‘Right.’
‘You watch, bets on you already know her.’
‘Who?’
‘Your second wife.’
I shake my head. ‘Thinking about being alone is not the same as thinking about remarrying.’
‘Sure, but how old are you? Early forties? Marriage or not, there’s more happiness in your future. When you’re ready to let it in.’ She takes a drag on her newly lit cigarette, catching sight of something of interest across the field. ‘Look, I’ve gotta go. I think I see happiness in my future too,’ she says, sauntering in the direction of a bar, a pretty blonde, and an embrace that suggests the two of them know each other already.
‘I’d like a new mummy one day,’ says Oli, simply.
‘Pardon?’
‘What you two were just talking about. I’d like a mummy. And maybe a brother or a sister. Well, a brother. A sister could be boring. Though a brother might steal my toys. Which would be better, do you think?’
I stare at Oli, open-mouthed.
‘Oh, look, Daddy! It’s Miss Fletcher!’ My heart lurches as he pushes past me, running over to Rachel, who’s walking across the green, her cardigan pulled tightly around her waist. Her face briefly lights up when she sees him, then drops as she looks around to find me. He pulls upright in front of her, chattering, waving his arms around wildly.
When Rachel spots me, something in my belly flips. And something in Olivia’s words seeps through. And I remember what Ellie said, that night we celebrated with friends. The house-warming in a house that seems like a lifetime ago. ‘You’d be terrible without me, Ed.’ I’d tried to deny it, told her I would cope. When we cuddled in bed, alone, later that night, she lay her head on my bare chest. ‘You don’t have to cope, Ed. None of us do.’ She lifted her head, resting her chin on her hand, hand on my chest. She drew a heart on my heart then said, ‘If anything ever happens to me, promise me you’ll find someone to love.’ Rachel waves, shyly, and I wonder if I ever could. And if I did, is Olivia right? Do I already know her?
Fifty-Eight
Rachel
I’m not sure what changed in the last few months: it started out with friendship. The late September weekend when I collected a cheque at the fete, the donation for our school, was the start of things. Ed came over and told me he wanted us to be friends, that he didn’t want me to leave, that I was important to him. I didn’t know what I felt at the time, or how it would turn out. I had my letter of resignation penned out. I was planning to give it in two weeks later, when we broke up for half term. But I didn’t, and then the weeks passed. And things got easier, almost comfortable; brief chats in the playground; we’d share a joke. It’s been gentle, steady, but sort of definite. Certain. Certain of what, I haven’t been sure, but certain of something.
‘Oli is devastated, Floyd was his mum’s cat. It really would mean a lot to him if you could be here,’ he had said.
‘Of course, of course I will.’ I didn’t hesitate.
‘There’s just one thing,’ he’d added. ‘I know this might seem a bit… odd, but…. it’s fancy dress.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Fancy dress. Glitter-red shoes and sky-blue gingham.’
‘Okay…’ I answer slowly.
‘I can’t explain. It’s a Wizard of Oz thing. Just… just go for it, okay?’ he said, and something in his voice made me certain this wasn’t a joke, which is why I’m standing here in my living room, at the beginning of December, dressed head to toe as Dorothy.
‘You look amazing,’ says Mo, who insisted I FaceTime her to show off my costume. She dangles plastic keys above Elizabeth, who follows them, gurgling and cooing at the toy.
‘Oh, she is so adorable!’ I say, watching as she fiddles with her hands before attempting to stuff an entire fist in her mouth. ‘Wow, I see her mouth’s as big as her mother’s!’
‘Funnily enough, that’s what Greg said when it was his turn to get up in the night and didn’t do it quickly enough!’ Mo pulls faces at Elizabeth, who giggles at her happily. ‘Ed’s going to love that outfit, isn’t he, baby,’ she coos. ‘Just think, Baby Bette, your aunty Rachel might be about to get a boyfriend.’
‘Mo! That is not what is happening here,’ I say, looking in the mirror, feeling faintly ridiculous. ‘Oh God, what am I doing? I look stupid,’ I say, picking at the pigtail wig that is itching my scalp.
‘How have I never seen it before? You are a total ringer for Judy Garland! Isn’t she, Greg?’
I hear him in the background. ‘Rach? Judy Garland? The spit!’ he agrees.
‘A million per cent.’ Mo nods furiously, disappearing briefly with Elizabeth, then picking the phone up.
‘A million per cent is not a thing,’ I correct her.
‘Don’t you get all teacher on me,’ she says, wagging a finger at me. Greg takes Elizabeth from Mo’s lap, moving her into a fat pink seat-type thing in the background.
‘What the heck is that?’ I ask, peering at the phone for a closer look.
‘A game changer,’ says Mo. ‘If you ever decide to have a baby, make sure you buy a Bumbo. They love it, and your hands are free to pick up that cup of tea that would otherwise, undoubtedly, be stone cold.’
‘Okay, then. Fair enough. Well, look, I’d better go. I don’t want to be late.’
‘Call me later, or tomorrow. Just call me, okay? I want to know every single thing.’
‘Yup, okay. Love you.’
‘There’s no place like home!’ she shouts as I hang up.
I take one last look in the mirror, scratch beneath my wig, pull down the gingham dress and wiggle my toes in too-tight ruby-red slippers. I’ve never been to a cat funeral before…
Fifty-Nine
Ed
Smoke from the garden incinerator weaves across the garden; I toss the letter I wrote to Ellie into the flames. A gentle breeze picks up the grey and wafts it straight into next door’s washing. I should have mentioned something to them, but it’s December; I didn’t realise people still pegged stuff out at this time of year.
I set out the hot dogs and buns, get the ketchup out of the fridge and search for a rack to place over the flames to cook our food.
‘Dad, look!’ says Oli, who skids in dressed in green shorts, striped socks and a matching checked shirt. ‘Have we got any face paint? Weren’t their faces orange?’ He digs around in his art box for something suitable. I admire his commitment to the cause, though relieve him of the orange felt-tip pen.
‘You’re thinking of Oompa Loompas. No orange face required. Careful now,’ I say, as he climbs up on a bar stool. ‘Don’t fall.’ I shift him to the back. His face drops. ‘Hey, buddy. You okay?’
‘I miss Floyd,’ he says.
I take a deep breath. ‘Me too, fella, me too. But, you know what? Maybe he’s with Mummy now.’ I pull him in for a cuddle and he nods into my chest. The photo I always kept in my pocket is Blutacked to the kitchen cupboard behind him. I look at her face; how alike they are. How proud she would have been of him. How proud would she have been of me? A shard of guilt splinters: I'm not leaving you behind, just doing as you asked.
But before I can let the moment take over, the doorbell goes and my stomach drops to my knees. I haven’t really got a handle on my nerves yet today. It’s been building since I asked her to come over. When I woke this morning, I wasn’t sure if I was actually coming down with something. I’d held my phone in my hand, all ready to cancel, until Oli jumped on the bed asking if it was time for him to get ready yet.
He leaps off the side of the counter, his sadness evaporating. ‘She’s here, Dad, quick, put the music on! Where’s Floyd?’
‘In that box,’ I say, nodding in the direction of the candy-striped memory box, just like all the ones that store Ellie’s precious things.
I steady myself against the kitchen table, glimpsing a glisten of my costume in the microwave. It’s probably too late to hide. Or change. This costume is ridiculous and, I now realise, very difficult to mov
e about in. I hobble over to the iPod and press ‘play’ on the soundtrack: ‘Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead!’ sings out into the garden from speakers stacked by the kitchen door. Rachel’s voice filters through the lounge and finds its way to my bowels. Nerves kicking me in the gut. I busy myself around the kitchen to put off the inevitable moment of standing face to face for the first time since I decided how I felt, not really knowing if I’d left it too late.
‘Wow!’ she says from behind me. ‘You look amazing!’
Dressed head to toe in gingham and glittery shoes, self-consciously pulling her skirt down, Rachel stands before me. In my kitchen. Here. And suddenly I’m grateful for the silver face paint. Not only does it make me look like the Tin Man, but it might also be hiding this shade of crimson I can feel myself turning at the sight of her.
She clumsily edges towards me, handing out a bottle of wine. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘About Floyd. I know he was… special.’ She blows away a bit of wig hair that has crept into the corner of her mouth. ‘Not the best wig, I’m afraid,’ she mumbles, scratching the back of her head, causing the wig to move about, lopsided. ‘I couldn’t plait my own. It kept dropping out...’ She fixes it straight in her reflection in the glass. ‘My plaits kept dropping out, that is, my hair didn’t. Although it can do sometimes, especially after I’ve washed it and brush it wet, then it—’
‘You look great!’ interrupts Oli, saving me from having to give her an answer.
‘Do you like hot dogs?’ I ask. ‘Because we have a lot. Also burgers. And there’s turkey and cranberry over there, beside the salad. Something a bit festive, you know? Drink?’ I ask, offering her a can of Coke as Oli drags her down the yellow brick road he coloured in yesterday, and onto the patio. ‘I’m afraid that’s less Yellow Brick Road and more Yellow Brick Welcome Mat, as Oli got bored and gave up before he’d coloured it all in. We cut off the part he hadn’t got to.’
Rachel smiles knowingly, presumably having come across his penchant for cutting corners while at school. Oli rolls his eyes at my dropping him in it, and runs off down the garden. Rachel and I stand watching as a Munchkin scales the side of the slide I built two years ago, which is now too small, too short. The sight of him plumping on the ground makes us both giggle, his costume caked in mud as he runs back around for another go.
We watch him for a few moments before she breaks the silence. ‘Ed,’ she begins. ‘I just want to say thank you…’ I look across to her. ‘For asking me to stay.’ She looks to her feet. ‘I’m glad I did.’
‘Me too.’
I get the box containing Floyd, aware Rachel is watching my every move. Oli sees what I’m about to do and moves over to stand beside her, his head low. ‘You ready, fella?’ I ask him, and he nods, shifting his weight to lean against Rachel. She puts her arm around him and gives him a squeeze. ‘Okay.’ I kneel, laying the box in the ground. The smell of damp soil brings unwelcome memories of that day, almost five years before. If I close my eyes I can see the open ground. I can hear the cries behind me as I dropped flowers on her coffin. I can feel the disbelief I felt at the time, the pain in my chest and the exhaustion from lack of sleep.
‘Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead’ comes to an end and Oli’s choice of ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road/You’re Off to See the Wizard’ kicks in, bringing some much-needed light to a moment I don’t want to relive. Not because I don’t want to think of Ellie any more, I just want it to be the happy times. The good stuff. The memories of us building a life together, a life that, despite being cut short, brought us my wingman. My right-hand man. My perfect companion in life. The one who has stepped forward to drop a catnip mouse on top of the candy-striped box.
‘Bye, Floyd,’ he says, as I drop earth back into the hole, burying Ellie’s beloved pet. I kneel beside the mound, giving Oli a hug. ‘Don’t be too sad, Daddy,’ he says, giving me a squeeze, and I throw my arms around him, lifting him up into a hug.
Over his shoulder, Rachel stands, patiently watching, and I wonder where we go from here. Smoke twists into the sky, taking the letter I wrote up into the heavens. A letter apologising for everything I let myself believe. A letter telling her I loved her then and always will. A letter that included a sketch of her funeral, a congregation wearing glittery red shoes with her observation: ‘They might just have lifted the mood.’ And I know that if she was ever able to look down, after she’d finished laughing at me dressed up like an idiot, she’d be nudging me towards happiness.
Oli gives me a kiss, tells me he loves me, then jumps down. Rachel moves beside me and I let smoke sting my eyes to disguise my tears. ‘Is he okay?’ she asks, and I nod. ‘Are you?’ she says, and I look at her, here in my garden, dressed as Dorothy.
‘I think so,’ I say, giving her the best shoulder nudge my Tin Man costume will allow.
Then I quickly move away, because being so close to her suddenly gives me butterflies.
* * *
If you enjoyed The Lost Wife, you’ll love Anna’s new novel I Wanted to Tell You - an emotional, heartbreaking story about love, loss and hope.
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I Wanted to Tell You
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‘My love, sometimes I think that if I’d found a way to talk, we’d be together now…’
Helen had thought she was happy. But then her husband Alex announces he’s leaving, and her life falls apart. All she ever wanted was for their love to last a lifetime. But now he’s gone and she doesn’t even know what she’s done wrong.
Then, as her courage is faltering, Helen happens upon a bundle of unsent love letters, tied with a red ribbon, and signed only ‘the love you wished I could be’. And – even as the letters start to help Helen make sense of her own life – it becomes clear that someone has been keeping some heartbreaking secrets.
But who do the letters belong to? Can the sender ever be reunited with the one they love, or is it too late? And when Helen finds out the truth about Alex, can she find it in her heart to forgive him, or will he never be the love she wished for?
An emotional, unmissable read, exploring the devastation of loss, the power of love to heal, and the truths that bind us all together. Perfect for fans of Jojo Moyes, Diane Chamberlain and Daniela Sacerdoti.
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Books by Anna Mansell
How to Mend a Broken Heart
The Lost Wife
I Wanted to Tell You
Her Best Friend’s Secret
A Letter from Anna
Dear Reader (and perhaps specifically, dear aspiring author),
I don’t know if you know, but this is my second published novel. And in an odd twist of fate, it’s also the second novel I ever wrote, back in 2012–13. Coming back to it after some four or more years away was a fascinating insight into the writer I was when I started out. Editing it was a task, I’ll be honest, because when I set out to write The Lost Wife that very first time, on a Tuesday morning in September, the kids safely deposited at school and my bum placed firmly in the chair, I hadn’t fully identified my voice. I didn’t know the style of writing I wanted to achieve, the kinds of stories I wanted to tell; I didn’t really know what I was doing! Going back to it in 2017 was like the return to the old box room I slept in as a child. It was comforting, it was secure… it was a little bit small and the Bros posters were devastatingly cringe, but there were a number of times when I sat and stared at my laptop, wondering how to edit the words that stared back at me into something that people would want to read. Until I remembered I had a delete button, and that – just as I had ripped down my posters of Matt, Luke and Craig (sorry, boys) – I could take the words away and rewrite them in my new style. With my new approach. With a
more assured voice.
Do I know what I’m doing now? Who knows, but I know that the completed novel is something of which I’m very proud. I love this book for lots of reasons, but mostly because it taught me a lot, and also gave me a lot. It gave me things I needed at the time I needed them most. Like award nominations and competition shortlistings. It gave me bursaries for editing, when I needed someone else to read my words and give me an opinion that was slightly more constructive than the words of friends who told me they loved the novel. Which, to be fair, also gave me great encouragement, hence it being dedicated to Mel. Because her total love for it gave me a real boost when I needed it. I hope she still likes it; it’s changed quite a lot! This book also gave me interest from agents that, while never resulting in a dotted line on which to sign, gave me the feedback and confidence to keep on keeping on. It gave me more beta readers who laughed and cried and it gave me a sense that maybe, just maybe, I could do this… if I didn’t give up.
So, I didn’t. And now I’m doing it. How blooming lucky am I!?!
The moral of this story, in case you’re interested, is that I didn’t give up. And if you’re reading this because you write too, but you haven’t yet achieved your dream… in whatever shape that may be… don’t give up. Don’t give up. Don’t give up!
I hope you have enjoyed The Lost Wife. If you get chance to leave me a review, it really does help. You can also sign up to my mailing list here. And, finally, I love to hear from readers via my social media platforms: @annamansell or Facebook.com/AnnaMansellWriter. If you’ve anything you’d like to tell me, please do get in touch! Letters and messages from readers really are the best.
The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Page 25
