First wifes shadow, p.4
First Wife's Shadow, page 4
However, ten years ago, the boy she had dated at sixth form got in touch out of the blue. He had moved to London and didn’t know anyone there at all. He said he didn’t know how to go about making friends outside work. The two of them met up. Gina was expecting to share a list of restaurants and bars worth a visit, perhaps give him some instruction on how to pronounce Marylebone, Southwark and Ruislip so he didn’t come across as a tourist. As it happened, they shared a long-buried chemistry and were engaged within six months, married within a year. I’d tried to hide my unbecoming frustration at the fact that as I’d gone to an all-girls school instead of the local comprehensive, I didn’t have a childhood sweetheart to fall back on. ‘Fall back in love with,’ Heidi corrected me when I mentioned as much to her.
I fake-groaned and admitted what I was thinking. ‘You’re happy that she’s joining your married-people gang. But you have a doting husband and three kids. You don’t need any more company. I’m doomed to be an old spinster, and I’ll be doing that all alone.’
She wouldn’t indulge me. ‘This isn’t about you, Emma.’
‘I know. But what am I to do now?’
‘Buy an expensive gift and slap on a smile. That’s what friends do.’
I followed Heidi’s advice, of course. When Gina asked me to be bridesmaid, I acted as if it was all I’d ever dreamed of. I threw her a fabulous hen party: chocolate fountain, a life-drawing class with a hot naked guy as the model, and a cocktail-fuelled afternoon tea. It was the right call, I knew it then when I struggled with it and I know it now, a decade on, when I see she’s a happy wife and mum.
We meet in central London once a month. I missed last month’s get-together because, frankly, I just didn’t want to get out of bed as I’d finally just got in there with Matthew. We had nine dates, over four weeks, before we had sex. He said I was his first lover since his wife had passed. Part of me wished he had bashed out his grief with three or four meaningless hook-ups before we’d met, but as he hadn’t, I was aware that when we climbed into bed it would mean something to both of us. Once we got there, it fast became my favourite place to be. I realise blowing out Heidi and Gina goes against the catchy maxim ‘mates over dates’, but I can’t tell you how many times they have blown me out because one of their kids had football practice or felt unwell or because their husbands hadn’t got home from work early enough to take over on the childcare. As you get older, you realise there isn’t a snappy little rhyme to explain that priorities change.
‘So work’s been busy?’ Gina asks as I reach for my wine glass. I take a couple of large gulps. They’ll appreciate the fact that I’m trying to catch up; it demonstrates my commitment to our evening. I can’t resent the fact that she assumes my absence is due to work. It usually is. However, I see the pair of them share a look that feels exclusory, and it chafes. I can’t quite discern the exact nature of the look. I think maybe it is one of pity, or boredom, or duty. It infuriates me that they might pity me for having such an exhilarating, purposeful career, and it hurts me that they might think it’s a boring duty to listen to me talk about it. Although, to be honest, I often feel a little that way when they start talking about school catchment areas or the change in swim club instructor. I just try not to let it show. It’s rare that we draw battle lines that flagrantly highlight that we’re on separate paths. I know their hint of irritation is the result of my being unavailable recently. I have been very wrapped up in my own world. I want to defuse any tension that might be brewing by talking about something that I know will grab them in a way my work doesn’t.
‘I’ve met someone,’ I announce. Their eyes bounce to my face. I’m grinning.
‘Someone you like a lot!’ exclaims Gina, reading me correctly.
‘Details,’ demands Heidi, instantly gripped.
7
The getting-to-know-you stage of a relationship is – if you believe the romcoms – a delightful ensemble of fun dates, chock-a-block with deep and meaningful conversations, stargazing and laughter. My actual experience of dating has exposed that the reality is far from that. It’s tricky, not least because we all have our secrets and habits. I am not keen to reveal how often I dye my grey roots or the time I spend reading the deplorable sidebar of celeb gossip. Plus I snore; I know because I have woken myself up doing so. Yet even accepting all of the above, I maintain the guys I dated before Matthew were still getting the better part of the deal. Men, as they start to approach their forties, just don’t bring it to the table. They are often boring, lazy, messy or sullen. I don’t think I need to elaborate. Those who have been there get it, those who haven’t wouldn’t believe it. Safe to say the getting-to-know-one-another stage is often fraught, sharing bathroom space is awkward, finding common interests is rare, and sex is seldom orgasmic.
However, with Matthew the romcom vibe is there in all its glory. Our dates have been thrilling. We’ve been to concerts, a mixologist class, a circus skills workshop and several bottomless brunches, not just a coffee in the local dreary chain. He took me to a filthy old pub in the East End that he promised was ‘the real deal’. It was. There he taught me how to play darts and we ate jellied eels, which don’t taste as bad as they sound. We’ve been to a trendy neon-lit bar where we played ping-pong while we drank espresso martinis. He thinks my snoring is sweet and says it’s really more of a purr, which is a lie but a kind one.
And the sex? The sex has been good from the get-go and has continued to get better and better. We’ve tipped into the needy erotic stage. The filthy, fascinating, fleeting part of a relationship when you want each other even when you’re in the company of others, even when you’re bone-tired, when you’re watching TV, or at a restaurant, or driving. My body craves his.
Possibly even better yet, the conversations we have on these fun and hot date nights are meaningful and careful. Despite his tragic loss, or maybe because of it, he is emotionally available and talks to me about how he thinks and feels about a myriad of subjects. Actually, he is more ‘in touch’ with his feelings than I am with mine. We are living in an era where it’s fashionable to constantly talk about mental health, but I often find I’m out of step. I would have done well in the 1940s, when the stiff upper lip was the order of the day. Since my father drove my mother into a tree, people have been asking, ‘Do you want to talk?’ I don’t, I never do. Why would I want to talk about that?
‘Becky always wanted to talk,’ commented Matthew when I made it clear that baring my soul isn’t a priority for me. ‘She wanted to sit and define love and life and look at what it all means.’
‘That sort of thing embarrasses me,’ I admitted.
‘You don’t feel things like she did,’ he mused aloud.
‘You’re saying she was deeper?’ I tried to keep the hurt out of my voice, but I felt somehow judged and lacking, in comparison to his more profound, passionate late wife.
He rolled his eyes and laughed. ‘No, I’m saying she was more trouble. More work.’
I shouldn’t be thrilled by this; it’s verging on the misogynistic view that all women are mad if they are deep, that they are trouble if they feel. But this confession – this total honesty – was a relief. The thing is, dating Matthew is wonderful, but negotiating the presence of a dead ex is a new experience for me, and oddly a little tricker than negotiating the presence of a live one. A dead wife can do no wrong. I’ve learnt to live with the fact that dating at my age means there is usually a significant ex lurking in the background; often there are children and even ex-in-laws to contend with. Normally I can rationalise, accommodate, understand. If they were happy with the ex, they’d still be with the ex; as they are not, they can’t have been happy. In this way, even a divorcee can be viewed as a clean slate. A fair chance. However, it’s not the same if the spouse died. In Matthew and Becky’s case, they’d still be together if they could be. I’m second choice, not a second chance. I’m make do and mend. I’m cross with myself for having these thoughts, which are self-indulgent, absurd. But I have them all the same.
I was glad I’d kept them to myself when he added with a grin, ‘I’m much more of an actions-speak-louder-than-words sort of person too.’ Then he slipped his hand up my skirt and his fingers quickly edged my knickers to the side. I felt things for sure at that point, real and physical things. I don’t know if she ever felt the same things. For a few minutes, I just didn’t care.
It’s been a while since I’ve dated and longer still since either of my friends have, so it would be mean to stint on the details. I tell them how we met, and all about the fun and varied dates. I show them his website. They’re impressed by his work and the photograph of him.
‘Oh, very nice,’ says Heidi. She says ‘nice’ in a way that sounds dirty. We all laugh loudly, drawing the eyes and attention of others in the bar as we’re so joyful and raucous.
Gina adds, ‘He looks gorgeous.’ She rolls the word playfully around her mouth. I tell them that he not only looks gorgeous, he is gorgeous.
‘How so?’ asks Heidi, her interest pricked. I’ve never been the sort to wax lyrical about relationships. I’m normally cautious, not especially optimistic. Matthew has got under my skin in an unusual way. In a good way.
‘He’s thoughtful. Reliable,’ I reply happily. ‘He texts when he says he will, and he calls more often than texting anyway.’
The calls are sometimes long and rambling getting-to-know-you chats. Charged with glee that it is going so well and fear that it might go wrong. Other calls are more prosaic, centred around who is picking up supper. We’ve catapulted at a rate of knots into a steady relationship. No games. No miscommunication. No second-guessing.
‘He’s so straightforward,’ I tell my friends. ‘So wonderfully uncomplicated.’ I’m grinning broadly. I perhaps do too good a job of making him sound brilliant, because Gina and Heidi look for the catch. Gina asks, ‘Is he married?’
‘No.’
‘Really, though?’ probes Heidi. ‘You can tell us.’
‘We won’t judge,’ Gina assures me.
‘We will, but with a level of compassion, keeping in mind your previous good character,’ clarifies Heidi.
‘He is not married.’
‘So divorced then, with kids. A Kardashian-size family, and each and every one of them a nightmare?’
‘No.’
‘How old did you say he was?’
I hadn’t. ‘Thirty-six,’ I admit.
‘So this is a non-exclusive thing, then? Considering his age, he must have a harem of hopefuls,’ says Heidi.
‘No, he’s all in. He’s explicitly said as much.’ I can’t help grinning.
Heidi narrows her eyes, suspicious. ‘Solvent?’
‘Not wealthy, but doing fine.’
‘His own hair and teeth?’
I laugh and nod but feel a throb in the back of my head. Of course, they’re right, there is a catch.
‘He’s a widower,’ I announce.
‘His wife’s dead?’
‘Yeah, that’s what it means, Gina.’
She blushes and looks uncomfortable. ‘No, I know. Obviously. I’m just saying, you don’t expect it, do you?’
I shake my head. No, we don’t expect it here in the buzzy, busy pub. We’re a generation brought up on a constant stream of affirmations that insist happiness is within our grasp, that it will be ours if we are simply kind or focused or drink enough oat milk lattes, but the truth is, life can be horrible. Sad. Obviously, I’ve known this longer than most. It always surprises me when other people expect life to be forever fair and fun. It seems so naive.
‘How long were they married?’ asks Heidi.
‘Ten years. They were together six before that.’
‘Wow, that’s a long time, and since they were young.’
‘Yes.’
‘That takes some getting over,’ chips in Gina.
‘If you ever get over it,’ points out Heidi.
They both look at me with concern. I know what they’re thinking. They’re worried for me now. They’re already making assumptions, judgements, drawing the conclusion that I’ll never be the love of his life. The dead wife, the first wife, will always hold that position.
‘I think he’s focused on getting on with it. That’s the most he can do,’ I say, determined to fill my usual space, that of being sensible.
‘When did he lose her?’ asks Gina.
I inwardly roll my eyes at the expression. Matthew didn’t mislay Becky, like a pair of reading glasses or a wallet. She died. I am not a fan of the euphemisms that people sink into around death. I try not to show any prickliness when I answer. ‘Ten months ago.’ I know what’s coming.
‘Less than a year,’ Heidi interjects with a splutter of disbelief. She tuts and shakes her head. It’s a familiar gesture; her teenagers are often on the wrong end of it, as are tardy serving staff in restaurants. The condemnation is loud and clear.
I probe. It’s like pulling at a loose thread on your favourite jumper. You know you shouldn’t, because the whole thing will unravel, but you do it anyhow. ‘What’s your point?’
‘Is he definitely ready to move on? It’s just that rebound relationships are fun, but they never last, do they? You seem unusually excited about this. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.’ To be fair, she does look as though it pains her to say this. Still, I bristle.
‘It doesn’t feel like a rebound thing.’
‘So didn’t he like her much?’ she asks bluntly.
‘He loved her deeply,’ I’m embarrassed by how heavy that sentence is. He loved her deeply and he still does, but she’s gone. The thought causes a tightness in my throat. I force myself to say, ‘We’ve only been seeing each other a few weeks. It’s not a big deal. I’m just having fun. I was simply explaining why I’ve been unavailable.’ I feel disloyal talking about us in this way. Backtracking, making out it’s not as important as I think it is. We have in fact been seeing each other for two months, and it feels longer. Still, my lie works. Heidi looks relieved.
‘Understood. We can’t compete with new-relationship sex,’ she says with a grin, willing to let me off the hook. She doesn’t want to think I’m heading for trouble. Besides, she knows I’m always calm and assured around men. I can look after myself.
‘All those lovely orgasms,’ adds Gina. ‘I really can’t remember when I last had one for real. I’m so tired all the time, I just fake them to get Mick to get on with it so we can go to sleep.’
Heidi laughs, but doesn’t go into detail about her orgasm situation with Leon. Instead she starts to tell us about the latest row she’s having with her youngest, Aaliyah, who aged fourteen is outraged by the suggested curfew time of 11 p.m. Gina then vents about an ongoing row she’s having with her neighbour about planning permission for her kitchen extension. Our conversation mooches around how tricky it is to get a dentist appointment, how incredibly convenient it is to renew prescriptions on the NHS app, and the latest MP leaked text scandal. I don’t join in much. Largely I stay in my head.
Where Matthew is.
When the night has bled away, we split the tab. It’s a shame that this process always creates a moment’s tension that we each studiously pretend to ignore. I could easily pay the bill, and I itch to offer to do so, but experience has shown me that it’s best not to. Only rich people say money doesn’t matter.
As I stuff my arms into my coat, Gina pulls me into a big hug and asks, ‘So how did the wife die? You never said.’
‘She fell off a ladder at work. She was a theatre set designer, a really talented one.’ Those were Matthew’s words. ‘She did lots of big Broadway shows.’
‘Broadway?’
‘They were living in New York at the time. Had been for about four years. She was working late one night. The show was about to open, but they were woefully behind schedule. Everyone was under pressure. Matthew thinks she was most likely tired. Exhausted.’ My friends wear masks of polite sympathy, the sort of expressions that confirm a death is always tragic, but reveal that they can’t get heavily involved because they didn’t know her. ‘They think she noticed a problem with the chandelier. Not a real one, a prop, part of the set design. They deduced as much because a bulb was out.’
‘She was on her own?’ Heidi asks.
‘The rest of her team had gone home. She’d urged them to. Apparently, that was very like her. Diligent, hard-working to a fault.’ I repeat these compliments Matthew has bestowed on Becky. I’ve heard many. His conversations are littered with them. She apparently was ‘incredibly funny’, ‘could tell a story brilliantly, had people hanging on her every word’, ‘was very aware of other people’s feelings. You know, watched them closely.’ With every positive review he gives her, I smile back widely and nod.
Once I pushed myself to say, ‘She sounds like my sort of woman. I bet I’d have liked her.’ But my generosity was not enough. Matthew replied, ‘Of course. Everyone did.’
As we step into the cold, black night and pull the door of the pub behind us, shutting in the good-time noise and adjusting to the comparatively quiet street, I reveal something else Matthew told me about Becky’s death. ‘They didn’t find her until the next day. If help had come sooner, they might have saved her.’
‘Tragic,’ murmurs Gina, shaking her head solemnly.
‘Yes, yes, it is,’ I agree.
For Becky.
8
I live in Hampshire. I moved out of London when I turned forty, which was the same year I became CEO of AirBright. I had wanted to live in the country for many years, but I wasn’t quite brave enough to make the move. I clung to London’s grubby, vibrant streets to ward off something that people might call loneliness but for me was more of a fear of being directionless or unnoticed. Forgotten. My twenties had been a whirl of long hours clawing up the career ladder, and when I wasn’t working, I dashed from brunches to lunches, to matinee movies, to cocktail bars and nightclubs. I worked equally long hours in my thirties, but my recreational time became more about attending lectures at the Royal Geographical Society or going on marches and demonstrations highlighting environmental concerns; evenings were spent at theatres, concerts and jazz clubs. There is always something to do in London, something to amuse and distract. Time flew by. I felt busy, full. I worried that if I moved out of the capital, I would lose that.
