom door.
Because of Oli.
I haven’t closed it in months.
I open my eyes. There’s a dress, trapped in the wardrobe door.
If I was cold before, I’m colder now. And breathless, because I wouldn’t do that, I’d notice. I make sure Ellie’s clothes aren’t trapped when I shut those doors. Just as she always, meticulously, did. I search the room for signs of anything out of place. Nothing obvious, except the dress. And the door.
Her box is still there, on the floor beside the wardrobe. Have any papers moved? I jump out of bed, kneeling, packing everything back in with no thought to order or form. I check the wardrobe and the floor for more papers strewn and, as I do, I see Ellie’s diaries: things I never knew she kept until the day I came to find a dress, something perfect for her rest in peace. That’s when I found them. I knelt before them, running a finger along each spine, but the pain of reading Ellie’s words, by her hand, was too much. And, besides, they’re private. Each time since, when I’ve reached out to them, yearning to be drunk on her, on her memories, I’ve always stopped, my hand hovering just above them, as if they’re surrounded by some kind of opposite magnetic force field that stops me from making a connection.
So why are they out of order?
Why does 2012 sit before 2011?
I move it back. Because she’d have hated that more than the idea of my touching them. She liked order, form, conformity, albeit on her terms. I check the rest, chronologically packed right back to 2006. The year we met. I inhale deeply as, against everything I’ve believed in before, I open it up to read.
10th January 2006
Dear Diary,
Today I met my future husband. I don’t know his surname. We haven't been on a date. And if it turns out he has annoying habits like mouth-open-chewing or not-really-snoring snoring, I reserve the right to revoke my proclamation. But all things considered thus far, he’s the one.
It’s also the day I bought the most incredible pair of boots. Literally the best you’ve ever seen. Delicious, pillar-box red, suede wedges and fifty per cent off! Who cares it’s minus three degrees and snow is imminent, the God of January Sales smiles down on me. I’m not sure which I am more excited about... husband or boots? Probably, digging deep, it would be the husband... but it’s close.
So, here’s the scene: department store escalators – I know, right, heady with the glamour – I’m going up one side and he’s going down the other. It’s been a good morning at work, a couple of quick wins. The boss is unusually chipper and we’ve a happy client so I deserve a treat, right? Post-Christmas retail reward for hard work and dedication. (Actually, it wasn’t so hard. It pays to ply PRs with gin cocktails and exclusives… I digress.) So, I’m moving from fragrance to footwear and there he is: Morning Guy. Meet me at the traffic lights guy. My goodness I like your Alfa Romeo Spider guy. That one. And, just like every morning for the last few months, when we arrive at the traffic lights at the same time on our independent commute to work, he has a sort of naughty glint in his eye.
Today, minus cars and in the flesh, our paths cross. He’s headphoned up, tapping the handrail as he makes his way in the opposite direction. It’s pleasing to find that someone whose head and shoulders have caused such a stir, can back it up with equally exciting rest-of-himself. A mid-grey, three-piece suit and polished brogues; office immaculate. He looks posh cufflinks away from a catalogue model, one of the really hot ones. In a top-end catalogue (oxymoron?). Dark eyes that search you out of the menswear pages. All brooding. The sort of catalogue model with a hint of stubble and a look that says: stand by the Xerox, things are gonna get steamy.
At the risk of sounding a bit Richard Curtis film (not that there’s anything wrong with that, per se!) our eyes meet and my heart does that flippy thing, where for a split second you think you’ve stopped breathing. He offers a smile, I reciprocate, stumble over a mouthed hello and – despite our entirely innocent and completely silent exchange (maybe we don’t need words?) – my aforementioned heart takes residence in my mouth. As I get to the top, I see him walk away without looking back and, laughing at my own stupidity, I invest all newly found energy in the boots (the boots!), which stand proud at the top of the escalator, patiently waiting my arrival.
Shoes off. First boot on, Morning Guy reappears. Breathe. Remember to breathe.
‘Hi. I'm Ed.’ It’s funny, he does look like an Ed. ‘So...’ He pauses, before starting to talk, but I’m not sure what he says as I’m trying to act cool, standing with one foot in boot, the other be-socked and throwing me off balance. He steadies me until I hold my hover to the same height as the boot, by which time he’s asked me out. I giggle a yes, give him my number, and tell him to text me when and where.
Which he did. Ten minutes later. I don’t mind admitting, I swooned. I never swoon. I’ve outgrown swooning.
So now I'm in my bedroom, surrounded by discarded clothes, having finally settled on black mini skirt, polo neck, opaques and the boots. Because maybe they’re good luck. My hands are shaking too much to perfect my usual 1960s eyeliner, and the butterflies in my stomach tempt me to back out, except backing out is no way to start things with your future husband. I might not tell him that bit. Wouldn’t want to scare him off.
And I’m terrified. Because although I didn’t set out to bag a man today, and although the above makes me sound more high maintenance than I actually am, I think I could really like him. There’s just something about him.
If the sales gods are up there, can you have a word with the ones in charge of romance? Please don’t let me come across as a dick!
Xx
My palms are sweaty and my heart beats heavy. I flick through more pages: the first time we went to Mum and Dad’s and I introduced her to everyone, the memory tainted with Lisa’s suggestion that Ellie gave up trying to impress them. I remember now, it was a disagreement about a newspaper article. Dad had read out something from the Daily Mail and before she’d had chance to think, Ellie had given her very strong opinion on that particular newspaper. She was shut down. So she shut down too.
There was the time we came to view this house: ‘Oh my God, this is a forever home, Ed.’ We weren’t married, but I remember thinking this was where I’d propose. And a few months later I did. She was in the bathroom, trying to get warm because the heating had broken but the electric shower still worked. She stood beneath it, letting the steaming water thaw her out and I said it before I’d even realised I was about to.
‘Will you marry me?’
‘In a heartbeat.’
‘In a heartbeat.’ I place 2006 back, running my finger along to 2011. Opening it up, a picture falls out. Me, Ellie and our friends, taken on a timer the night we conceived Oli. We lay in bed that night, wrapped up in each other and love and home and the future. ‘Anything is possible now we have each other, Ed.’ She traced a heart with her finger on my chest. Every inch of me tingled.
That was the woman I knew and loved and that is the woman I want to remember. The mother of my child, the woman who planned our endless possibilities. The woman who would be heartbroken if she knew I was questioning any of this.
Fuck, I’m even questioning one of the few people who has helped me. Rachel wouldn’t snoop around. I know she wouldn’t. She’s not that type of person, she understands what’s going on. Whatever brought us together – circumstance, serendipity, Ellie – she is on our side.
Frantically, I gather up the d
iaries, cradling them in my arms as I go downstairs and out into our rain-soaked garden. Threatening clouds hover, adding fuel to my urgency. I lift the lid on the incinerator, dumping them inside as I yank it free of the undergrowth. I roll it up onto the patio. I grab newspaper and firelighters, then lighter fluid to combat any damp in the air. I let a match flame kiss the air above the diaries and, instantly, high flames dance into the sky, grey smoke twists up and into the night as I watch the paper curl; Ellie’s writing disintegrates against the heat.
I have the truth in my heart and that is what I’ll take to my grave. I’m sorry I questioned you, Ellie.
Twenty-Nine
Rachel
The flat is silent when I trudge in, defeated. What I want is to be looked after while I work out how to deal with all of this, but instead there’s nothing. No radio, no talking. No Mo to save the day. Though on second thoughts, it’s probably for the best.
Our Ikea trip fairy lights are finally in place, stretching across our fireplace, emitting a warm white light, but even the arrival of magical, tiny night lights can’t ease the suffocating fear and hatred in my heart. Mostly hatred, in truth. How could I have done that to him? How could I have done it full stop? What possessed me?
And how do I say something? Should I even?
I check the door for signs that Greg is still here, his shoes, his coat. Anything. I don’t want to interrupt them, but I need Mo. I need to work out what the hell I do next. Our usual solution of damage limitation over a burger and a beer is not an option. My relationship with Ed is beyond saturated fats and alcohol. What am I even talking about? I’m his child’s nursery nurse. That’s it. There is no relationship, nor should there ever be. That I even think that, after what I’ve just done, proves what an abhorrent individual I am.
I read his dead wife’s diaries, for fuck’s sake.
Whatever moment I’d like to think we had back then, it was circumstance, not need. Not desire. He didn’t need me, specifically. He needed anything, anyone, someone to hold him. And I can still picture the moment: his eyes sodden with grief and loss, his body deflated, beaten, trampled. Lost.
I took advantage.
The door to Mo’s room opens and my best friend pads out. I resist running up to her and taking her down with a massive hug. It’s tempting to hold on to her until this has all blown over, but I don’t suppose that’s much good for her newly emerging relationship. Sleepily, she rubs her eyes and smooths out her hair. ‘Hey, you,’ she whispers. ‘I heard you come in. You okay? It’s late.’
‘I know.’ I nod, trying to hold back the wobble in my voice, the tears, but I fail. ‘Shit, Mo, I’ve done something awful.’
‘What? What do you mean? What have you done?’ She pulls me close then leans back to check my face. ‘What’s happened?’ I shake my head, unable to speak. ‘Rachel, hey, come on now. Breathe, take a deep breath. Calm down. Come on, come in the lounge.’ As she pulls me through, my body judders as the last couple of months – of what, I’m not quite sure – finally catch up with me; the last couple of hours being the ones to finally break me.
‘I’m awful, Mo,’ I stutter. ‘I’m a horrible human being.’
She reaches for tissues, wiping my eyes. ‘No, Rach. Don’t be silly.’ She lifts my head, my eyes meeting hers, no escape. ‘What on earth has happened?’
‘I did the worst thing you can possibly imagine, Mo. I am shit and vile and shouldn’t be trusted.’ My breath spikes as I try to get back in control.
‘Rachel, is this…’ She pulls me down onto the sofa then sits back slightly. ‘Is this to do with Ed?’ But I know she knows the answer.
I nod miserably. ‘He called,’ I hiccup. ‘He asked me to help with Oli. He wanted to go to see his brother and I’d offered to help out any time he needed me.’ Mo nods knowingly, and I have to look away. ‘So he went, and I was at his house. Oli cried and after I’d settled him, I stood on their landing and noticed something. In his room.’
‘Oh, Rach.’ Mo cradles her face in her hands. She’s smart, she’ll be piecing the evidence together as I tell her. I may not even have to say it all.
‘I went into his room,’ I whisper.
‘Okay...’
‘There was this box, full of stuff. I don’t know what… memories, drawings… that sort of thing.’ She waits. I know that she’ll have worked it out, but she’s going to make me say it after all. ‘I don’t know why? I just…’ I reach for some tissue, picking at the ply for something to do with my fingers. ‘I found diaries, too.’ I look everywhere but at Mo now. I can feel her studying my face as if trying to work out who I am. We both know a woman’s diary is sacred. ‘Everything he thinks he knows is under question, Mo. He’s doubting his wife; his sister-in-law has been saying some awful things; he’s trying to work on his grief but he has questions. There are loose ends, you know?’ I try to justify myself. ‘I just thought—’
‘That if you looked, you could find something to help.’
I bury my head in my hands. ‘Oh God.’
‘And?’
I look up at her, tears spilling down my cheeks, dropping from my chin to the tissue on my lap. I sniff hard, shaking my head, sickness swelling in my belly. ‘I don’t think it’s okay.’
‘Of course it’s not okay, Rach,’ says Mo.
‘No. I mean, I don’t think “it’s” okay.’ Mo crosses her legs in front of her, waiting for me to continue. The lounge is cold. The air feels thin, as though we’re ascending a mountain with each word I utter, oxygen supply depleting. ‘I thought something in her diary might help, so I was scanning the pages, nothing inside suggested a problem. She stopped writing it when she had Oli, but that didn’t mean anything. I mean, who has time with a newborn?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Then he came back.’
‘And found you?’
‘No, but he came back suddenly, so I tried to put the diary back, but it wouldn’t go in. Something was in the way. An envelope.’
‘And? What was in it?’
‘A paternity test.’ Mo’s eyes widen. ‘Why would you have one if there wasn’t some reasonable doubt? For what purpose?’ I ask, genuinely hoping she might have a good answer. One I’d not been able to come up with while wracking my brains for the entire drive home.
‘Rachel, I don’t know. But you’re right. This isn’t good, and you can’t get involved. You need to step back, you need to put some distance between you both.’
‘I need to tell him, though, don’t I? Surely!’
‘What good would that do?’
‘He’d have the chance to work out for himself how he wants to deal with it.’
‘And he’d also know you’d been snooping around his room, around his dead wife’s belongings. Why would you do that to him? To yourself? Backing off means you don’t have to rock what’s already unstable in his world. You don’t have to make things worse. You can just quietly, gently, extricate yourself from whatever grasp he has over you.’
‘It’s not a “grasp”, Mo. I thought I could help.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’ she says simply.
‘What? No!’
‘Rachel…’ She fixes me with that look. The one she always uses when she’s being the grown-up in our relationship. ‘You like him.’
I shake my head. ‘I don’t. I can’t. I…’ I bite my lip. Shit… Do I?
‘You need to step back. You need to walk away from all of this. This isn’t good. It’s not your place, Rachel.’
‘How can I do that without walking away from Oli too? He’s already lost one person in his tiny life—’
‘He’s months old, Rach. He won’t know.’ Mo’s observation cuts deep, but I know she’s right. ‘And if you really care about Oli, maybe it’s best if you do step back.’
‘How? How has this happened? I don't want to feel it.’ I pick at my chest, my heart, trying to pull out and throw away whatever feelings have crept up and swallowed rational thought. Whatever feelings make
me kid myself that I’m doing something for someone else’s benefit instead of… instead of… ‘Oh God, Mo. This had nothing to do with him, did it? This wasn’t me trying to help him, this was me trying to help me. Save the day. Be the one to make it alright. I was trying to be Wonder Woman but I turned into Catwoman.’
‘It’s an obscure reference, my love, but, yes, I think you did.’
I reach for a cushion, pressing it into my face with a groan. ‘Oh God, how can I love one of the dads from work? That’s never happened before! And I’ve met some really hot ones!’
‘You love him now?’
‘Shit, I don’t know, Mo. No… yes… probably not. I don’t know. I didn’t even realise I had any feelings until forty-three seconds ago!’
I look to the ceiling, my head dropping away from Mo’s gaze. I’m trying to lighten the mood because that’s easier than facing the reality of what’s going on here. Thank God Mo understands that my flippancy is deflection.
I get up to stretch my legs and pace out a plan of action. On the mantelpiece, lit by the fairy lights, is a photo I hadn’t noticed before. It’s Mo and Greg, surrounded by trees in full lime-green bloom. A late-evening sun shines from behind the camera, lighting up their faces. Greg stands behind Mo, his arms wrapped around her chest, his face nestled next to hers. She holds on to him, one hand clasped to his arm – her other outstretched to take the photo. There’s a building behind them, red-bricked ruins.
‘Our second date. We went to Rufford Abbey,’ she explains. ‘We walked around the lake, we sat watching the squirrels. We shared chips in the café. We took this.’ She reaches to pass it to me. ‘He brought it over tonight as a gift, asking if we could officially be boyfriend and girlfriend.’ She smiles, dreamily. ‘It was… so lovely!’
I feel a twang in my heart, a hideous kind of jealousy. I want that. I want that sense of hope and new-love excitement. Those butterflies with the calls and texts, the excitement of first dates, the togetherness you feel when you realise your dates are turning into long walks and lazy days because all you want is to sink into the comfort of one another, no third parties needed.
The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Page 14
