The Wife's Choice: An emotional and totally unputdownable family drama

by Emma Davies

  By half past seven I’m alone with my thoughts once more. I’ve tried not to overthink last night, but more and more of its detail is coming back to me, and almost all of it centres on Sam. Was Hugh right? Did I dress up for him? Because as much as I tell myself that I really hadn’t known for definite that Sam would be at the opening, I’d known there was every chance he would be. So whatever excuses I’m making for myself, I probably need to look at my motives a little more closely. It’s just that having someone’s eyes light up when they see you provokes a very powerful response, whether you want it to or not.

  I haven’t felt that in a very long time and I’m struggling to get Sam’s words out of my head. Is my life too small for me now? Have I grown out of something? Or someone? And if so, why? Why now, when nothing has really changed? Except that something has changed, and I can feel it within me from my toes right up to the top of my curly-haired head.

  Sam isn’t the only thing I’ve been thinking about, however. There’s also the small matter of my redundancy money. I push aside the bedclothes and head back downstairs, retracing my steps of the night before.

  I hadn’t really looked at the letter from HR since I’d received it. I hadn’t wanted to. It was life-changing money, money that I needed to think about very carefully. But it wasn’t the amount I had wanted to check again last night, but the date on which it should have been paid.

  I get myself a glass of water, drinking half before setting it down on the table and opening the understairs cupboard once more. I flick on the light and take out the letter, rereading the details, slowly, making sure that in my anger last night I hadn’t misunderstood what it said.

  My heart is beating hard as I refold the piece of paper and stow it back in my bag. I finish my drink and collect a biscuit, trying not to jump to conclusions. I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for it. I pause in the hallway for a moment to listen out for Esme, but there are no sounds of life from above and I imagine she’ll be sleeping for a while yet. I hope so. Then I push open the study door and slip inside.

  I rarely come in here, unless it’s at Hugh’s behest. It’s always been made very clear that this is his domain and I kick myself for not having taken an interest in our financial matters before. I guess, just like so many other things, I was content to let Hugh take charge of them. After all, hasn’t he always made it clear he is very happy to do so? But now that I am here, I’m determined to find what I’m looking for. You see, payday was a few days ago, at the end of the month, and, according to HR, in their very bland and badly worded standard letter, my redundancy payment should have been made together with my final salary. And my salary had already been paid into my bank account, but I certainly would have noticed the appearance of an extra thirty thousand pounds. So, did this money simply never arrive… or, has it gone somewhere else?

  I’ve always assumed we are like most couples. But, actually, I really have no idea how other husbands and wives manage their financial affairs. Hugh and I have our own accounts, into which our salaries are paid, and then we each transfer an amount into a joint one which pays for all the household bills. Obviously Hugh earns considerably more than I do – or rather, did – so he pays a greater share, but I never check this account. The bills are paid by direct debit and anything else we need – our groceries, petrol, that kind of thing – I simply pay for on my chip and pin card. There have never been any problems with this account and Hugh has made it clear that he keeps a careful eye on it so we never overspend. I trusted him, why wouldn’t I?

  The files are easily found. Hugh keeps everything in apple-pie order and I know that the latest bank statements have arrived, they came the other day. And I did what I always did, which was to leave them on the side for Hugh to file. I pull the folder with our joint account details towards me and turn to the most recent page, my sense of foreboding growing stronger all the while. Because I already know what I’m going to find and, sure enough, as I scan the page, I see an amount leap out. All thirty thousand pounds of my redundancy money. But what is it doing here in our joint bank account when it should have been paid into my personal account, just like my salary has been every month? There’s only one person who could have changed the instruction for the payments, and that’s Hugh.

  I stare at the blank wall in front of me, fury rising. Anger at Hugh and disgust with myself for being so… unaware. Was I simply a trusting, faithful wife? Or complacent and naive? And the answer to both those questions scares me. I don’t have any idea what’s been going on. It’s bad enough that Hugh would even think to redirect my redundancy money into another account, but the even more disturbing question is why…

  I slide the file back onto the shelf, my unease growing as I take out another from the shelf below. I shouldn’t even be thinking the things I am, but now my thoughts are jumping all over the place and I suddenly remember something Nancy said about having your mortgage paid off and being safe and comfortable. Because Hugh and I have lived in this house since we got married, twenty-three years ago, which should mean that in two years’ time it will be paid off. All of a sudden it seems very important that I check.

  And the figures can’t lie, it’s all there in black and white. Whereas we should only have one or two years left to repay our mortgage in full, instead we still owe a considerable sum of money. I flip back through the pages of statements until I find a letter from nearly twelve years ago which explains what happened. While I was busy juggling working at Harringtons, bringing up Esme and looking after the running of our home, Hugh had remortgaged our house to the tune of eighty thousand pounds.

  I lift my head, staring across the room as thoughts tumble through my mind. Questions about my redundancy, but now, more importantly perhaps, questions about why my husband needed to raise such a large sum of money twelve years ago. What was it for? And where did the money go?

  A glance at the clock on the wall confirms that it’s still early and I wander back into the kitchen, my thoughts scattered. The realisation that Hugh has been keeping secrets from me for so long is taking up a huge space inside my head, and suddenly my well-ordered, albeit boring and staid, life is beginning to feel as if it’s in freefall. Esme is still sleeping overhead, no doubt dreaming blissfully, and I’m terrified of what the repercussions of all this might be for her. I never wanted to keep things from her, to hide away the truth and live the lie that Hugh wanted us to. But it seems as if over the years my husband has become an expert at lying, and I realise how ill-prepared I am for what must surely be coming.

  I make a quick coffee and grab another couple of biscuits. I don’t want to linger over breakfast and run the risk of Esme finding me taking the study apart. Because there is one thing I’m certain of, which is that forewarned is forearmed. My notebook is still on the side, full of the measurements I wrote down for Nancy’s tuxedo. But although I do need to make a start on it, that’s not what I want the paper for. I pick it up and head back to the study.

  I’ve been systematically making notes for about half an hour when I suddenly realise that the faint noise I’ve been hearing is actually my mobile phone ringing from the kitchen. It doesn’t sound for long before switching to the answerphone so I make a mad dash for it, snatching it up at the last minute. It’s a local area code number but not one I recognise and my heart is in my mouth as I quickly slide my finger across the screen to answer the call. The woman’s voice is not one I recognise.

  ‘Alys Robinson?’

  ‘Hi, yes, hello.’

  ‘This is Becky, from the National Trust. I’m really sorry to call you at the weekend—’

  ‘Not at all, it’s fine, don’t worry,’ I reply, hoping I didn’t sound too flustered when I answered the call.

  ‘I’m just ringing about the application you sent in for the vacancy we’re advertising, but I noticed that you’ve also written to me about volunteering opportunities.’

  ‘Yes, I…’ My heart, which had taken a sudden upward leap, now sinks back down ag
ain.

  ‘You see, the thing is,’ continues Becky. ‘I’m unexpectedly in the office today. I know it’s very short notice, and a Saturday, but I wondered if you might be free to come and have a chat sometime this morning?’

  I stare at the window in front of me, trying to see my reflection and mentally assessing how long it will take me to make myself look presentable.

  ‘I’d be very happy to,’ I reply. ‘I can be with you in about an hour.’

  There’s a pause. ‘Yes, that would suit me very well. So I’ll see you about half past ten then? You know where to find us, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do. I came to your open day, so that’s great. Thank you. I’ll see you then.’ I end the call, heart beating wildly, and with another glance at the clock dash upstairs to get changed.

  I don’t really remember the drive over to Blickling Hall but it seems in no time at all I’m pulling into the car park where I sat with Sam only a week or so ago. And although I don’t want to admit it, I really wish he was here with me now. My good-luck charm. Plus, of course, his ridiculous sense of humour would’ve kept me from feeling nervous. As it is I can barely speak.

  Job interviews, even if they have been downgraded to a simple chat, are not something I’m familiar with, and my experience of them extends to one single solitary occasion when I applied for my job at Harringtons. I’ve had a few internal interviews for posts there, of course, but those were different. The setting was known to me, the people too, but this, this is not something I do.

  The conservation centre isn’t open to the public today, but my hesitant knock at the door is answered immediately and, within minutes, I’m sitting up on the mezzanine level where I first met Becky, a glass of water on the table by my side. Becky’s greeting is warm and friendly but there’s an efficient briskness to her actions that is somewhat scary. I don’t think she’s going to waste much time before getting down to business.

  ‘Right, well, I won’t beat about the bush, but I’m not sure whether you’re aware that this is the second time we’ve advertised this job. The third, actually, in the last six months, and I’m not very hopeful about finding a suitable candidate this time around either.’

  ‘Oh… I see. No, I didn’t know that.’ My heart falls even further. It’s obviously not going to be me then. ‘I only just saw the advertisement actually… A friend sent it to me.’ I smile, for what it’s worth. ‘And I’m aware that my application is something of a long shot. My degree is almost as old as the textiles I’d be working on.’

  Becky smiles, giving me a sheepish look. ‘I’m sorry, that came out completely wrong. I hate interviews,’ she admits, and I realise that what I’d taken as briskness is actually nerves. She’s almost as bad as I am. ‘I didn’t mean that your application was useless, which is how I made it sound, but rather that, like all these things, there’s a required level of experience and qualifications that I’m supposed to adhere to. And I’m afraid on that basis that, whilst your degree is sound, it was rather a long time ago and not backed up by recent practical experience.’

  I nod.

  ‘I can see that you’re a dressmaker too, which is useful but…’

  ‘Um, it’s just… I think I was trying to show that my interest in textiles has remained throughout my life, even if my career hasn’t really supported it.’

  She gives me a sympathetic look. ‘Which it did,’ she says. ‘There wasn’t anything wrong with your application…’ She pauses. ‘Maybe wrong is not quite the right word. Perhaps I mean irrelevant?’ She looks at me quizzically. ‘Which is to say that what you’ve been doing is relevant and you were right to include it in your letter, but I’m sorry, it still doesn’t meet the minimum criteria for the role. So… you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here.’

  Poor girl, she looks so uncomfortable that I can’t help but warm to her. She’s doing her level best to let me down gently and I put on my best grateful expression.

  ‘You see, the thing that interested me most about your application was that you also sent in a separate request to become a volunteer. I hoped you would when we met the other week.’

  So she did remember me; I hadn’t been entirely sure. I smile nervously. ‘I know, I’ve just shot myself in the foot, haven’t I?’

  Becky pulls a face. ‘Not necessarily…’ She fidgets a little in her seat. ‘I’ll be perfectly honest with you, Alys, I’ve had a few people sitting where you are now, and when I mention the “V” word they look at me like I’ve grown an extra head. So when I saw that you’re happy to undertake voluntary work too, I got a little bit excited. I can’t offer you the conservator job, well not right now anyway, but I’m hoping that I might be able to work something out for the future. Even if that means being a little bit… creative with the vacancy.’

  She leans forward as if she’s worried someone might overhear her. ‘I had a chat with Lucy – she’s the other woman you met when you were here before – and if you came and volunteered with us for a few months she’d be very happy to take charge of some training for you whilst you’re here. She’d oversee the work you do, but she’d also get you up to the required standard. We reckon that if I pull the vacancy now, in a few months’ time you could reapply and, well…’

  I stare at her. ‘Sorry, are you saying that you think I can get the job?’

  She pulls at her lip. ‘I can’t promise but, given the field of applicants we’ve had recently, and with the experience we could give you, I’d be pretty certain you’d get it, yes. I’m only sorry I can’t offer you anything now. I’m afraid the next few months would have to be on a purely voluntary basis.’

  ‘No, no, I understand. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘But you’d be interested?’

  I don’t have to think about it for very long. ‘When can I start?’ I say.

  If I was preoccupied on my drive to Blickling Hall, it’s nothing compared with the drive home. My head is full of more thoughts than ever, but now in among the mix is one tiny gleaming ray of hope for the future. It sounds daft, but my future is the one thing I’ve never really thought about. I don’t think you do when you have children. You think about their future, all the time, but yours seems something that you can only attend to after everything else has been settled. But today, so far, has been a stark reminder of how suddenly everything can change.

  The house is quiet when I enter, my note to Esme still on the side where I left it. Only the sound of the shower running overhead lets me know that she’s up and about again; getting herself ready for the restaurant’s first night of actual business. This is the real start to her new beginning. I crumple up the note and throw it away. No point complicating things just yet.

  I make a quick cup of tea and carry it through into the conservatory, throwing open the doors to the garden. It’s normally far too hot to sit in here during the summer, but today is a little overcast and, with the doors open, it’s perfect. Birdsong floods in. I sink back into the cushions of my favourite squishy chair, wrap my fingers around my mug for comfort, and let myself drift.

  I never intend to spend time thinking about you, it’s just something that happens every now and again. When my subconscious knows that thoughts of you are just what I need to get me through the day. And it helps, it reminds me that once upon a time there was something different in my life, something better. And if I’ve had it in the past, surely I can find it again in the future.

  Maybe that’s why I feel so weird now. Because the last few days have felt like a return to the past. The place where I could be me, comfortable in my skin, happy, with the things I desired within reach. And I’ve tried so hard to push aside thoughts of this other time, but it still exists, I’ve seen a glimpse of it now, and however much I try to resist, its lure is strong. Perhaps that’s why it scares me so much.

  Because in the here and now I feel like a fish out of water and entirely misplaced. As if this is somewhere I’m no longer supposed to be. I feel as if I’m growing too f
ast, like a green shoot being pulled towards the sun, but bending in the wrong direction, towards somewhere I want to be, somewhere I think I need to be, but somewhere my head is telling me I absolutely shouldn’t be.

  The sadness of this hits me hard. I’m crying before I even draw another breath and I cannot help but wonder if you feel the same way too. And even though I know it’s wrong, I’m hoping that you do…

  I sit up straighter, dashing away my tears as my heart beats faster. I’m hoping that you do… I’m hoping that you do… There, I finally admitted it and I know I can’t keep living a lie. I don’t understand why any of this is happening, but for all that I understand of the way the universe works, I cannot imagine that it’s happening for no reason. And that being the case, is it wrong to let it unfold…? It’s a question I have no answer for.

  I check the time. There’s still a little while before I have to take Esme to work and I need to finish what I started this morning. If I have any chance of changing things, then I need to be prepared.

  17

  I’ve never been reckless, but surely there can be no other word for what I’m about to do. I’ve thought about it so much my head hurts. I’ve cried, grown angry, been wracked with guilt and overwhelmed with love for my family, all in the space of a few hours. But, at the end of it all, I had to make a decision. And I have no way of telling if it’s the right one. I guess time will be the judge of that.

  It isn’t even that I don’t love Hugh, I do. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him in the early days, the first few months after Sam sent me away. I was overwhelmed with grief, and alone in a new town where I knew no one. He was my rock, my saviour and, to start with, nothing more than my friend. I honestly don’t think I could have got through it if he hadn’t been there.

  And then Esme came along and I was totally unprepared for motherhood. For the searing bond of love that obliterated everything, but which came at such a price. The sleepless nights, the feeling of utter helplessness as I struggled to cope with her needs, and the terror that my life would never be the same again. But, gradually, we learned to properly love one another, unconditionally, and those early years with her became the best of my life.