My Husband's Wives

by Faith Hogan

  ‘I probably don’t even need them,’ Grace said as she tucked the script firmly into her bag. ‘It’s a bit like smoking, isn’t it? Once you know you have them near at hand...’ She laughed a little nervously, and thanked her lucky stars that Alice hadn’t asked too much about Paul.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with taking them if you need them, Grace.’ Alice told her once, after Delilah was born, that there was no shame in depression. Grace didn’t like labels, but when Paul left her, she could feel the darkness overtake her like a misty shadow, cloaking and choking her a little more every moment. ‘When you need something, you need it,’ Alice said, so many times that Grace had started to say it too. This time she wasn’t so sure she would get through what lay ahead without increasing them again. The thought scared her. If nothing else, she was beginning to understand her mother a little better.

  Her second stop was at the studio. She wasn’t dressed for work, and couldn’t do any even if she wanted to. All she would be capable of creating was something desolate and grotesque. Instead, she switched on the kettle and uncovered some of her brighter canvases: a juggler on Grafton Street, a flock of swans rising from the murky depths of the Liffey and a smiling posy of dog daisies. The blaze of golden yellow, white and green on a sun-scorched afternoon might have brought a smile to her lips on a different day. The thought that they were all more than four years old made her feel a little sad, but still, it was better than looking at her more recent work. She sat back with a large mug of tea – black. Buying milk hadn’t been high on her agenda for the last couple of days. She hardly heard her phone ring, but then suddenly it seemed so loud that she couldn’t ignore it anymore.

  ‘Hi Sis.’ It was Clair. ‘We’re just wondering how things are there.’ Grace had rung them after she’d told Delilah about Paul, said she’d call them when the funeral was arranged.

  ‘It isn’t the same up here; funerals, they’re low-key affairs.’

  ‘You’ll have to give him a send-off though.’ Clair’s voice had the tone of a distantly related mourner, not close enough to be distraught, but wanting to share in the funeral.

  ‘It’s not that simple.’

  ‘Oh of course, the beauty queen?’ Clair then said something to Anna; it was a muffle, but Grace had a fair idea it wouldn’t be complimentary. They were planning on coming to the funeral. They would all have to get on together, put aside what they thought of Evie and Annalise. ‘Anyway, we’ve had it announced here, in the local church. All the auld ones are praying like mad for you and Delilah.’

  ‘I suppose the prayers won’t go astray,’ Grace said, although, she had a feeling it would take more than a miracle to put things right.

  ‘So, there are no arrangements made yet?’ Clair sounded as though she was in a hurry. There had been no hanging around with their mother’s funeral, but then that was much more straightforward than this.

  ‘No, it will have to be sorted with Evie and Annalise; it isn’t exactly straightforward.’ Grace hadn’t told them about Kasia. There was already too much to explain, too much for people that really weren’t part of her life anymore. A small voice deep inside her niggled at her. They were part of her and Paul’s life though, a link to the time when she and Paul had been starting out. In many ways, they’d been there to help them cement their relationship. It was, after all, at her mother’s funeral that she’d really begun to see him for the man he was. It was there she began to rely on him.

  ‘You don’t have to come all the way up, I really don’t expect it.’ Grace knew the words were wasted. Her sisters still loved Paul, despite what had happened with Annalise. Paul was like that; he won people around so you could see past his faults.

  ‘Don’t you want us there?’ Clair’s voice sounded small, as though she’d been struck.

  ‘Of course I want you here. Delilah would love to see you as well, but the fact that there aren’t any arrangements, as I said; it’ll just be a very small simple affair; no big family wake, no big hoolie. I’m not even sure if he wants to be buried or cremated.’

  ‘How can you not know that?’ Clair cut off the words, but it was too late. ‘Sorry, it just seems to be the kind of thing that you’d talk about.’

  ‘Well, we didn’t.’ Grace didn’t mean to be short, but it was a reminder that there was far too much Paul had not told her.

  ‘Anyway, of course we’ll be there. We were talking last night about it. Anna said that maybe we’ll stay in a B&B. There must be somewhere near you there that could put us up for a couple of nights.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Clair, you can stay with Delilah and me. It may not be the Hilton, but there’s loads of room.’

  ‘Yeah, but it won’t be just Anna and me though, will it?’

  ‘Won’t it?’

  ‘No, Anna will be bringing Tom and I…’ Clair lowered her voice. ‘I’ve met someone. He’s nice, Grace. His name is Mike. Maybe it’s not the best time to introduce him, but this one looks as if he’s a keeper. I think…’ She started to hum the wedding march.

  ‘Look, it doesn’t matter; if you want to stay, we’ll make room for all of you.’ Without Paul, it felt now as though they were on their own; the girls would be good for Delilah

  *

  ‘I need you there,’ Paul had said the words simply, and then the killer; ‘you’re still my wife.’ It wasn’t even twelve months earlier; Christmas nuzzled just around the corner.

  ‘What about…’ She didn’t mention Annalise by name. Always tried hard not to. Sometimes it felt as if they were still having an affair behind Evie’s back, only this time, everything was turned on its head. They’d been having dinner just a week ago. When he asked her, he was pleading.

  ‘It could be a huge opportunity for me.’ His eyes held her in that chasm that she knew she’d never be free of. He had always supported her work; she promised she would do the same for him.

  ‘Then you need to bring Annalise; she’s the one who’ll be at your side if things go well.’

  ‘Will she?’ He managed to seem downcast and rakish all at once: a trademark look. ‘It’s you I need, Grace. It’s always been you.’ He reached towards her, but she pulled away, couldn’t stand to be so close to him when he was no longer hers, whatever he said. ‘You can talk to them; tell them about your work, they’ll know you by reputation already.’

  ‘I seriously doubt that,’ she snorted. She couldn’t tell him that she hadn’t painted anything she was proud of since the day he left her. It was all she had these days: her pride. She shored up the success of that time when he fell for her; it was all for his sake. ‘Anyway, Annalise can talk to them too. She was a beauty queen after all; she managed to snare you…’

  ‘Don’t.’ His eyes hardened, it was enough for her to understand. ‘Annalise can talk to kids. I can’t bring her to something like this, she’d be completely out of her depth. Anyway, we’re not…’ Again the unfinished sentences; they said far more to Grace than he’d ever confirm.

  ‘Let me think about it,’ she said finally, ‘I’ll give you my answer in a day or two.’ There was no one she could ask, apart from Patrick, and he was in the States. Was it too bizarre to get all dressed up for a date with a man who knew her inside out? A man who would then return to his own domestic harmony or discontent? A man she was still madly in love with? There was no choice, really. She had to go.

  ‘This means so much to me,’ he leant towards her and this time she did not pull away from his light embrace that bordered on a kiss. She looked stunning; Delilah said so and she was always critical, but with her seal of approval, Grace felt beautiful. Her dress had cost the equivalent of North Korean air display, but it was worth it to feel like this.

  For a moment, she could see in his eyes that tenderness that had ripped her apart all those years ago. Tried hard to convince herself it was not an opportunity to win him back, but deep down, she knew it was all she longed for. She might as well have been heading off to the Trocadero on their first date. ‘It means nothi
ng.’ She kept saying it as if it were a mantra. Only thing was, part of her knew that to Annalise Connolly it would mean everything.

  It turned out that Paul was right. Again. One of the guests, a diplomat from London, was a collector. He had been after one of her later works to add to his portfolio. Grace listened as he spoke of her exhibitions, witnessed Paul’s face, filled with pride. She sidestepped any questions of recent work. Instead, she spoke of the commissioning of private pieces and the scarcity of time these days. In spite of everything, she was enjoying herself. The company was stimulating, the food was good and the restaurant was decorated exquisitely for Christmas in a sedate ensemble of rattan, bronze and deep burgundy.

  ‘To my wife!’ Paul called the toast from the far end of the table. ‘To my talented and beautiful wife. To Grace Kennedy-Starr.’ He held up his glass and everyone joined in the toast. She knew she should be beside herself with joy, but in that moment, she detected something in him. He was smug. Gloating to the people at their table. He had, in every way, all that he could want, and with it, with her here, he carried an arrogance that maybe he’d managed to conceal before. Grace knew then, in that instant, that she was little more than another acquisition in his life. She felt a shiver run through her, even though the restaurant was not cold.

  ‘You were the most beautiful woman there tonight,’ he whispered as they sped back to Glenageary in the taxi. ‘Beautiful, talented and still my wife.’ His words were heavy; she suspected they owed something to the expensive brandy, maybe a little regret too.

  ‘I think you’ve had too much to drink.’

  ‘Too much. Yes, of course, you might be right. But I mean it when I say I think you are still the most intoxicating woman I’ve ever known. I’m proud you’re my wife; nights like tonight, they’re good for us, Grace.’ He moved closer to her so she could smell his aftershave, ‘We are still husband and wife, and some things haven’t changed between us.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She was non-committal. Something in the way he observed her made her wince; it was the first time it had ever happened. Maybe it was thinking about his two sons, his relationship with Annalise, and mostly thinking of Delilah. How would this all play out for everyone if it went any further? He followed her into the house. She didn’t have it in her to send him back to Annalise; how could she when she’d wished for it so long? They slept, wrapped up together in the double bed they’d shared for over a decade. He snoring lightly; she drifting in and out of an uneasy sleep. At five o’clock, she woke to find he had slipped away.

  As it should be, she thought. Maybe she was a little relieved, even if she couldn’t quite admit it at the time.

  *

  Since the accident, thoughts of that night felt as if they might drown her. She would wake in the middle of the night and cry salty hot tears. She cried for Paul Starr and the mess they’d made of both their lives. She cried for the sisters she’d abandoned. She cried for her father, tears that she’d stored up almost three decades earlier. Mostly she cried for her mother. She knew that, for years, she’d blamed her mother. It was unfair, unreasonable and maybe the only coping mechanism that she had. How would people define her when it came to her own funeral? It would not be as a mother herself; it would not be as a friend or a sister, or someone who made a genuine contribution to the lives of others. God, she thought, if only I could paint.

  It was, she knew, time for a change.

  6

  Annalise Connolly

  Gail Rosenstock rang as Annalise was getting into her car. ‘I’m so sorry to hear about Paul.’

  ‘Thanks Gail. I’m not sure that it’s fully hit home yet.’ It was the truth. Annalise wasn’t convinced he was gone. It was even harder to take in the idea that he had lied to her. Evie and Grace were both convinced he’d only married them. She was crazy with rage and emptiness, while she could see that they were just as gutted at losing him. She couldn’t say this, especially not to Gail.

  ‘Christ, Annalise, I’m so sorry; I can’t imagine what it’s like.’ Gail Rosenstock spoke her next words slowly. ‘It’s public interest.’

  ‘Oh please, Gail. I can’t think about that. Not today.’

  ‘It’s not your job to think, Annalise. That’s my job and I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Save yourself the time; nobody knew him. They hardly remember me.’

  ‘Of course they knew him. He was married to the most famous artist in Ireland. He’s been one half of a famous couple for longer than you’ve been married to him.’ Gail could be downright abrasive at times.

  ‘Whatever. The most important thing for me is my boys.’ It was true. Dylan and Jerome had been the centre of her world since they’d arrived, but they had left room for Paul and thoughts of a career. Since the accident, that had changed; they had expanded to fill the gaps that had been left behind and now they were as essential to her as oxygen. ‘I have to get the funeral over with and then maybe I can think.’ Annalise fastened the seat belt, turned the key in the ignition. ‘It’s going to be a small affair, just family and close friends.’ Annalise may have been too upset to have breakfast, but she knew she didn’t want the details of Paul’s life spread across the newspapers – not when it was so obviously the last thing he’d have wanted. Not until she could figure out exactly what their lives had been about.

  ‘Maybe, but we all remember Jackie O when JFK was buried, don’t we? And which image do we remember best? Her wedding day or the day of his funeral?’

  ‘I think she wore Chanel.’

  ‘No, it was definitely Givenchy.’ Gail was never wrong when it came to iconic fashion.

  ‘To the funeral? Was it?’ Annalise regarded her hands critically; chewed nails gave away too much. ‘I can’t think about dresses.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure Grace Kennedy will be there. There’s a woman who’s good at stealing a front page. The photo editors love her. You don’t want to be outdone by the first wife. Not at this stage.’ There was almost a touch of malice in her voice, but then maybe that was just Annalise’s imagination. ‘Anyway, the funeral will get plenty of press. I’m sure some of the dailies will send round a zoom lens.’

  ‘I can’t talk to the press about this. Not yet. I just…’

  ‘Of course, dear. Anyway, sometimes it’s best not to say anything at all. Let your eyes do the talking. That, and a nice simple black dress and maybe a slim string of freshwater pearls. When is the funeral, by the way?’

  ‘Nothing is arranged yet.’

  ‘Oh?’ Gail always had an acute gossip radar, as if she could smell it on the breeze.

  ‘We have people coming. It’s all been so sudden.’ She didn’t add that most likely the funeral would be organized in a four-way square off.

  ‘How did he… Do they know what caused the crash?’

  ‘It was a car crash; he was avoiding a dog on the road. He was giving a… a family friend a lift.’ Annalise knew that Gail would try to take out of the situation as much as she could. If there was something worth telling the press about, she’d do it.

  ‘Well, if you think of anything you need, darling, from styling to whatever…’ In the meantime, she’d get the media wheels rolling. If there was anything to be made out of the whole mess, well, Gail wasn’t going to be losing out. ‘So,’ she sounded as if something else had snatched her attention. ‘Do ring if there’s anything I can do for you, and of course, when the funeral arrangements are made, I’d like to pay my respects and all that.’

  ‘Of course. Thanks, Gail.’ Annalise pressed the end call button. At least she had a focus. It might not help her get over the shock of Paul dying, but thinking about having to stand next to Grace Kennedy at his graveside made Annalise feel sick. Grace was a cool beauty. Her skin was flawless, almost porcelain – the fashion term for pasty-faced. Her long dark hair and intelligent eyes dominated her appearance. Although you might not notice what she wore, that was only because she exuded a creative vibe that was a heady mix with her international success. People like Grac
e didn’t need to make an effort; she could turn up in a sack and she’d look cool and self-composed. Annalise didn’t want to think about the effect if she did pull out all the stops. She quickly rang the hairdresser and the beautician; she could not meet Grace Kennedy again looking like Worzel Gummidge. Anyway, she had a funeral to get ready for. If Givenchy was good enough for Jackie O, it would certainly be good enough for Annalise. She tried to keep the sick feeling from rising in her throat, not sure if it was grief or rage. Why did he have to leave her like this?

  *

  It was late when she got home, but Madeline never minded if she was running a little behind. Annalise had managed to get a deep conditioning treatment for her hair. She felt like Cameron Diaz, but without the pink leisurewear or taste in younger unsuitable men. Paul had convinced her earlier in their relationship to ditch the hair extensions. Her hair was soft and natural, apart from the colour she paid dearly for every few weeks. Gail had called it ‘newscaster style’, and maybe that was what it was. Most of the models on the scene today wouldn’t get a look in without a head full of extensions and four hours a day at the gym. She was lucky; it may not make her edgy, but even Gail conceded, it made her cute and quirky. Later, one of the girls from the salon would drop over, do her nails, give her a good overhaul, maybe then she’d feel like herself again. She doubted it. It would take more than exfoliation to wipe away the melancholy that was threatening to overtake her. She’d never been depressed, but she guessed that it must feel a bit as she did since Paul had died. She gathered up the last of her energy to tuck the boys into bed – snuggling in beside them was always the best part of the day.

  ‘When will Daddy be coming to read us a story?’ Jerome asked from beneath his heavy lashes. She had tried to explain to them what had happened but she knew they didn’t understand, and maybe she was glad of that. At least there was so much less they needed to know for now.