My Husband's Wife

by Jane Corry

  Ed tried again. ‘Do you know that your teacher has had to have stitches?’

  ‘She didn’t have to,’ he retorted quickly. ‘She shouldn’t have fallen.’

  Her fault for falling. My fault for upsetting Daniel at the end. Ed’s fault for not telling me about the trust. Joe’s fault for killing Sarah.

  Who knows where blame really lies? It’s never as simple as it seems.

  Desperately, Ed and I attempted to keep our lives together while sorting out Tom’s educational future at the same time. It wasn’t easy to find a school that could deal with Tom’s needs. But, once more, an online help group, along with the consultant, pointed us in the right direction. Some parents, we later found out, take ages to find ‘the right education package for children with autism spectrum disorders’. We were lucky.

  There was a ‘good school’ (according to reviews) about an hour from my parents. It offered flexible boarding, which would take the strain off us all, yet also made us feel guilty. But something had to be done. So we both went down to visit it. There were children like Tom. But many were more challenging. One teacher was wiping faeces off the wall of a corridor as we passed. The smell clung to us, suffocating us in the knowledge that this was the world we were condemning him to.

  ‘How can we send him to a boarding school?’ wept Ed on the way back. The traffic on the snarled-up motorway appeared to reflect our own personal impasse.

  ‘You went to one.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘Yours was posh, you mean.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘We’re sending him to a boarding school because we can’t cope and because they have specialized help,’ I said, tapping my fingers on the wheel.

  ‘You sound so cold. Emotionless.’

  It was the only way I could manage. Better than Ed’s method, which was to start drinking vodka as well as wine.

  A few weeks later, I finally picked up the phone to Carla and apologized for not having returned her calls. ‘We’ve had a few problems,’ I said, and explained that Tom had got into trouble at school but that it was all sorted now.

  We invited her round for dinner. I still felt tense. But it went better than I’d expected, apart from some awkward bits about Ed’s paintings and when my husband said too much about Tom. At least my husband didn’t let slip that we’ve sent our son to another school – one that’s used to dealing with ‘that kind of behaviour’ – and that Tom now refuses to speak to us on the phone.

  Before that, the three of us had talked about the old days when Carla was a child and we were a newly married couple. It reminded me of our difficult start and, at one point, I reached under the table for Ed’s hand to squeeze it. I’m sorry, said my squeeze, that I’m on edge. It’s not just the case. It’s Joe Thomas too. But of course, Ed didn’t hear any of that because I didn’t have the guts to say it out loud.

  Meanwhile, Carla chatted away about her studies. And we talked about poor Tony Gordon and where Carla could find him, because she wanted to visit to give a message from her mother. Really? What had happened to that unlikely pair after our awful row in the corridor? Had Francesca and Tony kept in touch? But I didn’t like to ask Carla. Besides, part of me still feels bad for having interfered at the time.

  So slightly against my better judgement, I gave Tony’s contact details to our guest.

  Why not? I reassured myself. Carla is a nice girl. How could she possibly harm a dying man?

  34

  Carla

  November 2013

  Carla had only been to a hospice once before. A friend of Nonna’s had been in one, just days before she died. Mamma had taken her to visit. It was disrespectful, she said, that her friend’s family couldn’t look after her at home themselves. But the daughter-in-law was English. What could you expect?

  ‘I am here to visit Tony Gordon,’ she said firmly to the woman on reception.

  The woman glanced at a sheet of paper in front of her. ‘I’m afraid I can’t find you on the list.’

  Carla summoned up one of her most charming smiles. ‘I am an old friend, visiting from Italy, and I do not have long. Please. I would be very grateful.’

  The woman returned her smile. Smiles were catching, Carla knew. Mamma had taught her that many years ago. ‘Tony is resting at the moment, but you can go in for a few minutes. You might not get much sense out of him, mind you. One of our volunteers will show you the way.’

  Gingerly, Carla walked down the corridor. As she passed open doors, she glanced in. A young woman was lying on her back, her mouth open, dozing noisily. And then the volunteer stopped. ‘Just in there,’ he said.

  Was that really him? Larry with the shiny car? Larry who had been so tall and imposing?

  Carla stared at the grey man lying on his back in the bed. There was no hat. No hair either. But there was a strange box-like thing attached to his throat. His eyes were closed, but as she approached they snapped open, then froze.

  ‘Larry,’ she said grimly.

  ‘This is Tony,’ whispered the young man behind her.

  Carla whipped round. ‘Please leave us,’ she said firmly. ‘I need a private conversation.’

  The young man nodded and closed the door.

  Carla fixed her gaze on Larry again. His eyes were frozen, she realized, with fear. Good.

  ‘Yes, it’s me.’ Slowly she forced herself to touch the box on his throat. ‘You cannot talk, I hear. Throat cancer. That means you will have to listen.’

  Her voice felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone cruel. A bully. Like the ones who had tormented her at school. ‘You promised a future to my mother, Larry. But you did not deliver. Do you know what that meant?’

  His ill, milky eyes were staring up at her, scared. ‘It meant she had to go back to Italy, downcast and despised, because she had a child and no husband. Mamma wasted the best years of her life waiting for you to leave your wife. But you did not do that, did you? And why? Because you wanted to have your cake and eat it, as you English say.’

  There was a small movement. So small that it was barely noticeable. The eyes were still rigidly fixed on her. Carla could almost smell his fear. But it didn’t give her the satisfaction she thought it would. Instead, she almost felt sorry for this curled-up, shrivelled shell of a man.

  ‘My mother has sent me here with a message.’ Her hands clenched inside her jacket pockets. ‘I am to tell you that she still loves you. That she would like to see you again, if you were to come to Italy. But I can see now that this is not possible.’

  A silent tear began to roll down from Larry’s left eye. And then his right.

  Carla swallowed hard. She had not been expecting this.

  ‘I just hope you regret your behaviour,’ she said quietly.

  Then she turned on her heel and walked fast down the corridor. Past the dozing young woman. Past the lady at reception. And out of this hellhole as fast as she could possibly go.

  Four nights later, her mobile rang.

  Lily’s voice at the other end was quiet. ‘I thought you ought to know, Carla. Tony Gordon died last night. Did you manage to see him before he went?’

  ‘No.’ Carla began to tremble. What if they tried to blame her for upsetting him? ‘No. I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ Yet Carla could tell that Lily was relieved. In fact, she’d been surprised when Lily had given her his details so easily. ‘It’s sad really. Tony Gordon wasn’t a saint, but he had his troubles.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘His wife has had multiple sclerosis for years. It couldn’t have been easy for him. Ironic that she’s outlived him, really. Poor woman is in a wheelchair. It will be hard for her without him.’

  Something faltered inside Carla. Larry had needed something his wife couldn’t offer. Laughter and company. Yet he couldn’t leave his wife. Not if she was an invalid. Had her mother known all this?

  ‘The funeral is next Wednesday, if you would like to come.’

/>   35

  Lily

  ‘Live each day as if it were your last.’

  The words of the hymn reach out to me. It’s a salutary reminder that the past is only a second ago. The present merely exists for a brief second too, before being relegated to history.

  Tony apparently chose the hymns himself.

  I look around the church at the other mourners. From the outside, it’s a rather lovely grey building which rises with a calmness of its own next to the busy Aldgate street that runs past. I’ve walked by it a few times but never been inside before. Now I wish I had. It’s surprisingly peaceful, with a beautiful stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary to the right of me. I find myself praying for Tom, and for Daniel, and for Ed, and for me.

  Somehow I never had Tony down as the churchgoing type. But according to the vicar’s eulogy, he went every Sunday. Was generous, too, to local charities. Especially one for multiple sclerosis.

  Silently, we all watch the pale ash coffin pass by, carried by six men of varying ages. Friends? Colleagues?

  Is it really possible that inside is the body of the keen-minded barrister I once admired so much? Who made such an impression on me when I was still so young and naive? The same man who had been seeing Carla’s mother on the quiet?

  I’m reminded acutely of the latter when Tony’s widow greets us graciously at the reception afterwards. It is being held in the hall adjoining the church. She is sitting in her wheelchair, back straight and head held high like it’s a throne. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she says, as if welcoming me to a cocktail party. She has tiny features, I note. Her complexion is pale and translucent, the kind one might see in an ‘over sixty and still beautiful’ magazine feature. On her knees is a fuchsia silk shawl; the invitation had clearly said ‘No black’. I, myself, am wearing a dove-grey designer dress suit with wide white lapels.

  A young woman is leaning over her protectively. I presume she is Tony’s daughter – there’s definitely something about the nose.

  ‘Go and look after our guests, darling, would you?’ Then Tony’s widow turns her face to mine.

  ‘I’m Lily Macdonald,’ I say. ‘I used to work with your husband.’

  ‘I know. He told me all about you.’ Her eyes go hard. She looks around. People are keeping a respectful distance. Then she leans towards me. ‘I am aware my husband had his indiscretions,’ she whispers. ‘He told me about that Italian woman on his deathbed. She wasn’t the first, you know. But he stayed with me. And that’s what counts. I’ll thank you to keep any gossip to yourself.’

  I am shocked by her directness. It’s as if she has been waiting for a meeting with me so she can fire this warning shot.

  ‘Do you know, he did everything for me,’ she continues. She holds out her hands and I see that the fingers are tightly closed like claws. ‘When I could no longer cut up my food, he did it for me.’ She leans forward again. There’s a smile on her lips, but her eyes are icy. ‘He dressed me every morning. He ran my bath every night and helped me into it.’

  I am taken back through time. To the visitors’ room and Joe Thomas, who liked to run Sarah’s bath. I remember thinking at the time that Tony Gordon wasn’t the sort to do the same for his wife.

  How wrong can you be?

  ‘I understand,’ I say. And as the words come out of my mouth, I realize it’s true. Marriages go through all kinds of ups and downs. But you can make them work. Just look at Ed and me.

  ‘Thank you.’ Then her head nods and the daughter appears, as if silently summoned to the chair. Tony’s widow is off, mingling with other guests. Thanking them graciously. Wondering, perhaps, how many others know of her late husband’s hidden life. Yet, at the same time, believing utterly in her own version of Tony’s loyalty.

  How can we deceive ourselves so easily?

  I’m leaving the church when I bump into a tall man in a dark suit who’s hovering on the pavement. A cold chill passes through me. The brown-black eyes. His hair is shorter than last time. It’s cut in an almost military fashion.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ My voice is scratchy with fear.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

  Joe Thomas’s voice bears a slightly rougher edge than the highly polished accents around us. ‘Tony and I were good friends.’

  I make to move away from him, but the crowds are too thick. The whole world, it seems, has been to pay its respects. ‘He was your barrister. He got you off for something you should have stayed inside for. That was all.’

  ‘Please.’ He lays a hand on my arm. ‘Not so loud.’

  I try to shake him off, but the hand is tightening around my arm. ‘How dare you,’ I splutter.

  Joe is grinning. The same way he grinned after the case was over when we emerged from the court to the flash of cameras and journalists begging for quotes. ‘Dare is one of those words that can be taken two ways, isn’t it? You can have a brave kind of dare. Or an offensive sort of dare.’

  Already I’ve had enough. ‘Stop playing word games with me.’

  ‘Just want to get a few points straight, that’s all. It’s for your benefit, Lily. I’m sure you don’t want that lot in there to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  We’re close to the edge of the pavement now. Traffic is rushing past. I want to run away. Hide.

  ‘I helped Tony a lot after my release. It was my way of saying thank you.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  But I do. At least I am beginning to.

  ‘I gave Tony extra information for his cases.’ He taps the side of his nose. ‘It’s one of the reasons why he tried so hard to get me off. Told him I could help in the future, you see. And I did. Picked up quite a lot when I was inside. Turned out that some of those things were useful.’

  ‘What kinds of things?’

  ‘I can’t go into details, Lily, you must know that. And don’t go getting all high and mighty. You’ve benefited too.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Come on. What about the tip-off over the lorry driver?’

  I go cold. We hadn’t been sure we were going to get the poor man off until that envelope arrived anonymously. No postmark. Just the name of the dealer who had supplied drugs to the teenager. Crucial evidence which helped me win. I told myself that anonymous tip-offs happened every now and then. It could be someone completely unrelated to my past.

  ‘How did you know what cases I was working on?’

  He taps the side of his nose again. ‘Maybe I’ve been dating one of the secretaries.’

  ‘Which one?’

  He seems to misinterpret my question for interest. ‘Does it matter?’ he shrugs. ‘She means nothing. It’s just a means to an end.’

  ‘But you’ve been abroad.’

  ‘Not all the time.’

  I stare at Joe. ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Because you got me off. So I want to help you too. Express my thanks. I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Heard you were having problems with that case, so I thought I’d try and give you a helping hand.’

  ‘How did you hear?’

  ‘I won’t say.’

  Not ‘can’t’. But won’t.

  ‘And there’s Tom, too, of course,’ he continues. ‘If I’m helping you, it means I’m helping him as well.’

  ‘I don’t want your help.’ But even as I speak, I feel the same crawling sensation from the past. That pull – that magnetic pull towards a man I despise, yet at the same time feel inexplicably drawn to.

  ‘I think you do.’ His face is so close that we are almost touching. ‘Admit it. We have something between us, Lily.’

  I can smell his breath on mine. I can smell his skin. It reeks of danger, but I can’t move.

  ‘I need to know, Lily.’ His mouth is hovering over mine. ‘How is our son?’

  Our son?

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ I say, pulling away. ‘He’s not yours.’

  Then I’m off. Walking as fast as I can in my heels. Down the street.
Past the supermarket and the cinema where ordinary lives are being lived. Putting as much distance between Joe Thomas and me as possible. Before I do something stupid.

  Again.

  36

  Carla

  OBITUARIES

  Barrister Tony Gordon passed away on 22 November after a long brave fight. Loyal and doting father and husband.

  Darling Mamma,

  There is something I have to tell you.

  No, that wasn’t right.

  Dearest Mamma,

  I need to tell you that I found Larry …

  No. That might raise her hopes.

  Dearest Mamma,

  I have some news that you might find distressing.

  At least that might warn her gently.

  Tony Gordon – whom we knew as Larry – has died. I went to see him before he passed away and gave him your message. He was not worthy of you, Mamma. God has made him pay through an early death. Now we can put him out of our lives.

  Tucking the obituary clip from the newspaper inside the envelope and sealing it hastily, Carla dropped it into the post box on the way to the church.

  ‘The funeral is next Wednesday if you would like to come,’ Lily had said when she’d called.

  ‘Thank you, but no,’ she’d replied, and she’d meant it. But at the last moment, her lecture on tort had been cancelled. There was just time to get to the service and back for her next tutorial. It had seemed almost like fate.

  As Carla stood at the back of the church (there weren’t any seats left), the priest’s words boomed out around them on the microphone.

  ‘Wonderful family man … respected pillar of the community … unwavering in his fight for justice …’

  What a hypocrite! To think that all she’d have to do was run through these crowds, jump up into the pulpit and tell the congregation all about Tony.

  ‘Makes you sick, doesn’t it?’ said a tall man, squeezing in next to her. He had very short hair and a clipped way of speaking. ‘If only they really knew.’

  Carla started with surprise. But although he appeared to be talking to her, his eyes were fixed on a figure further forward in the congregation. A woman wearing a beautifully cut suit that set off her blonde hair and slim figure perfectly.