First wifes shadow, p.24
First Wife's Shadow, page 24
Eventually I watch her get to her feet. It’s clear from the way she moves that she’s in a lot of pain. I’m not a monster, I do feel a twinge of something when I see her limp into the bathroom and start to run a bath. If not guilt or remorse exactly, then maybe pity, but I don’t let that twinge in my gut solidify. I certainly don’t let it travel to my brain. I haven’t got time. I see an opportunity. I have to get moving.
38
Emma
I am struggling to get comfortable. My ribs ache, and however I try to sit or lie puts pressure on a tender blooming bruise, but I think a bath will help soothe my injuries. It will certainly distract me from the screaming silence that has settled between me and Matthew. I feel humiliated and exposed after telling him my theory that Becky is haunting me. I don’t know what I was expecting from him. I just wanted him to make me feel safe. Part of me wanted him to say that he didn’t for a moment believe in such things, that it was impossible. I don’t want to believe it myself. But he didn’t make me feel safe. His look of horror and disgust disturbed me further.
He thinks I’m a drunk. No one respects or admires drunks. Me least of all. It offends me that Matthew might think I’m the sort of person who would lose control to alcohol, be controlled by alcohol. I thought I could trust him with my thoughts, no matter how odd or intimate. I hoped he would gently laugh away my fears, reason with me or hold and comfort me. Do something, anything, that would keep us connected and would reassure me. But he slammed the shutters down by insinuating I am mad, unhinged, addicted. I feel locked out, like a disgraced fallen woman banging on the gates of a stately home trying to get the attention of the master who has seduced and abandoned her. Obviously he’s not the wealthy one and I’m not pregnant, but I feel desperate, pathetic, somehow disgraced for trusting him. I feel oddly afraid of this hasty marriage. Not afraid of him as such, but certainly afraid of the fact that I have so dramatically changed my status quo.
I massage my eye sockets with the heel of my hand. I have to stop this train of thought. It isn’t helpful. Matthew is my husband. I love him, don’t I? I do. At least, I think I do. I must. I have to. It’s practically impossible to know exactly what I think right now, when my head and body ache and desperate thoughts ricochet repeatedly around my mind.
How much do I really know about him?
I pour a generous amount of citrus-scented bath oil into the running water. I’m trying to smother the woody, deathly smell that Matthew says he can’t detect and I am sure is a sign of a visitation from Becky. I shake my head, despairing at my own thoughts. How have I turned into the sort of person who thinks being haunted is a possibility, let alone a rational explanation? Yet I do, or at least I don’t know what else to think. I massage the back of my neck. Fraught, exhausted.
I decide while I wait for the bath to fill that I will call Heidi. According to her socials, she arrived back in the country on Sunday evening, after the inevitable two-hour plane delay. I’ve been thinking of calling her all afternoon, working up the courage. I know I have to apologise and put things right. I miss her and I’m sorry, but besides that, I need my best friend. I’m scared, and despite being newly married, I feel alone, vulnerable. Before I met Heidi, I often felt lonely, but that stopped the day we became friends. Our friendship has always shielded me. If ever I was going through a hard time at work or in one of my fleeting relationships, or my brother was causing me concern, I knew I could pop round to hers, or at least pick up the phone, and she’d laugh or talk or argue me out of my fug. How did I forget that, even temporarily? I realise that I’ve allowed the excitement of meeting Matthew to be all-consuming. There has been new pressure on my time, a whole host of unfamiliar emotions carousing through my mind and oxytocin surging through my body. I guess there is no fool like an old fool, and I do feel both old and foolish right now. I’m not saying Matthew is a mistake; I’m simply recognising that centring everything around him so completely and swiftly was unwise.
I psych myself up to eat a huge dollop of humble pie. Heidi is the first contact saved in the favourites on my phone. I decide to make a video call, because I need to look her in the eye when I say I’m sorry. The phone rings four, five, six times. I shake a little. Is it possible that she isn’t going to pick up? That she might ignore me? I brace myself, wondering how I’ll absorb that blow. I’m just about to hang up when her image springs up in front of me as she answers. The moment of relief is nipped at when I see that she is sitting with Gina, in Gina’s home. I know they have always met up without me to do mum or couple things, but somehow, right now, being faced with their cosy togetherness hurts. This is clearly just a girls-night social and nothing to do with the kids or husbands. This will make the apology harder too. The only thing worse than having to apologise for behaving like an idiot is other people witnessing as much.
I swiftly absorb the scene. There are mugs on the coffee table, a box of Jaffa Cakes, most likely empty, a big packet of Tyrrells crisps and an open bottle of white wine, two half-full glasses. I’m glad that at least Heidi kicks off the conversation. ‘I hear congratulations are in order,’ she says in a way that clearly communicates she doubts it.
I smile anyway. ‘Thank you.’
She doesn’t ask anything more about the wedding day, which would be usual, but I suppose nothing about this marriage is conventional. Instead she says, ‘You don’t look especially overjoyed. Far from the blushing bride I was expecting. Are you ill?’
It would be easy to be offended, but in fact I’m grateful to her for behaving so normally with me. Her normal is to tell me how it is. Or at least how she sees it. I find it reassuring that she’s not holding back or hiding in small talk; it gives me hope that we can swiftly get back on our usual footing. ‘Oh, I’m fine. I had a little accident, that’s all. It’s taken the wind out of my sails.’
Gina’s face creases with concern. ‘Oh no. What happened?’
‘I was running. I just tripped.’ This is a lie, obviously, but I don’t have the courage to start by explaining the ladder incident. I’ll get to it. I’m not hiding it from them. It’s just not the place to begin this conversation.
Heidi and Gina share a look, but I don’t halt to examine it. I pile in with my apology before I lose my nerve. ‘I’ve been a dick lately. I’m sorry.’
‘Yeah, you have,’ says Heidi.
‘That day of the walk. The things I said. I am so sorry. Can you forgive me?’ My voice scrapes along my throat before it tumbles into our history. I wonder how hard she’s going to make me work for this.
But then she sighs and says, ‘Yes, you silly bag, of course I can.’
Just like that. No drama, no recriminations. It feels so normal, so easy.
Too easy? The thought assaults me and I’m annoyed by it. I want to sink into the moment of relief and happiness. However, after the constant drama of the last few months, I am mistrustful of things running smoothly and positively.
‘We get it. You haven’t been totally yourself,’ adds Gina.
‘What do you mean by that?’ My question comes out sharper than I intended. I see Gina blink as though she’s batting away some level of shock.
‘Nothing,’ she says soothingly. ‘Just that you’re going through a lot of changes at home and at work.’
The restructuring has been incredibly stressful. My CFO has been especially stringent and rigorous. I mean, that’s great, that’s his job, but he’s forever complaining that I haven’t responded to emails from him, emails that I haven’t even received. When I tell him as much, he says things like ‘Check your spam’ before sighing laboriously and saying he’ll send again. Classic BS. Obviously he’s never sent the emails in the first place and is covering for his own incompetence. He’s questioned my expense claims, too. Sent them back to me with certain items highlighted in red and terse notes attached: Was this hotel used wholly and exclusively for business purposes? I don’t go into this detail with Heidi and Gina; they wouldn’t get it. Instead I just mumble, ‘Yes, it’s been a busy time,’ and then I grasp the heart of my concerns. ‘I thought marriage would be easier,’ I blurt.
‘Did we teach you nothing?’ laughs Heidi. But it’s not a mean laugh; she’s welcoming me back under her wing, and so I make an effort to laugh along with her.
‘You’re sharing your home for the first time. That takes some getting used to.’ Gina spells out what I already know, but it’s good to hear it anyway. Reassuring. ‘You’re both adapting. It must be difficult for him too. His wife has only been dead a year.’
‘I’m his wife,’ I mutter. I wish I didn’t sound so sulky.
‘Yes. Right. I meant his first wife.’ Gina looks uncomfortable.
‘And it’s been fourteen months.’
Heidi asks, ‘How are you feeling about the whole Becky thing now you’re Mrs Charlton? Last time we spoke, things were intense. You chose to elope because he was so cut up about going inside churches.’ I’m pretty sure she mutters ‘for fuck’s sake’ under her breath, but I let it go.
‘I’m struggling,’ I confess. I want to tell them that I’m overwhelmed with emotions, that I feel awful. That I’m shocked that I’ve turned into this woman who feels rather than thinks or reasons. I feel my husband loves someone else more than he loves me, that he’s always distracted and thinking about her. A dead woman. As she is dead, it shouldn’t matter, but it does, because only the dead can be canonised. I feel hollowed. There is a throbbing between my breasts. In my heart, I guess.
I am about to tell them this, but I’m stopped in my tracks when Gina murmurs, ‘Yeah, Matthew said as much.’
‘Excuse me? What?’
Heidi swiftly elbows her, but Gina lifts her chin, the way she does when she’s determined. ‘I’m not keeping secrets from her,’ she insists.
‘What secrets?’
‘Matthew rang me. He asked me not to mention it to you. He said there were …’ she pauses, looks for the right words, obviously not keen to use whatever words he did. ‘Issues,’ she says finally.
I bristle at the idea of them having conversations behind my back. ‘What issues specifically did he tell you about?’
‘He’s worried about you.’ Gina looks worried too.
‘He says you’re seeing ghosts,’ interrupts Heidi stonily. She doesn’t look worried; more disbelieving, dumbfounded.
‘No, no. I never said that.’
Heidi nods with satisfaction. ‘Of course you didn’t. I didn’t believe him for a minute. You are literally the most sane and rational person I’ve ever met. You’d never believe in that sort of garbage.’
‘Hey, my nana swore she had a ghost living with her,’ comments Gina.
‘Yeah, but your nana was ninety-three and had dementia,’ retorts Heidi.
I shake my head. ‘I haven’t seen a ghost, but I do think I’m being haunted.’
There’s a moment when I think we’ve lost connection and the screen has frozen, but then I see the images move on the muted TV behind Heidi and Gina. The screen isn’t frozen; they are paralysed.
‘You serious?’ Heidi laughs, and then checks my expression. ‘Shit, you are serious. Oh girl.’ Her face no longer shines with humour or challenge or indignation, all those emotions it’s displayed during this call. Now she simply looks creased with pity. ‘OK, Emma, you know I love you, you’re like a sister to me, so I’m asking this from a good place. Are you drinking when you’re on your own?’
‘Why are you asking me that?’
‘Why aren’t you giving me an answer?’ We stare at one another. Shocked, saddened.
‘That’s why Matthew called me,’ says Gina quietly. ‘He said he was worried about your drinking and your mental health. It was brave of him to reach out.’
‘I thought he was bullshitting,’ says Heidi. I note the past tense. She thinks something different now.
I tut. ‘No, I’m not drinking. Well, sometimes, a bit. No more than I ever have. Don’t you drink when you’re on your own?’
‘I’m not the one who is being mad here. I mean, you must be kidding about the ghost thing. How does that make sense to you?’ Heidi meets my gaze. Her huge brown eyes are sharp with accusation, not warm or bright as they usually are. ‘If you’re not kidding, then you have to be ill.’
‘Sorry?’ I am not sorry. I am offended. ‘What are you saying exactly?’
‘Why did you tell us you tripped when running when you told Matthew that you fell off a ladder?’ Gina’s question is asked so gently I want to cry.
‘No, look, that is nothing. That’s right. I just didn’t want to get into it with you.’ I sound flustered, unreliable.
‘So you’re saying now you did fall off a ladder,’ Heidi probes.
‘I’ve always said as much.’
‘Not to us. You’ve just said you tripped when running.’
‘Why a ladder? Why did you pick the same way to injure yourself as Becky died?’ asks Gina. ‘That worries me, Emma.’
‘What? No. I didn’t injure myself. At least not deliberately. That’s madness. I was pushed off the ladder and then it was back up against the wall, but that was after it landed on me.’
‘You seem really confused.’
‘The bolognese. How do you explain that?’ I ask. ‘She threw the bolognese.’
‘She?’
‘Becky’s ghost.’
‘Oh sweetheart. You spilt the bolognese. Matthew explained. You saw a rat. Got a horrible fright and dropped the pan. The rat ran through the sauce and then around the room in panic because it was scalded.’
‘No, there was no rat.’ Why would Matthew say there was a rat?
‘There’s a colony of them. Living under your house. Matthew has had pest control out to try to sort it.’
‘No, I’d know that.’
‘You do know it. Or did. He said you had to go up to Scotland while it was dealt with because you were so distraught thinking about the nest under the floorboards.’
‘That’s why you’re always hearing peculiar bangs and scratches.’
‘No.’
‘It is awful,’ adds Heidi, shuddering. ‘No one is OK with rats. We don’t blame you for being freaked out.’
I look at my two best friends. They seem utterly sincere. ‘No, no. I would have told you about a rats’ nest.’
‘Well, maybe, but you weren’t speaking to us.’
My head hurts. A fat tear rolls down my face. I want to brush it away, but I don’t want to draw attention to it. Heidi straightens her shoulders and stares right at me. ‘Emma, think about it. Were you drunk when you fell off the ladder or when you think you heard books being thrown or when you accidentally locked yourself in the sauna? Is it likely that you’ve had too much to drink on occasion and have forgotten some things, imagined others? Is that more or less likely than that your new husband’s dead wife is haunting you?’
I hang up.
39
I run into the bathroom and lock the door behind me. I don’t want Matthew following me in here. I don’t want to see him right now. He has never told me there is a rats’ nest. I would remember that. Who could forget a thing like that? Why did he call my friends instead of speaking to me if he’s worried about me? I turn off the taps, as the bath is almost full to the brim now. Hell, if the call had lasted any longer, it would have overflowed. I’d forgotten it was running. Another accident, another problem. Is it possible that I am losing my grip? I spot a wine glass by the basin. It’s almost empty. I don’t recall bringing wine upstairs with me. My God, what is wrong with me? I throw off my robe and step into the bath.
The pain is excruciating. Impossible. I want to scream and scream, but something stops me. Instinct protects me. I open my mouth wide, so wide I think my face will split in two, but I don’t let out a sound. My right leg has turned scarlet. I’m out of the bath in a second, but the scald is so intense that I can already see blisters forming on my shin. I go to the shower and run cold water, but the pain shimmies through me, the hairs on the back of my neck stand tall. That bathwater was near boiling. How is that possible? It can’t run from the tap at boiling point. It is not possible. I did not do this. I am not imagining this.
I concentrate on aiming cold water at my burnt flesh. I know that the first aid recommendation is to cool the burn under cold running water for at least twenty minutes, and that doing so will reduce pain, swelling and the risk of scarring, but with every minute that passes, I weigh up whether reducing potential scarring is a priority when I might very well be fighting for my life here. What the hell is happening? Fear and disbelief skitters down my spine. Which would be the least horrifying explanation? A vengeful spirit? An abusive husband? Or, as my eyes fall on the near-empty wine glass, I have to ask myself, am I drunk?
I curl my fingers into my palms. Clench and unclench my hands, count down from one hundred. Get to the end, count again. This act takes extraordinary self-control, extraordinary presence of mind and resilience. I want to run, I want out, but I need to let the water soothe me so I can move to the best of my ability. And I need my head to clear. What is happening here? The house is almost silent; there is no music drifting through the rooms, up the stairs. Not the cheerful Spanish salsas that Matthew favours, or the low-flow remixes that I like. There’s no TV or radio, not even the sound of food being prepped or pans clattering. Just the pattering of rain on the windows and the roof again.
I pat myself dry, then pull on baggy linen trousers and a jumper. I look around for a pair of trainers but can’t see any. Maybe it’s better to be barefoot as I sneak downstairs. Normal practice would be to cover the burn with cling film to help prevent infection, but I believe Matthew is in the kitchen and I want to avoid him. My leg is stinging with a ferocity that makes walking difficult, this on top of the pain in my ribs, but I have to get out of this house. I have to get away from here.
