I stifle a rueful laugh, put the notebook back in the drawer, and turn my mind to Mirabelle. She’s had an idea concerning Fran and can’t wait to put it into practice. In fact, she’s already made a start.
Taken aback to find her on the doorstep and afraid she’d expect to be asked in, I’d joined her outside, pulling the door to and walking her around the side of the house to the relative shelter of the weeping willow. Clearly, not before Ben had seen her from the window, but that couldn’t be helped.
‘She must be used to seeing dead animals, working at the vets’,’ I said. ‘She wouldn’t be upset by them, would she?’ Mirabelle’s face fell, and I knew I needed to bolster her up again. ‘But, actually, Mirabelle, I like your thinking. You want to get her back for Humphrey’s demise. Seeing an animal who has clearly suffered, right outside her front door, might make her understand how you must have felt, and how cruel she’d been to your poor little cat.’
Mirabelle brightened at this. ‘That is exactly what I thought! I think it might disturb her, just a little?’
‘It’s certainly worth a try,’ I said.
Mirabelle clutched her scrawny chest. ‘And you’ll help me? You said you would.’
Did I? It doesn’t matter whether I did or not. In fact, if I do take part in this act of retaliation on Mirabelle’s behalf, it brings me closer to the hub of the matter. One up from revenge by proxy.
‘I’d be delighted,’ I said. ‘You have the animal… badger, you say?’
Mirabelle rubbed her hands together in glee. ‘I was so lucky! It was on my mind what to do, after you said what you said in the café, and one evening I went for a walk. It helps the brain to function, walking, don’t you think? I used to tell my pupils that, though heaven knows if it sank in!’
I glanced round at that point, hoping Ben wasn’t coming out to see what was going on, and tapped my hand against my thigh, rhythmically. It’s a device, to hurry up proceedings when somebody’s speaking. Nine times out of ten, it works, as it did with Mirabelle.
‘I walked through the woods over the back,’ Mirabelle waved a vague arm, ‘and it was raining so hard I nearly turned around and went home, but the trees helped to shelter me. That’s when I found it, lying just off the footpath where she takes her shortcut, and I thought, this is meant to be. So, I scooped it up and put it in the carrier bag – I always have one in my pocket – and took it home. Poor thing. I couldn’t see any sign of injury. Died of natural causes, I imagine.’
The following day, having worked out the optimum time to go ahead with the plan and shared the information with Mirabelle in a lengthy, repetitive phone conversation, I drove along to Graylings at four in the afternoon and knocked on the door. I knew what time Fran left work – I had double-checked that with a little extra surveillance – and by the same method, I knew what time she left the house and returned again with Caitlin. I also knew what time her other daughters were likely to arrive home from school. As for Hector, I had to take a chance on him, and on curtain twitchers in the neighbouring houses. To tell the truth, the element of danger added a nice little frisson.
Why didn’t we do it at night? I did consider it, but it’s not usual for me to go out after dark, and I didn’t feel up to inventing a charity meeting or an unlikely-sounding social event, both of which would see me hanging around for ages before I could return home.
It was still a risk, going to Woodside Villas in broad daylight, but one I felt worth taking. Besides, I had started this thing with Mirabelle and I had to see it through.
I’d driven Ben to the station that morning, so his car was at home. I decided to use it in favour of my white Mini as being the less conspicuous. It took me an age to secure Mirabelle’s seat belt – she seemed incapable of dealing with it herself – and the hour was fast approaching by the time we got going. It’s only a few minutes’ drive to Woodside Villas from Graylings. I drove slowly, firstly because a speeding car in the village is more noticeable than a leisurely one, and secondly because my passenger was clearly so wired by this uncommon bit of excitement, I wanted her to get the full benefit. I thought that was kind of me.
I was wearing dark glasses, but as we arrived at the corner of Woodside Villas and stopped outside the British Legion, I snapped the sun visor down and urged Mirabelle not to dally about. Then I sat, head down, and watched as she lugged the poor dead creature in its carrier bag along the road.
Minutes later, she was back. This time, she had no trouble fastening her seat belt. She kept the carrier bag on her lap as I drove her home. It stank dreadfully – I could still smell it in the car when I checked it later, so I went and bought one of those scented things and hung it on the rear-view mirror.
Ben has not complained about that, which surprises me. If he does, I shall make up some excuse for having placed it there. On the spot, probably. It’s amazing what your brain can come up with if the situation warrants it.
Which is, of course, something my husband knows all about.
Seventeen
FRAN
As I seemed to see Ben everywhere before, now I see Tessa. Since the evening at Rose Cottage, my status has clearly been elevated in her eyes, and whereas previously I could expect a smile and a wave, now she doesn’t hesitate to dash across the street if she sees me on the opposite side. It’s only a hello-how-are-you kind of thing, and we might have a chat about school and the girls, nothing more. But I can’t help feeling that Tessa would like to be closer, and that if she doesn’t already have a best friend – I’ve seen no evidence of one – she would like to cast me in that role.
This is dismaying and comforting in equal measure. Dismaying because, although I am beginning to warm to her, it’s not enough for me to want to spend too long in her company; comforting because it entrenches my belief that Tessa knows nothing about the affair.
She may be hoping we’ll invite them to our house for the return match. If Hector has his way – he takes his social duties seriously – it will happen at some point. But please, not yet. I couldn’t cope.
‘Think of the do at Rose Cottage as a one-off,’ Grace advises, when we escape domesticity one warm evening to share a bottle of wine in the garden of The Crown. ‘Let the time go by and she’ll forget about it. The moment will have passed.’
Of course, I’ve only told Grace about the Tessa side of things, no mention of Ben, and there never will be.
‘I think she’s a bit lonely,’ I say, digging my own grave a little deeper.
Grace almost chokes on her drink. ‘Are you surprised? Whoever wants to be bessie mates with somebody that bossy and superior? By the way, you do know she’s starting up a Saturday morning art club for kids, don’t you?’
My turn to choke. ‘Art club? Are you joking? What’s it got to do with Tessa?’
‘Search me. I heard it third-hand so it may not be true. Although,’ Grace drains the bottle into our glasses, ‘I overheard a couple of Oakheart mums talking about it. One of them used to teach art and she was saying Tessa had asked her to help. She sounded quite keen. So, there must be something in it.’
‘Well, I hope she doesn’t ask me to help.’
‘Nor me.’ Grace pulls a face. ‘Still, you know what they say. Forewarned is forearmed. Have something ready in case she asks.’
‘I will,’ I say. ‘No worries.’
I’m not concerned about being asked to help with this so-called art club – I can say no to Tessa, if I concentrate – but if Caitlin gets wind of it, she’ll be eager to join. Socialising is difficult for her, especially if it’s with new people, but her love of drawing and painting supersedes her fears, if the pull is strong enough. It lifts my heart to know that Caitlin is learning to manage her condition, and it would be selfish of me to deny her any opportunity to do so. I just feel I need to protect myself, which seems to be getting harder as time goes on, not easier.
I remember the badger – not that I’ve truly forgotten it – and can’t decide whether to tell Grace about it or not.
It seems such a trivial bit of nothingness now. Or it would, if my brain could only see it as a separate incident, and not another bead on my virtual rosary of unpleasant incidents.
I tell Grace anyway.
‘Aw, poor badger. I bet it looked awful. What did you do with it?’
‘Actually, it didn’t look awful at all, except it was muddy and wet from the rain. It looked as if it was asleep. It was a shock, though, finding it on our doorstep. Hector got rid of it, took it with him when he went to work the day after. I didn’t ask the details, but I suspect he chucked it in a wood or something.’
‘Did the girls see it?’
‘Caitlin did. We’d just got home from school. She noticed it first, as it goes. She wasn’t upset, just curious as to how it got there.’
‘It must have been knocked down, like you said. Either that or it wandered down from the woods and happened to die when it got to your house.’
This sounds so ridiculous, we laugh out loud, drawing amused glances from the nearby tables.
‘The way my luck’s been lately, I wouldn’t be surprised!’
More laughter. Grace trots off to the bar and comes back with two white wine spritzers. ‘Well, we can’t sit here with empty glasses.’
‘Seriously, though,’ she says a moment later. ‘You don’t think the dead badger is sinister in any way, do you, Fran?’
‘Well, yes, I do, actually. I mean, wouldn’t you? Badgers are nocturnal. It was broad daylight. What was it doing out at that time? Never mind getting run over, or dropping dead, whatever happened to the poor thing.’
‘I expect it was a teenage badger, stopping out at all hours just to piss off its parents.’ Grace rocks back on her chair.
I splutter into my spritzer. Clearly this is one drink too many, for both of us, but it’s exactly what I needed. A fun night with a good friend. One who is the voice of reason, even when she’s not exactly sober.
I don’t go so far as to confess my fears that the dead badger was planted by whoever dosed the cupcake with chilli, made the phone call that scared me rigid, and spooked me with an anonymous basket of flowers. It’s too far-fetched to be true, but not so far-fetched that it hasn’t kept me sleepless and wondering at three in the morning, and thinking about Mirabelle Hayward.
Ben comes to collect Zoe from ours at eight-thirty one evening; she came home from school with Hazel and stayed for dinner. The two girls seem to have put aside their differences – if there ever were any – and are as close as before. I guess our visit to Rose Cottage may have something to do with it. Whatever, I’m pleased for Hazel, and will have to live with any nervousness on my part.
I have armed myself mentally against the unavoidable interaction with both Tessa and Ben, and my face doesn’t change as I answer the door to him. He marches straight in without being invited, directing a smile at me of the calibre that used to spread fire in my veins. I answer with a curt nod. He exchanges a few words with Hector, who has left his desk at the sound of Ben’s voice.
Ben’s presence fills the small square of our hallway. As the three of us stand idly chatting while we wait for Zoe to appear, he heels a nonchalant hand against the wall, taking ownership; Ben has that about him.
Eventually, Zoe tears herself away from whatever she and Hazel have been doing and, immune or not, I feel the sag of relief. As they go out of the door, Hazel hovering, still chatting to Zoe, Ben suddenly turns, pulls a wodge of paper from the pocket of his linen jacket and thrusts it into my hand.
‘I’ll be in trouble if I forget to give you these. Another of my wife’s village community efforts.’ He raises his eyes, and I’m annoyed with him for sounding so uncharitable and demeaning Tessa in that way.
I look at the papers in my hand. They’re fliers, about Tessa’s proposed art club. So, it is true, then. The wording explains how it will work: every other Saturday morning; in the village hall; children aged seven to eleven; attendees to bring their own materials plus drinks and snacks; adults including a qualified art teacher on hand to supervise and give creative help. There’s a rider to say that all helpers will be DBS-checked. Tessa is inviting expressions of interest before she sets this thing up, and we are to email her if we have a child or children who might attend.
‘Oh,’ I say, as if this is the first I’ve heard of it. ‘Well…’
‘I’ll leave it with you, then,’ Ben says, his face a picture of disinterest. ‘Tessa says could you pass the fliers around amongst your friends and neighbours.’
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Tell her thank you.’
Hector and Hazel have gone back inside, Zoe is swinging on the gate, waving at Hazel in the window. It’s just Ben and me on the doorstep.
‘See you soon, huh?’ He doesn’t foist that smile on me again, but what his eyes say is a hundred times worse.
‘Goodbye, Ben.’ I turn on my heel and go inside, shutting the door with a decisive click.
Hector is back at his desk. Caitlin is in bed, Hazel and Kitty watching TV. I wander to the kitchen, make myself a camomile tea, and stand with it at the sink. As I gaze out of the window, watching the evening light cast a luminous glow on the garden, the realisation hits me that, even after all this time, Ben still believes he can reel me in with a flash of those eyes.
It’s only a game, the flirting, the blatant reminders of what we once were to each other. Well, I don’t need reminding, thank you very much. It’s a dangerous game, and I refuse to play along.
Is Ben really that bored with his life that he needs to do this, or is it that he can’t stop? When we were together – I use the word ‘together’ in its loosest sense – he told me he’d never been unfaithful to Tessa before, never thought he was capable, and that with me it was different, special, etcetera, etcetera. I believed him; after all, the same thing was happening to me. But now I’m beginning to think there might have been other women, before me. Perhaps after me.
I truly don’t care what Ben does, or with whom – setting aside my sympathy for his wife and child – but I don’t like the idea that he lied to me. That’s rich coming from me, I know, when my whole life at that time was based on unspoken lies, but it makes the sorry episode even more regretful than it already is, if that is possible.
My mind leaps backwards, to that final meeting at High Heaven. It wasn’t my idea to meet there. I’d have preferred somewhere entirely different, a place where the scenes of my crime were not forever stitched into the collage of the landscape. That evening was only the second time I’d lied outright about my whereabouts, the first being when Ben and I spent half the night together, and even then, there was a strong link to the truth. Not that it makes it any more palatable.
My parents’ house in Harlow – my childhood home – had been left in my charge, contracts having been exchanged only a week before they left for New Zealand, and I’d made the journey into Essex the previous day to oversee the disposal of the last of the contents before completion. I’d stayed overnight, relishing my last chance to indulge in nostalgia and spend some quiet time, thinking about the happy times the house had seen. The following day, the charity van arrived bang on time and the lads in charge of it were superefficient, so I was able to drop the keys off to the estate agent and leave for home earlier than I’d expected.
My overwrought mind had been foraging for a solution to the Ben problem – he had become a problem by then – for days, if not weeks. I wanted to end it, I had to end it. But my emotions swung me back and forth as if I was on the end of an out-of-control bungee wire. How could I bear to tear myself away? More to the point, how could I tell Ben it was over?
But being at the house, where the atmosphere was flavoured with new beginnings, seemed to help the process along. At six in the morning, I rose from my sleeping bag on the living room floor and, in my heightened emotional state, I texted Ben, telling him I needed to see him and it was urgent.
I had told Hector and the girls not to expect me home until well into the evening, which is when I’
d imagined I’d be back. But my early departure meant I could safely lose a couple of hours. The timing was perfect, my brain up to the task; as close as it was going to get, anyway.
High Heaven, said the return text. Meet me there. I’ll get there at seven and wait if you’re late.
Just that. No questioning as to why the urgency. Knowing Ben, I expect he thought I wanted him and couldn’t wait. His conceit was unbelievable, looking back. I didn’t have the heart or strength to argue about the venue. It wasn’t that important, as long as I stuck to my agenda.
I was a quarter of an hour early, arriving breathlessly at the top of the hill as if I’d run up it instead of driven. Ben was twenty minutes late. I’d almost given him up, imagining he’d not been able to get away. That was fine by me, I’d leave it until another day; my nerve was faltering anyway.
And then he showed, his car crunching across the cinders, his smile on full beam. It was early September; the air smelt of autumn as we walked up to the crest of the hill. The sky had been stubbornly grey all day, and morose clouds were banked low on the horizon, muting the sunset to an unspectacular pinkish glow. We were alone, the only sign of life the sheep huddled beyond the distant fence.
‘Don’t say it, Fran.’ Ben said, half-turning away from me as we stood facing the edge of the chalk-face, then swinging back. ‘Don’t let me hear that. Ever.’
Too late, I’d already said it. Having decided that any prevarication would make this so much harder for both of us, I’d swerved his embrace and come right out with it, told him how much I’d loved our time together, but the longer it went on, the more likely it was that we’d be caught out. Neither of us wanted that, did we? Ben hadn’t answered that. He’d just looked at me, shock and disbelief in his eyes, his mouth a cartoon downturned crescent.
The Wife's Revenge Page 11
