The Wife's Revenge

by Deirdre Palmer

  I wasn’t expecting an apology. It doesn’t sit easily with my view of Ben, and it takes me a second or two to regroup. ‘It’s okay. I suppose.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the things I said about my feelings for you, and for sending the flowers. In fact, I’m sorry for anything I’ve said or done that has upset you. I really don’t want that. I think too much of you, Fran.’ Ben reaches out to me, then he pulls his hand back, obviously thinking better of it.

  This is getting heavy now, but I don’t get up and leave because, after our prickly conversation in The Black Sheep, I’m intrigued, as well as confused, to be shown this glimpse of the charming, thoughtful man I once knew. Or thought I did.

  ‘It’s fine. I said.’

  A leaf drifts from above, curling out of the shadow to land in a wedge of sunlight between our feet. We watch it in silence. Then Ben speaks again, his voice modulated, pliant.

  ‘Nothing’s happened, I take it.’

  ‘If you mean with Tessa and Hector, no, nothing’s happened. Nothing’s changed.’

  ‘But it will, Fran, it will change. After a while, you’ll see I’m right, that Tessa has no intention of telling tales to Hector, and the whole thing will vanish into the mists of time.’

  ‘I sincerely hope that’s true.’ I allow myself a little smile at Ben’s use of the mists’ cliché. This, from such a pragmatic man, is as novel as his apologies.

  I update him on the Hector/mobile phone number issue. Strangely, as I relate the brief story, it doesn’t seem nearly as important now, nor as frightening. Ben certainly doesn’t think it’s anything to fret about, and reacts to the news with polite disinterest. I’m beginning to believe I can handle the Tessa situation after all, that some benign invisible force is handing me part of the control that was exclusively hers.

  The church clock chimes eleven. I’ve been out longer than I intended; Hazel and Caitlin are home alone, and the lemonade-making awaits. I stand up. ‘I have to go.’

  Ben doesn’t try to stop me. He smiles up at me, reaches for my hand, brushing it with his fingers before I have time to retract it. ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ he says.

  I don’t feel I can leave without saying anything. ‘I hope the tooth doesn’t give you any trouble, when it comes to.’

  Ben nods, and with that small gesture, releases me. At least, that’s how it feels as I walk away.

  ‘Why didn’t you just bung the lemons in the processor?’ Kitty puts her empty glass down on the kitchen table.

  ‘Because I wanted to make it the proper way, like Nan did, and your great-gran. No “bunging” involved. Anyway, if you include the pith it makes the drink bitter.’

  I’ve explained how I made the lemonade. It does taste good, if I say so myself. I was lucky there was half a glass left for me by the time I got home.

  ‘Okay.’ Kitty smiles absently and takes the biscuit tin down off the shelf.

  The front door bangs. Hazel thumps along the hall and arrives in the kitchen with a squeal of rubber soles. I realise I haven’t seen her since I came home from work.

  ‘Ooh, is there none left?’ She eyes the empty plastic jug.

  ‘Sorry, no. I’ve got two more lemons, though. I’ll make some more tomorrow. Or the next day.’

  ‘It tasted wicked,’ Hazel says. ‘I had some before I went.’

  ‘Went where? Where have you been?’

  ‘To Zoe’s house. Didn’t Dad say?’

  I haven’t had time to talk to Hector since I got home, but my stomach’s knotting up for an entirely different reason.

  ‘You’ve been at Rose Cottage?’

  ‘Yes, I said. At Zoe’s.’ Hazel raises her eyes. ‘We watched films in her room.’

  ‘Films? On a lovely day like this?’ Do I sound like a casually interested mother? Do I?

  ‘She’s got some new ones. She’s been saving them until we could watch them together. Don’t worry, Mother, they were suitable for my age group.’

  That hadn’t crossed my mind, which is fully occupied elsewhere. Mainly on the seat beneath the oak tree, with Ben, who seems to have inveigled his way back into my sympathies. I don’t know how he does it, really I don’t.

  Hazel helps herself to a can of cola from the fridge. ‘Mum, Zoe’s mum always asks me how you are when I go there, but you never ask Zoe how her mum is when she comes here.’

  I’m trying my hardest to hang onto my earlier placid mood in which the classic nightmare elements of pursuer and pursued have paled to almost nothing and the simple pleasures of life once more have a place. I have a feeling it’s a battle already lost.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Nothing, I just thought of it, that’s all,’ Hazel says, frowning at my unduly curt response. ‘I’m not saying you should ask her. It was just an observation.’

  ‘What is an observation?’ Caitlin wanders in from the living room where she’s been watching TV.

  Nobody answers her.

  ‘The reason Mum doesn’t ask Zoe that is because she doesn’t like Zoe’s mum,’ Kitty says.

  ‘I never said I didn’t like Tessa,’ I say rather too quickly, as a sense of déjà vu sucks me deeper into the mire. ‘It never occurs to me to ask Zoe how her mother is, that’s all.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I was only saying, that’s all.’ Hazel flounces her shoulders, as if she hadn’t kicked off the subject in the first place.

  I escape the madness that three daughters too perceptive for their own good – and mine – seem intent on spreading, and go upstairs to shower in peace. But as the water cascades over my overheated skin, all I can think of is Tessa asking my daughter how her mother is, for what reason I can only imagine.

  Later that evening, all of us except Caitlin, who is in bed, gather in front of the laptop and chat to my family in New Zealand. It was my idea; I hoped to recapture something of this morning’s reminiscences. Natalie remembers even more about our garden camping escapades, including the smoking incident, and Dad chuckles over her shoulder in the background. Kitty relays my forays into lemonade-brewing, to my mother’s delight.

  ‘What happened to the set we used? The green jug and glasses?’ I ask.

  A pixelated chuckle twists from Mum’s lips. ‘Your father dropped the jug and smashed it. Don’t ask me what happened to the glasses. They just went, I expect, one after the other. Nothing lasts forever.’

  Thirty-Two

  TESSA

  It’s been a strange sort of day; unsettling. I’m not sure why, except Ben was home because he had a dental appointment, which meant my routine was interrupted. And he seemed a bit off when he came back. Not with me, necessarily, but quiet, quieter than usual, his face set as if he had something on his mind. I know that expression, and I know not to ask questions.

  Zoe asked if she could invite Hazel to ours. My immediate reaction was to say no and dream up some activity that would not include a friend. But then I thought, it’s not the child’s fault her mother has no shame, and I don’t feel like going out today anyway, so I told Zoe it was fine. They spent most of the time in Zoe’s room, watching films, and I only saw Hazel in passing, just enough time to say hello and ask how her mother was, which is a habit I’ve developed and can’t seem to get out of, not because I need an answer.

  If anybody knows how Francesca Oliver is these days, it’s me.

  Dinner was a silent affair, and I felt I was the only one of us present at the table. Ben spent the whole meal looking past me at the television news – I’ve always meant to get rid of the smaller set in the dining room but somehow never got round to it. Zoe had her phone out on the table. I didn’t tell her to put it away or stop responding every time it beeped; there didn’t seem much point.

  I came upstairs a while ago, and nobody seems to have missed me or come to see where I’ve got to. Normally it wouldn’t bother me but sometimes, like now, it would be good to have somebody to talk to, somebody who is there just for me. Somebody I can tell my darkest secrets to. Not my family, obviously,
but somebody.

  God, I hate this! I’ve never felt sorry for myself in my life and I’m damned if I’m going to start now.

  My hand automatically reaches for the drawer in the bedside cabinet, and I find myself holding Caitlin’s pink notebook. After my discovery about her mother’s claustrophobic tendencies, I didn’t find much else of interest. I don’t know why I kept it really. Sitting on the bed, I thumb quickly through the pages. From the middle onwards, the pages are empty, but I flick through to the end anyway. And that’s when I find the drawing – a pencil sketch filling the whole of one page, drawn with care, style, and skill. I have to say, young Caitlin is the star of my art club. She demonstrates real talent for drawing and painting, and I have found myself wishing she didn’t have such a bitch of a mother.

  But there it is; nothing will change that.

  The drawing is of a house, their house – I recognise its uncompromising squareness – and there is a tiny face at each window. Five smiling faces. The Oliver family. It’s a smug little image of domestic bliss. Even the cat sitting on the doorstep looks happy.

  Something shifts and buckles inside me; a softening, melting sensation, like marshmallow. My brain resists, just in time; reshaping, hardening the shell against signs of weakness. I take a firm grip on the notebook and rip out the pages until all that is left is a ragged bunch of paper, and then I go to the en-suite and drop the lot, and the ravaged pink cover, into the waste bin. Nobody will notice and wonder what it is. Ben certainly won’t.

  Back on the bed, I fumble inside the still open drawer, idly sifting the contents while knowing exactly what I’m looking for. The envelope emerges as pristine as the day I put it there. I open the loose flap and ease out the cutting from the local paper. No photo, just a tube of print jigsawed in to fit the layout of the page. Coroner’s court issues suicide verdict on Oakheart woman reads the heading. The report is a clipped precis of the proceedings, concentrating on the name and age of the deceased – Maria Capelli, 43 – the fact that she was new to the area, and where she died. If anything, High Heaven gets more wordage than Maria does, as if the junior reporter decided its common name and the chalk pit closure with its link to Sussex’s industrial past was of more interest than the woman herself.

  Re-reading the article, I feel nothing. These are the facts, in black-and-white. There’s no disputing them.

  Ben calls up the stairs. He’s about to watch a murder-mystery we recorded, and do I want to watch it with him? I call back that I’ll be down in a minute. Zoe is in her room but not in bed when I pop my head in. Her attention is split three ways, between the TV, her phone, and a magazine draped over a cushion on her bed. I add a fourth diversion when I go over and kiss her, telling her not to stay up too late.

  Then I go downstairs to spend the rest of the evening with my husband.

  Thirty-Three

  FRAN

  I’m at work when I hear a faint ping indicating a text message. My phone is in my bag, and that’s where it stays for twenty minutes or more. The surgery is hectic this morning, with end-to-end appointments and two emergencies. We’re one vet down, too. David should have been back from his holiday in Madeira last night, but his flight was cancelled for some reason and he won’t get another until later today.

  I peer inside the blue knitted blanket that cocoons a beautiful grey Persian cat. His owner, a girl about Hazel’s age, holds him close, tears pouring down her face while her mother tries to pacify her.

  ‘He’s going to be fine, darling,’ she says, then looks up at me. ‘His paw got crushed under some child’s scooter wheel. He will lie across the pavement in everybody’s way. Not the child’s fault, of course, although she could have looked where she was going.’

  At this explanation, the girl’s tears increase. ‘Will the vet see him soon? Please?’

  The cat doesn’t seem too bothered by his injury and wriggles his upper half out of the blanket in a bid for freedom. The girl clutches him tighter. ‘Oh, look at his little foot – it’s bleeding again!’

  ‘Wait there. I’ll see what I can do.’ I trot through to the side-room off one of the consulting rooms, where Rowena stoops over the scales, weighing a Pekingese dog which looks grossly overfed to me. Yes, Rowena will see the cat next. I return to reception and relay the welcome news. Mother, daughter, and cat subside onto the plastic chairs at the side.

  Evelyn has found time to make coffee, and I take advantage of what will surely be merely a brief lull to sit down at my desk. Remembering the text, I retrieve my phone and click on the message with one hand whilst holding the mug in the other. I’m fully expecting it to be Caitlin, reminding me yet again that we are going shoe-shopping in Worthing this afternoon. If she’s gone up another size, which I suspect she has, she’ll be ecstatic at the prospect of more summer sandals as well as the promised new trainers, and won’t be easily coerced into making do. My thoughts dwell hopefully on summer sales as I look at the screen.

  It is not Caitlin’s name I read there.

  ‘You’re going to spill that if you don’t watch out,’ Evelyn observes.

  I hurriedly right my coffee mug that I’ve let tip perilously sideways, and set it down on the desk with a shaky hand.

  ‘Everything hunky-dory?’ Evelyn inclines her head towards my phone. She wants to peep but doesn’t quite have the nerve.

  ‘What? Oh, yes. It’s nothing.’ I click away from the message; the words are already branded across my brain with a red-hot poker.

  Fran, I don’t think you understand the situation so I will make it clearer for you. Let’s make the deadline two weeks from now, which takes us to the end of the month, 31st August. Tell Hector by then or you know what will happen. TG.

  I’m beaten, well and truly. I’m at breaking point. There is no convenient exit, no waking from this nightmare.

  I can hardly put one foot in front of the other as I walk home after my morning shift. I stop off on the way to collect Caitlin from Maisie’s house, turning down Afia’s offer of coffee or a glass of wine and hurrying my daughter away as fast as is decently possible. Caitlin is puzzled and not very happy about this, but for once I don’t try to appease her or divert her with chat. I walk silently home, my daughter trailing behind.

  Kitty isn’t working at the café today and has promised to stay with Hazel while I’m at work. I’m expecting to find my two eldest girls at home, but the house is silent. There’s a note in Kitty’s writing on the kitchen table, telling me she and Hazel have gone by bus to the swimming pool, and Kitty promises ‘on her absolute life’ to stay with her sister ‘at all times’. They expect to be home by four and Kitty hopes I have had a nice morning at work.

  Although I’d rather they’d have texted to check with me first, it’s fine. They are responsible girls when they have to be, and actually I’m relieved it’s just me and Caitlin at home. She will soon settle down to some colouring or something, leaving me to engage my brain on what is to happen later – or rather, what I must make happen. But God knows how. Do I talk to Hector here at home, where the girls, even if they don’t overhear, will catch the fall-out pretty quickly? Do I take him out, talk to him on neutral territory, with the added complication of leaving our daughters at home? Should I not attempt to talk at all but write him a letter instead? There is no manual on this, no set of instructions, no map to guide me, no rules.

  How in Hell’s name am I supposed to do this?

  I hear a thump from above that makes me jump as if I’ve touched a live wire.

  ‘Hec? Is that you?’

  ‘Yep. Up here.’

  I tread upstairs, my heart heavy in my chest. Hector has our small case open on the bed and is layering clothes into it. For one crazy, panicky moment, I think I must have already delivered my shocking news – or Tessa has – and Hector is leaving me. For a second, I stand frozen in the doorway, staring at the case, and then an influx of adrenaline lifts me back into the real present.

  ‘Where are you going?’ My voice is hig
h to the point of shrillness.

  Hector immediately drops the washbag he’s holding, comes over and wraps his arms around me. His touch brings a surge of emotion and I can hardly breathe.

  ‘It’s okay. Well, it’s not completely okay but there’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m going to Dad’s. His neighbour rang me – Carol, that nice woman who keeps an eye on him. She’s worried Dad’s not coping too well, and the stubborn old fool won’t go to the doctor. I’m popping down to see what’s what. You don’t mind, do you?’ Still with his arms loosely around my waist, he looks into my face. ‘Hey, what’s up?’

  I struggle to rearrange my expression. ‘Nothing, I wondered what you were doing, that’s all.’

  ‘Ah.’ My poor innocent husband releases me and returns to his packing. ‘Right then.’ He is distracted, probably more worried about his father than he’s admitting to.

  It’s my turn to offer some comfort, as if I have the nerve to even try. ‘George seemed really well when we were there. Hopefully it’s just a little dip, a temporary thing. They do go up and down, the elderly. The same as kids.’

  ‘Yes. I expect he’ll be as right as ninepence by the time I get there. You’ll be okay, you and the girls?’ Hector halts his packing again and looks at me. ‘Will you be able to manage with work? I’ll try not to be more than a couple of days.’

  I assure Hector we’ll be fine. I can’t at this moment force my brain to consider childcare – it seems such a tiny inconvenience compared with the bigger, technicolour picture – but I will sort out something. To my shame, I wish it was the start of term next week and the girls safely back at school.

  ‘What about your work?’ I harness my concentration and focus on my husband.

  ‘Dillon will keep the workshop ticking over. I trust him, he’s a bright lad.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ I sink onto the bed. I’m not sure my legs will hold me up much longer. ‘There are some clean t-shirts downstairs, on the airing rack. Not ironed but still…’