The Wife's Revenge

by Deirdre Palmer

  ‘She fancies you,’ I said one day. ‘What’s more, she’s expecting you to do something about it. If you haven’t already.’ I had not learned to bide my time then.

  The way he responded, with a gruff, pointless denial and a protestation of innocence, confirmed that the feeling was mutual. Not that I needed confirmation. Suzanna was beautiful, I couldn’t deny that. But her beauty didn’t reach her eyes, which had a marble hardness about them. That would not have worried Ben, had he even noticed.

  I never did know whether he’d screwed her or not. What I did know was that he was more than capable of doing so while telling me I was the love of his life and planning our future together. It didn’t put me off him. Perhaps it should have done, but I believe in fighting for what you want. I don’t give in.

  As I sat quietly in the back office of the mostly empty gallery, I spent my time wisely, using the computer to do a spot of digging into Suzanna Henderson. I hit on a result fairly early on: a newspaper report, a court case concerning the diversion of large amounts of cash from an account at her last company, a suspended prison sentence, a sacking.

  I enjoyed composing that letter, almost wished I could have signed it. I sent a copy to every name on the list at Ben’s workplace, every name except Suzanna’s. She left very quickly after that, without working out her notice. And Ben never said a word about it.

  Twenty-Four

  FRAN

  I narrowly miss mowing down the crossing patrol man as I drive Caitlin away from Honeybee Hall, causing her to gasp and exclaim at my idiocy from the back seat.

  ‘Mummy! The lollipop man held up Stop just then, and you didn’t.’

  I meet her wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. ‘It was fine, darling. If I’d stopped just then, the van behind would have run into us.’

  Caitlin twists round and looks at the van which has stopped obediently at the crossing, knowing as well as I do that it had been some distance behind us. She sinks into her seat, her face a crease of puzzlement and concern.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to frighten you. Or the lollipop man. The children were on the pavement, everyone was quite safe.’

  ‘I wasn’t frightened.’ Caitlin’s bottom lip protrudes.

  ‘Okay. Let’s just get home, shall we?’

  And we do, but now we’re at the house, I’ve already forgotten how we got here. All I can see is the willowy figure of Tessa Grammaticus, all in black, delivering my death sentence.

  How do I live with this? Do I assume she’s serious and tell Hector about the affair, throwing myself on his mercy? Or do I hope and pray that Tessa said what she said to scare me, and has no intention of carrying out her threat? Even without the ultimatum, the idea that Tessa knows about me and Ben is terrifying. Is it a recent discovery, or has she been playing me for a fool, making out she’s my friend, and all the while repulsed by me? If so, to what end? Why string it out before she confronted me? And what about Ben himself? How much does he know? Why has he not warned me?

  It’s only been an hour, and already the questions are dividing and multiplying, attacking every cell of my brain, like a mutant monster.

  I’ve always believed that I deserve my permanent state of unease, courtesy of my massive mistake, my straying from the straight and narrow. But I don’t deserve this. I may have a wild streak in me, but I am not evil.

  Once we’re indoors, I’m swept into my motherly, domestic role, providing drinks and snacks – Kitty and Hazel arrive home soon after Caitlin and me – refereeing a tussle over the last piece of chocolate cake in the tin, collecting up shoes and discarded bits of school uniform from the floor and stairs as the rush to pull on jeggings or shorts, t-shirts and animal-print sneakers begins.

  Hector comes home at just after five-thirty, complaining mildly about being stuck behind a tractor for half a mile. I can’t look at him. I disappear to the bathroom and lock myself in. Perched on the edge of the bath, I steeple my hands to my face. The longing to share this pain is overwhelming. But who with? Grace? Should I call her, ask her to meet me in the pub later and spill the whole story? She won’t judge. But Grace lives in Oakheart. She knows Tessa and Ben, she knows everybody. She probably thinks she knows me. Can I really disillusion her? She would keep the secret, no doubt about that, but it wouldn’t be fair to burden her with this, expect her to come up with a plan, an answer to my dilemma, when there is none.

  Never have I needed my mother as much as I do now. I want to throw myself into her arms, be five years old again, feel her soft hands stroking my forehead, comforting me with kindness and understanding. Mum, why aren’t you here? Why are you so far away?

  A single knock lands on the door. Kitty’s voice filters through the wood panel. ‘Mum? Dad says what’s for dinner and shall he start cooking it?’

  I haven’t given our evening meal a single thought. I stand up on woolly legs, open the door and come out onto the landing.

  ‘Shall we have fish and chips for a change? I’ll go to the shop.’ I smile at Kitty, as best I can.

  ‘Cool.’ Kitty goes downstairs to relay this news.

  ‘Are you okay, Fran?’ Hector says from the bottom of the stairs, as I follow her down.

  ‘What? Yes, just a bit of a headache that’s all. Tricky day.’ You could say.

  I glance in the hall mirror. A mess of red face, smudged mascara, and tangled hair looks back at me.

  Hector gives me a brief hug, then holds me away from him, inspecting. I struggle to meet his gaze. ‘You do look a bit off-colour. Go and sit down, put your feet up, watch the news or something. I’ll go to the chippy.’

  And so my lovely, kind, wonderful husband brings me a cup of tea, then fetches our dinner, pays the girls a lot of attention during the meal, as always, and doesn’t even let me clear away after we’ve eaten.

  How can I break his heart? How can I?

  Twenty-Five

  TESSA

  The day our father packed all his belongings into the car and left home for ever, my sister Amelia and I walked around the streets of Plymouth, hand-in-hand. We didn’t usually hold hands; my sister being nearly fourteen and me only twelve meant she felt a lot more grown up than I was. I was tolerated by her, no more. But that day, we joined hands by unspoken agreement and we walked along our terrace in our green gingham school dresses, round the corner where the pub was – the pub that Mum said was Dad’s second home – past the bookies’ and the sweet shop, turning left into the street that backed onto ours.

  When we reached the end of that street, we turned right into the next street, walking and turning, walking and turning, until my legs ached. It was after school; the day had been tiring enough.

  ‘Will he be there, when we get back?’ I asked, puffing slightly from the walking.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ Amelia said. ‘We just need to give him time to come back and talk to Mum. In private.’

  ‘Is that why we’re walking?’

  ‘Well, obviously.’ Amelia’s voice was sarcastic, her eyes lifted to the sky at my lack of understanding.

  But as we turned one more corner and headed homewards, our ears tuned for the hopeful sound of the clapped-out Volkswagen, I felt my sister’s hand tighten around mine and I realised she was taking comfort from me as well as giving it. She didn’t believe any more than I did that our father had changed his mind and returned home.

  ‘What will we do?’ I asked Mum, when we got home and found her, feet up on the worn settee, hugging a cushion on her lap.

  ‘Do?’ She looked at me as if I was a stranger who had appeared in her living room. ‘What is there to do? He’s gone, and good riddance.’ She rose from the settee, went upstairs, and shut herself in her bedroom. We didn’t see her again until morning.

  Our days went on much as before, but with our mother growing ever more distant until she seemed like a tiny figure, silhouetted against the skyline as she vanished over the horizon. She never spoke about Dad again.

  After a month, Amelia and I each rec
eived a letter from him. He was sorry, he said, but his life had been intolerable and although he missed us both, and loved us, it would only cause trouble if he stayed at home and we were better off without him. The letters were almost identical. Neither of us knew what his words really meant. There was no address, so we couldn’t write back.

  ‘I think,’ Amelia said, as we sat on my bedroom floor, our backs to the door, ‘he means he doesn’t love Mum any more, and that’s why he went.’

  I thought about this. ‘What’s wrong with Mum? Why doesn’t he love her? Does he love those other women, the ones he went out with?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ my sister said. ‘But people stop loving other people all the time, even if they once did. It’s one of the facts of life.’

  To me, the facts of life were all about what people did to get babies. I was young for my age, confused, sad. But I realised that if Mum didn’t have Dad to look after her, then all she had was me, and Amelia. It gave us something to think about, something to focus on, keeping a watchful eye on our mother in case she did anything stupid.

  We prepared simple meals like beans on toast, and eggs on toast, and more or less anything on toast, until, by trial and error, we extended our repertoire to things like sausages, and roast chicken. It turned out that roasting a chicken was easy, providing you got it safely out of the oven without burning yourself on the hot fat in the tin. The potatoes and cabbage were usually cold by the time the meat was ready, but Mum didn’t seem to notice.

  Amelia and I fed ourselves – and our mother when she would let us – we bathed, we went to school, we did our homework, we passed exams. We survived, and somehow, eventually, we grew up.

  And then Amelia left to go and live with Dad – she was always his favourite. So, I was completely alone, if not physically then certainly in every other way. I think it was then that I vowed never to lose anything, or anyone, who was precious to me ever again.

  Twenty-Six

  FRAN

  Two weeks pass – don’t ask me how, they just do – and nothing happens. By which I mean that Tessa hasn’t been in touch with me, nor has she contacted Hector. I feel as if I’m constantly underwater, holding my breath, not daring to believe that Tessa has relented, or never intended to see the ultimatum through in the first place. Every time I look at Hector, the words form in my brain, words Tessa commanded me to speak. Unspoken, impossible words.

  The school year draws to a close, and still nothing. I can’t avoid the village – I work there, for goodness sake – and the risk of running into Tessa, or Ben, is ever-present. Two days before the end of term at Oakheart Academy, Hector and I go to sports day. Caitlin has already broken up and is at Maisie’s house. We watch a game of netball, cheering on Hazel’s team, then attend a gymnastics display in which Kitty shows a surprising, almost balletic, prowess, despite her declared absolute hatred of anything to do with PE.

  It’s not until we gather on the playing fields for the lower school athletics events that I spot Tessa and Ben among the crowd of spectators, on the opposite side of the running track from us. I glance warily at Hector, wondering if he’s seen them, too, and whether he’ll think it rude not to go over and chat. But he says nothing, and I assume he hasn’t noticed.

  Tessa is animated, her pale blonde head bobbing as she talks to other parents nearby. Ben stands facing the track, hands in pockets, looking as if he’d rather be anywhere other than here. Silently, I admonish him for not entering into the spirit of the day. He is a good dad to Zoe, though, I know that, and it panics me slightly as I wonder if he has other things on his mind. Namely me. And Hector.

  I decide I’m giving my imagination too much freedom. I can’t second-guess this situation and it’s pointless to try. Relieved that neither Tessa nor Ben seem to have seen us, I give all my attention to Hazel as she crosses the finishing line in fifth place in her race. She looks over at us, throws up her hands and grins. Hazel doesn’t need to win. Hector says she lacks competitive drive, but I think she’s all the happier for it. It is all I want, for my daughters, as well as my husband, to be happy.

  Please God I can keep them that way.

  I shed tears of relief when holiday time comes around and we head for the West Country, every spare inch of the car stuffed full of essentials, and in the case of the girls, a number of non-essentials – according to Hector, anyway. We don’t use the roof-rack any more, not since the time the whole lot slid off on a tricky bend, leaving us scrabbling around on the grass verge picking up clothes and beach-gear.

  Nothing awful can happen while we’re out of Tessa’s range; as far as I know she doesn’t have Hector’s mobile number. The prospect of a fortnight of relative safety helps soothe my frayed nerves; relative because the problem is still there, just postponed.

  We leave home at eight on Saturday morning, only half an hour later than scheduled, which is a miracle in itself. Kitty’s hair is wet, and Hazel complains she keeps flicking it in her direction on purpose. Caitlin complains she’s squashed and can’t lift her elbows to do her colouring. Hector and I shut our ears as best we can, and I pass into the back a stash of sweets I’ve been saving for the journey.

  My benign expression falters as we drive past Rose Cottage and my stomach swerves. But a little later, some studiously casual questioning of Hazel reveals that the Grammaticus family are going to Positano for a fortnight, leaving at the end of next week. This fortunate overlap means I have almost three weeks’ grace instead of two, and by the time we hit the motorway, I’ve resolved to enjoy this holiday, and worry about Tessa when we’re all back in Oakheart. If I have to.

  Hector’s father, George, lives in a neat 1930s semi in a quiet, leafy crescent on the outskirts of Taunton. We decide to make the diversion on the way down rather than on the return journey, when all we want to do then is get home.

  The first thing George says to me is that I look pasty.

  ‘That’s what I keep saying,’ Hector says, smiling fondly at me.

  Does he? Clearly, I’ve not been paying attention. Unsurprisingly. Something else I must do: focus on my husband, and not let the troubles I brought upon myself take precedence over my marriage. Ironic, of course, given the nature of those troubles.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, kissing George on the cheek. ‘I just need my holiday, that’s all.’

  George has had warning of our visit and a mountain of triangular sandwiches teeters on an old blue-and-white meat platter in the middle of his dining room table. Lettuce leaves stand up like green flags between the bread. There are plates and paper napkins arranged around.

  ‘Ham, and some sort of cheese, and that peanut stuff you girls like,’ he announces proudly. ‘She came and helped me, Gwen next door. Don’t ask me which is which now.’ He chuckles. ‘You’ll just have to look inside ‘em.’

  ‘It’s so kind of you to feed us,’ I say. ‘We didn’t expect it.’

  ‘Ah, it’s good to see you. And you lot.’ George waves towards the girls, who are happily stuffing themselves with sandwiches, pleased with this unexpected bonus as we had told them they’d have to make do with snacks on the way. They’ll be eating those as well, of course, as soon as we get back in the car.

  We chat over coffee – lemonade for the girls – after we’ve eaten, catching up on respective news. Hector carefully asks after his father’s health and wellbeing without making it too obvious – George hates a fuss, and values his independence.

  Half an hour later, with fond farewells all round, we’re back on the road. The visit to my much-loved father-in-law brings my own lovely dad to mind – and of course, Mum – and for a few miles I feel sad again, and distinctly hateful of myself and my wayward behaviour.

  Our holiday cottage is white painted, slate-roofed, and has a central porch sheltering a faded, rust-coloured door. It sits amidst a cluster of similar cottages, most of which appear also to be holiday lets. The road that runs between them – more of a rocky track than a road, not unlike Woodside Villas, only narrow
er – leads down to a picture-book cove, the beach itself accessed by a short flight of stone steps.

  It’s all perfect and lovely, and I feel the weight of stress lifting from my shoulders as we explore the quirky rooms and the girls begin the customary tussle over who has which bedroom. There are three bedrooms; Caitlin is enchanted by the tiniest room with the sloping ceiling, and Hazel and Kitty are happy to let her have it while they share the room at the back with the two single beds.

  Mine and Hector’s room, like Caitlin’s, looks out over the bay. Hector puts his arms around me from behind as I stand there taking in the view.

  ‘Okay?’ he says.

  I turn in his arms. ‘Absolutely.’ I kiss him lightly on the mouth. ‘Look, Hec, I’m sorry if I’ve been a bit… distracted lately.’

  He looks at me as if he doesn’t know what I’m talking about, but it’s a pretend expression. ‘Nope, not noticed anything like that. We’re on holiday now, though, so let’s relax, eh? Let the rest of world go hang.’

  ‘Cheers to that,’ I say, wholeheartedly.

  We’re extraordinarily lucky with the weather. The sun shines every day from an almost cloudless sky. The girls are happy to be anywhere as long as it’s a beach, and we have plenty to choose from, including the busier ones where surfing and body-boarding opportunities have great allure for Hazel and Kitty. Hector and I swim and read and doze, and shop in village streets for our simple meals.

  ‘I could live here,’ I say, as I gaze at the cottage from my deckchair in the garden on our last-but-one day.

  ‘You’d be bored rigid inside a month. Think about the winter, with the cold and rain and the stormy seas,’ Hector replies. ‘Not so idyllic then.’