The Second Wife

by Fleet, Rebecca

I don’t dwell on those years. I’d thought that I’d be surrounded by psychos and have to sleep with one eye open, but in reality, I got pretty much left alone. If you’ve killed someone, or even been an accessory to murder, as I was convicted of, then you get a certain respect. It’s a cliché but the boredom was the worst part, the endless days spent sitting around in the cell or trying to make conversation with twitching weirdos in the communal hours. I thought about Kas all the time. Most of all, those few minutes in the basement. In a way I was glad that we’d only had sex that one time. It made it special. Unique. But in another way it felt as if I’d been staggering around in the desert for days with nothing to drink, and then someone had offered me a bottle of ice-cold water and snatched it away after the first sip.

  I knew he would probably never get out. Two life sentences, and I’d heard on the grapevine that he was still regularly causing trouble, making it even less likely that he’d get an early release. There was a woman inside with me whose husband had a brother in Belmarsh he used to visit, and when I found out I always asked her to ask about Kas. I used to seize on these little titbits hungrily: that he’d started a fight in the dining hall and been on twenty-four-hour confinement for days, that he spent the exercise hour in a corner of the room by himself lifting weights and attacking punchbags with the kind of quiet, furious focus that quickly got him a nasty reputation. Not the kind of thing most women would want to hear about their lover, but they made me feel better. I suppose they were just proof he was alive.

  But after a while the titbits got less frequent, and as the years went on I felt things shifting. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten him – more that as my release date got closer and I had the exit gate in my sights, all I could think about was starting a new life. It came more and more sharply into focus, blurring everything else out. And like I said, I knew there was no chance that he would be there with me. So I put him in a different place in my head. Somewhere that wouldn’t stop me starting again.

  People talk about change all the time, as if it were easy. Changing their minds, changing their image, changing their opinions. Anyone can shift the dial a bit this way or that, but not many people can do what I’ve done. Real change is transformation. Reinvention. I had to shed my skin like a snake. And they were exhilarating, those first few months in the outside world. I dyed my hair, got a new look, changed my name. There was no particular rationale behind choosing Natalie. I just thought it sounded sort of perky and positive, like I was someone whose life had never felt a breath of trouble. I started working in a clothes store, earning enough to rent a room in a corner of south London.

  I built up my life. I had a place to live, a semi-regular job and a few friends, but no one got past my force field. I invented a past, but if they ever asked about anything that touched too close to the bone, I put up a wall. A couple of my friends at the clothes store used to call me the Ice Queen – it was affectionate, but like most jokes it had a hard edge of truth. Occasionally I’d tell them about a man I’d met at the weekend, the way I’d invited him back to my place, used him for sex and then turfed him out before dawn. That was one area where I didn’t need to invent anything. It was as easy as it had always been to find a man to spend a few hours with. I always insisted on having all the lights off, because it was only then, in the pitch black, that I let myself slide back into the person I had been before. They would stumble out bewildered into the street afterwards, those men, not knowing what had hit them. Afterwards they would text and call and sometimes send flowers, but I never replied.

  My friends used to love those stories. They hung on every word, their eyes wide and round, marvelling at this capacity for detachment. It was something they couldn’t imagine, these women whose instinct when they found a decent-looking man who didn’t seem to be a psychopath was to dig their claws in and not let go. I wish I could be like you, Natalie, they used to sigh. I wish I could feel like I didn’t need a man. Every time, I would smile enigmatically and say something flippant. They didn’t know that I’d used up all my need early on; I’d poured it all into Kas and there wasn’t a drop left over. At least, that’s what I thought. And then I met Alex.

  I’d gone to Brighton for the weekend on impulse, because I wanted to and because I could. I was waiting for my drink at the bar, and then he was there as if he’d popped out of a dream, intercepting the barman’s hand to take the drink and swiftly giving it to me himself. I’ll buy you the next one. What’s your name? For a moment, I almost said Sadie, and that was strange because I hadn’t thought of myself as that for a long time. When I analysed it afterwards, I realized that it was because when I first saw him I got it – that animal kick of lust that I hadn’t felt since Kas.

  I wanted him at once, not just because he was good looking, although he was, with dark hair and eyes and the kind of body you don’t get by accident. It was more the way he held himself, the self-assurance that stopped him from stuttering and blushing at me the way so many other men did. It was instant and powerful, this leap of interest. But a few seconds later I saw the wedding ring. I’d learned that lesson. A wife was an obstacle I didn’t want to fight to get past. If he was happy with her, he’d never really give himself to you. If he wasn’t, he’d still feel tied to her somehow, the way Kas had. Either way, a wife made it too easy for a man to keep you at arm’s length. Never again. So I told him that I wasn’t interested, and that’s when he grabbed my arm and made me look at him. You don’t understand … My wife died years ago.

  It was inappropriate but I couldn’t help smiling, because it felt like fate, it was perfect. It couldn’t have been better. It would be the way it would have been with Kas, if everything else hadn’t got in the way. A dead wife was no threat. Let him get nostalgic sometimes and weep over her memory if he wanted. She wasn’t there, and she’d never take him away. This was it. I could see from the start how enraptured he was, and knew that he wouldn’t look elsewhere. No one was going to take my place. And I gave myself up to it, in a way that I didn’t think I still could. Sometimes lightning strikes twice.

  It was all perfect, except for one thing. The child.

  It wasn’t too bad at first. Right from the start I could see the role that Alex wanted me to play: a bit of cheerleading here, a bit of help with the homework there, a bit of lounging around watching movies at weekends and ‘bonding’ over packets of snacks. I didn’t have to do a lot of disciplining; he did that. A mother wasn’t a role I saw myself in – I’d shut the door on that long ago, after I’d lost the baby and then spent my most fertile years in a sexless wasteland – but we got on OK, Jade and I. There were even moments, when she gave me a birthday card she’d made herself, or when we spent a sunny day down on the pier playing on the old arcade games, when I felt a flare of affection. Something unlike anything I’d felt before, and oddly compelling. It was always brief, though, sliding away out of my heart as soon as it had come, and difficult to hold on to.

  It was more difficult after we got engaged, when she hit puberty. She was twelve, almost thirteen, and the hormones had well and truly kicked in. Stupid toddler-style tantrums out of nowhere, a lot of slammed doors and tearful accusations. It consumed Alex, more than I had expected. Even when she was in bed, he used to talk about her, going over the same ground again and again. Did I think he should talk to the school? Should he be handling it differently? Was it just a phase, or a sign of something deeper, maybe a delayed reaction to losing her mother? It coloured all our evenings, this endless speculating on Jade’s mental well-being. The sofa we used to have sex on turned into a therapy couch, and that wasn’t nearly as much fun.

  What I found myself wanting to say, when he began to second-guess himself in this way, was that it wasn’t his fault at all. It was her. I knew he wouldn’t appreciate me saying it, but she was something of a burden to him. When that word first popped into my mind it reminded me of something that I couldn’t quite pin down at first, and then I remembered that it was how I’d thought of Melanie, when Kas had to
ld me that it was his duty to stay with her. The comparison stayed with me for a few minutes, and then I packed it carefully away in the back of my head.

  We got married, and to be fair to her Jade was an angel that day, smiling sweetly in her pale green lace dress and scattering confetti over us like falling rain, and that rosy glow carried us through for a while. But they call it a honeymoon period for a reason, and after that everything very quickly went sort of grey and flat. Not between me and him – I was still obsessed with him, still wanting to be with him every chance I got, and I knew he felt the same. But the routine that we’d settled into, the way it all centred around Jade and her trials and tribulations … It was a grind. A couple of months in, I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. We should move – leave Brighton and go back to London, make a fresh start. I could get back into working, maybe move on from being a clothes saleswoman to some sort of personal shopper or something. I had a feeling I’d be good at that. Helping people change the way they looked, calculating how to move them closer to the person they wanted to be. It was an area in which I had some experience.

  I’d realized when I was inside that I had a talent for being a chameleon. I’d proved that I could throw all my cards up in the air and deal myself a new hand. If you met me now, you’d meet a nice housewife in her early thirties living in a trendy seaside town, with just enough money; nothing flash, but good enough to fit in. You’d see a beautiful woman with carefully styled dark hair and a slim figure with curves in the right places, but dressed in such a way – understated, fashion editorial rather than glamour model – that you don’t feel too threatened. I’m not out to steal your man. My voice is neither one thing nor the other, not posh, not common, just somewhere comfortably in between. I’ve always been a good mimic. I fit myself to whoever I’m with, and people like that, even if they realize I’m doing it; it validates them, makes them feel they’re worth imitating. I don’t put a fucking foot wrong.

  I went all out to persuade Alex that the move was a good idea: home-cooked dinner, new underwear, the works. At first he was completely convinced, but the next day it was a different story. He’d had a private word with Jade, he said, and he’d realized it wouldn’t be fair on her. He didn’t want to disrupt her and take her away from her friends, make her start again somewhere new, not at this vulnerable age. Like she’d even be talking to most of these ‘friends’ in ten years’ time, or like there wouldn’t be a reason to call any age vulnerable, if she wanted it to seem that way. She didn’t say anything to me about the idea of the move, but that night, after Alex had sat me down and told me that it wasn’t going to happen, I saw her shoot a glance at me from under her eyelashes as she sat eating her dinner, and it spoke volumes. Don’t think you can pull rank on me, that glance said, because I come first.

  And it’s true, she did. She does. He doesn’t even try to hide it. Of course, I have to think of Jade first and foremost. I’ve heard that countless times. I think he thinks I like it. Maybe some women find this sort of thing noble or heart-warming. And every time he says it, I nod and smile and practically pat her on the head if she’s there, and inside I can’t help thinking, is this what I signed up for? Is this what I fucking signed up for?

  It took me a while to really figure out what this meant, but once I did it hit like an earthquake. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The knowledge that I’d been so focused on congratulating myself for not falling in love with a married man that I’d completely neglected to notice that a man with a child was even worse. Much, much worse. Against another woman, I’d have a chance at least; I could use every wile at my disposal to convince him that I was the one. But against Jade, I’d have no chance at all. If I went to Alex and told him that it was her or me, that he had to make a choice, he’d choose her. He wouldn’t even have to think about it. It might break his heart, but he’d choose her every time.

  I could decide that I’d never give him that choice, but I couldn’t guarantee that she wouldn’t. She tolerated me, even liked me maybe, but she was a teenager: capricious, impulsive, with the potential to be vindictive. I couldn’t risk it. I know most people would have rolled over and taken that risk, accepted that they’d always be second best. But I’m not like most people. I’m not afraid of the worst things, and I know that if you want something enough, then you need to make it happen.

  Alex

  September 2017

  I DON’T BELIEVE her at first. I listen to her, and I watch her – her long, slim fingers curling over the sleeves of her pale pink jumper and worrying at the wool, the way she moves her head swiftly to the side every so often like a nervous tic. She’s persuasive, but my overriding feeling is that she’s probably mad. I nod and make the odd noise of encouragement as she speaks, but I’m thinking about how I can make my excuses and leave before this situation gets any weirder.

  It’s not that I doubt her connection to Natalie. Quite apart from their physical similarities, she knows too much about her – things that it would be impossible for any observer from afar to know. She knows about the habit she has of staring into mirrors, losing herself in her reflection. She knows about the unpredictable, mercurial sweep of her moods, from effervescence to apathy within the space of a few hours. She knows the songs she sings in the shower. I believe that this woman is her sister, but what she is saying makes no sense.

  ‘I know this is a shock,’ she says at last, ‘but I have no reason to lie to you. Look. There’s something else I’ve got that might help.’ She fishes in her pocket and pulls out an old, crumpled piece of paper that she smooths out and lays on the table between us. It’s a handwritten note, short and to the point. My eye goes straight to the signature: Sadie. It’s Natalie’s handwriting, I’m almost sure of it, but more than this, I’m drawn to the wording. Didn’t want to wake you to say goodbye. There’s an echo of familiarity to it that I can’t quite catch on to, and then I remember.

  Slowly, I reach into my own pocket and take out the note that Natalie left me the other day in the hotel room. I didn’t want to wake you – I remember feeling aggrieved, that there was something disingenuous and sly about it. I place it next to the note that the woman has shown me, and I half laugh. It’s almost identical. And just like that, the tide turns. Suddenly, I believe her.

  Cali – Rachel, I think, and it’s easy to fit the name to her face, in a way that it was not with Natalie – is watching me, trying to read my expression. ‘It was the only thing I kept that she’d given me, and even that was by mistake – I found it at the bottom of my bag after I’d gone,’ she says. ‘Keeping too much from your previous life is discouraged. And anyway, I didn’t want to.’

  I look up at her. Her gaze is steady and open, and in this moment the conviction that I can trust her grows and strengthens. ‘I just don’t understand,’ I say levelly. ‘Why wouldn’t she have told me the truth?’

  Rachel shrugs, looking briefly contemptuous. ‘It’s not exactly something that comes naturally to her, or it never used to be. If I had to guess, I’d say that she doesn’t want to come across as the bad guy. She is someone totally different from the person you thought she was, Alex. I used to try and think of her as a loose cannon, a free spirit. A bit wild and easily led astray, but essentially a good person, you know? But it just isn’t true. She was wired differently from most people. It made her special, and it made her …’ She hesitates, as if catching herself in the act of melodrama, then gives a little decisive nod. ‘Dangerous,’ she says, with some defiance.

  ‘People can change.’ It’s all I can think of to say.

  She nods, frowning a little. ‘They can, of course. Once I found out that she had been released, I tried to convince myself that she’d be different now. But I didn’t really believe it. Spending that long in prison, it wouldn’t mellow you, would it? It would harden you even more. Obviously I couldn’t be in touch with her, and I didn’t want to be, but I hired a private detective to keep tabs on her when she was first out and living in London – I know,’
she interrupts herself, ‘it sounds mad, but I needed to know what was going on with her. I suppose despite everything I couldn’t quite let go.’

  ‘And?’ I ask.

  ‘And nothing, really. She was working, had friends, boyfriends, but nothing serious. I was told she was using a new name, Natalie Stephens, and after a while she made it official and changed it by deed poll. And then she met you, and moved to Brighton, and I thought maybe she’d settled down at last. I stopped keeping tabs on her for a while, but I was still worried. More worried, if anything.’ She glances up and catches the question in my expression. ‘I suppose I just couldn’t see her being in a healthy relationship, to be honest. It was at odds with everything I knew about her. I was worried, mainly, for you.’

  My first instinct is to dismiss this. I don’t need your concern, thanks very much. But there’s something simple and unadulterated about what she’s said, and it isn’t said with pity, exactly. More as if she’s just letting me know that she’s in my corner.

  ‘I was particularly unsure,’ she continues, ‘when I found out that you had a daughter. Sadie really isn’t the maternal type, and I couldn’t see her in a stepmother role.’ I’m about to interrupt and protest, because this is something I do know more about than she does – we’ve had our issues but she’s good with Jade, has instinctively found the right balance between friendship and authority – but she hurries on. ‘She lost a baby, you know, back when she was nineteen and she was seeing Kas. It must have happened around the same time as the trial. I don’t think it’s something she would have got over easily.’

  She pauses, but my throat feels sewn up. I’m thinking about Kaspar – the realization belatedly hitting that it’s my own wife who was involved with him, my own wife who slept with him, and the sudden understanding of that little half smile he gave as I left, as if life could still surprise him. And now the knowledge that there could have been a child, that his baby was growing inside the woman who told me from the start that she never wanted to have her own children. I expect you’re relieved, aren’t you, Alex? You wouldn’t have wanted to go back to the start, all the nappies and the sleepless nights?