First wifes shadow, p.11
First Wife's Shadow, page 11
I carry the regret of my evening with Heidi and Gina with me, and the moment I stumble through the front door, before I have even taken off my coat, I blurt, ‘Where is Becky buried? You never said.’ I regret the question as I hear myself ask it, although it is arguably a smidge better than ‘Do you want kids?’ which is also preying on my mind.
‘Hello, babe.’ He walks over to me. Kisses my forehead. I know I smell boozy, which I’m not proud of. I clamp my mouth shut, try not to breathe near him. He’s holding a spatula that’s dripping with a thick red sauce. I watch warily, in case any of the sauce drips onto my dark wooden floors or my coat. Matthew doesn’t appear aware of it in his hand; he just seems delighted to see me. He beams. ‘I’m making dinner,’ he adds, not answering my question.
‘Oh, let me wash my hands and I’ll help.’ I dash upstairs, splash water on my face and gargle with mouthwash before returning to the kitchen. I like cooking with Matthew. I’ve prepared and eaten enough meals alone to know that this ritual is special, valuable. I enjoy creating something with him; it’s not babies, but it’s something. We are both decent cooks. We learn from one another. Tonight he has prepared a staple, spaghetti bolognese. The smell of the basil, tomatoes and garlic is delicious, and my mouth waters. Carbs are just what I need to soak up the alcohol before I go to bed. I don’t want a cracking hangover in the morning. I can’t afford that, as I have an early start and a busy day. The restructure at work is demanding a forensic approach to budgets. Salaries are the biggest cost, meaning redundancies are inevitable. Tomorrow I’m meeting the CFO to identify who we need to lose. I sigh. I shouldn’t have gone out with Heidi and Gina; I should have kept my head in the game.
‘I am not someone who insists that my bolognese is the best outside Italy or anything hyperbolic, but I do know I make a reliably good one,’ says Matthew with an endearingly modest smile. ‘The trick is to let the sauce simmer for as long as possible so that the flavours of the beef and sausage mingle and reduce. I prepped this at four this afternoon.’
‘But you thought I was eating out,’ I say.
He smiles at me. ‘I had a feeling you might come home to me. At least, I hoped you would. I wanted to be prepared if you did. Besides, if you had stayed out for a raucous time with your friends, I would have popped it in a Tupperware box for tomorrow. It’s just as good on the second day.’ He looks shy about admitting to being so thoughtful, so domestic. I smile encouragingly, and he adds, ‘But I thought that maybe you’d decide being here is just the best.’ He pauses, makes eye contact, and my stomach hiccups. ‘And I was right.’
See. There it is. Evidence that we know each other so well.
Matthew is wearing a crisp white shirt and a pair of jeans. He looks handsome and vital. He clocks my eyes roaming up and down his body, grins. ‘What?’ he asks.
I can hardly confess to marvelling at how attractive and sexy I think he is, so instead I say, ‘I’d never risk making bolognese in a white shirt.’
He laughs and holds up an open bottle of red wine, offering it to me. The bottle is almost empty. I feel a sense of relief that he’s been drinking. I didn’t have to surreptitiously gargle. I can be comfortable with him. Of course I can. I move to the hob to inspect his cooking. We stand side by side and he dips the spatula into the sauce and brings it to my lips. I taste it and nod my appreciation. When he answers, it takes me a moment to understand what is being said.
‘In America, where we were living at the time. That’s where she’s buried.’ I’m glad that I don’t have to look him in the eye now. What might I see there if I did? Pain? Grief? Love? I know he still loves her. That’s natural. Yet difficult. I should have remembered he always answers every question I put to him. His solid, matter-of-fact response shames me, rather than reassures me. I shouldn’t be quizzing him, checking up on him, it’s beneath us. ‘We had so many friends there, it seemed right that the funeral was in New York so we could say goodbye together. Besides, the idea of her on a plane, in a fridge or whatever it is that they do …’ He shivers.
I place my hand on his forearm. ‘I see. Makes sense.’
‘Anyway, I couldn’t have afforded to have her flown anywhere. Not to South Africa, where her parents are, or here, even though I knew I’d be coming back to the UK in the long term.’
‘Aren’t you sad that she’s so far away?’ I ask. ‘Wouldn’t you like to be able to put flowers on her grave? Aren’t you worried that no one is doing that?’
‘She’s dead, Emma, what does it matter?’ Matthew snaps.
I gasp at the abruptness of his response. Normally he’s so patient and unflappable. However, I also accept that my questions are clumsy, unkind. Heidi has got under my skin. It’s idiotic of me to push this matter. I’m glad we don’t have to visit her grave together, that we don’t have a physical presence hanging over us. As it is, I sometimes feel the ghost of her sitting between us. Not literally, of course, I don’t believe in such nonsense, but metaphorically she haunts me.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. ‘That sounded harsher than I meant it to. Sorry. All I mean is that I carry her around in my heart, in my head. I don’t need to visit her grave. She’s with me always.’ And now I really wish I hadn’t asked, because his words land like slaps. She’s with me always too. ‘OK, enough of this talk.’ He claps his hands together and looks about him. ‘I’m going to put on some music. I just need to find the portable speaker thingy. This house is so large, I keep losing things. Then we can enjoy this delicious meal I’ve slaved over for you.’ He grins. ‘Will you make yourself useful, put on the spaghetti?’
I keep spaghetti in an embossed Fortnum and Mason biscuit tin, but when I reach for it, I find that it’s empty. Behind the kitchen, just past the utility room, is the larder. I rummage around in there for a new packet of spaghetti. It’s not on the shelf where I keep pasta, although there is a bag of farfalle and another of rotini. Certain that there ought to be a packet somewhere, I get down on my hands and knees and root about behind tins of black beans and cannellini beans in the bottom cupboard. Finally, I’m successful. I grab the packet triumphantly and return to the kitchen.
I don’t understand what I’m faced with.
My beautiful, serene state-of-the-art kitchen is decimated; it has turned into a 3D Jackson Pollock. The bolognese sauce is everywhere. I don’t mean the pot has been upended – I don’t know how that would happen anyway, as it’s a chunky Le Creuset that I struggle to pick up. It’s still on the hob, but it seems that someone has scooped up the blood-red sauce and thrown it over the walls, smeared it across the surfaces, the breakfast bar, the floor. There are splatters on the sink, the splashback, the draining board.
I stare at the act of vandalism and my confusion metamorphoses into fury. What the hell? Who the hell? Why the hell? The tomato and mince look like blood and crap. It looks like a protest in a prison. Something I’ve seen in a movie or a nightmare. But before I can fully process my fury, it dissolves into fear. My lungs harden and my breath sticks in my throat. The plants and globes being destroyed was bizarre enough; now this. I’ve been wanting to tell myself that there isn’t a problem, but I know that’s not true. Whoever did this might still be in the house. I feel a chill; suddenly the room seems eerie and dark. The air is not as it was. It is wet and drained of oxygen, of health. I can’t explain what I feel, because it is unlike anything else I’ve ever experienced. I am not alone, I’m sure of it. Am I having a panic attack? ‘Hello?’ I call out. No one replies. Had I expected anyone to?
‘What have you done?’ I jump, look up and see Matthew coming down the stairs carrying the portable speaker. He glances around at the mess and then at me, at the spatula in my hand. He shakes his head sadly.
‘I didn’t do this.’ I can’t recall picking up the spatula, and yet there is sauce trailed down my hand to the elbow of my shirt. I drop it. It falls into the pan and makes another splash on my clothes. I notice that his white shirt is still immaculate; it’s the only thing that remains clean. My cheeks feel like they’re being squeezed together, squashing my nose and eyes; not painful exactly, but uncomfortable and disorientating. I know I’m a little drunk. The thought is in one way a relief – because when I am totally sober, this will all seem less weird, it will make more sense, surely – and yet being drunk is simultaneously a problem because drunks are unreliable, unreasonable. ‘It’s vandals again,’ I explain. ‘We must check the house, right now. We should press the alarm.’
Matthew immediately moves to the back door, wiggles the handle. It’s locked. He turns to the bifold doors that run the length of the house and checks those; they are all secure too. He dashes upstairs and although I’m nervous that he’ll encounter someone, he would be able to manage himself so I don’t try to stop him. For a few moments I remain exactly where he left me. He returns to the kitchen and says, ‘Nothing. No one. All the doors and windows are locked.’
‘I don’t understand.’ I break off. Matthew looks equally confused, and embarrassed too. He stares at his feet. He doesn’t think anyone has been in the house. ‘I didn’t make this mess,’ I insist.
He nods, but without conviction, then starts to carefully examine the chaos. The sauce is trailed in thin lines in some places as though it has been flicked; the effect is like a painting Lottie once presented to me with pride. She’d blown several different colours of paint through a straw. At the time, Gina and I commented that the classroom must have been chaos. In other parts of the kitchen, the mess looks as though it’s been ground into the rugs and smudged onto the surfaces. More of a finger painting.
Matthew looks perplexed. ‘I wonder how they got in if all the doors and windows are locked?’
‘Well, it must be someone with a key,’ I reason. ‘It’s the only logical explanation.’
‘If you think that, then you need to write a list of people who have keys.’
‘It’s a short list. The cleaners, the pool guy, Heidi and Gina.’ I shudder. It’s horrible and exhausting. ‘I have to fire the staff.’ Matthew runs his hand through his hair, looking pained. ‘How can I trust them? All of them are from a local agency; I’m going to be absolutely hated around here. Word will get out. I’ll have to get the locks changed, because I don’t know if they’ll make copies of the keys before they hand them back. I can give Heidi and Gina new ones.’
Matthew nods again slowly, but he looks uncomfortable. I’m used to making hard decisions on staffing. He will never have had to do anything similar.
I see that my phone, car keys and laptop are all still here on the kitchen table, exactly where I left them when I went to the larder. Nothing has been stolen. ‘I’m not going to call the police. I’ll call the security company tomorrow to report it, but it’s been a long day; shall we just get on with cleaning up?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
Matthew sighs and heads upstairs to change into a T-shirt that will be more appropriate for the task. I don’t bother, I’m already a mess, sauce splattered all over my shirt. I snap on rubber gloves, fill a bucket with steaming-hot soapy water and start to scrub.
17
Neither of us fancies eating anything by the time we’re finished scraping and scrubbing food off rugs, barstools, kitchen surfaces and floors. However, I don’t feel ready to go to bed.
‘Shall we just have a glass of wine and watch some TV?’ I suggest.
‘Well, the wine sounds like a brilliant idea. Why don’t you sit on the sofa, I’ll open a new bottle and then you can tell me what went on with your friends this evening that put you in such a bad mood.’ I gaze at him, mouth slack, surprised that he’s not only realised as much but remembered to circle back to it after all the drama of the vandalism. I smile as I accept the glass of red wine that he’s offering. ‘Did you argue?’ he asks as he sits down next to me. The sofa lets out a sigh to welcome him, or maybe that’s me.
‘No, not as such.’
‘Well, something made you lose it.’ I don’t think asking where his wife is buried classes as losing it, but I guess that’s just a figure of speech so I let it go.
‘Heidi was a bit cool about the news that we’d moved in together. She thinks we’ve rushed things.’
‘Fair enough. I’m sure from the outside we do look a little speedy. She’s only looking out for you. She’s a good friend.’
I wish she could hear how kind and reasonable Matthew is about her, a marked contrast to how suspicious and wary she is about him. ‘I’m looking forward to meeting your friends. You know, when it happens,’ I say, carefully. It’s true, I am looking forward to meeting them, even if they were all Becky’s friends too. At least then I’ll be able to report back to Heidi that I’ve done so, to shut her up. I don’t want to sound pushy but can’t stop myself adding, ‘I have a work trip in New York coming up in late summer. Maybe we could book you a flight and you could come along. We could tag on a few extra days as holiday. You could catch up with your old friends, introduce me to them.’
‘I’m not keen, to be honest,’ he says, looking away from me, through the window that faces onto the woods. It’s half past eleven, so it’s pitch black. The sort of dull, solid blackness that seems to swallow life. As the room is lit, only our reflections shine back at us; it is impossible to see what’s out there. It’s a peculiar thing to be watching us having this conversation. I get a strange feeling that I’m observing our relationship rather than participating in it. That is mad. I am here. Right next to him.
‘Why aren’t you keen? Are you ashamed of me or of them?’ I ask this in a jokey tone, trying to hide the fact that that’s what I’m worried about. Mostly the former.
‘No, of course not. You’re gorgeous, perfect.’ He turns to me, wearing a solemn expression. ‘They’re great too. My friends. Really sparkling. Attractive, clever, solvent, you know all that. That’s the problem. They’ll all point out that I’m punching, and you’ll realise they’re right.’ He smiles, kisses the tip of my nose. This scenario seems unlikely; it’s unusual for a man to pick a partner more than a decade older than him. His friends are much more likely to point out the issues we might encounter as a couple, as mine did. They might make the case that by choosing me he’s opting out of a family. They probably have younger women they want to introduce him to, now that he’s back on the market.
A fox or deer, maybe even a badger, darts between the trees closest to the house. I don’t get a look at it, but the sense of movement pulls my gaze away from Matthew. He puts his hands either side of my head and turns my face gently back to his so that we are staring into one another’s eyes. ‘You’re bound to think at least one of them is a way better bet than I am, and you’ll want to trade me in.’
Is he joking? ‘I never would,’ I murmur.
‘I can’t risk it.’ He smiles and pulls me into a long kiss. His hands caress my jaw, my neck. His thumb massages the spot just below my ears. My stomach rolls with pleasure. I want to give in to the kiss, drown in it, but I gently pull away. My body only just cooperating with my brain’s instructions.
‘Seriously, Matthew, what is the issue?’ I ask. ‘You’ve met my close friends and even some of my not so close ones and colleagues. Isn’t it time I met yours?’
He sighs, frustrated. Is he frustrated with me for breaking away from the kiss and shelving the hope of us having sex? Or worse, for asking this question? But when he speaks, I realise his frustration runs deep and has nothing to do with me. He pinches the bridge of his nose and screws up his eyes. ‘When I came back to the UK, I thought I’d pick up with old colleagues and contacts, maybe even my old uni mates, but it didn’t pan out that way.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe too much time had gone by. Or …’
‘Or?’
He shrugs, sort of retreats in on himself. ‘People are strange after a death. They don’t know how to behave. So many of my old buddies gave me a wide berth when Becky died. It was painful. Extremely so.’
‘Of course.’ I nod carefully. The way I always am, always must be, when Becky is mentioned.
‘Some people tried, but they said the wrong thing as often as not. There was a lot of “she’s in a better place now”. It just didn’t help me. Others kept telling me she wouldn’t want me to be sad.’
‘Would she have wanted you to be sad?’ I ask.
Matthew grins. ‘She was very jealous and protective of our relationship. She’d want me to be totally and absolutely fucking miserable. Inconsolable. She definitely wouldn’t want me to find happiness again.’
‘Really?’ I’m shocked. How is that love?
‘Yeah, she wasn’t the generous type.’
Then he laughs as though this is the funniest thing ever, rather than a bit sad and negative. Yet I laugh too and our lips find one another’s again. Our lips, our tongues, our hands. I edge onto my back and he climbs on top of me.
As we make love, I keep my eyes on him. When I do allow myself a glance at our reflections in the window against the black night, I find he is doing the same and we lock eyes there too. We look good together and sometimes we like watching ourselves. I keep my gaze fixed on his eyes and try to dismiss the thought that someone else is watching us too.
Afterwards, I put my knickers back on and we head upstairs. I’m exhausted but need to shower before I go to bed. Getting up at five in the morning only really works if you’re asleep by ten. It’s almost 1 a.m. now. I think I’ll skip my run tomorrow.
I turn the shower up to the highest setting, so that the water is pummelling me aggressively, and speedily soap my body. My thoughts about the day cascade as quickly as the water. One moment I’m grinning to myself, caught up in the recollections of exactly what we’ve just done to each other, the fabulousness of the gentle kisses and the tender caresses that ultimately accelerated into something harder and more animalistic. The next moment, my mind clouds as I get flashbacks to the bolognese sauce splattered around the kitchen. An act of vandalism, an act of hate. Why? Who? Then I remember Heidi’s coolness earlier this evening. Perhaps motivated by something as ugly as jealousy or greed. Her muted response to my news that Matthew has moved in has left me feeling strangely deserted. Alone.
