My Husband's Wife (28 page)

‘What are you doing at the weekend?' Rupert asked.

‘Working.'

Ever since the embarrassing dinner at Ed and Lily's, she'd been avoiding her college friend. But here he was, waiting for her outside the lecture hall.

‘All weekend?'

She looked up at him. ‘All weekend.'

‘That's a shame.' He fell into step with her. ‘Your friends were … unusual.'

‘Lily can be a bit tetchy but she isn't too bad. I'm afraid Ed was rude. I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be.' Gently he touched her arm as they rounded a corner. ‘Like I said, it's his artistic temperament. To be honest though … well, I thought you were trying to keep out of my way. So I thought I'd just take the bull by the horns, as it were, and hang around for you, to check everything is all right with us.'

Carla couldn't help being flattered. But she also felt the need to make things clear. ‘Of course it is. You're a very good friend.'

‘ “Friend”?' He was looking at her quizzically, as if
hoping for more. ‘Then may I take you out to dinner over the weekend?'

It was tempting. But wasn't life complicated enough as it was? ‘Sorry but I've got two essays to do. Ed and Lily are away until Sunday night, so I was planning on some quiet time.'

Carla was as good as her word. She spent the entire Saturday poring over her books. Yet on Sunday lunchtime there was a knock at the front door. Lily and Ed hadn't told her they were expecting anyone. Maybe it was one of those cold callers or a neighbour perhaps.

But Rupert was standing on the step. ‘I was just passing.' He handed her a bunch of flowers, prettily wrapped with an artful straw bow. Freesias. One of her favourites. It was incredible how such a powerful fragrance could come from such small blooms. ‘That's very kind.'

‘How about a walk? Come on, it'll be good for your brain to have a break.'

‘Well …' It was a beautiful day. Why not? ‘Just to the park and back.'

It was surprisingly good to have the company. There were lots of other couples out too. Laughing. Holding hands. With a strange feeling in her chest, Carla realized she'd never gone for a walk in the park with a man she liked before.

‘I love being with you, Carla.' Rupert's hand reached out for hers.

No.

Deftly she put her hand in her pocket. ‘I like being with you too, Rupert.' There was a brief pause while she counted to five. ‘But as I said before, I like you as a friend.'

Either he didn't notice the rebuff or else he chose not to. ‘You're different from the others, Carla. You're focused. As though you have a purpose. Most of the other girls I know just want to have fun.'

Carla thought fleetingly of the flightier female students who were always chasing Rupert and others like him. ‘I don't have time for fun.'

‘Really?' There was definite disappointment in his voice.

Carla shrugged as they wandered back out of the park, towards Ed and Lily's house. ‘My mother, she relies on me. It is up to me to make money for us so we can live the lives we should have done.'

‘Wow. That's amazing. I like that.'

‘In fact, I must return now. Or I will be behind with my work.'

‘Surely you have time to make me a cup of tea first?'

‘I'm not sure …'

‘Come on.' His eyes twinkled. ‘It's what
friends
do.'

They were on Ed and Lily's steps now: smart black and white steps leading up to the black front door. It seemed rude not to agree.

Inviting Rupert to take a seat, Carla swiftly cleared away her books to make room at the table in the huge kitchen which acted as a casual sitting room too. The sofa, she noticed with irritation, was a mess of cushions and blankets.

‘What do you think of …' she started to say.

But suddenly Rupert moved towards her and boldly, but so very gently, began to trace the outline of her lips with his forefinger. ‘You're beautiful, Carla,' he murmured. ‘Do you know that?'

He drew her towards him.

For a minute, she was tempted. Rupert was so good-looking. So charming. Such a gentleman. But she must not allow him to distract her. Just as she was about to step away, there was the sound of the key in the lock.

It was Ed! Horrified, she watched him take in the rumpled sofa and Rupert stepping quickly away from her. His face was blotched with anger. ‘So this is why you didn't want to come to Devon, is it? So you could use our home as a love nest? How dare you? Just as well I got back early.'

Carla's body went hot and cold and hot again. ‘No. You've got it wrong.'

But Ed's voice overrode hers as he turned to Rupert. ‘Get out. NOW.'

Stunned, Carla watched Rupert leave. He should have stayed, she told herself. Stood up for himself. ‘How dare YOU?' she yelled, quivering with anger. ‘I was doing nothing wrong. And now you have embarrassed me in front of my friend.'

He would tell her to leave now, she told herself. She'd have nowhere to live. No hope of getting what she wanted.

Yet instead, he crumbled, falling down to the ground at her feet. ‘I'm sorry, Carla. I really am. But it's been a hell of a weekend. You should have been there. You could have calmed Tom down. He was awful. Do you know what his current obsession is? Some computer game which keeps him up all night so he barely sleeps. When we tried to take it away from him, he went stark raving mad. We argued about it. Lily's mother wanted to let him have his way. She's so scared he'll end up like Daniel …'

‘Daniel? What happened to him?'

‘Daniel's gone.' Ed made a wild dismissive gesture with his hands. ‘You wouldn't think it from the way that family talks about him. Daniel's dead!'

‘I don't understand.'

Ed caught her by the hand. His grip was tight. ‘Daniel was Lily's adopted brother. He was very disturbed – had been since childhood. Poor bugger.'

Now it was her turn to hold his hand as the horrific words came spilling out. The argument Lily had had with her brother. The stables. The way they found him. Ed was not sure of the exact details (‘Lily can't talk about it'). But one thing was clear. Whatever Lily had said, it had made her brother take his own life.

‘It's like there's always this thing between us. She's never let me in.' Ed collapsed in sobs on the sofa.

How terrible! And poor Ed. It wasn't fair that he should have to suffer for his wife's guilt. Lily treated him so badly. She didn't even look after him properly. What kind of woman didn't have dinner ready for her husband? Or went to bed long after he did? Mamma had taught her the importance of these things, no matter how outdated they might seem.

Yet why should she be surprised? Lily was a lawyer. Clinical and cold. Used to setting murderers and rapists free.

Somehow she managed to calm poor Ed. A friendly arm on his shoulder. Poured him a drink (just a touch of hot water with the whisky). And then, even though his hand was still shaking, she persuaded him to start painting.

Thank you, Rupert, she said silently, as she sat in front of Ed. (‘Nose to the left a bit, please, Carla.') With any luck everything was going to work out after all.

Despite my recent court losses, and my own reservations, the other partners agreed to my ‘favour' and Carla duly started work with me in the middle of July. ‘You've got a bright girl there,' said one of my colleagues by the end of the week. ‘She might look stunning but she's on the ball.'

He spoke as though looks were a disadvantage, which in a way they are. If you're more than averagely attractive, especially in a profession like law, people don't always take you seriously. I'm aware that I will never be considered beautiful, even though I take pleasure in the fact that I have grown into my skin. Perhaps that's a good thing.

But Carla turns heads wherever she goes. And not just because of her face or because she is doing well at my firm. Ed's portrait of her is finally finished. After one of our weekends in Devon, for once without Carla, everything seemed to fall into place. We'd argued, and he'd left early, but sometimes I think our difficulties spur him on. When I returned, he was working on the hardest part – the eyes.

Now the painting has been accepted for a big London show in the autumn and the national press has got wind of it.

Suddenly, Carla's everywhere. In women's magazines.
In the
Times
art pages. And in the cocktail party invitations we begin to receive. Of course, everyone wants to know the story. How we came across her again. Or rather how
she
came across
us
. When I open one magazine, I find that Carla has managed to tell the story with barely a reference to me. It's as though it was Ed who offered her a home after the hostel fire. Ed who is her mentor rather than me. Ed who says how wonderful she is with our son, Tom, who is in a ‘special school', far away in Devon. She doesn't refer to the fact that he lives with my parents.

How dare she?

‘You have no right to mention Tom,' I say to Carla, trying to control my voice.

We're on our way to work. Walking briskly. It reminds me of the mornings when I used to see her at the bus stop with her mother.

‘He is part of our private life,' I continue, still hot with rage after spotting the offending article in one of the lobby magazines.

‘I'm sorry,' she says but in a tone that suggests anything but. Her chin juts out. It seems more angular than usual. Almost pointy like a cat's. ‘But it is true, is it not?'

‘He is,' I say, struggling to remain composed, ‘in the best place for him.'

She shrugs. ‘In Italy, we keep our family close, whatever the circumstances. It is better that way I think.'

‘You are living in the UK now,' I splutter, almost unable to believe her audacity. We're going into the office building now. I can say no more. But later that day, I receive a note from one of the other partners.

Luckily this has not yet gone out to the client. One of the trainees spotted the mistake, highlighted below. Please amend.

I've made a mistake in drafting a document about a company fraud. It isn't big. But big enough. Yet the worse thing is that the trainee, according to the initials on the correction, is our Italian ‘guest'.

Later that night, Ed turns on me. ‘Why were you so horrid to Carla about Tom?'

A cold feeling crawls over me. I feel like the school prefect, reprimanded by a teacher for snitching on a girl caught smoking in the loo. Why should I be blamed for something she's done? ‘Because Carla shouldn't have mentioned Tom or the fact that he's at a special school. He's private.'

‘Clearly, our son is to be categorized as “Not to be opened”. Are you embarrassed of him?'

This isn't fair. ‘You know that's not true. Do you think
you
could work if Tom was here all the time? Do you think you could concentrate if he was in the studio demanding to know why paint is called paint? Or giving you every statistic imaginable on Monet or John Singer Sargent?'

Ed sits up and turns on the bedroom light. His eyes are sad. I know that my words sound selfish and I hate myself for it. But it is horrifyingly easy for the resentment to bubble up every now and then, to burst through the carefully painted veneer of outward sainthood. I know he thinks it too sometimes – it's simply easier to put the blame on me.

‘I just can't help feeling,' says Ed slowly, mirroring the thoughts in my head, ‘that when you have a child like Tom, you have a duty to do the right thing. That's all.'

Then he switches off the light, leaving me to thrash around all night. Wondering. Telling myself that separating our lives like strands of unruly silk is better than being with my son. And why? Because I practically followed Daniel round for years, trying to protect him from himself. But I cracked. I said things I shouldn't have done. Did things I shouldn't have. And that's what finally tipped my brother over the edge.

If I'm not with Tom full time, he stands a chance of making it. My constant presence won't help him.

It might kill him, instead.

Trying to work at home one night, so many thoughts colliding in my head that I am getting little done, I make a call.

‘Lily!' Ross's deep, rich voice immediately makes me feel calmer. Assured. As though everything is going to be all right, after all.

‘I thought you were out tonight.' He sounds surprised.

‘No, why?'

‘Must have got it wrong. I thought Ed said you were going to that gallery opening with him.'

‘He asked me but I had too much to do. Besides, it's Carla they want. You know. The painter and his subject. The Italian girl.' I don't even bother hiding my irritation.

Carla looked gorgeous tonight when she left with my husband. Her bob was sleek and her make-up immaculate. No one would have guessed that she'd been slaving away over her books until half an hour beforehand.

Ed looked good too. It wasn't just because of his new blue-striped shirt. It was the way he now carries himself.
The buoyancy in his face. Success suits him. It always did. My husband, I now realize, is one of those men who needs to do well. If only for the sake of everyone around him. The whisky level hasn't gone down for a while. He's even being particularly nice to me. My husband deserves this, I tell myself, as I say goodbye to Ross after arranging a dinner in a few weeks' time. Let him enjoy it.

Three weeks later, I am working late again in the office. Ed is at another cocktail party. Carla is still at home. This morning, she failed to come into the office with me. ‘I don't feel well,' she said, curled up like a kitten on her bed.

It's nearly ten o'clock – everyone else has gone home – when the phone rings on my desk. I know it's Joe before he says a word. I can sense it. Feel it down the line.

‘Lily. No. Don't put the phone down. Just go.'

The hairs on my arm are standing up. ‘Go where?'

He names a hotel near the Strand.

Is this another tip-off for some case which I must ignore?

‘It's to do with your husband. I've been watching him.' His voice rises urgently. ‘Just trying to look after you. Like I always do. Just go. Now.'

I replace the receiver, trembling. Slipping on my coat, I tell myself, as I bid goodnight to the security guard, that I am going straight home. That I'm not visiting this hotel to see what I should or shouldn't see.

Ed wouldn't do this. Ed wouldn't do this. The words pound over and over in my mind. But then I think of his
ups and downs. The way he has blown hot and cold throughout our marriage. Our rushed marriage, all for the sake of an inheritance he'd never told me about. A marriage we have stayed in because of Tom. But we've made it work. Haven't we?

As I get out of the taxi, I see a figure. No, it's a couple. She has her head on his shoulder. The girl has short hair that gleams in the lamplight. The man is tall with a slight stoop to his shoulders. The kind that comes from bending over an easel for hours on end.

I run towards them. They stop in the street, under the lamp. He lowers his head to kiss the girl. And then he looks up.

‘Lily?' says my husband, open-mouthed. Then, as though he can't believe it, he says it again. ‘Lily?'

There's a flash of light. As if a picture has been taken.

A press card is being waved in front of me. ‘Mrs Macdonald. Would you like to comment on the rumours that your husband is having an affair?'