The Woman Before Me

by Ruth Dugdall

  Emma had everything I didn’t, and she wasted it all. She would moan and say how tired she was, and even went to the doctor for sleeping tablets. It seemed wrong to me, her taking sleeping tablets when Luke might cry out, need her in the night. Sometimes she ran out of baby milk or nappies and had to dash to the local shops for more. And she fed Luke from jars. If he were mine I’d have bought the freshest vegetables to cook and mash.

  Dominic cast a shadow over our friendship.

  He was the kind of man who people say has ‘authority.’ He was a lot older than Emma, but I imagine that even when he was younger he commanded respect. Not exactly tall, he stood very upright, as if to attention. His hair was white and thick, a neat conservative style, cropped short over the ears, and his eyes were like two blue pools. I bet the kids at his school were terrified of him. But despite his austere good looks, it was when he spoke that I understood why Emma left you for him. It was never a choice I would have made, but I could see his appeal, especially to a woman like Emma. Every opinion was a fact, he was so sure of everything. And weak people admire arrogance. They think it’s strength.

  If he were at home when I visited he’d watch me as I held Luke, even though I came round most days and Luke always smiled at seeing me. I could tell Dominic was suspicious from his snide comments, his sneaky glances. I worried that he thought I visited too much, and although it was agony, I did manage to stay away for a few days at a time. I tried to avoid being there when he was home, but it wasn’t always easy, as he would pop home at odd hours.

  He looked at me carefully; as if I was a puzzle he couldn’t quite figure out. A crossword with one clue missing. He didn’t see that we were the same. I never liked him, but I understood his jealousy. If he caught me there, I left quickly. I had to stay away until I was certain it was safe to go back.

  Then I came up with the solution.

  A way to love Luke, to keep an eye on Emma, and without any interference from Dominic Hatcher.

  I’d been in Emma’s house enough times to know that the back door key was kept on a tiny hook on the wall at the rear of the kitchen. I knew that the key wouldn’t be missed if I were quick about returning it.

  It was easy enough to take, a simple task of slipping it into my jeans pocket. For the first time I was eager to leave the house. I drove back to the supermarket where Emma had found me, and had a second key cut in the little shop there. I trembled as I watched the young assistant make my copy. Key rings were for sale on the counter and I chose one. It was inscribed: Home is where the Heart is.

  I needed to return the original key quickly. The longer I waited the more chance there was of it being missed, so early the next morning I rang Emma.

  “Rose,” she said when she heard my trembling voice, “you sound awful. What’s wrong?”

  “I want to ask you a favour. Just say if you don’t want to . . .” I let the sentence trail off.

  “You know I’ll do anything I can.”

  I paused, and then said in a rush, “It’s three months today since Joel died.”

  “Oh God, Rose, I’m so sorry.” She sounded sincere. I also heard her relief that it was my grief and not hers.

  “I want to visit his grave, but I don’t think I can face it alone.” I let a second’s silence pass. “Would you come with me?”

  How could she refuse such a request? She couldn’t. “What time shall I meet you?”

  A quarter of an hour had passed since I made the telephone call, and I sat in my car at the end of her road, watching her pull out of her driveway. I planned to arrive at the cemetery after her, when I would explain how difficult it was for me to get into my car to make the journey. I would tell her I’d stood in my flat for ages, trying to muster enough strength.

  Instead I moved, quickly as a cat, on a journey that took me out of my car, along the street, then down the side passage and to her back door. My heart raced as I held my key. I remember as a child I would build nests with my mum under the duvet, our den, our mini-home to feel safe in, a place to hide. Emma’s home was now my nest. The feeling was so strange and powerful. My life had been out of my control since Joel died, but now I was taking it back.

  I looked around, then slid the key in the lock and carefully turned it. The click of the lock being opened was like the approval of heaven, or some such place. I moved quickly inside, replacing the original key back on its hook and rubbed my copy between my right thumb and index finger. Emma shared her home with me now. I should have left for the cemetery, where Emma would be waiting, but I couldn’t resist going further.

  My pilgrimage began in the kitchen, through to the hall. Rather than climbing the stairs I went to a room I didn’t know well. The front room. Emma had never taken me there. I noticed the absence of toys; this room was for adults only. The back wall was flanked by a massive bookshelf, weighed down by books of all sizes and colours. Ornaments and knick-knacks, some Russian dolls and an oriental fan decorated the spaces, but my eyes were drawn to the spines of books, mostly by writers I hadn’t read. I wondered if Dominic read them for pleasure; they must be his books since he was the teacher. There were a few books on dancing. She was a dance student when she met you, Jason, when you worked behind the Arts College bar. My biggest achievement, after Joel, was making you want me, after having had her.

  But then I spied something that did interest me: photo albums. A whole shelf of them, neatly labelled by year. I took the one at the end and read its label: Luke’s first year. It was only half full; empty pages waiting for memories.

  I turned the pages greedily. There were pictures of Emma, one of her heavily pregnant, wearing a party dress and holding a fluted glass of something. It must have been taken on New Year’s Eve. Onto the next page, and my heart was pumping fast. Here was Luke, just born, in a hospital crib. As I flicked the pages over he got bigger and fatter and then, at around six weeks old, a smile immortalised forever, his hair curled and golden. I took this photo from the album and slipped it into my pocket, careful not to crease it.

  I remembered the photos of your wedding, hidden in her underwear drawer. What else had she kept of that day? I was like a dog following a scent.

  I made my way upstairs and went immediately to the spare room.

  This was the room where I’d helped her to store the outgrown baby clothes. As she’d regained her figure, I’d watched her fold her maternity clothes neatly and stow them away in this room, anticipating another baby at some future point. There was a cupboard over the narrow wardrobe, and I had to move a chair towards it to reach up. I was quick, knowing Emma would be at the cemetery, tussling Luke from the car seat into the buggy as she prepared to meet me.

  The cupboard clicked open and I saw Christmas wrapping paper, tinsel and a leather overnight bag. Further back was a long white box and I knew that I had found what I was looking for. I wanted to snatch at it but I needed to be careful not to mess up the neatly stacked cupboard. I eased my fingers beyond the glittering tinsel and pulled at the box until it slid free.

  Once it was safe on the floor I lifted the lid, tearing the thin tissue in my excitement.

  My hands caressed pure white silk, slippery smooth under my fingertips. The dress from the wedding photographs. Emma’s wedding dress when she married you.

  I removed my clothes, quickly, yanking my sweater over my head, pulling off my jeans, until I was just in my knickers and the red camisole. I lifted the dress, the weight of silk was heavy across my arm, and unzipped the back, stepping into the sea of white. The arms were tight, and I had to pull firmly to get the dress to my shoulder. It squashed me across the chest, and I couldn’t do the zip, but at least it was on. I lifted the train and went to the bedroom, where there was a full-length mirror.

  Walking along the hall I played with the thought of being a bride, stepping slowly, smiling left and right. The red camisole under the white dress, both made me feel pretty. Like a bride. I stopped in front of the mirror. I looked ghastly. The dress was too tight, too sli
m, and its colour drained me. I looked lumpy and pale, my eyes unnaturally dark, my hair thick and lanky. I looked like a freak, some horrific mockery of a bride. Yelling in anguish, I unzipped the dress, pulling it off, flinging it to the floor.

  I took the key from my pocket and slashed the beautiful fabric. The silk frayed easily. Slash, slash, her past, my present—with the same man.

  When the dress was in tatters, I carefully folded it, sleeve over sleeve, silk to silk. I wrapped it into the delicate tissue paper and put it back into the box. Slowly, I carried the box back to the wardrobe, pushing it back into place.

  42

  Black Book Entry

  Joel’s grave was in a modern plot, large and flat, and had a simple headstone. It still looked painfully new. The flowers on the grave were dead and brittle. I couldn’t bear to come often.

  Emma saw me approach, and stood up from Luke’s pushchair, walking towards me. Her face was puffy and she wiped her eyes with a tissue. She cradled me in her arms. I prayed that she wouldn’t start crying and I could feel my anger boiling. She had no right to tears.

  My heart had not stopped racing since I’d torn her wedding dress, and she seemed to recognise something hectic in my eyes. “Oh, Rose.” I felt her lips on my cheek and smelt her mint-fresh breath. “I’d do anything to take your pain away.”

  Not knowing that by giving me her home she already had. “Looking after Luke helps me,” I said. “Just let me babysit sometimes.”

  We stood silently together by Joel’s grave for about ten minutes, but it felt longer. She didn’t know what to say to me, or whether to speak at all. She fidgeted with Luke, adjusting his hat, giving him a dummy. I moved forward, towards the white headstone. I knelt on the fresh soil and traced the inscription with my finger.

  Joel Clark

  Taken by the Angels

  “Oh!” she said, surprised. “My surname used to be Clark, before I re-married.”

  “It’s a common name.” I said.

  It had been important to me that Joel carried your name. It tied us together.

  “It’s a lovely inscription, Rose. Upon Angel’s wings—it’s just beautiful.”

  “He’s with my Mum,” I said, “and my Aunt Rita. He’s safe.”

  I didn’t know if I would call the place where he now was heaven, but I knew he was somewhere, watching me. I could feel him sometimes, especially at night when I was alone.

  I kissed the stone where his name was etched. The sun had warmed it. Behind me I heard Emma sob, interrupting my peaceful meditation.

  She was searching for a tissue among the nappies and baby wipes.

  Luke was asleep, his cheeks rosy as he snuggled with his blanket. She didn’t deserve him.

  43

  Dominic Hatcher watched as his wife, zombie-like, led the probation officer to the lounge and mumbled an offer of a drink, an offer that he knew she would forget to carry out.

  Anticipating Emma’s inability to perform even this simple task, he had already boiled the kettle and set out three mugs. He lingered just long enough to hear the probation officer say, “Coffee, please. Black, no sugar,” and disappeared to make it.

  Stirring the drinks Dominic tried to still his brain, knowing the main guest at the table of his sorrow was anger, which he must control. Anger at Rose Wilks, that she was found not guilty of murder. But he was also angry with Emma. Angry that she had invited Rose into their home, that she had failed to see what that woman was, and the monster she would become.

  Dominic and Emma’s marriage was cold and businesslike, with no arguments, no passion. Emma lacked the energy for anything and Dominic feared that if he started to show any emotion he would not be able to staunch the volcano of his feelings, which would consume them both.

  He was quick making the drinks, but not quick enough, and when he entered the lounge a strained silence had already been established. He saw by the way the probation officer was leaning forward, pen poised, that she was waiting for an answer to a question she had asked Emma, which he knew would never come. Emma was teetering on the sofa, staring into the middle-distance. The thought entered his mind that he would like to slap her, just to get some reaction.

  He placed a mug in front of the probation officer, who was young, barely out of university by the look of her. She had a serious face, though, and was frowning. She put her pen down and took the mug into two hands, held it tight, and told him to call her Cate, beginning once more to explain why she was there. Dominic heard the words—‘parole report,’ ‘impartial,’ ‘your views’—but they barely penetrated. It was just jargon. There was only one thing he needed to know.

  “So when will that woman be let out?”

  He watched Cate sip her coffee, and then hold the cup from her mouth. “That depends on what the parole board decides when they meet next week.”

  His breath caught. “When do you think it will be?”

  She pursed her lips before she answered. “If she doesn’t win parole she’ll be in prison for another two years.”

  “Only two years? That’s an insult!”

  “But if she’s successful, she’ll be released in September.”

  Emma looked up, surprised. “But that’s next month.”

  Cate put down her cup. “She would be out on licence and have to report to a probation officer working in the town. We’d require her to complete some offending behaviour courses. She wouldn’t be able to get a job without our permission, and we would have to approve the address she lives at. It’s not an easy ride for a released prisoner.”

  “You just don’t get it, do you?” Dominic’s heart thumped his ribcage. “She’d be free. That’s the point.” He wished there was something to slam his anger into.

  Emma mused to herself, speaking softly and slowly as she shook her head in disbelief. “I could see her in the street, at the supermarket. She could walk past this house.”

  “No,” said Cate, “we wouldn’t allow that. If she’s released there would be a condition of no contact.”

  Dominic stared at her earnest face, heard the certainty in her voice, and despised her for it. “She killed our child. Do you really think anything you say would stop her doing whatever she wants?”

  “If she broke any parole conditions she’d be sent straight back to prison.”

  He sat down heavily on the sofa, feeling the weight of his own fury bearing down on him. “So how much will our views really count when you write this parole report?”

  He could see by her face, sympathetic yet professional, that she was trying to manage him, trying to diffuse his anger, but it was futile. He had been angry for four years, and nothing she could say would change that.

  “Well, I’d like to know of any conditions you would like imposed. For example, we could have one to stop her from entering this neighbourhood. If Rose Wilks is assessed as worthy of release, your views are unlikely to influence that, but they would influence the nature of the licence.”

  “In other words, this is a waste of fucking time.” Anger gave way to something more painful, the hopelessness of defeat. Emma, at his side, stared at the floor.

  “Mr. Hatcher, I want my report to represent your views too. I haven’t made a decision on whether to recommend release or not, and I’d really like to know how Rose became so involved with your family. Can I ask you about the case? I’ve read your witness statements, but if you feel able to talk, I’d like to listen.”

  He had been waiting for this. Another stranger wanting to delve into their pain, to pull around with the whys and wherefores when none of it would change the fact that Luke was dead. He was about to say as much when Emma surprised him by speaking first. Her voice was a monotone.

  “I felt sorry for her. I wanted to help, to be her friend. She was a bit odd, but then who wouldn’t be, after losing a baby?” She gave a sound, like a sob, and her pain punctuated the words as she struggled to finish her sentence.

  Dominic dutifully moved closer to Emma on the sofa, placing an a
rm around her waist, but she didn’t respond. It was like embracing a statue. She was silent; her body slumped as if whatever energy she had was spent.

  “Did you notice she was becoming obsessed with Luke?” asked Cate.

  Emma took a long time to answer, her head shaking slowly before the words followed. “No. Not really. But then I was wrapped up in being a new mum. And she was always there. I got used to her. I was grateful for the extra help. I was finding it hard.”

  Dominic made a guttural noise, like a suppressed roar, forcing down his desire to shout. He was sick of hearing that Emma had found it hard to be a mother, that Rose had seemed to be helping her. Luke had been a perfect baby, and they had a nice home. She’d had a supportive husband, and yet she still said it was hard.

  “Tell her about your dreams,” he commanded. “Go on, tell her.”

  Emma was mute, studying the pattern on the carpet.

  Cate leant forward, saying gently, “Is there something else you think I should know?”

  Dominic tightened his arm around Emma’s waist, urging her to speak.

  “When Luke was about two months old, I started having these strange dreams. Just when Dominic was away. Not really nightmares, but they were frightening. I dreamt that somebody was in the house, in Luke’s room, and sometimes that there was someone in bed with me. It was so real—I felt that they were touching me, kissing me. It was strange, but the next day everything seemed back to normal so I assumed the sleeping tablets were to blame. One morning I found something. A torch, on Dominic’s side of the bed.” She gasped, as if realising once again that she had been touched, invaded, in her own bed. That even sleep was not safe.

  “Was the torch Rose’s?” Cate asked.