My Husband's Wife

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ is what she wanted to say. ‘What did you say to her, Dad? What did you do?’ But she never found the confidence.

  Life at Highthorne was very different. It was safe, predictable and warm.

  She smiled at the sight of the two large white vans parked on the driveway, feeling a flicker of pride at the Tipcott name emblazoned on the sides. She may have been a Tipcott for only twelve years, but this was her family, her daughters’ heritage, and it thrilled her.

  She pushed on the side door of the yard.

  ‘Only me!’ she called out as she walked into the large office space that backed onto the storeroom, where the walls beneath the corrugated roof were lined with racking and shelves. It was an Aladdin’s cave, holding all manner of tools, paint, plasterboard and odds and ends that her father-in-law was confident they would need one day. He was a stickler for organisation. Salvaged doors leant against the wall, three deep and in height order. Boxes of various sizes and old ice-cream containers were adorned with sticky labels giving the measurements and inventories of what lay within. Plastic drawers sat in portable frames, stacked all the way up to the ceiling and carefully labelled with descriptions like Butterfly Rawl. She was sure the contents were a lot less pretty than they sounded. A fine layer of sawdust covered the floor and the whole place smelt of chemicals and wood and reminded her of her childhood, bringing to mind the many projects her dad used to start in the kitchen and then abandon weeks later.

  ‘Is that you, Rosie?’ her father-in-law called from the back. ‘I thought I heard the car.’

  She ducked her head and spied him in his overalls, at the top of a ladder against the back wall. ‘Yep, only me, Keith. Don’t let me disturb you. Phil forgot his lunch!’ She held the box over her head and wiggled it.

  ‘Oh, you’re a good girl. Pop it on the desk and I’ll make sure he gets it.’ He waved from his perch.

  ‘Everything all right with you?’ she called.

  ‘Yes, thanks, love. Glad to get that bloody job in Mortehoe out the way.’

  ‘I heard she was a bit of a nightmare!’ Rosie laughed.

  ‘A bit? She was a right fussy madam. I had a full head of hair when we started the job.’

  They both laughed at his favourite joke as Keith ran his hand over his bald head.

  ‘Phil’s just finishing off up there, then we go to the new flats on the front. Should be a breeze by comparison.’

  ‘Oh lovely, I’ll walk that way home from school with the girls and then you can see them.’ She smiled at the idea.

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. Kettle’s on in the house, if you fancy a cup of tea? Mo’s in, I think.’

  ‘I just might.’

  As she walked around the front of the building to the main entrance, Rosie smiled in anticipation of seeing her mother-in-law. She rang the bell, then instantly regretted doing so as Kayleigh sauntered down the hall and let her in. It seemed that when Ross was up working for his uncle, she saw the need to accompany him, loitering at Highthorne, as if it was a day out. ‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath.

  ‘All right, Rosie? How are you?’ Kayleigh smiled, her bright demeanour and upbeat mood as surprising as it was unnerving. ‘Everything all right with you, then?’

  ‘Yes. Good, thanks. How are you?’

  ‘Great!’ came the unexpected response.

  Rosie wished Mel were there to share this; the only possible explanation was that Kayleigh had been abducted by aliens and this imposter hadn’t been outed yet. This was, to her mind, far more likely than the fact that Kayleigh was simply happy.

  ‘Mo’s nipped out. Gone to get a few bits up at the farm shop,’ Kayleigh chirped.

  ‘Oh right, well don’t worry about putting the kettle on, Kayleigh. I wasn’t staying, just popped in to say hi.’

  She glanced around the spacious kitchen with its lidded china hens, raffia coasters, cluttered pinboard and trusty Kenwood Chef. It had been state of the art in the late nineties: blonde-wood cupboard doors with wrought-iron handles, a clunking great waste-disposal system and a heavy square wooden rack that hung on chains from the ceiling, dripping with copper pans that were only for show, and the whole contraption topped with fake plastic ivy. Mo and Keith didn’t seem to notice the wear and tear, or if they did, they simply didn’t care. And anyway, nearly all available wall space, cupboards included, was covered in their granddaughters’ artwork, along with a tea towel that bore the words: Only the best mums in the world get promoted to Grandma! This Mo had pinned to a wall, in pride of place. Rosie smiled to see the ever-growing collection.

  ‘Are you sure? I’m having one!’ Kayleigh grabbed a mug from the wooden mug tree by the kettle.

  ‘No, I can’t. I was only dropping off Phil’s lunch and I thought I might catch him.’

  ‘He’s up at Mortehoe,’ Kayleigh offered, unblinking.

  ‘Yeah, Keith said. Well, no matter, he’ll get it up to him. Right, Kayleigh, give Mo my love and I’ll see you later.’

  Rosie jumped into her old banger and laughed. She couldn’t wait to share this with Mel.

  Weaving her way along the country lane wet with residual rain, she smiled to see Mo, her diminutive mother-in-law, tootling towards home, her eye line only just above the steering wheel of her Renault. Both women slowed their cars, lowered their windows and beamed, happy to see each other. Rosie reached out through the window and took Mo’s proffered hand.

  ‘Rosie! Have I just missed you?’ Mo asked regretfully.

  ‘Yes, sorry, Mo, I just dropped Phil’s lunch off and I was going to have a cup of tea, but—’

  ‘But you didn’t want to hang around. I get it, lovely.’ She pulled a face, indicating that she wasn’t looking forward to being trapped in the kitchen with a certain someone either.

  ‘She’s in a suspiciously good mood!’ Rosie picked up the thread.

  ‘Yes, she is. It’s quite unnerved Keith, I can tell you. He’s hiding in the storeroom!’ Mo clamped her top teeth over her bottom lip, as if to stop her speaking. It wasn’t her style to gossip in this way, but she and Rosie shared a special friendship.

  ‘So I saw. He was saying they’re moving to the flats on the front next. I told him I’ll bring the girls by every day to say hello.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll love that! I can write them little notes for him to pass on, and send sweeties and things.’

  ‘You spoil them, Mo!’

  ‘Can’t help it. I love them so much.’ She raised her shoulders as if mentally hugging them.

  Rosie smiled. ‘I know you do. Lucky girls.’ A car approached and beeped, slowing as it came up behind her. The driver was clearly unhappy at the hold-up in the middle of the lane, raising his arms as if something catastrophic had occurred. ‘Ooh, better get going.’ She let go of her mother-in-law’s hand and waved her apology in the rearview mirror, then made her way back to town.

  *

  Rosie wandered round the local shop with the basket on her arm. She had popped two tins of baked beans in it and a bottle of sugar-free squash when her eye was drawn to the papers and magazines, sitting on the bottom shelf next to the drinks fridge.

  There, on the front page of The Times, was a thumb-sized photograph of Clark, the American! Rifling through the unwieldy pages, filling the aisle with her outstretched arms, she turned to the right section, held the paper close to her face and read the first paragraph.

  North Devon may not be the obvious choice when it comes to worldwide holiday destinations. But here’s why I think Woolacombe and the surrounding area has as much to offer as the Seychelles, Bali or even Norway...

  ‘Anything interesting?’ The woman’s voice caught her off guard.

  Rosie lowered the paper and came face to face with Geraldine Farmer. It had to be her: she looked shiny, immaculate and out of place in the local shop. She was a diminutive woman, a vision in skinny black jeans, loose black V-neck sweater that slipped off her tanned shoulder, and high-heeled boots. Her arms and neck rattled with sparkly
silver jewellery.

  ‘Oh, not really! A friend of mine wrote this article – well, not a friend exactly...’ She blushed. ‘Someone I met on a bench... well, actually, I met him before that... in a caravan.’ Her blush intensified. She felt instantly inadequate in the presence of this petite, gleaming, shiny-haired millionaire.

  ‘How funny.’ The woman beamed, showing her perfect teeth. ‘I’m Geraldine by the way.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rosie nodded. ‘I guessed as much. I’m Phil’s wife. Phil Tipcott? He’s working up at your place?’

  ‘Phil! Yes, of course! Oh God, you must hate me, keeping him and the whole crew working till all hours. I’m sure my name is mud.’ She gave a loud laugh and let her eyes roam over Rosie’s stretch denim M&S jeans.

  ‘Not at all. I think they’ve quite enjoyed the project,’ Rosie lied.

  ‘It’s so nice to meet you in person at last. I’ve heard a lot about you from Phil and you’re exactly as I imagined.’

  Rosie felt a warm glow at the thought of Phil telling this sophisticated woman all about his family. ‘Do you know, it’s nice to chat to someone. I only get to speak to grubby workmen, don’t know a soul.’

  Rosie nodded. Geraldine grabbed her arm. ‘Oh God! Not that Phil is grubby! I’m just putting my foot in it today.’ She laughed again, loudly.

  Rosie laughed too. ‘No, you were right the first time – he can get quite grubby.’

  ‘I should let you go.’ Geraldine smiled. ‘Really, really lovely to meet you. Give my best to Phil, won’t you?’

  ‘I will.’ Rosie smiled and waved as Geraldine left. ‘Ha! Well I never,’ she muttered, then felt the bloom of self-consciousness at having laughed out loud in the local shop.

  ‘You okay there, Mrs Tipcott?’ Mrs Blackmore’s busty granddaughter asked from behind the till.

  ‘Yes thanks, love.’ She folded the newspaper and laid it on top of her shopping. ‘I’m fine.’ She couldn’t wait to show Phil.

  *

  Rosie fed the girls and ran the bath so they could both have a quick soak before bed. As they splashed in the bubbles, she sat on the loo and read Clark’s article. Naomi filled her cheeks with water and spat it at Leona, who wailed loudly.

  ‘Please, girls! Can’t I just have five minutes’ peace to read this? Naomi, please stop gobbing water at your sister. It’s not nice.’

  ‘I didn’t!’ She held her hands up with an expression so virtuous it was as if butter wouldn’t melt.

  ‘What do you mean? I saw you do it!’ Rosie glared at her.

  ‘I always get the blame!’ Naomi’s protest increased in both vigour and volume.

  ‘Because it’s always you!’ Rosie replied.

  ‘It’s not fair!’ Naomi slapped her palms down on the surface of the water and, to everyone’s surprise, bubbles leapt from the bath and began raining down on them.

  ‘For goodness’ sake!’ Rosie shook the droplets from the paper and folded it quickly to avoid another soaking.

  Leona pointed at her mum and laughed so hard, she couldn’t catch her breath. Naomi followed suit until they were giggling and smiling, back to being the best of friends.

  ‘What are you two laughing at?’ Rosie couldn’t help but smile; their happiness was irresistibly infectious. It was only when she stood up and looked in the mirror that she saw the large crest of fluffy white bubbles that had landed on the top of her head, making her look part punk, part ice-cream cone.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ She laughed, relishing the joy that often came from the smallest of things.

  ‘Well, I’m glad someone’s had a good day.’ Phil’s voice came from the landing.

  ‘Mummy’s got bird poo on her head!’ Naomi shouted.

  Phil pushed on the door and shook his head at the sight of his wife. ‘Hey, guys. I’ll be downstairs,’ he added, sounding far more downbeat than the situation warranted.

  Rosie put the girls into their pyjamas, turned back their duvets and clicked on the nightlights in their bedroom.

  ‘Right, you can have five minutes chatting to your dad and then it’s bed.’

  The two little girls hotfooted it downstairs, wanting to make the most of those five minutes, which, if they were canny, they knew they could stretch to ten.

  They actually managed fifteen. As Rosie wished them goodnight and closed their bedroom door, a welcome blanket of hush descended on the house, smothering the flames of chaos that had crackled brightly only minutes earlier. She closed her eyes briefly, feeling the day’s tiredness wash over her. Retrieving the newspaper from the bed, she crept downstairs and into the lounge.

  ‘You’ll never guess, Phil... Two things. Firstly, I met that Geraldine Farmer and she said to give you her best. She’s lovely! I think she was glad to have someone to chat to.’

  He stared at her.

  ‘And secondly, that man I spoke to, the one who was staying in the caravans, I saw his article today, the one he was writing.’ She held up the paper.

  ‘What is it I have to guess, exactly?’ He looked up at her, his expression weary.

  ‘What?’ She was a little confused.

  ‘You said I’d never guess?’ he shot back irritably.

  ‘Well, nothing. I’m just saying, it was really strange, he said he was writing an article and then there it was in the paper!’

  ‘So, let me get this straight, you meet a man who says he’s writing an article, he writes the article he told you he was writing and then you see it in the paper. I don’t see what’s strange about it.’

  Rosie placed the paper on the sofa. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  Phil pinched the bridge of his nose and sat back in the chair. ‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’

  ‘I brought your lunch up today, dropped it with your dad, and not a word of thanks.’

  ‘I never asked you to!’ he snapped.

  Rosie stared at him. ‘No, you’re right, and more fool me for worrying that you might not get your lunch. Lesson learnt, Phil. Next time you forget your lunch or need something running up to your mum’s, which I do all the time, you can bloody whistle!’

  She left him alone to stew and went to wash up the tea things and stack the dishwasher. She worked quickly, agitated by his mood and his remarks.

  It was ten minutes later that he trod the cold kitchen floor and came up behind her.

  ‘Sorry, Rosie.’

  She shrugged and carried on sorting the cutlery into the allocated pots in the dishwasher. ‘Doesn’t matter, it was only a stupid article, I just felt involved in some way, because I met the man who wrote it. Stupid, really.’ She was embarrassed.

  ‘It’s not stupid. It’s quite exciting. And I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Taken what out on me?’

  ‘Everything – you know. I had a bad day, but it doesn’t give me the right to come back here and be grumpy.’ He ran his hand up her arm. ‘Forgiven?’

  ‘Course you’re forgiven. Everyone’s allowed to have a grump in a while, but let me help you. Talk to me. What’s up?’ She closed the dishwasher and faced him, tying her thick hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck and giving him her full attention.

  ‘Nothing really, just... everything.’

  ‘Is it having to go up to Mortehoe?’

  ‘What?’ He creased his forehead.

  ‘Your dad said you were up there on your own, finishing off, and he also mentioned that you found Geraldine a bit of a handful. Is it that? Because if it is, you need to tell Keith that it’s not fair on you. Tell him to send Ross or, better still, if she’s going to be demanding, go up as a pair, support each other, would that help? I can’t bear the idea of her giving you the runaround – you’re worth more than that. Although I have to say, Phil, that she was so nice to me today, I reckon if you took the time to get to know her, she’d be lovely.’

  Phil looked at the floor and ran his sock over the tiled surface. ‘I love you, Rosie.’

  ‘And I love you, you dafty! G
o sit in your chair and I’ll bring you a hot drink, how about that?’ She smiled, her voice soft, motherly.

  Phil nodded and sloped back to the comfy chair in the sitting room.

  6

  It was the first week of July. All the windows of their little house on Arlington Road were open, making the whole place feel different. With the back door permanently ajar, the garden and house became one and their usable space doubled. She loved this time of year. The girls had just ten days left at school before they broke up for the summer holidays and they were already giddy with thoughts of what the summer might hold. Rosie, like most locals, had practically abandoned her car. To try and travel by road was a challenge too far. The town centre was gridlocked, not only with holiday traffic but also with idling pedestrians who had all the time in the world. They ambled across the roads, distracted by ice creams, chocolate-covered waffles and shared bags of fudge, their arms wide and draped with all manner of beach paraphernalia. They were too focused on getting to that wide stretch of golden sand to notice that cars, buses and tractors also needed to go about their business. The taxi drivers smiled for the first time in the year, but after a week or so of pulling fourteen-hour shifts, they were soon moaning about the lack of rest, unlike the other forty-odd weeks of the year, when they moaned about the lack of business.

  Mel was in situ and filling out her timesheet when Rosie slid into the booth.

  ‘I’ve already done mine.’ She nodded at the sheet of paper on the table.

  ‘Someone get this woman a cloth to shine her halo! She’s already done her timesheet!’ Mel shouted into the busy café.

  Rosie laughed and hid her eyes, employing Leona’s strategy. ‘I was only saying!’

  ‘I always, always forget and then it’s this mad rush to get it in on time. I have to make half of it up.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Rosie tutted.

  ‘You are such a rule follower.’

  ‘I am,’ she acknowledged. ‘If I thought I’d put the wrong hours in, I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I need to have everything organised, planned. Talking of which, what weekend is the big barbecue this year? Mid August as normal? I’ve got to ask Mo if she and Keith will do the usual and come and collect the kids after they’ve eaten. Then we can boogie the night away. They’ll take Tyler too, I’m sure, give you the night off. Plus I want to get my outfit planned.’