The Wife's Revenge

by Deirdre Palmer

  Thirty

  FRAN

  Having had no response to my message to Tessa, I’m sensing a return to my old self – if I haven’t forgotten what that was. The wariness, the anxiety, the fear were all still there, like a lumpy cluster of frogspawn lurking beneath the still surface of a pond, waiting for its moment to arrive, but I’ve trained myself to ignore it. First and foremost, I am a wife and mother. I have responsibilities, I have a life. I can’t afford to cave in at the first sign of trouble.

  I don’t have quite enough flexi-time credit for another day off work, but Evelyn understands I want to spend time with the girls while they’re on school holidays and we make a private arrangement between ourselves.

  Taking Hector’s car, which is bigger than mine, I drive my daughters to Brighton for the day. We stroll along the lower prom among the August crowd, like proper day-trippers, as Kitty puts it, playing the arcade machines, and shuffling through racks of souvenirs. Standing on the shingle at the top of the beach, we watch the windsurfers, laughing at Caitlin as she goes into hysterics each time a surfer falls off and hurtles into the waves. We traipse up and down the pier, eating pink candyfloss that threatens to fly off the stick as the breeze picks up. Then, under pressure from the girls, I shell out for us all to go on the i360, in which we are raised up a pole inside a glass doughnut-shaped capsule to gaze in awe at the coastline spread beneath us.

  Caitlin complains that the i360 is not as exciting as The London Eye because you can’t see Buckingham Palace, and the others tease her by quoting my mother’s favourite saying: Well, you can’t have everything – all the funnier when said totally out of context. I promise we will Skype Nan and Grandad tonight, and Caitlin can stay up late for the purpose.

  It’s a good day, quality mother-and-daughters’ time, and I have a smile on my face as I drive us all home, stuffed to the gills with pizza we ate in a restaurant in town.

  It is while I’m quietly tidying Caitlin’s room – it’s so late she fell fast asleep as soon as her head touched the pillow – that I discover an envelope addressed to the parents or guardian of Caitlin Oliver. By the way the child’s name is entered by hand, it’s obviously a round-robin, and I realise it came home with Caitlin from art club last Saturday. I forgot about it at the time, and obviously so did she.

  Art club has not so far been a problem. I would never stop Caitlin from attending – it would be impossible, anyway – but now she’s used to it, all one of us needs to do is drop her at the door, then wait for her outside later. Therefore, it doesn't matter if I take her, and not Hector or Kitty. I have other parents to chat to, including Maisie’s mum, Afia, and I feel effectively barricaded against Tessa, and Ben if he happens to be around.

  Tiptoeing out of the room, I slit open the envelope as I go downstairs.

  ‘What’s that?’ Hector looks up from his chair.

  ‘From art club. They’re having an exhibition.’

  ‘Already? It’s only been going five minutes. Anyway, I thought the painting was just for fun.’

  ‘It is. It’s not an exhibition as such. Tessa is putting on a display of the kids’ work and charging to get in, for charity.’

  ‘Blimey.’ Hector chuckles. ‘That woman’ll be charging people to watch her having a wee soon.’

  I laugh, too, although the contents of the letter fill me with dread. I drop the piece of paper onto the arm of Hector’s chair as if it’s red hot. He picks it up and reads it.

  ‘A raffle, lucky dip for kids, sale of books and art equipment, refreshments – pricey, no doubt – Cleo drawing portraits to order… well, I suppose all of that, added to the entry money, means she’ll net a fair few quid. Did you see what charity it was?’

  ‘I didn’t get that far.’ I was already plotting what could possibly prevent us from being available on the day in question, a Saturday in just under three weeks’ time.

  ‘The donkey sanctuary, near Henfield. Crafty move. What kid doesn’t want to save a poor old donkey from the knackers’ yard? They’ll all be clamouring to take part and dragging their families along.’

  ‘Caitlin included,’ I say, forgetting to restrain the grimness in my voice.

  ‘Why not? She’ll love having her paintings pinned up. I bet she’s one of the best in that group, better than some of the older ones.’

  This is true. Caitlin uses her time in art club wisely, and prolifically. She has a bundle of work ready to display. Three pieces maximum per child, the letter says. Her only problem will be choosing. Whereas mine…

  The letter also asks for adult volunteers to help set up the hall, and to run things on the day. Tessa can go whistle for that.

  The paranoid part of my mind explores the idea that Tessa has arranged this event purely for my benefit, or rather, for hers, and I’m not talking about glory for herself here. Tessa knows full well that Caitlin will want to show her pictures, and that she will want her parents there. Both of us, a captive audience. My previous mood of almost-calm is showing cracks on the surface, cracks that will surely widen into deep, black chasms. And there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it.

  My feeling of helplessness burgeons when, the following day after work, I receive a phone call from Afia. Maisie, it seems, is keen for her mother to get involved on the day, so would I like to join forces and the two of us run the book and art stall? What can I say? I have no logical reason for refusing, especially as Afia has found out we would not be responsible for acquiring the stuff for sale – Tessa has that under control already.

  Those two words ‘Tessa’ and ‘control’ uttered in the same sentence shoot ice through my veins. Okay, being on the stall would keep me busy, and not easily accessible, but would also leave Hector to move freely around the hall, innocent and unguarded.

  I can’t second-guess any of this. Tessa has proved how unpredictable she is, as well as downright vicious. Anything could happen on the day, and I await it with a prevailing sense of doom.

  As it happens, the art club charity morning goes remarkably smoothly and without drama, unless you count my frequent visits to the ladies’ due to nerves every time I see Tessa so much as glance in my direction. This is after the necessary interaction before the doors open, when Tessa makes sure Afia and I have all we need and know what we’re doing – how hard can it be? – and reminds us to stow away our handbags, phones, etcetera, in a lockable cupboard in the kitchen area. ‘You can’t be too careful.’

  Between bouts of sales activity, I am watching her, tracking her movements to see if she makes a beeline for Hector. As far as I can tell, she doesn’t go near him, and after a couple of hours, Hec comes to say that if I don’t mind, he’ll head off home. It’s with a hefty dose of relief I tell him that of course I don’t mind, and yes, I will ring him if Caitlin wants to go home before I’m ready. I doubt she will; she’s been with Maisie the whole time, plus some of the other children from art club, and is obviously enjoying herself. This is not such a big event that she feels overwhelmed, and she isn’t amongst too many people she doesn’t know, which can also cause her anxiety. I’m glad I didn’t find an excuse to duck out, for Caitlin’s sake.

  Finally, it’s over. Half the village turned out to support the event, the children have had a whale of a time, the donkeys will be eternally grateful, and Tessa can add another gold star to her personal success chart, which I wouldn’t be surprised to learn existed in physical reality and not a product of mine and Grace’s imagination.

  There has been no sign of Ben the whole morning, and again paranoia kicks in as I wonder if he’s stayed away to avoid me, or more likely, to avoid getting involved in any trouble. Until I remind myself that not everything involving the Grammaticus family is about me, even if it feels like it is.

  But drama or no drama, Tessa has again manipulated me and corkscrewed my brain. I expect she’s crowing inside at the thought of that.

  The following day, Sunday, I discover that messing with my head again isn’t enough for Tessa. I’m sitting al
one at the table on the patio with my coffee, the girls occupied in the house, when Hector comes out and hands me his mobile phone. ‘Tessa,’ he mouths.

  My heart stops. I mime a questioning face at Hector, at the same time as muttering ‘Hi Tessa’ into the phone, which I can hardly keep a grip on since my hand is shaking.

  ‘Sorry about that, Fran,’ Tessa trills. ‘I must have mixed up your two numbers and called Hector instead of you. Good you’re there, though.’ A silence follows, a deliberate pause on her part, during which my fear escalates. Hector is still standing beside me. I glance up at him.

  ‘What is it, Tessa?’ My voice is light and friendly, for Hector’s benefit.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for running the stall yesterday. You made eighty-seven pounds! Isn’t that marvellous? I’ve already called Afia and told her.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I say breathlessly. ‘I was pleased to help. Glad it went well.’

  ‘It certainly did. I’d say it went very well indeed. Right, I’ll let you get on with your day. Say hi to Hector for me.’ She laughs. I hear it as a witch’s cackle. ‘Actually, I’ve already done that. Goodbye, Fran.’

  I click the call to end it, and pass Hector’s phone back to him.

  ‘That was nice of her,’ he says, having heard my end of the conversation. ‘She rang to thank you for yesterday, I take it.’

  I nod. Something gives way inside me. ‘How come she rang you instead of me?’

  ‘What? Oh, I don’t know. Numbers next to one another on the list, I suppose.’

  I feign a casualness I don’t feel. ‘I didn’t know Tessa had your mobile number. She usually uses the landline if she calls here. She’s only had my number a little while.’

  ‘Search me,’ Hector says, and heads for the back door.

  ‘Hec?’

  He stops and turns. ‘Um?’

  ‘Nothing, doesn’t matter.’

  Hector shrugs and smiles, and goes indoors, leaving me to gasp inwardly at what almost happened there. I was going to say it, I really was, because the truth is, I don’t think I can stand much more. I was about to tell Hector about me and Ben, and Tessa’s threat, spew the whole thing out, and then, possibly, fall on my knees and crave his forgiveness, and understanding. One nightmare would be over, the new one beginning no easier to handle.

  I couldn’t do it. I can’t do it.

  And so, Nightmare Number One continues, and doesn’t end with the dawn.

  Thirty-One

  FRAN

  Tessa has Hector’s mobile number. She can call or message him any time she chooses, wherever he is. It has crossed my mind that she could have gained access to him in any case by phoning his workshop, but Hector rarely answers the landline there if he’s working, and half the time it is unplugged to allow some bit of electrical kit to be plugged in. This has never made much business sense to me but, as Hector points out, his primary links to the public are his website and business email, and the rest of his commissions come in on personal recommendation.

  I have come up with a theory as to how Tessa obtained Hector’s number – as if it matters now, but I have to do something to pass the sleepless nights away. Tessa was most insistent that Afia and I lock our personal belongings away during the art club charity morning. I had no reason to object to such a sensible arrangement. Why would I? But, of course, Tessa herself had access to the cupboard and my phone was in my bag, unprotected by a password as I never saw the need. It’s the only answer I can think of, and now I know what kind of a person Tessa is, I know she wouldn’t hesitate to ‘steal’ my phone for a few minutes.

  As the days pass, I find myself leaning more and more on Ben’s ‘advice’: Do nothing and it will all go away. All very well, but at what point will Tessa decide she’s punished me enough and let it go? I have to draw on all my reserves, forage for every crumb of inner strength to stop me doing something stupid, like confessing all to Hector and threaten not only my marriage but my relationship with my daughters, who would surely be horrified if they knew what their mother had been up to. They may understand in years to come, when they’ve done a lot more growing up, but it would be too late by then, the damage done.

  I try to imagine what my sister, Natalie, would make of it all. She’s only two years younger than me and we’ve always been close. I shouldn’t have to imagine, I should know. It depresses me slightly that I don’t. She wouldn’t judge my behaviour, not outwardly, and she’d be incensed on my behalf that I was being blackmailed. But inside, where the truth lies, would she be able to stop herself from being even a tiny bit shocked that her sister had been unfaithful? Would the idea that I have got what I deserved cross her mind, even for a second? I couldn’t put her in that position; it wouldn’t be fair. If I had any thoughts of confiding in my sister, enlisting her support, they’re already gone.

  I’m still thinking about Natalie as I stand at the kitchen window on Monday morning, watching Caitlin and Hazel setting up camp on the lawn with the old tepee we’ve had since Kitty was a toddler. Kitty herself is at work, at The Pot and Kettle. I’m home until two, when Hector will take over, then I’ll be at the surgery until five-thirty, making up the rest of my hours as and when I can. It’s a cack-handed arrangement, but it works.

  The tepee has acquired a few holes and rips in the fabric over the years, and is decorated with cowboys and Indians, which have faded into the buff background. Caitlin squeals with laughter as, for the third time, the wonky canes forming the ribs of the tepee collapse inwards. They’re using our old tartan picnic rug, and I notice, three of the best cushions, if any of our cushions could in any way be described as ‘best’. Hazel rights the canes again and fetches Miss T, dumping her in Caitlin’s lap. The cat immediately jumps off and stalks back to her original spot behind the hydrangeas.

  I smile at the sight of the two sisters, sitting cross-legged on the rug, heads together in a moment of shared secrets. Natalie and I made camps; it was our favourite pastime in the long summer holidays. Our garden in Harlow was long and thin, and well-tended up until the last six feet or so, at which point our parents gave up and left the rest to turn into a jungle of blackberry thorns, dandelions, and nettles. The advantage of this was that nobody inside the house could see what went on at the end of the garden, and so our camps, made out of old sheets slung over branches, were ‘top secret’.

  As we grew older and no longer bothered with the sheets, we still sat at the end of the garden in the long grass, appreciating our separateness from the house and Mum and Dad. When I was fourteen and Natalie twelve, we tried our first cigarettes there – I’d been given two by a boy at school, in fair exchange for a chaste kiss behind the canteen block. We didn’t much enjoy our first attempt at smoking, although I think I told Natalie I did. My father saw the smoke rising, came marching up the garden, confiscated the cigarettes and matches, and hustled us indoors to face a lecture on the dangers of smoking – especially amongst dry grass.

  Fun times, happy memories. I must talk to Natalie about that when we next speak.

  While I’m in this nostalgic mood, which feels more melancholy than it should because of everything else that’s going on in my head, another memory comes to me. The scent of lemons filling our small kitchen. I thought of it back then as the scent of summer. As soon as the weather turned hot, Mum went into production, turning lemons and sugar into refreshing lemonade which she served from a green glass pitcher into matching glasses.

  I can see her now, an apron over her summer dress, washing the lemons, peeling the rind thinly, then boiling it up in a big old saucepan with the sugar before adding the juice of the lemons – the same method her own mother used. The recipe said to strain the liquid through a sieve, but Mum usually didn’t bother, fishing out the bits of rind with a slotted spoon instead. As long as it tasted good, we didn’t mind a pip or two. Once we had wind of the citrussy fragrance, Natalie and I could hardly wait for the drink to cool sufficiently to be decanted into the jug.

  I open t
he kitchen window and stick my head out. ‘I’m popping to the village. Don’t answer the door to anybody. I won’t be long.’

  ‘What for?’ Caitlin says.

  ‘Lemons.’

  ‘Why do we need…?’

  I close the window and go and find my purse before Caitlin can suggest she comes with me. I just want to get to the shop and back as fast as possible and brew up some old-fashioned lemonade for my girls, as Mum did for me and my sister.

  It’s as I’m passing the oak tree in the square, clutching a paper bag containing four lemons, that I hear my name. I don’t recognise him at first – on this bright day the oak casts charcoal shadows beneath the spread of sturdy branches. I squint into the gloom and realise it’s Ben, sitting alone, a newspaper folded virginally on the seat beside him. I give a slight nod towards him, slowing my pace but not stopping.

  ‘Fran, here. Come and sit down.’

  I wander across with a sigh. ‘I can’t stop. The girls are at home on their own.’

  ‘They’ll be fine.’ He smiles.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ I say, standing a few feet away from him.

  ‘Dentist.’

  ‘Good luck with that then.’

  ‘I’ve already been. Filling.’ He aims a finger at the side of his cheek, which I can now see is a bit swollen. I also notice a slight slur in his voice. ‘I’m waiting for the anaesthetic to wear off.’

  ‘It’s as good a place as any,’ I say, cursing myself for allowing this conversation – any conversation – with Ben.

  ‘That’s what I thought. Fran, please sit down. I want to say something.’

  I glance anxiously around the square. ‘Where’s Tessa?’

  ‘At home, busy doing something or other. You’re quite safe.’ He flashes his eyes.

  ‘That isn’t funny,’ I say, but I sit down anyway, at the other end of the bench.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘About the other day. I wasn’t fair to you. You were worried and I dismissed it. I’m very sorry.’