My Husband's Wife

by Amanda Prowse

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I didn’t plan any of this.’

  ‘Oh God, not that again! And let me tell you, even if you didn’t, she did! She said as much today, said she chose you. And you were so weak and predictable, you didn’t exactly make it difficult for her, did you?’

  ‘The way you talk, Rosie, you make me sound callous, but I’m not. I love my kids.’

  ‘Well, good, because you’ve got another one on the way. Mind you, it should be easy, it’s not like you have to worry about lack of finances or lack of space!’ She remembered that night, lying against him in their little bed, recalled the feel of his bare chest beneath her cheek, the way she felt like her heart might burst with longing for the baby that wasn’t to be.

  Phil took a deep breath. ‘It’s not...’

  ‘It’s not what?’

  ‘It’s not all perfect. Despite what you think, what you see, it’s not all easy.’ He looked at her.

  ‘What?’ She folded her arms across her chest and stared at him.

  ‘I’m just saying... I am happy, I am. But it’s not all perfect. I mean, yes, the house is amazing, but it’s not mine, and leaving the kids, dropping them off, is really hard for me. And Gerri, she’s... she’s a handful. Hard work... you know... and it feels very soon for a baby. I don’t know.’ He ran his hand over his face. He was chatting to her like they used to, when they were friends, partners in everything, before he left. When they could discuss anything and everything.

  She continued to stare at him, absorbing his words, analysing their meaning. Things in the garden high up on the cliff in Mortehoe were apparently far from rosy. This was what she had longed to hear. To be given hope when at her lowest ebb. The number of times she had lain in bed in the early hours, waiting for dawn to break and imagining him saying those words. But it was too late now. The flame had been all but extinguished and Geraldine Farmer was having his baby.

  She saw red. ‘How dare you? How fucking dare you?’ She took a step towards him. ‘It better be bloody perfect! You don’t get to do that, you don’t get to destroy my life, my family, break my heart, confuse my kids, take my best friend and then stand there and tell me that the grass isn’t greener! You are such a prick! How dare you! Why do you think that’s okay? Why do you think I give a shit? I don’t! Just fuck off! Fuck off back to your three acres and your cold, soulless mansion. Go back and lie in that grand bed that you’ve made with a view of the sea. And I hope you choke on every morsel of steak, every sip of champagne. I hope every sodding mouthful you put in your deceitful gob is bitter on your tongue.’ She pointed towards the front door. ‘Get out of my house! Get the fuck out!’

  Phil stared at the swearing woman that he didn’t recognise. ‘Gerri was right, you have lost the bloody plot. And I tell you what, it is very nearly perfect, which is a darn sight better than playing at it and being miserable, like I was for the last few years.’

  ‘Get out!’ she screamed, paying no heed to the sound of feet scampering across the floor and down the stairs.

  ‘Daddy!’ Naomi yelled and ran at him, throwing her arms around his thighs.

  Leona sauntered down the stairs, still not fully awake.

  ‘I heard Mummy shouting.’ She looked up into her dad’s face as if this might be news to him.

  He picked her up and kissed her nose. ‘You need to go back to bed, Nay.’ He lowered her onto the bottom step and kissed her sister.

  ‘Will you still be here in the morning?’ She jumped up and down on the spot.

  ‘No.’ He looked at them both. ‘But I’ll see you very soon, I promise.’

  Rosie watched him leave and imagined the conversation he would have with Gerri when he got back. ‘I understand completely! She went nuts at me too!’ She smiled weakly at the irony. What was the expression? Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

  After tucking the girls into their beds, she made her way back downstairs. Weakened by the dramas of the day, she fell into the sitting room, where she slumped down in the chair that used to be Phil’s. Too numb to cry, too tired to sleep, she knew it was going to be a very long night.

  14

  Rosie was quiet, as she had been in the weeks following her encounter with Gerri. It was still with a great sense of sadness that she recalled her husband’s and best friend’s reactions to her account, confident that if it had been them that had come to her with such shocking revelations, she would have supported them.

  Phil had seen the girls only twice since, once at Mo and Keith’s and once at Arlington Road. She was, in light of recent developments, unwilling to let them go and visit Mortehoe, petrified that Gerri would find a way to influence them against her as well. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  Mo had called the moment the pregnancy became public knowledge. Rosie had listened to her but found it hard to talk about and harder still to believe the words of solace and reason that her mother-in-law offered.

  ‘I can only imagine what this must feel like for you and I agree, it is very soon, too soon perhaps. But the fact is, whether we like it or not, that baby is on its way and it will be part of our family, a half-sibling for Nay and Leo. We have to all make the best of it, Rosie. That’s the only way. Anything else just isn’t fair on that little one.’

  Rosie had replaced the receiver quietly, remembering the excitement that had bubbled from them when Naomi, Mo and Keith’s first grandchild, was due. No sooner had the pregnancy been confirmed than Keith had started road-testing prams and Mo had started knitting and buying sleepsuits and tiny socks. Rosie used to refer to her unborn baby as ‘little one’ as well. Carrying a Tipcott child had elevated her within the family and she had loved that. And now her worst nightmare was coming true: she was being replaced. This baby would get equal ranking alongside her daughters, just as she had feared.

  The girls were at school and she had finished work for the day. She missed seeing Mel but found her lack of support hard to get over. They hadn’t fallen out exactly; they still exchanged the odd text and were civil to each other at the school gate, but that was the extent of it. Rosie had used to enjoy wandering to school as part of her daily routine, catching up with the other mums and dads, but not any more; even that had lost its shine. She noticed how the conversations went suspiciously quiet when she arrived. Being a discarded woman whose husband’s mistress was now expecting was big news in a small place like Woolacombe. She would have seen the funny side of the school-gate silences if she’d had Mel to share it with, but Mel was now part of the problem. Gone were the days of nipping in and out of each other’s houses and chatting over a jacket spud and a cup of coffee in the café.

  It was a blustery old day. The wind whipped along the shoreline and around the Esplanade, carrying with it a fine smattering of sand and salt water that dusted the car park and gathered in a neat strip of paste against the kerbstone. The town centre was deserted, seasonal shops and beach shacks were shuttered and padlocked, and in the midday grey the whole place seemed gloomy. Glancing into the café, she saw Kayleigh’s sour face sitting at a table in the window. Rosie decided to make out she hadn’t seen her and, fastening her anorak up to her chin, she looked the other way.

  She could feel the grit between her teeth as she made her way around the headland. She wanted some bench time.

  Pulling up her hood, she took her usual seat at the end and stretched her legs out on the grass. There was no longer any need to hide her pouchy tum as it was now considerably flatter. A storm was building on the horizon. Dark clouds burst over the waves, dumping silver rods of rain straight into the ocean, the droplets hitting the water with such force that they bounced out again, then fell with a pitter-patter. The weather didn’t bother her much; there was no make-up to smudge, no coiffed hair to be messed up and no one that would give a fig that her wet lashes had stuck to her cheeks.

  The rain swerved like a swarm of bees, changing direction and pushing out to the east, leaving the wind to howl at its sudden change of heart. S
he let her hood fall onto her shoulders and rubbed her face to rid it of the droplets.

  ‘The calm after the storm,’ she whispered.

  It was minutes later that a walker in a bright yellow cagoule strolled across the grass.

  ‘I thought it was you!’ he called. ‘Rosie Tipcott!’

  She sat up straight and squinted, recognising the American, Clark, as he got closer. He came and sat on the bench.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, like they were old friends.

  ‘Now there’s a welcome!’ He laughed.

  ‘Sorry. I guess I’m just surprised to see you.’ She stuffed her hands into the side pockets of her anorak.

  ‘I’ve been walking the Tarka Trail. Well, bits of it.’

  ‘For work?’ She wondered if another article was in the offing.

  ‘Actually, no, for me. I never get to spend as much time as I’d like doing things for the simple joy of them, so I thought, why not? And I came back down. My last stop, for real this time, before I fly back at the weekend.’

  ‘Back to straight across from New York and up a bit towards Canada.’ She smiled.

  ‘Hey, good memory.’ He smiled delightedly and turned to face her. ‘So what’s been happening in the world of Rosie Tipcott?’

  Without warning, though not for the first time, the reality of her situation hit her with sudden, debilitating force and her tears began to fall.

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry.’ She sniffed, embarrassed.

  ‘Goodness, Rosie! I’m sorry to have asked.’ He shook his head, mortified to have been the cause. ‘Do you know, I have thought about you often, you and your lovely sunny disposition. I envied your air of peace and contentment.’

  ‘There’s nothing very peaceful about me at the moment, I’m afraid.’ She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. ‘The kids’ dad left. My husband, he... he met someone else.’ She exhaled and stared out to sea, wondering if it would ever get easier to say those words out loud.

  ‘Oh.’ Clark was quiet for a while. ‘Well, I am truly sorry to hear that. And I know what it feels like. I was in a similar boat myself not two years ago. It’s not pretty.’

  ‘I keep thinking I’m okay, getting better, but as soon as I get used to feeling that way, the next wave comes and knocks me off my feet. It’s exhausting.’ She thought again about the baby.

  ‘That’s how it feels. And it’s still that way for me after all this time. It has got easier, but it’s not only the sense of loss but the betrayal too, it’s a tough combination.’

  She nodded. Yes, it was. Too tough sometimes. ‘I remember the day we met. When I left you sitting here, I felt sorry for you, thinking how lucky I was to be going home to my perfect life. But it was already broken; I just didn’t know it. And that makes me feel so stupid.’ She found it surprisingly easy to talk to this man she barely knew.

  ‘Will you stay here?’ he asked.

  She laughed loudly. ‘Yes! Of course. It’s where I’m from.’

  ‘I love where I’m from too. Lake Oswego. It’s home, but I also knew that if I didn’t change my scenery, my routine, I was going to keep running around in circles. I needed to break out, shake things up a bit and it’s helped. Travelling has given me a greater perspective on the world and my place in it.’

  ‘You sound like my friend,’ she said, thinking of Kev. ‘But it’s not that easy. It’s not like I have a stash of plane tickets and a wad of spare cash, though I wish I did. Plus my kids are young, settled. I’d never uproot them.’

  ‘Well, if you don’t mind my saying, that seems rather convenient.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She turned to look at him.

  ‘Using your children as an excuse to stay put.’

  ‘It’s not an excuse, it’s a fact. They need stability.’

  He smiled kindly at her. ‘I travel all over the world and meet lots of different people in all kinds of wonderful places, and let me tell you, what kids need most, more than stability, more than laptops, more than anything, is happy parents in a welcoming environment.’

  ‘You make it sound very simple.’ She returned his smile.

  ‘It is that simple.’ He nodded out towards the ocean.

  ‘Well, I’m working my way towards happiness, I guess, and if I could get there faster, I sure would.’

  ‘Try and find a shortcut. That might help!’ He laughed.

  ‘I will.’ She smiled.

  ‘Rosie...’ He paused. ‘Would you like to go and get a drink?’ He sat forward on the bench and with his thumb indicated the town behind him.

  Woolacombe – where she knew everyone and everyone knew her. She felt a rush of embarrassment course through her body. ‘Oh! Oh! I can’t. No. But thank you. Yes, but no. Thanks though. I have to go.’

  She stood up and hurriedly zipped up her coat, desperate to put space between her and the American, cringing as her stomach bunched at the thought that she might have given him the wrong impression.

  Clark stood up too. ‘I’ve overstepped the mark and I apologise. I didn’t mean it in any way other than just two rejects getting a glass of something out of the wind. I would never want to offend you.’

  ‘No! Not at all, it’s kind of you, I’m just... It’s not... I can’t see myself as anything other than his wife and that’s it really.’ She shrugged.

  Clark gave her another warm smile. ‘You know, Rosie, I have looked in the mirror many a day in the last couple of years and seen the same expression you’re wearing staring back at me. It does get easier, trust me. And if you decide you want that change of scenery, look me up – there’s only one Clark Dobson in Lake Oswego – and bring the kids. I have a cabin on the shoreline of The Willamette River. It’s quite magical. I’d love to host you there, free of charge. I’d consider it a pleasure to show you all around. There’s nothing like a winter hike up at Mount Hood, or if it’s the summer, take the boat out, catch us a few fish, shoot the breeze. It’s very peaceful, a great place to think, get some perspective on life.’

  ‘It sounds lovely,’ she said.

  ‘It is, and I mean it, the offer stands.’

  Rosie smiled at him, this clever, kind man who had offered her the hand of friendship. It was the biggest compliment she had received in a very long time.

  ‘Goodbye, Clark, and thank you.’ She waved at him before walking back down the Esplanade and heading home.

  Despite the increasingly foul weather, which was now wrapping the buildings in sheets of rain and spinning mini tornadoes around the lampposts, Rosie walked with a spring in her step. Clark was a writer! He had articles in newspapers and he liked her! She felt grateful and the beginnings of happy. Maybe this was the shortcut he was referring to.

  Pushing open her front door, keen to get into the dry, she saw an envelope on the doormat. There was no stamp, it had been hand-delivered, and she instantly recognised Phil’s writing from the one word on the envelope: Rosie. Without waiting to take off her wet coat, she ripped it open and scanned his words.

  I knocked, but you’re not home, so I’m writing instead. Whatever has been said and done between the two of us is nothing to do with Nay and Leo. It’s not fair, Rosie, for me to be kept away from them because you’re angry and upset. You know I always keep them safe, look after them, I always have and I’m asking you to let them come to the house, please. I just want to spend time with them without Mum and Dad being there, or in some café. We need to move forward and do what’s best for all of us, but especially what’s best for the girls.

  Thanks,

  Phil

  She laid the sheet of paper on the stairs, took off her soggy coat and hung it on the bannister. Happy parents in a welcoming environment... That sounded like wise advice.

  Picking up her phone she sent a text. Read your letter. They can come to the house, but you keep an eye on things. I can’t let G be mean to me or about me, that’s just not fair. Okay?

  His reply came swiftly. OK. Thank you. X

  She delete
d it instantly.

  *

  When the weekend came, the girls were beyond excited. Their enthusiasm for the trip up to Mortehoe was tough for Rosie. She bit her tongue, knowing that any negativity the kids picked up on would only make them feel uncomfortable and she never wanted that.

  ‘I can’t wait to see little Truffle!’ Leona spun round in a circle with her arms spread wide until she lost her balance and collapsed on the sofa.

  ‘I bet he’s missed you,’ Rosie managed from the hallway, where she’d placed their rucksacks, packed for an over-night stay.

  ‘Is Gerri going to have the baby this weekend?’ Naomi asked from the sofa, lifting her head from her reading book for the first time that morning.

  ‘Oh no, darling, not for a very long time.’

  Gerri was not yet three months, so there was plenty of time for the girls to get used to the idea and, in Rosie’s opinion, plenty of time for things still to go wrong. She herself would not have gone public quite so soon, but, conscious that any view she expressed would be seen as a criticism, she kept schtum.

  ‘I hope it’s a boy.’ Naomi’s tone was unusually low-key.

  ‘You do? I would have thought you’d like it to be a girl the same as you and Leo.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. I like Daddy only being mine and Leo’s daddy and I don’t mind if he is a dad to a new boy, but I don’t want him to get a new girl.’

  Rosie dropped down to her knees in front of the sofa. She placed her hands on her little girl’s legs and looked at her. ‘The thing is, Nay, it doesn’t matter what happens between Daddy and me, it doesn’t matter if he has a boy or a girl or another three of each, you will always be the oldest, and he could not love you or Leo any more than he does already. You don’t have to worry about that.’