First wifes shadow, p.21
First Wife's Shadow, page 21
I had hoped that my detailed searches of her finances, files and life in general might throw up some useful material. Something dark. No one is as good, virtuous and disciplined as she presents, are they? I thought we’d find something dodgy in her inbox: a racist comment that could bring her down, an explicit picture sent to some ex-lover that could do the same, a messy tax return that didn’t declare absolutely every stream of income. She loves her job; she wouldn’t want to lose it. Blackmail could make us a decent amount.
I didn’t find anything. She really does live her life as though the spirit of Mother Teresa is sitting on her shoulder.
I suggested to Mattie that he could take some photos of her. Compromising ones. ‘You’re perfectly placed to do that.’
‘But then she’d know I was the one blackmailing her.’
‘She would, obviously. But if you got enough money out of her, would it matter? You wouldn’t need her any more.’
He looked uncomfortable. I knew he’d resist this idea. I was banking on it. He doesn’t like to think of himself as a bad guy; he wouldn’t like her to think of him as such. ‘I don’t think blackmail would get us the lump sum we need,’ he said. ‘There is a lot of money knocking about here. As you said in the beginning, there has to be a big opportunity. Let’s keep thinking. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.’
‘I’m sure I will,’ I muttered. I already had. It was just a matter of when I revealed it to him.
33
One evening after they’d moved in together, she was in London with her friends and so we had her house to ourselves. He was making me bolognese. There are certain things between couples that from the outside look like one thing but to the couple they mean a whole other thing. We both knew that him preparing this meal showed he wanted to treat me, nurture me. It’s my favourite dish of his. He often makes bolognese for me when he thinks I need cheering up, or if he’s done something wrong, or if we’re celebrating something. It’s multifunctional. That evening I wasn’t in need of cheering up, and as far as I was aware we weren’t celebrating anything; I wondered whether I should brace myself, but decided not to be cynical.
Maybe he just wanted us to have a nice night together. I wanted that.
I stood at the marble breakfast bar, drinking a glass of her wine (I’d picked a dusty bottle from the top shelf that I assumed was a good one) and watching him carefully. He clearly knew his way around this kitchen; I deduced that he must be doing a lot of the cooking for her. He’d never said. I didn’t resent the fact that he looked so settled; I wanted him to have a tempting taste of the good life so that he had a crystal-clear understanding of what he was playing for. I’d always believed he would fit into a luxurious environment. It’s what I’d expected for us both. He looked like the sort of wealthy husband you see in adverts for expensive watches, and not at all like the wealthy husbands who stumbled into the Concierge. They all had great big bellies, wandering hands. They were inadequate, fumbling, stumbling. I guess a lot of people don’t get rich until they are old; it’s such a waste, such a problem.
It amuses me that everyone always says that appearances can be deceptive as though it’s a bad thing. It can be unnerving but not necessarily insidious. The most fascinating and important thing about appearances is that they can become reality. You only have to consider Instagram and the blistering bouts of FOMO you get over people you don’t know – people you will never meet, who are not even having as good a time as they pretend to be having – to know that appearances can become the reality. We all scroll through strangers’ posts and feel beaten up, eaten up by envy because they are bikini-clad on a yacht or drinking Dom in a hot-air balloon or are a size eight in an infinity pool (pick your poison). That jealousy is real; the dissatisfaction we feel with our own lives exists. The self-loathing and hatred is a fact. Appearances become the actuality, so I know that what I’m creating here can be genuine too. I never doubted Mattie would fall effortlessly into this world of wealth and luxury. He is in his prime: attractive, sexy, and he looks like he was born to it. What a shame he wasn’t.
I sometimes let my mind drift to just how simple and brilliant life would have been if Mattie had just been rich. He comes from a loving home, but they couldn’t afford to send him to private school, buy him a car or give us a deposit for a flat. Everything would have been so much easier if that had been the case. Just lovely. I never imagine that scenario for me and my own family, though. It’s too close to the bone and yet too wild and painfully impossible at the same time. Fuck it. No matter, I’ve worked with what we have. I played the cards dealt. I will be successful. I have to be. I must stay focused on the world I’ve planned. The one where we live in Hampshire while the Old Schoolhouse is being renovated. I’m going to keep her place even when the renovation is complete. It’s good to have somewhere in the country as well as London. Mum can live there, not just clean there. That seems fair.
Yeah, news flash. I’m playing for the whole shebang.
Mattie’s head was bent over the Le Creuset cast-iron pot. I smiled to myself, delighted that he was ensconced. I was also very comfortable in Woodview by then. I knew all about how the water and room thermometers work, where the key to the sauna room is kept, the code to the alarms, the range of the security cameras, the storage and management of the security data. I’d searched every square inch of the place; it had no secrets from me. I like the pair of us having it to ourselves, playing house; it feels comfy, secure, right. It is important to me that he doesn’t have all his good times with Emma and associate me solely with poverty, damp walls, dripping taps and rats. That won’t do.
That night, I’d dressed up. I’d helped myself to a ME+EM dress in Emma’s wardrobe – we are the same size. If Mattie recognised it, he didn’t say so. I’d had a blow-dry too. I can’t remember how long it had been since I’d visited the hairdresser. It felt amazing to have someone wash my hair, massage my scalp. I practically had an orgasm over the little biscotti that came with my flat white. I’m allowing myself small treats like a blow-dry now, since I know we’re getting closer. I’m putting stuff on a new credit card; it will be easy to pay it off. I look forward to being so used to being pampered that I’ll get impatient with the hairdresser for taking too long on the head massage and I’ll say no to the free coffee. I bet Emma does both things; she’s always rushing through everything. Not grateful enough that her life is worth wallowing in, not aware that she ought to be appreciating every single second. While she can.
Normally I resist lighting the Jo Malone candles that are scattered around the house, but that night I had. Emma wouldn’t notice if they were burnt down; she has fresh candles delivered every month. I don’t think she even sees this as the epitome of luxury it so obviously is. I think she sees it as a basic, the way the rest of us think about buying loo roll or milk. I was glad to have him to myself; sharing was proving more wearing than I’d anticipated. I was always being confronted with evidence of the sex he had with Emma. The house searches not only threw up details about valuations on art works; I also found massage oil, her underwear lying on the floor, sticky and stained sheets. I shouldn’t keep looking, but somehow I am compelled. Even though it turns my stomach, even though it makes me want to smash things, break and burn things. I don’t, though – well at least not always. Sometimes I content myself with opening the Velux windows in her bedroom so that her rugs and bedding get soaked when it’s raining, or turning off the hot water so that when she returns from work she can’t have a hot bath. Petty stuff. Not enough. The threesome thing, when we were young, hadn’t turned out to be the armour I had expected it to be. That was just sex, there was no doubt about it. Brief encounters, recreational, almost clinical. I’ve asked him to make Emma fall in love with him. It’s risky. I know that. But I am prepared to take risks. I have to.
I often stay at Woodview when she is away. It’s remote enough that no one ever sees me arrive or leave. I’ve shown Mattie how to tamper with the security footage; we’ve both become quite adept at deleting, pausing, editing. We make it look as though he is always on his own, in case she ever checks. I always insist that we sleep in the spare room. I have no desire to sleep in the bed they share; I’m not a masochist. I am always careful not to leave anything behind. I don’t want to give her indisputable proof of my existence, that’s not the plan. I do, however, burn incense before I leave so she never detects my perfume or our sex. I could burn her expensive candles; they would do the same job. Mattie once asked me why I didn’t.
‘Why introduce a new smell to the house and risk alerting her?’
‘The incense is a more natural smell, woodland and stuff. She won’t even detect it,’ I replied. This was a lie. I knew there was a strong possibility that she would notice the strange scent; that she might have already. I want to make her uncomfortable. I want her to know something is different in her home but not be able to put her finger on what exactly. It’s good that she’s confused, disorientated, not quite on top of things.
That particular night, I thought there was a high chance she’d have a drink or two with her friends and then message to say she might as well stay in town because she had an early meeting the morning after. In reality, she didn’t have any such thing. I’d put a fake meeting in her electronic diary to try to tip the scales of her decision to stay away overnight, so Mattie and I could be left alone. If she did decide to travel back to Hampshire that night, I’d at least have some sense of satisfaction knowing she’d get up even earlier than usual to travel to her office, only to discover the meeting didn’t exist. That would probably put her in a bad mood all day.
These tiny paper-cut wounds bring me great pleasure.
Mattie looked up from stirring the bolognese and suddenly asked, ‘Do you think this is ever going to work?’
‘Of course it is,’ I replied swiftly. I thought we were right on track. He wasn’t entirely aware of the race we were running, so he didn’t have the same confidence. Let’s just say his perspective wasn’t as honed.
‘What have we got into?’ he asked plaintively, running his hands through his hair. He looked desperate. The thing is, whenever he makes a gesture like that, a clichéd epitome of a particular emotion, I can’t help but doubt it. You know, like if he throws his head back in laughter, I always think to myself, is he really that happy? Or if he’s biting his fingernails, is he truly nervous? Right then, I couldn’t help but wonder, was he stressed or just frustrated? Impatient? Was he any of these things, or did he just like a drama? OK, that’s not the most charitable thing to think about him, but that’s what happens when you live with an actor; it’s hard to know what is authentic. I’ve found it’s better to listen to his intonation to get a grip on the truth. He gives himself away when his voice gets caught in his throat, when his laugh roars through a room, when he shouts out in ecstasy just as he’s going to come. I felt a swell of impatience at his comment; I mean, how stressed could he be in fact? He was going to endless amazing restaurants, he was hanging out in her beautiful home, and he was sleeping with two women. I was the one who had a right to be stressed.
Still, I found it in me to calmly reply, ‘Good things come to those who wait.’
‘But we have waited and waited and nothing much has come our way,’ he said petulantly. ‘How am I going to disentangle myself from this? I’ve met her friends now. The more people I meet, the more likely it is that we’ll get caught out.’
‘Caught out how?’
‘There are a million ways. Someone only has to find a hole in my backstory.’
I shot him a quick glance. Wary. ‘Did you slip up?’
He tutted, turned away from me. ‘No, but I might at some point. This is complex, you know. And it’s obvious her best mate doesn’t like me.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’ He is generally very charming. Women like him. I think we’ve established that much.
‘She cross-examined me like she’s some sort of MI5 agent. She’s jealous of me, I think. Thinks I’m a threat to her relationship with Emma.’
‘Good to know. We might use that.’
‘What if someone recognises me from our real life?’
‘That’s not going to happen. Her friends live in Surrey, we stay in Hampshire or London. They’re older than we are, they have kids and stuff. You don’t mix in the same circles.’
‘She lives here in Hampshire.’
‘She doesn’t have any friends around here. She keeps herself to herself.’ She’s a snob. None of us are good enough for her.
‘Everyone is only a few degrees of separation from everyone else in the end. Someone somewhere might be connected.’ He shook his head slowly and added, ‘Plus, I think she really likes me. I don’t want to hurt her.’
His voice was quiet. There were no big actory gestures. I kept my face as still as possible. It was important not to react even though he had just told me he liked her. That he cared for her. Because that was exactly what he had said, under the guise of saying the feelings were hers. What was he thinking? She’s a decade older than he is. She’s obsessed with her work, therefore de facto boring! What can he possibly like about her? True, she has a great body. But she works at it, she must at her age. I’ve watched her run. She really puts herself through it every morning, sweating and panting and clearly aching. I have a great body and I don’t have to do much to keep mine in shape other than smoke and drink a lot of sugar-free Red Bull. She looks a little like me, actually. I should have perhaps factored that in. Who knew that Mattie had a type? We’re both brunettes, although I wear my hair much longer, and we’re both brown-eyed. Slim, tall. Is that going to be a problem?
‘I’m just going to have to finish the relationship sharpish and walk away,’ he said firmly. ‘It’s the sensible thing to do.’ A shadow flashed through his eyes. Regret? I hoped he was only regretting the fact that if he did walk away, he’d have to say goodbye to the oyster and champagne lifestyle he’d been enjoying. ‘I’ll probably have to ghost her. Right?’
He always thinks I have the answers; luckily for him, I always do. We sat in a heavy silence. The clock was ticking, the fridge was humming, birds outside were tweeting, oblivious to the misery, the need and despair unfolding between us. A dangerous, chaotic combination. Necessity is the mother of invention and desperation is necessity’s older, bossier, more insistent sibling. Finally I muttered, ‘I suppose we could …’ I broke off. ‘No, that’s mad.’
‘What, what?’ He reached for a lifeline that he was sure I’d supply. A way out. A solution.
‘No, honestly, forget it. It’s a stupid idea.’
‘Becky, we’re desperate at this point, more desperate than we’ve ever been. Any idea at all must be considered.’
So with apparent reluctance, I told him the first part of my real plan. The petty fraud, theft, blackmail had never been that. She is worth millions. Literally millions. There is so much to play for. There is everything. ‘You could marry her.’
He laughed, but then he saw I was stony-faced. ‘What? Are you crazy?’
It was not the first time I’d been asked this, by him and others. It is a fairly regular charge to be dropped at my door, actually. It always makes me laugh. People say it like it’s a bad thing. They’d be shocked if I said yes. If I told them that it is exciting to be crazily ambitious, crazily untethered, crazily immoral. Look, if believing in seizing opportunity with both hands is crazy, then yes, I am crazy. I feel sorry for people who are not. It’s so much more fun, so much bigger, such a souped-up, vibrant way to live.
I smiled and said encouragingly, ‘Think about it, she’s mad about you. She’s not getting any younger. If you proposed, all her Christmases would have come at once. She’d say yes in a heartbeat. I’m sure of it.’
‘You think.’ I could see that he liked the idea of her accepting his proposal; his pride had taken a beating these past few years as I’d refused to capitulate to his many offers. Then his face collapsed and he added woefully, ‘But marriage is for life.’ Now I was the one laughing. What planet did he live on? He looked angry, so I stopped laughing. He clarified. ‘I mean, it’s not an easy thing to get out of once you’re in it. I’d need to be married to her for years to walk away with any proper cash.’
‘Well, maybe one or two years, yes. But it would fly by, and you like her company well enough, don’t you? It’s not actual torture. It’s just like a prolonged acting job. It’s like being on a soap.’
‘And you’d be OK with me marrying someone else? Marrying her?’
I had to handle this with kid gloves, obviously. I didn’t want to appear careless. I’m not careless. It has been awful knowing they’re together. I’ve had to shove it out of my mind again and again, put it in a box, lock the box, throw away the key, but there is a bigger picture here. ‘It wouldn’t be ideal, but I’d get used to it. I’d know it’s fake. It is only for a short time. We’ve waited years to marry; a couple more wouldn’t hurt us. It wouldn’t change anything between us.’
‘Wouldn’t it?’
‘No, my love, it wouldn’t.’ I reached for his hand and squeezed it. ‘Plus, she works away often enough, and whenever she’s away from home, I would come to you. We’d still be together.’ I put my hands on his face, stared into his eyes. ‘We are above petty jealousy. We are better than that. Stronger than that. I think you’d come away with at least two million. That’s a fraction of her wealth, but a fortune to us. We could pay off the mortgage and finish the refurbishment of the Old Schoolhouse. We’d be set for life.’
