The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship

by Mansell, Anna

  When I met you, I was approaching a crossroads. I felt there was something missing in my life and the two people who are most important to me both seemed to agree – Dad was offering to pay for me to go back to university, Mo had all these ideas for jobs I could do – but I was passive in the whole process, no confidence to pursue anything, no clue as to what I really wanted in life. Then you arrived, with a story I recognised. Your pain was something I could feel, something I empathised with. It made me think about how Oli might be, growing up without his mum. It made me think about my dad, and what he gave to raise me and my brother without his wife by his side. These thoughts gave me perspective, but also, perhaps – purpose. I wanted to help. An idea that feels embarrassingly self-important now I look back. God, I’m sorry! You taught me things about my own father that I might not have seen before and I… in my twisted stupidity… thought I knew what you might need.

  I know that I was wrong. That I abused your trust. I wish – above all else – I wish I could change that. If time travel ever comes into play, I’ll be first in the car back to 2012. Maybe that’s what I should be studying at university… science and engineering!

  If you’re still reading, if you’ve got this far without burning the letter or sticking a pin into a frozen effigy of my face (I’ve read it works, I wouldn’t blame you!), please, Ed, please accept my deepest, most sincere apologies. Don’t take my attempt at humour as flippancy, more… embarrassment that I was such a dick when you needed it least.

  To you, and to Oli, I am so very sorry.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rachel x

  I fold the letter into an envelope, mark it up with his address, hoping it will find him, wherever he may be. I stick on the stamp I got from Dad, knock back the fresh orange juice and leave enough euros for the drink and a tip.

  Dropping the letter into an Italian post box, I look up to the sky. Right, Mum, your son’s getting married and I’ve got a date with Dad. We know you’re shining down on us.

  Head as high as a flawed woman could ever hold it, I head off down the cobbled street, seeking shade from the sandstone buildings that tower either side, waving to Dad as he rounds a corner to meet me.

  ‘Done?’ he asks, offering his arm.

  ‘Done,’ I say, taking it.

  ‘Come on, then. We have a wedding to attend. Tomorrow, we travel the length and breadth of Italy before you have to go home and get your head down. But today, it’s limoncello and wedding cake for us.’ He gives me a side squeeze and I cling on tight to him. I will stand on my own two feet… I will.

  Just as soon as we land back home.

  Part Three

  SEPTEMBER 2016

  Forty-Two

  Rachel

  ‘You’d never have gone for a tuxedo four years ago, Rach. Not only are you a graduate, but a ballsy one too! I am SO impressed!’ says Mo, straightening my leopard-print bow tie like a proud mother. ‘You definitely looked the hottest of all the graduates!’

  I beam. ‘D’you reckon? I wasn’t sure if it was a bit, “I’m a feminist, in your face the patriarchy”.’

  ‘Well, if it was, yah boo sucks to them. But, no, it just looked like someone in control of their destiny to me. Someone with the shoes of a hooker,’ she says, kicking my red stilettos with her own comfy Converse shoes. ‘Also, Greg said he definitely would, if he wasn’t married to me.’

  ‘Little bit weird,’ I say, feeling myself colour.

  ‘It’d save me a job, to be honest,’ she grins. ‘It’s a bit awkward when you get this fat, you know? And also, it’s almost five years together. Gets a bit samey after a while.’

  ‘Samey! That’s your husband you’re dissing.’ I bend down to talk to her pregnant belly. ‘Don’t listen to her,’ I instruct my future godchild. ‘She loves your daddy very much… even if he does push the boundaries of taste every once in a while.’ I give her tummy a pat. ‘Now, where’s that drink he promised?’ I ask, pulling my cap and gown off and dropping it on the seat beside us.

  ‘Here it is,’ says Dad, handing me a pint. ‘A toast?’

  ‘No, Dad. Don’t be embarrassing.’

  Greg sits down beside Mo, handing her a Coke and a bag of Quavers. ‘Oh, my actual God, I am starving,’ she says, shovelling several into her mouth at once.

  ‘You’ve never looked more ravishing,’ says Greg, leaning in to give her an affectionate kiss. ‘Doesn’t my heavily pregnant wife just make your heart swell,’ he says, and I roll my eyes at them. She can pretend she’s not up for it any more, but I’m certain it’s just the hormones.

  ‘Anyway,’ says Mo. ‘Yes, a toast.’

  Dad raises his glass. ‘To my brilliant daughter, a Bachelor of Education and all-round brilliant woman. You have worked so hard for this and I’m so very proud.’ He sniffs and drinks.

  ‘Dad, you better not be crying! I cannot handle you crying!’ I bite my bottom lip because I made a promise to myself that I would not unfold on this day. ‘Tears are for losers.’

  ‘Leave him alone, he’s allowed. It’s not every day you do something so cool,’ Mo teases. ‘To his brilliant daughter, a Bachelor of Education… we can only fear for the future of humanity with you in charge of a class.’ She winks and we all raise our glasses.

  ‘Could be worse, could’ve been you going into teaching!’ I clink her glass.

  ‘Ha ha, touché!’

  ‘I chuffing well did it, Mo,’ I grin, nicking a Quaver from her pack. She glares at me. ‘It’s only one!’

  ‘You try telling the baby that!’ She pulls the bag closer. ‘And, yes, you did. I always knew you could. I am almost as proud as your old dad.’

  ‘Less of the old, Maureen!’

  ‘Less of the Sunday name, Pa Fletcher!’

  The pair grin at each other, cheers-ing themselves in mutual appreciation. I lean back in my chair, my heart full of friends and family and an overwhelming sense of achievement.

  There were times in these last four years that I didn’t think I’d make it to here. The day I turned up to a school having put my dress on inside out, not able to turn it back the right way because of that old wives’ tale that says you have to roll with it so as not to have bad luck!

  The day I turned up at the wrong school altogether and fell out with a receptionist who I thought was gatekeeping, but who was in fact trying to tell me that I was due at a school with a similar name, but in the next village along.

  Or even before that, before I started training, when I was packing to move out of Mo’s, my heart breaking. Or when Dad and I handed the keys over to the house, the estate agent asked if I was okay, and I fell into his startled arms and sobbed. Poor bloke stood rigid, presumably wishing he’d never asked!

  Yet, despite those… and many more embarrassing moments… I did do it. I’m here, I made it. And the only person who’s not here to celebrate with me is Rich, who continues to travel the world with his wife. (We don’t even know where he is at the moment; probably some commune in darkest Peru.) The point is, it’s been such a long time coming, I can’t quite believe I’m here.

  ‘So, when do you start?’ asks Greg.

  ‘Monday. I get the keys to the house tomorrow and have the weekend to get unpacked and prepared, then straight into it.’ My stomach flips with nerves. ‘And I’m totally fine, not remotely nervous, or anything. Nope. No way. Everything’s going to be fine,’ I say.

  Mo winks, then grimaces.

  ‘You alright?’ I check.

  ‘Yup,’ she says in a clipped voice. ‘Just those stupid Braxton Hicks things again.’ She breathes through whatever is happening to her body and, not for the first time since she got pregnant, I vow not to have children. It’s clearly deeply uncomfortable. ‘Little fucker has its foot in my ribs too,’ she says. ‘Which doesn’t help.’

  ‘Ha! You’re so maternal,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘You try feeling maternal when you’ve got a bowling ball between your legs, not to mention the permanent heartburn. And have y
ou seen my breasts lately?’ Dad coughs, embarrassed, and Greg mutters something along the lines of ‘he should be so lucky’.

  ‘Bet you forget about it all the second the baby arrives!’ I say, the butterflies from work chat being replaced with bubbles of excitement about their pending arrival. ‘Oh my God, I can’t wait.’

  Mo and Greg grin at each other, him pulling her in for another kiss. The part of me that used to feel jealousy at how happy they are isn’t so strong now. I don’t know if it’s because I’m happier these days, more content in my own skin. Or if it’s because I’m not desperate to rush into anything. Boyfriends have come and gone in the last four years. I’ve had fun, but nobody that I could fall in love with. Nobody that matched up to… well, I’m not going to go there again. Somebody will, one day, I imagine.

  We sit, chat and laugh about the day. Mo and I reminisce about the times before she met Greg when we first moved into the flat. Before things changed; before life changed me. Before I thought wearing stilettoes for the day was a smart move. What I wouldn’t give for Mo’s Converse shoes right now!

  Shoes kicked off beneath the table, two hours pass and it’s time for me to head out into the big wide world on my own.

  ‘Look, I need to make a move, guys.’

  Mo’s eyes fill.

  ‘Don’t!’ I instruct. ‘I’m only going down the road. Okay? An hour. That’s all!’ She bites her lip, holding on to Greg’s hand, nodding. ‘And you can visit any time you need to get away from him!’ I say, nodding in Greg’s direction. ‘This is no different to when I moved out.’

  ‘Except that I wasn’t heavily pregnant and irrationally hormonal,’ she sniffs.

  ‘Well, yes, that much is true. But, seriously, I’m not going far. And as soon as that baby arrives I’ll be back anyway, okay? Just you see if I’m not.’

  Mo nods again and I smile at how our roles have briefly switched. Once I’d have been the one in bits and she’d have been pulling me up by my boot straps.

  ‘Now, you look after yourself, and let Greg look after you too. And look after each other for that matter. You’re on that bit of a roller coaster where you’re being dragged up. The carriage is making that ominous clicking sound all the way to the top and your heart is getting progressively closer to your mouth.’ Mo looks at me blankly. ‘What I’m trying to say is that when those waters break, prepare for the oblivion drop!’

  ‘I don’t think that’s helping,’ says Mo, no longer able to hold her tears back.

  ‘Oh, shit, sorry. Come here, then.’ I get up and put my arms around her, planting kisses on the top of her head. ‘You’ve totally got this, okay? And I’m on the end of the phone whenever you need me.’ She nods and sniffs and I give her a squeeze.

  ‘Dad, do you want a lift back?’

  ‘No, love, you’re fine. I’m going to take the bus, thanks. It’s the wrong direction for you anyway.’ He smiles up at me, his face older, but somehow more relaxed over the last few years. ‘Gonna pop by and see your mother first, tell her about your day,’ he says, nodding to some flowers he’s brought to put on her grave. ‘She would have been so proud of you, you know. You’ve done what she only ever dreamed of. And you’re going to be brilliant.’ He gets up, pulling me into a bear hug. ‘Go on, you get off, love. You’ve got a big week ahead.’

  ‘Okay, alright.’ I put my hands on my hips, with Dad’s, Mo’s and Greg’s faces all looking at me. God, where would I be without them? Even Greg, who has taken on the role of annoying big brother since marrying Mo. I love them. So bloody hard!

  ‘Thank you, you lot. Even you, Greg. Thank you thank you thank you.’ I blow kisses, backing out of the pub. ‘Love you!’

  ‘We love you more,’ sobs Mo, taking a tissue from Greg to wipe her eyes.

  ‘Look after her,’ I instruct him and he salutes his response.

  I turn away, my heart flitting as fear sets in. You’re on your own now, kid, I think, stepping out into Nottingham’s bright, late-summer sun. Staying here to attend uni was fun. There was something about knowing the city so well that gave me the confidence to push on through when the young’uns on the course seemed to be steaming on ahead of me. For all my talk of leaving and standing on my own two feet, I guess I realised I needed the support of those who gave a damn, just to get me through it. And they did, they do, and now I’m here. A qualified teacher. About to stand on my own two feet. Finally!

  Butterflies go crazy in my belly as I head off to my car, a new chapter about to begin...

  Forty-Three

  Ed

  Waking up on the extreme edge of my bed, core strength only just saving me from falling, I realise it’s time Oli slept in his own bed from time to time. He had an excuse last night, or maybe I did – it will only ever be his first day of school the once. He’s growing up.

  I slowly turn my head to see his tiny, perfect face, his eyes still flickering dreams. I move myself, careful not to topple out of bed, or wake him. I'm getting pretty good at stealth parenting like this. When he’s awake, there is no doubt that he is growing up. His humour, his attitude, his generosity of spirit all shine through. But in this state, he’s all baby. All 8lb 6oz of him, but bigger. And older. No longer strapped to my chest, but usually not far from my grasp.

  I sneak out of bed, making the most of a chance for quiet. I tiptoe down the stairs, narrowly avoiding the collection of Lego stashed at the very bottom, but in so doing, I’m thrown off balance, making the process of navigating our shoes by the front door all the more difficult. I manage it, but not before almost tripping over the now geriatric cat. Floyd looks up at me with eyes that could sour his own milk, before meowing in disgust. ‘You old bugger,’ I offer, reaching down to stroke his scrawny back and, despite his obvious disdain, he plods behind me into the kitchen to be fed.

  ‘Daddy, I am so excited I literally cannot breathe.’

  His little voice sings through the open plan of our 1970s ex-army home. I turn to see him skipping down the stairs, clapping his hands with glee.

  ‘You literally cannot breathe?’ I ask him, constantly amazed by his grasp of the English language. ‘Mind the Lego!’ I add, hearing a thud as he leapfrogs it from the next-to-bottom step.

  ‘I literally cannot breathe!’ he repeats.

  ‘Right,’ I say, nipping past him to brush the offending Lego into a box that I stash beneath the sofa. ‘Well, we had better sort that out straight away. You can’t go to school if you literally can’t breathe now, can you?’

  He goes to the cupboard, pulling cereal boxes out while giving me my orders. ‘Can I have Weetabix and Coco Pops, can I watch Curious George and is it time for me to get dressed yet?’ I look at him. ‘Pleeeease?’ I wonder if all four-and-a-half-year-olds – four years and eight months if you were to ask him! – are as excited as this on their first day of school. He has been building up to it, ticking off the days on our two-man family calendar, his squeals of joy getting louder as this day got nearer.

  ‘You can have whatever you like, mate. Breakfast of kings today, in fact.’

  ‘What do kings eat for breakfast, Dad?’

  ‘Weetabix mostly. And Coco Pops. Which is handy.’

  ‘Yes.’ He fist pumps the air, before launching himself onto the sofa.

  ‘Kings don't jump on the furniture though!’ I shout over my shoulder, as I busy about the kitchen fetching his breakfast. Oli digs out the TV remote from beneath the cat, who has filled himself up on cat biscuits and moved to teeter on the back of a cushion. ‘Floyd, I’m trying to put the telly on.’

  Floyd meows before heading upstairs to take up his now regular daytime position on my bed, shuffling only to keep up with the shaft of warmth on the duvet cast by the sun through my window. He thinks I haven't realised, but the long black hair is a giveaway. Ellie would have hated it.

  ‘Here you go.’ I place Oli’s bowl down on the small lap table that he uses in the lounge, sitting at the dinner table in the corner of the room to eat my own breakfast whil
e scanning all the first-day-at-school photos that fill up my Facebook timeline.

  'What are you going to do today, Daddy?’

  I look at my diary, lift the pages up in my portfolio and blow out a deep breath. ‘A bit more colouring in today, mate. The usual,’ I say. What I’m actually doing is pitching for a picture-book illustration, a job I’d really love to get, a leg up in the world of children’s book illustration, major for me, but Oli has always called it colouring in.

  ‘Daddy?’

  ‘Yes, mate?’

  ‘Do you think that Mummy can see us walking to school? You know, like Santa can?’

  I look over to her mini-me. His face shaped like hers, his eyes the same green. ‘I am sure she can. Keeping an eye out to make sure that you are good.’

  ‘I’m always good.’

  ‘Of course you are. Now eat your breakfast. School awaits!’

  As I eat my own, sifting through the job list and planning out my day, my thoughts are interrupted with moments I’m trying to ignore. Moments I don’t usually have to deal with because life goes on and you find a way to manage. I wonder what it feels like, today. As he sits there overloading his spoon and spilling breakfast everywhere. ‘Mind the carpet!’ I say. I know how I feel about all of this, life moving on. But what does it feel like for him? To be fair, he’s never known any different. She was never there for the big stuff with him. He has no idea how different it could be. I get up, ruffle his hair and collect his now empty bowl. ‘You’ll get indigestion eating that fast.’ But he doesn’t hear, because he’s already halfway up the stairs.

  Twenty minutes later, we leave the house and make our way to school.

  ‘Dad?’