The Ex-Wife

by Jess Ryder

  ‘I’m looking for Sam. This is the right address, yes?’

  She nodded, waves of hostility sweeping towards me.

  ‘Who are you? What’s this about?’

  ‘My name’s Natasha Warrington,’ I began, trying not to sound threatening. ‘Sam works for my husband.’

  ‘Not any more, he doesn’t. He let him go, as they say, two weeks past. Just like that, not so much as a day’s notice, the bastard.’ She had Sam’s flat vowels, only flatter.

  I stalled. ‘Two weeks ago? Are you sure?’

  ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ She shifted her baby onto the other hip.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I said, but I couldn’t shift the frown from my face. It was true that I hadn’t seen Sam since the embarrassing encounter, but he’d collected Nick and Emily yesterday morning, hadn’t he? I tried to think back to when I was lying in bed. I hadn’t heard Sam’s voice, but I’d heard the Range Rover drive off and had assumed he was behind the wheel. Had Nick driven, then, even though he was banned?

  ‘Sam wasn’t working for him yesterday?’

  ‘No, why would he?’

  My heart fell through the floor of my stomach. If Sam wasn’t involved in the getaway, he wouldn’t have a clue where Emily was.

  ‘What is it you want?’ she said. ‘Only I’ve got the kids to see to.’ As if on cue, a bare-bottomed little boy came waddling down the hallway, holding a nappy.

  ‘Nothing, really. I thought maybe he might … It doesn’t matter. I’d still like to talk to him, though.’

  ‘Well, he’s not here. He’s gone. Gone away. I don’t know when he’ll be back.’

  I hesitated. ‘Oh, I see. Um … when he calls, could you just say Na … Mrs Warrington would like to speak to him? He’s got my number.’

  ‘Oh, I bet he has, duck,’ she replied bitterly. The little boy tugged at her leg. ‘Get off!’ And with that, she shut the door, virtually in my face.

  * * *

  It felt like a long journey home. I was worn out and no nearer to knowing the truth. The train filled up as it progressed towards King’s Cross. The heat was choking me, and I had a terrible headache. I played my encounter with Sam’s wife again in my head, trying to tease out the facts. She’d seemed weary and fed up. Her husband had lost his job and I felt that she blamed me. It must have seemed very suspicious, the boss’s wife turning up at the front door, asking to speak to him. If I’d been in her position, I’d have definitely smelt a rat. I let out a deep sigh. That was Sam’s problem, not mine. I had enough to deal with.

  I closed my eyes and let the train rattle my bones.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I emerged from the Tube. I checked my phone immediately – no messages, no missed calls: what else was new? I was running out of battery and needed to recharge. I started to pound down the hill. The weather was warm, the sky thick with pollution; I hadn’t had a shower since the previous day and my skin was itching with city grime. My trip to Walthamstow had raised more questions than it had answered, but at least I’d tried to do something. I hadn’t just curled up on the sofa with a bottle of gin. Tomorrow I would try to find a solicitor and get one of those court orders. I couldn’t afford it, but I had no other option. I’d get the limit on my credit card extended, I’d sell all my possessions, I’d strip the house bare if that was what it took. If Nick thought I was going to lie down and let him walk all over me, he’d better think again.

  I entered our wide, leafy street, so different from the modest road where Sam lived. I liked Sam’s place better, though; it was nearer to what I’d grown up with. All the houses here were enormous, detached and double-fronted, with sweeping driveways. Some of them had white grilles over the windows, and security gates. They were worth millions. I remembered how daunted I’d felt when I saw Nick’s place for the first time. Even with all the redecorating, it had never really felt like home. It was too grand, too posh, too pleased with itself. I’d always been an intruder, a cuckoo in the nest. The thought of spending another night in the house on my own without Emily terrified me.

  I reached the front door and took out my keys, reciting the code for the alarm under my breath. But the deadlock wouldn’t turn, and I couldn’t fit the key into the main lock at all. I stared at the bunch in my hand, stupefied. Had I picked up somebody else’s keys by mistake? But no, this was my N-shaped key ring. I tried again. The metal slipped beneath my sweaty fingers as I tried to force it round. It was no good, it wouldn’t go. I stood back, shaking all over as the truth hit me like a truck.

  While I’d been in Walthamstow, someone had changed the locks.

  19

  Then

  Natasha

  * * *

  All the pain I’d been feeling for the last twenty-four hours rose from the pit of my stomach and I vomited over the front step. Why was he doing this to me? I sank to my knees, shaking as I wiped the trail of bile from my mouth. Why? Why?

  He had no right to do this, surely. Everything I owned was inside that house. My clothes, the designer stuff I needed to sell, my identity documents, the cash I’d been squirrelling away, even my bloody phone charger. I took out my handset and squinted at the red line on the battery icon – I had 5 per cent left, probably only enough for one call. Should I ring the police? Would they break in for me, or would I be told to consult a solicitor again? I decided to phone Mum instead.

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it. How could he?’ she ranted. ‘And how did he know you were out?’

  ‘He must have had someone watching the house,’ I said, frantically trying to remember if I’d seen any strange vehicles in the street when I’d left that morning. I had a vague memory of a white van parked a few doors away, but I couldn’t be sure.

  ‘You’ve got to fight him, Natasha, you can’t let him get away with it.’

  ‘Mum, please, listen, I’m running out of juice. I’ve got nowhere to go. Can I come to you?’

  ‘Stay right there. I’ll come and pick you up.’

  I couldn’t bear the thought of Mum battling against the traffic in her old Fiesta while I sat on my own driveway like a refugee. What if the neighbours saw me? ‘Thanks, but I’ll get the train. It’s not like I’ve got any luggage to carry,’ I added grimly.

  ‘Nick needs to pay for this. We’re going to get him, don’t you worry, we’re going to …’ Her furious words disintegrated as the phone finally died.

  * * *

  By the time I arrived at Mum’s, I was running on empty – weak, shattered with tiredness and choked up with tears. She thrust a mug of tea and a couple of paracetamol into my hands and sent me upstairs to my old room while she made me something to eat.

  I lay down on the bed and drew my knees into my chest. It was years since I’d stayed here overnight, but the shapes and textures and smells were so familiar to me that for a few seconds it was as if I’d never been away. I remembered lying in this bed as a teenager, fretting about what life had in store for me. Worrying whether I’d ever get a boyfriend, or pass my exams, or get a good job, or find someone to marry and have children with. The answer? I’d failed miserably on nearly every count. But now I realised that none of it mattered. The only thing in the world I really cared about, the only reason I had for living, was Emily.

  The paracetamol tablets weren’t up to the task. If anything, my headache was getting worse. I struggled onto my elbows and gulped down my tea. Mum had put sugar in it, ‘to give you energy’, and it tasted horrible. I lay down again, covering my face to block out the hot rays of sunlight that were streaming across the room, thick with motes of dust. The bedroom was only used for storage these days, and the air was stale.

  I could hear Mum clattering about in the kitchen, but the thought of eating anything made me feel sick. She was supposed to be working this evening, cleaning offices, but she’d called in to say she couldn’t make it. I’d begged her to go in – the agency was very tough on absenteeism and I didn’t want her to lose her job on top of everything else. But typically,
she’d refused. As I lay there in the suffocating heat, I felt myself regressing to childhood, that simple powerless state where your very existence depends on your parents – or in my case, my mother. I’d tried very hard to break free and be my own person, but all I’d done was find somebody else to look after me – somebody nearly old enough to be my father. You didn’t have to be a psychiatrist to work it out.

  But I was a mother myself now. Maybe it was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and grow up.

  I eased off the bed and went back downstairs.

  ‘Surely you could get the police to break in for you,’ Mum said, turning down the heat under a pan of new potatoes. She was boiling the life out of some sliced carrots and I could smell sausages sizzling on the grill. ‘It’s your home just as much as his.’

  ‘I don’t want to go back,’ I muttered. ‘I never felt comfortable there, not really. It was always their place, Nick and Jen’s.’

  ‘Well, I thought at the time you were mad to move in there. You should have insisted on making a fresh start somewhere new.’

  ‘You never said anything.’

  ‘Oh, like you would have listened,’ Mum laughed wryly as she turned the sausages. They were the cheap sort and the grill pan was spitting with fat. Everywhere I looked there were reminders of how poor she was and how spoilt and fussy I’d become during my three years of luxury. But I would adjust quickly enough. I wanted to go back to how it used to be.

  ‘I’ve been an idiot, Mum, I know that. A naïve, stupid idiot.’

  She picked up the pan and strained the vegetables in the sink. ‘You’re not the first and you won’t be the last,’ she said.

  * * *

  I spent a horrible night in my old bed, staring at shapes in the darkness as I lurched in and out of sleep. In the waking hours, I composed endless messages to Nick, some angry and demanding, others apologetic and pleading. I would offer him a deal – surrender my claim to his money in return for sharing Emily. I wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d give her up entirely, but a financial incentive would surely tempt him. He’d moaned enough about paying alimony to Jen; he wouldn’t want to support another ex-wife.

  As soon as I woke up, I instinctively reached for my phone to see if he had been in touch, forgetting it was dead. It was the latest iPhone, and unsurprisingly, Mum’s charger didn’t fit – yet another thing I’d have to buy today. I got out of bed and had a quick shower, reminding myself that Mum would not be happy if I took my usual twenty minutes. I dried myself on a worn, rough towel that I remembered from my teenage years and padded back to my room.

  While I’d been showering, Mum had put some clean underwear on the bed and hung a yellow top on the handle of the wardrobe. It was very sweet of her, but she was three sizes bigger than me. The bra was hopeless, but the knickers would do for today. I’d have to buy a few things to tide me over. Back to supermarkets and charity shops, I thought, as I pulled on my jeans. I found the notion weirdly comforting.

  When I got downstairs, Mum had already left for her morning shift, leaving me four pound coins with a note on the table telling me to buy some chicken pieces for tea and adding, PS Asda is good for undies.

  The nearest shopping centre – a shabby mall built in the sixties that I hadn’t been to for years – was a short bus ride away, but I decided to save the money and walk. Sure enough, Asda had a clothes section and I was able to find a bra for a fiver. With a three-pack of briefs, a four-pack of socks, a two-pack of basic T-shirts, a 50 per cent reduced long-sleeved floaty top and a pair of jeggings, my bill came to under fifty quid, which in the world I’d just come from was staggeringly cheap. I grabbed a pack of chicken breasts from the chill cabinet and joined the queue for the till.

  ‘Sorry, your card’s been rejected,’ said the cashier.

  ‘Shit,’ I hissed. The credit card was in my name, but it was on Nick’s account. He must have cancelled it.

  ‘Got another one I can try?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes, sorry, hang on.’ I dug into my purse and pulled out Nick’s debit card, but that wouldn’t work either. The queue behind me was building and I could feel myself reddening.

  ‘Here, try this.’ I handed her another debit card. This was for my old personal account – I knew it would be safe.

  I bundled my purchases into a plastic bag and beat an embarrassed retreat. As I marched past the leisurely morning shoppers, I was feeling more and more indignant with each step. Okay, so not content with stealing my daughter and chucking me out of my home, now he was cutting me off financially too. I only had a few hundred pounds in my current account, the last remnants of my barista wages. What was I going to do when that ran out? Go back to working in a coffee bar, I guessed. But how would I pay nursery fees on a zero-hours contract and a minimum wage?

  I rushed into a phone shop and bought a new charger. Another expense I could have done without, but I had to keep the phone alive; it was the only way Nick could reach me. Surely he wouldn’t keep up this silence indefinitely. Emily would be asking for me, she’d want to FaceTime, just as we used to do with him. It would be too cruel not to let her at least hear my voice.

  I took the bus home and immediately plugged the phone in to charge up. But Nick didn’t ring, or text, or send me an email. Not that day, and not the next. Mum kept on at me to go to Citizens Advice – she was convinced they would be able to help – but I felt defeated before the battle had even begun. It didn’t matter who was right or wrong, who was lying or who was telling the truth. Morality didn’t come into it. Nick was a thousand times richer than me, and he was smart. This whole thing had been meticulously planned. He would have found out what legal rights I had over Emily and worked around them; he’d use all his wealth and power and cunning to stop me getting her back. That was why he’d told his sister that I was mentally unstable; that was why he’d gone ‘off the grid’ for fear of Emily’s safety. Who knew how long it would be before the police knocked at the door, accusing me of violence or abuse? I understood what my husband was up to, but infuriatingly, there was nothing I could do about it.

  I spent most of the next five days lying in bed, not eating, not washing, wrapped in a fog of grief. I thought about Emily constantly – imagining where she was and what she was doing, worrying about whether Nick was looking after her properly. Thankfully, I still had dozens of photos of her on my phone. I deleted any with Nick in, and scrolled through the rest again and again, clinging to the moments when I’d taken the shots, kissing her chubby little cheeks until the screen was sticky.

  Mum tried her best to keep my spirits up. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said, sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘You need a proper solicitor to fight your case. Someone at least as good as anyone Nick would use.’

  ‘I can’t afford it,’ I replied, pushing my face to the wall. ‘It would cost thousands of pounds.’

  Mum put her hand on my shoulder. ‘I’ve got a bit of money saved up. I want you to have it.’

  I turned around. ‘That’s your retirement money. I’m not taking that.’

  ‘It was only for holidays. I can do without them. Besides, I’d rather spend my retirement looking after my granddaughter.’

  ‘It’s really sweet of you, Mum, but I can’t—’

  She waved my protests aside. ‘We can’t let Nick win just because he’s rich. We have to fight him on equal terms.’

  ‘I don’t want to waste your money.’

  ‘You’re going to stand aside and let him take Emily away from you, then, are you?’ she said, her tone hardening. ‘I thought I brought you up to be tougher than that.’

  I felt myself weakening to her offer, and at the same time growing stronger. Mum was right. I couldn’t let him get away with it. If I didn’t put up a fight, I might never see Emily again.

  20

  Now

  Anna

  * * *

  As soon as the bus sets me down, I run up the hill and take the side street to my flat. I twist the key frantically in the lock
and push open the door, almost falling into the front room. It’s dark, and at first I can’t find the light switch. Maybe I shouldn’t turn it on, I think, it will signal that I’m here. I stumble blindly down the narrow corridor and enter the kitchen. I’ll be okay at the back of the house; there’s no way anyone can look in. The fluorescent tube overhead flickers into life and I blink at the hard, unforgiving light.

  My pulse is gradually slowing down, the stitch in my side unpicking itself. I managed to get home without being followed – at least I think I did. Thank God that bus came straight away.

  I check my phone. No missed calls or messages from Chris. Perhaps he’s still in the pub, sitting at the table, toying with his food and wondering why I’m taking so long. He must have guessed that I’ve done a runner. Poor man. I feel bad about leaving him stranded.

  I put the kettle on and rummage in the cupboard among the little boxes of herb teas I’ve bought to calm my nerves. Lavender, chamomile, nettle … Do I want to sleep, or should I stay alert and on my guard? Maybe it’s caffeine I need instead. I pick up the jar of instant coffee, unscrew the lid and take a sniff. This stuff tastes disgusting but it’s all I can afford these days, and it does the job well enough. I put a heaped spoonful into a mug and pour on the boiling water. The coffee hisses.

  Taking the mug to the window, I stare at the concrete yard and try to put my thoughts in order. So it was Sam that day on the industrial estate, standing there with his face to the wall, telling his mates to leave me alone. Was our meeting a coincidence, or had someone told him I was living in Morton? Stupid, really. I should have trusted my instincts the moment I heard his voice, but I thought fear was playing tricks on my mind. I even tried to reassure myself that I was wrong by going to the homeless shelter. That was a big mistake. Another one to add to the ever-growing list.