How did I find out? I sometimes think I’ve been blessed with some kind of second sight, an enhanced instinct for the truth. Or perhaps that is not a quality I was born with but have subconsciously learned through being with Ben. I came home early one day – such a cliché! – and didn’t exactly catch them at it, but I walked in on the aftermath.
Ben was working from home that day, and it was one of Maria’s days, which as it transpired was no coincidence. It was two twenty-five when I arrived. Envisaging that Ben would not have bothered to make himself lunch, I’d picked up the makings of a mackerel salad on the way home. Lunch in the orangery, a summer treat. That was in my mind when I entered the hall and saw that Ben’s study door was open and he wasn’t there. The vacuum cleaner stood on the first landing, one flight up. No sign of Maria.
Moments later, she appeared, hastening down from the further flight of stairs that led to the attic room we used for storage, black hair springing out of the combs she wore to keep it in place, her face a fast-moving film of expressions until, finally, it settled on smiling with mild surprise.
‘You’re back! I was just off,’ she said. It was then that I noticed the belt she wore around her denim dress was all askew, the end missing its loop as if she’d fastened it in a rush.
‘Where is Ben?’ I remember asking. Or, actually, I think I said, ‘Where is my husband?’ thus driving the point home.
‘Mr Grammaticus is…’ Maria hesitated, looking flustered for the first time since I’d come in. She never called us Mr and Mrs. It was always Ben and Tessa, as instructed by me at the beginning.
Ben strolled down from above, looking perfectly calm and put together, neat shirt tucked into neat jeans, welcoming smile in place. The only incongruity was the strand of cobweb in his hair, and that was explained away in an instant.
‘We were looking in the attic. You know I’ve been thinking of turning out all the junk for ages. We could make better use of the space, perhaps as a den for Zoe. Maria said she’d help clear it out.’ He glanced at Maria for confirmation. She nodded, seemingly incapable of anything else.
‘A den for Zoe? Oh Ben, she’s got a huge bedroom as it is, and other rooms to play in if she wants to.’
I thought that was clever of me, extending the topic, forcing Ben into a conversation, trapping him there, on the stairs, in his post coital state. You won’t run away from me, I was thinking.
He rubbed the top of his head, spiking his short hair and sending the cobweb floating into space. ‘Yeah, good point. But there’s so much stuff up there, my college stuff, things from our old flat we’ll never use. What’s the point of hanging onto it all?’
‘None at all,’ I said, smiling beatifically. I was no more interested in the contents of our attic than Ben was, but I was enjoying my moment of power. ‘Maria, if you really have time to help Ben in his attic-clearing, that would be great. You’d have to wear an overall, though. It’s dreadfully dusty up there.’
I was rewarded by Maria’s automatic glance downwards at her dress. I smothered a smile. Yes, I was shocked and upset and suffused with rage, my emotions bowling like tumbleweed – although in some corner of my brain this all made sense, as if I’d known all along – but I held it all back. Feelings of that sort need time to settle. But as I looked at the two of them standing helplessly on the stairs, my hatred of Maria began to take hold. I felt it in my shoulders, an iron-like tension.
‘Well,’ Maria said eventually. ‘I’ll just put the vacuum in the cupboard, then I’ll be on my way.’ She looked up at Ben, then down at me. ‘I will leave you to enjoy your afternoon.’
‘How long?’ I asked Ben. This was much later, after I’d made him sit through a mostly silent lunch, during which he must have been wondering if I’d realised what he’d been up to.
We’d had a glass of wine each – I used to drink then, moderately. Ben, I could tell, wanted a second glass, the rest of the bottle, probably, but he’d obviously thought better of it and put the bottle back in the fridge. I’d made coffee and taken it to the orangery where Ben still sat inert, the daily paper, virginally folded, on the floor beside his chair.
He visibly started at my question, although he must have expected it.
‘How long what?’
‘Oh, come on.’ I almost laughed. ‘You know what, or rather, who. Miss Butter-wouldn’t-melt Capelli.’
And yes, there followed the standard hollow protestations that he didn’t know what I was talking about, the look on his face identical to the one I saw when I challenged him about Suzanna.
‘No.’ His eyes were alight with fury at my allegation. ‘No, Tessa. There’s nothing going on between me and Maria. As if I would do that…’
‘…“under my own roof”.’ I looked at Ben. ‘That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’
The words were superfluous really. I knew. He knew I knew. Maria knew I knew. The only question was, what was I going to do about it?
I put our mugs of coffee down on the glass table. Ben stared at them, then at me. Why was I giving him lunch and coffee while accusing him at the same time of having an affair with the domestic help? But he should have known me by then. My life until I met Ben was one of uncertainty, disruption, and loss – all outside my control. But I will never let that happen again. I will take what comes face on and deal with it. I won’t crawl away and hide from life like my mother did.
It may seem strange, but I didn’t sack Maria immediately, and she had no choice but to continue working for us. If she’d left of her own accord, it would have seemed like admitting her sin. I had to keep Maria Capelli close, where I could see her, while I planned my next move, and in that waiting, she would suffer. It is the anticipation of what is to come that causes the most pain, don’t you think?
Maria waited for me to move in for the kill, and I waited for the right time to take the right action, the one that would have the biggest impact. The only person not waiting was Ben. Like a naughty little boy who’d been caught opening his Christmas presents early, he adopted a so-what attitude, flinging himself around the house in a strop as if it was my fault.
Then, as suddenly as if a switch had been thrown, he went into full-blown remorseful mode and became very loving and considerate towards me, cooking special dinners, being extra helpful with Zoe, making sure I had everything I needed, basically. When Maria was in the house, Ben stayed out of it, whether he was at work or not. He even went so far as to make scathing remarks about her. Too much, Ben! Playing a part, you see? We all do it.
Meanwhile, Maria’s housework took on new impetus. She rubbed and scrubbed and polished and shone, while keeping out of my way. When she couldn’t manage to avoid me because I made it impossible, her dark eyes became even darker with fear, and something else – loathing probably, jealousy, too – and she would dash off to some other part of the house. One day I caught her standing in the doorway of our bedroom, just standing and looking, and I wondered if she and Ben had ever done it in our bed. I decided not. I also decided she wished they had done.
Then, in early September, the day Zoe returned to school after the summer holidays and Ben rang the plumber and arranged for the boiler to be serviced for winter – something he had never done before and has never done since – I reminded him of our plan to leave town and set up home in a more rural part of Sussex. Somewhere cleaner, leafier, healthier for our daughter. A more pleasant way of life for us, in a small community.
‘We should move now, if we’re going to. Zoe starts secondary school next year. Less of an upheaval to do it now,’ I said.
The way he agreed so readily made me understand that he felt trapped, caught between me and Maria. The Devil and the deep blue sea. Though which of us was which I couldn’t say. I may have forgiven Ben for his weakness in letting himself be seduced by that tramp, but he wasn’t getting off that lightly. As for Maria, she was obsessed with Ben, I could tell. The ultimate punishment for her, the thing that would hurt her most, was that he should be
removed from her world completely.
So that is what I did. The For Sale board was up within a week, and Ben and I, plus Zoe at the weekends, toured our favoured area in search of the Holy Grail which, in the event, turned out to be Rose Cottage in Oakheart.
But that wasn’t, as it happened, the last we saw of Maria.
And Fran? I’ve only just begun.
Twenty-One
FRAN
Caitlin looks up from her colouring. ‘Are we going to see Grandad Oliver when we go to Cornwall?’
Sunday afternoon. It’s rainy and dull and we’ve stayed in all day, generally lolling about, which the girls call chilling out. The lazy day suits me; I feel tired, which is in part due to the low-level anxiety that follows me about like a faithful spaniel.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I suppose we could.’
Hector puts my tea down on the footstool near the sofa. ‘Yes, we are calling in on Dad. We’ve already decided?’ There’s a question in his voice, a frown on his face. ‘We had that conversation.’
‘Oh, yes, so we did.’ I pick up my tea and cradle the mug as if I’m cold, but it’s actually quite stuffy in here. ‘Sorry, I forgot.’
Hector’s father lives in North Somerset; it’s a diversion we usually make either on the way to Cornwall or on the way home. We would have him to stay here with us like a shot, but these days he prefers to be in his own home. Despite a lack of mobility and poor eyesight, he’s very independent, but that doesn’t stop a bevy of neighbours, mostly female, calling in to make sure he has everything he needs.
‘Good. I like Grandad Oliver. He’s funny.’ Caitlin sits back on her heels on the rug in front of the fireplace, carefully puts the cap back on a coloured pen, and uncaps another.
‘Fran, I don’t know where your head is but it’s not here, that’s for sure.’ Hector laughs, but there’s an impatience about it which fills me with guilt.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, smiling across as he sits down. ‘I know we decided that, I remember now. My mind’s full of other stuff.’ Hector waits for me to elaborate. ‘Oh, you know. End of the school year, arrangements for our holiday, the usual.’ I shrug vaguely.
End of term events are already marked on the calendar: sports day at Oakheart; concert at Honeybee Hall; meeting with Kitty’s form tutor – she goes into her GCSE year in September. All defined, nothing to think about. I keep a running list of what to take with us to our Cornish cottage, so not much to trouble me there, either, although some new summer clothes will be needed, especially for Caitlin and Hazel who are still growing. But I can hardly tell Hector that what really fills my head is an image of the broken body of a complete stranger.
‘Sorry, Hec,’ I repeat.
Hector smiles. ‘Stop apologising. I wondered if you were okay, that’s all?’ Again, the questioning intonation, requiring a reply.
‘I’m fine,’ I say with deliberate emphasis, and turn my attention to my tea. ‘A bit tired, but you are too, I expect.’
‘Who will look after Miss T when we go away?’ Caitlin’s blue eyes are wide as she looks up at us.
‘Evelyn, the lady who works with me at the vets’. She’ll come in twice a day and feed her. She does it every year. Why?’
‘Oh. Well, I only wondered if the lady in the old house, the one with the funny hair, might like to have her, because if she’s got so many cats she must really, really love them, mustn’t she, Mum?’
The mention of Mirabelle causes me a spike of anxiety – typical, when I’d managed to put her out of my mind. Not Caitlin’s fault, of course.
‘I’m sure she loves cats,’ I say, ‘but we don’t know Mirabelle very well, do we? And neither does Miss T. She’ll be much happier in her own home with Evelyn calling in.’
Caitlin looks doubtful. ‘Has Evelyn got cats, too?’
‘No. But she works at the vets’, remember, so she knows exactly how to look after them. She looks forward to seeing to Miss T.’
Oh, do stop, Caitlin!
She obeys my unspoken command and returns to her colouring, sticking her bottom up in the air, the way all the girls used to sleep in their cots. Thinking of the girls as babies brings a warm rush of love for them, and I go upstairs to see what Hazel and Kitty are doing. They’re both in Kitty’s room, Kitty lolling on the bed, Hazel cross-legged on the floor. They’re watching a boxset of an American teen soap, and my mind registers that it’s the same one they watched, briefly, with Zoe when we went to Rose Cottage. Not for the first time, I wonder if there are unseen forces at work, ensuring that the Grammaticus family, and Mirabelle Hayward, are forever sewn into the tapestry of my life.
Hazel, bless her, brings me back to Earth. ‘Is it tea-time? Can I have peanut butter and banana sandwiches?’
‘Ooh, yeah.’ Kitty sits upright on the bed. ‘Is there any of that apple pie left from dinner?’
I laugh. ‘You two have got hollow legs. Yes, I’ll get on with the tea. Come down in ten minutes, right?’
‘Right,’ Kitty says, as two pairs of eyes whisk past me, back to the TV screen.
Summarily dismissed, I drop a curtsey, maid-style, and back out of the room. But I’m smiling. There’s nothing like kids to keep you grounded. Or, actually… no, don’t think about that.
That evening, while I’m reading a bedtime story to Caitlin and she’s all pink-faced from her bath and snuggled in her dressing gown, I spot a message come through on my phone.
‘Message, Mum,’ my daughter says helpfully.
‘I’ll look in a minute, darling. Let’s finish this chapter and get you up to bed first.’
‘My hair is still quite wet.’
‘Not wet, only damp at the ends. It’ll be dry in a minute.’
‘Or we could get the hairdryer?’ Hopeful eyes look at me, delaying the inevitable.
I don’t reply but carry on reading. I saw who the message was from: Tessa. I have no idea what she wants, but console myself with the belief that it’s something to do with art club. Perhaps it’s cancelled next week and she’s contacting everyone to let them know. We have an email group set up for that, but I can’t think what else she can want with me. If she’s hoping to rope me in for another charity thing, she would probably ring rather than text.
But this is Tessa we’re talking about, so who knows?
Once Caitlin’s in bed, reading another book – one about frogs that Zoe gave her because she’s too old for it – and under instruction to switch her light out in fifteen minutes, I deliberately take time to go and check on the others. Kitty is in her room, thumbing at her phone. She looks up at me with the distinct expression of impatience. Kitty has a sweet temperament – usually – but she also makes it known she doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s ‘chatting’ to her mates. I smile and leave her to it. Hazel is downstairs with Hector. They’re in the kitchen, matily making hot chocolate together. I watch them for a moment from the doorway, treasuring the snapshot of family life.
‘Ah, want some?’ Hector turns.
‘No, thanks. I’m going to have a glass of that Shiraz, if there’s any left.’ I cast my eyes to the wine rack. ‘Purely for medicinal purposes, of course. I need the boost.’
Hazel raises her eyes at me. ‘Mum…’
‘Yes, Hazel?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ she says airily, making an exaggerated face at her father. ‘Hot chocolate would be much healthier for you.’
I watch my middle daughter reach for the squirty cream, load it onto her drink, and top it with two marshmallows. ‘I’m watching my cholesterol,’ I say, and Hector grins at me.
It’s not until Hector and Hazel have taken their chocolate through to the living room and I’ve poured myself some wine – a small glass, just enough to take the edge off – that I bring myself to read Tessa’s message. It’s short and direct, to the point of curtness. She is asking to meet me, and the few words she writes make it sound like a royal command.
Damn cheek! My first reaction. Swiftly moving on to wonder
ing what it is that can’t wait until we next happen to meet, say, next Saturday at art club. Or, for that matter, what is so important that she needs to see me face-to-face? None of which makes me want to leap to reply. So, I leave it a while, quite a long while.
Hazel wants some advice over her English homework which she has completed, but is now having doubts about whether she’s done it right. Hector is already handling this, but I sit down and put in my two-pennyworth because it’s what I do, and Tessa Grammaticus is shunted from my mind for a few moments longer.
Let her wait.
And wait she has to, until my curiosity rushes to the surface and has me texting back to ask her what it is she wants to see me about.
Hazel leans over my chair and taps me on the shoulder. ‘Mum, you do think that’s what Mr Hall meant, don’t you? The way I’ve answered the question?’
‘Yes, I think you’ve tackled it the right way. I’m with your dad on that. Plus, Hazel, there’s no time to change it anyway, so go on up and I’ll come and see you when you’re in bed.’
Hazel pulls an unconvinced face but trots off anyway. Hector goes to the kitchen to start on tomorrow’s packed lunches. Meanwhile the phone in my hand has buzzed again. Tessa will tell me what it’s about when we meet, and will I please be there.
A swift, nervy OK is all I can manage in reply, while my mind grows as heavy as a thunderstorm as the awful possibilities roll in.
Twenty-Two
FRAN
The next day, the surgery is towering busy all morning, as it often is on a Monday, owners being unable to bring their animals in for minor problems at the weekend – we are open on Saturday mornings but only for emergencies. I’m on duty with Sally; she’s about my age and has two teenagers at Oakheart Academy, which gives us plenty to talk about, when we have time to talk. This morning, there’s little opportunity, and for once I’m glad of the stream of clients clutching baskets and pet carriers or holding dogs on leads.
The Wife's Revenge Page 14
