First wifes shadow, p.30
First Wife's Shadow, page 30
‘That doesn’t seem very constructive.’
‘That much we can agree on.’
He wanted her to fall into his arms. He wanted her to invite him back to Woodview. They could be OK. He was sure of it. They had been so happy. He wasn’t pretending when they’d shared those cosy evenings, good food, wine and conversation. He’d been very comfortable, very content. But the expression on her face suggested she wasn’t going to do what he wanted.
‘You’re one of those arseholes who believes there’s such a thing as “your truth”. There isn’t, Matthew. There are just facts. I don’t care that you “chose” me. I’m not interested in us having a second chance or a clean slate. I’m divorcing you.’ Her demeanour changed in front of him. No longer shrivelled, but far from blooming. Now she appeared like vigorous climbing ivy, reaching and robust. ‘I’m not going to let this ruin my life or shape anything going forward. Do you understand that? You will not have an impact on me. This past year and a half isn’t going to define me or ruin me. I’m just going to carry on being who I was, but without you. I’m not the first stupid woman to fall for a financial romantic scam and I won’t be the last. I’m not ashamed and nor should I be. You should be.’ He could see her chest rising and falling, and he imagined the adrenalin coursing through her body. She obviously felt strong and complete. He felt weak and frayed.
‘I am ashamed.’ He held his arms wide, trying to convey a sense of offering himself up to her judgement. ‘We were desperate. We were broke and living in such degradation—’
She cut across him. ‘Read this number.’ She handed him a piece of paper with a seven-figure number written on it.
‘What is this?’
‘I’m divorcing you, and this is the amount I’m going to settle on you.’
‘It’s … What? It’s more than—’
She didn’t let him finish, making the point, he had nothing to say that could be of interest to her. ‘This scam of yours turned me into some sort of sad case who had effectively paid for your company. I was ashamed of that at first. Then I thought about it and decided it wasn’t my problem that you decided to be someone who could be bought and sold. For you, our relationship was simply transactional. By definitively and explicitly paying you for your services, I’ll be able to view it in the same way. Take this settlement. I never want to see you again. Ever. I never want to hear from you. Don’t so much as like a post on my socials. Goodbye, Matthew.’
She turned away from him and walked down the street. Head held high, posture ramrod. He watched her flag down a cab. He watched the cab until it disappeared into the distance. A tiny dot.
He couldn’t believe his luck.
48
Eighteen months later
Becky
When I arrived, the other women said I’d get used to it; used to the total lack of everything worthwhile – space, privacy, choice, opportunity. News flash, I already was used to it. Being in prison is a lot like being in care. I was familiar with the overly controlled structure, the smells of too many careless bodies in one place and the dissatisfaction of mass catering. I was well acquainted with the lack of hope and the intermittent bouts of overpowering rage brought on by the debilitating unfairness that this was where I’d landed. This was where I’d been put.
I was already used to enduring too. Waiting things out. Sometimes I acknowledge to myself that prison is at least warmer and cleaner than the Old Schoolhouse. I am fed. It’s rent-free. Maybe it is the worst, maybe it’s not. I don’t know. I try not to let myself think about that because I haven’t got a choice anyway. I just have to do the time.
Prison is the very embodiment of time-wasting. That is the point of the punishment. The system absorbs life’s most precious commodity. I loathe time-wasting. I am being cheated. In this place nothing can make time go faster or create the illusion that it is being usefully spent. Not the poxy education classes that are an insult to my intelligence, not the lousy food, certainly not the incessant and mind-numbing imbecilic conversation. Not even the fear. I shouldn’t be here. This place is for murderers, paedophiles, terrorists. I should be on the outside doing community service, like he is. I did not physically hurt Emma Westly. I did not plan to kill her. All I did was plan for her to be institutionalised rather than me. I just wanted to even things up a bit. It was my turn to live in the posh house. When I tell my cellmate that I shouldn’t be here, that I didn’t do what they’d sent me down for, she laughed. ‘Right. There are five hundred and sixty-nine other innocent prisoners in this place. Not one of us did the crime, bitch.’
They divide up our days into neat parcels that are designed to give the impression we have a purpose, or if that is overstating it, then at least we have routine. At 7.30 a.m., the cells are unlocked. We’re given breakfast. Obviously no one asks how we’d like our eggs; we eat what we’re given. It’s cheap and tasteless, I doubt the nutritional value. We queue to shower, stretch, shit. It’s a communal shower. I feel eyes on me constantly. I’m very used to women envying my body, resenting it and adoring it at the same time. On the outside, I used to like to linger in admiring gazes, I used to feel shored up by other women’s umbrage or approval. In here I shower as quickly as possible, dress with my back to their prying looks. Being resented or admired can lead to trouble.
We start work at 9 a.m. A lot of the jobs are menial, by which I mean many of the women do whatever work they did before they landed here in prison: cook, clean, serve. The aim seems to be to keep hands busy, self-esteem low. Because I have nice hair, I was put to work in the beauty salon; this is considered a good gig. It’s OK except the shampoo is cheap and my hands are chapped as they are always in and out of water. Working is classed as a purposeful activity. Other purposeful activities include library time, exercise and lessons, which all happen after communal lunch. I’m learning French. Pourquoi pas, putain?
Everything anybody wants to do – from buying deodorant to sending an email to visiting the art class – must be requested, conferred, arranged. Filling out paperwork is essential, and waiting for a response is an exercise in extreme patience. It’s made very clear that everything that is granted can be retracted. But that’s not just true in prison, and you’re a fucking idiot if you believe it is. After dinner, but before 8.30 p.m. lights-out, there is a period they call association time. This was when the inmates get forced to socialise, like it’s good for us. It isn’t. During association, contraband alcohol, ciggies and drugs are passed from one prisoner to the next. So are rumours, insults and threats. No one sleeps well in here, despite the early lights-out situation.
Admittedly, it is not a taxing regime, but it is far from stimulating. The interesting inmates are dangerous, the nonthreatening ones are stupid. Oh my God, the constant inane drivel that I endure. Some of the women just never shut up. Never. Even in their sleep they mutter relentlessly. I think it’s to prove subconsciously that they are still a presence, a force; you know, still being, even if they are only proving this to themselves. Truly, they talk nothing but crap, and I say that as someone who has spent hours with models. Crap about TV (it’s too loud, too quiet, they’ve seen this show before so are bored, they’ve never seen it before so don’t understand it), their families (they miss them, they hate them, the families are visiting them or ignoring them), the guards (fucking pervs or easily persuaded), the food (too hot, too cold, tastes like shit, not enough), the clouds (they look like rabbits or it looks like rain), their crime (they didn’t do it, or they did worse and got away with it), their pimps (fuckers or salt of the earth) or their boyfriends (fuckers or fucking gods). It doesn’t matter what they talk about, they talk crap. I stay silent as much as I can. This has earned me a reputation for being a stuck-up bitch, but I don’t care. I don’t care what these people think of me. I think nothing of them. I’m not looking for friends or companionship. I’m not looking for allies or enemies. I’d rather everyone ignored me. I’d like to disappear. I’m just looking for the end.
Days tugged into weeks, hauled into months. I passed my first-year anniversary here, for want of a better word. No one baked a cake. More days, more weeks, more months. A guard assaulted me. I reported it and he was moved to another block. A win for me, not so much for the women in C block. A prisoner assaulted me. I didn’t report it. I held her head in the basin and scalded her next time she visited the salon. There was an inquiry. I maintained it was an accident, that I didn’t know how hot the tap was running. In fact, I had added sugar as the water flowed over her forehead; it increases heat capacity. I got to keep my job in the hairdresser’s, but the thermostat had to be adjusted; inmates have had to get used to cold washes when they come for a wash and blow-dry. People left me alone after that.
I knew he was coming in advance of his visit. There is no chance of a cheery surprise drop-in because the OK on visitors is like everything else in this place: an elaborate process that requires requests, permission granted or denied, admin and vetting. When he first wrote to me requesting a visit, I considered just ignoring him. What was the point? What did we have to say to one another? He was victorious. He was on the outside. I was on the inside. He’d outsmarted me. That stung, it really did, because he isn’t as clever as I am. Least, that’s what I’ve always thought. If he’s cleverer than I am, then I must be really bloody stupid.
I guess I’m really bloody stupid.
In the end, boredom won and I agreed to his visit as I literally had nothing better to do. I was curious about what he could possibly want to say to me. Whatever it was, it had to be more interesting than listening to endless discussions about tattoo designs or squabbling about whether trading a Kit Kat for three tea bags is fair or not. I wanted to know what had made him crawl out of the woodwork.
In preparation for his visit, I washed my hair and painted my nails. Not to make myself attractive for him. No, but to show him I am still standing. The moment before the guards let me into the visitors’ room, I nervously sniff under my arms and breathe into my hand.
I am glad I made the effort. He looks good. Great, actually. Bastard. He is wearing new jeans, very cool expensive-looking leather boots, a navy-blue roll-neck jumper, a trendy jacket. I can’t tell for certain whether the jumper is cashmere without touching it. It’s possibly something even more expensive, like vicuña wool. I am not allowed to touch him. Even if I was permitted, I wouldn’t. I think of what it must feel like to be him, snuggled up to that level of comfort and luxury. For one awful moment I think he’s going to tell me she’s taken him back. If she has, there is a danger that I’ll throw the table at him, except of course it’s bolted down. Everything is bolted down, because in this stuffy, sweaty little visitors’ room, news that might generate table-chucking is often delivered. Grandparents say they won’t be bringing the grandkids to visit their daughter any more, partners admit to gambling debts and hocking possessions, and lawyers announce there’s no case for appeal.
He doesn’t bother with small talk. I’m glad. It would be embarrassing if he muttered something about me looking well or him being pleased to see me. I have bags under my eyes, my cheeks are brushed with broken veins, my actions are listless, clumsy. Possibly I’m frightening to look at. I might appear pitiful or pitiless. He sits down. The quietness is obvious, even though there is a lot of noise around us; even more so because of that. People squabble, cry, sigh, laugh and gossip. We sit in silence. I hope he can sense the threat of violence in my voicelessness, my only weapon at this point. My scalp itches with annoyance.
He coughs. ‘She gave me a settlement.’
‘What?’
‘A ton of cash to fuck off.’
‘So you’re divorced?’
‘Yes. You’ve been inside a year and a half.’
‘Two and a half, actually,’ I correct.
‘I meant since the trial.’ It’s easy for him to minimise my incarceration, break it up into palpable bits. For me, it’s more of a stretch. ‘That’s plenty of time to divorce if it’s what both parties want.’
‘I thought you might try and make it work.’
‘No, I had no interest in that. Not at any point.’ He says this definitively and moves his hand in a theatrical slicing gesture, which makes me doubt him.
‘Right.’ I wonder, just for a fleeting second, if he’s going to tell me that he had no interest in making it work with Emma because he wants to be back with me, his first love, his real love. He doesn’t. Instead he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. He starts to lay the glossy photos out on the table between us. At first, I don’t get what I’m looking at. Then I realise. The Old Schoolhouse. He’s printed out the photos because visitors are not allowed to bring their phones in here. I’m surprised by this level of organisation from him. He’s changed. Moved forward. At best I’m standing still; a more accurate appraisal would suggest I’ve moved backwards. It’s not fair. I can’t believe I ever imagined that life could be.
‘I used the money she gave me to make these renovations.’
I drink in the images, hardly able to believe my eyes. It’s every bit as beautiful as I always imagined it could be, always hoped it would be. I can’t believe it exists in this finished state, after all this time, after all the longing and hoping and imagining. And scheming.
Finally.
I’m surprised to note that he must have listened to me over the years when I described what I would do with the place if we ever had any money. He has had the roof retiled with slate, and the sash windows repaired, insulated, double-glazed. He tells me that all the paint-clogged and damaged cornicing, mouldings and ceiling roses have been repaired or remoulded, and he shows me before-and-after pictures. He has taken up the floorboards, installed underfloor heating, and then replaced them restored, sanded, waxed. He says that two of the four flats are complete. He shows me pictures of the bathrooms and kitchens. The vibe in the bathrooms is glamorous retro powder room with dusty pink hues, antique dressers and William Morris wallpaper. He must have had an interior designer source the vintage pieces; ornate mirrors, brass fixtures and classic cabinets create layers of visual interest that he simply doesn’t have the imagination to conjure. The kitchens boast a range of stunning, aesthetically pleasing features such as textured tiles and wooden and marble surfaces. They are dark and statement, softened by brushed champagne gold metallics. The beauty leaves me breathless.
‘I need to sell the smaller flat to raise money to complete the other two.’ He tells me this as though it might be news to me, rather than a plan I conceived years ago. ‘I have an offer.’
‘How much?’
He hesitates, then names an amount. It strikes me as the low end of what the flat must be worth. I suspect he’s lying to me. I don’t respond immediately, so he rushes on. ‘The thing is, I’ve stuck a shed load of cash into the place now, but I can’t sell without you signing, because the mortgage is in our joint names, right?’
‘Have you got a solicitor?’ I ask.
‘Not yet. I’ve been more involved with getting the place into a fit state to sell. I wanted to get you to agree to sign first, and then I’ll consult a solicitor, see how we go about it while you’re inside. I mean, I don’t know your rights. I’m not going to screw you over.’ He so obviously is. ‘I plan to settle an amount on you.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Like she did with me. I thought you could have half of whatever we get for the flat I sell.’ He means half of whatever he says he got for the flat. ‘After solicitor’s fees and estate agents and other costs have been taken off, naturally.’ I see my designated amount dwindling before it’s even come into existence. ‘When Emma settled with me, I thought it was a pretty fucking cold thing to do, but I see now it’s an effective way of, you know, closing things down between us and moving on.’
I pause, meet his eyes and then ask, ‘As cold as planting evidence?’
He glances about him, fidgets in his seat uncomfortably. ‘Are you still going on about that?’
‘I didn’t tamper with the wheels.’
He tries to look bored. In fact he looks sweaty. ‘Right, so you said in court.’
‘But the locking wheel nut key was found in my mum’s flat. My only question is, was it my mother who loosened the wheels, or was it you, Mattie? I’ve given it a lot of thought. That could have been either of you, but it was you who planted the nut key to incriminate me. Mum was dead by then. You must have deleted the footage of whichever one of you it was going into the garage, because it never turned up when the police checked. It was just unlucky for me that I decided to play that one last stupid trick, shrinking her jumper. I bet you were thrilled with that. I played right into your hands, didn’t I?’
‘What you’re accusing me of demands quite a lot of planning and cunning. You’ve always given the impression you think I’m pretty thick. How could I possibly have come up with all of that on my own?’ His sarcasm seems pathetic considering our respective positions.
‘Why did you do it, Matthew?’
I don’t think he’s going to answer, but then he says, ‘I was your trash, her treasure.’
‘I see.’
‘I was never enough for you.’ Maybe he’s right. I don’t know. I loved him. But I’m here now, so I guess maybe he wasn’t enough. He shrugs, seeming coolly confident, totally independent, something he hasn’t been for years. ‘Anyway, what’s done is done. The way I see it, we need to move on. Let’s sell the small flat, then I can finish the other two, and when you get out, you’ll have a nest egg. We can go our separate ways. Put all of this behind us. I’ll give you what you put down as a deposit.’
‘In real terms, with inflation and so on, that’s a loss after all these years.’ Years I slept in the leaky, draughty, rat-infested work-in-progress.
‘I’ll chuck in an extra five grand.’
