The Woman He Loved Before (12 page)

Harriet beamed at her son, saying, ‘Of course, darling. Oh, Elizabeth, you should have said. We don’t stand on ceremony here. Hector, can you come and put the coffee machine on? Is filter OK for you?’

‘Perfect, absolutely perfect,’ I replied, quickly.

‘Right, what’s the matter?’ Jack asked sotto voce the second his parents were out of earshot.

‘What do you mean?’ I replied.

‘Every time one of my parents says your name, you tense up.’

My eyes widened in alarm.

‘No, my parents haven’t noticed, I can just feel it. I know you, don’t forget. And I can feel when things aren’t right with you. What’s wrong?’

‘My name isn’t Elizabeth.’

‘Oh, my parents are old fashioned, they’ll get used to calling you Libby in time. I’m sure your parents do the same.’

‘No, Jack, you don’t understand. Libby is short for Liberty. My birthday’s the sixth of March, which is Ghana Independence Day, so my parents called me Liberty.’

‘Oh,’ Jack said, thinking the same thing as I was: we were getting married and he didn’t even know my real name.

‘Do you want to tell them when they get back?’

‘
No
!’ I said. ‘I’m actually going to change my name by deed poll on Monday so I never have to admit to them that when I became engaged my fiancé didn’t know my real name.’

Jack laughed and a multitude of stars started to light up in my
chest. That was why I was marrying him – he could do that to me with something as simple as laughing. Did it really matter if he didn’t know my full name?

‘If you can bear it, I’ll put my mother straight when we get home.’

I shrugged. ‘Fine by me, although Elizabeth isn’t such a bad name – just in case you don’t get around to telling her.’

He grinned again and I smiled back at him, happy that we were in this together.

‘Will you be OK if I nip to the bathroom?’ Jack asked.

‘Of course,’ I said, relaxed now that someone else was in on the secret.

‘Right back,’ he said and pecked a kiss on my mouth before leaving. I took the chance to look around properly. Their living room, although big and impersonal, was crammed with photos of their family. They weren’t the kind you’d stereotypically expect a rich brood to have on display – all stuffy poses and formal dress – they were happy images, showing many, many moments of the private, contented life they shared. My parents had a few photos on display, but most were in albums or boxes in the loft – like most people, they didn’t have the acres of space to show off all the pictures they had.

On the edge of the white marble mantelpiece above the large, ornate fireplace, one picture in particular captured my attention. In a simple silver frame, about five by seven inches, was a photo of a laughing couple holding hands, in a shower of what looked like snow but was actually confetti. The man was in a plain grey suit with a pale blue tie, the woman was wearing a gorgeous pink gown. From this distance, I could make out that her skin glowed without foundation and her unusual blue eyes still stood out without the help of mascara, shadow and liner. She was more than beautiful, she was divine, almost celestial. I was transfixed by the image: their body language, their faces were mesmerising – I didn’t think I’d ever seen two people look so happy; joy seemed to radiate from every part of them.

I’d never seen Jack smile like that. And yet, in that photo, it seemed he used to do it easily, naturally, regularly.
When he was with Eve.

My eyes returned to the table in front of me moments before Jack’s parents returned to the room. ‘Elizabeth,’ Harriet said, sitting on the sofa, while Hector placed the tea tray in front of us without rattling a single piece of crockery. ‘Have you thought about dress styles? Are you a strapless sort of a woman, and will you be going for the full skirt?’

‘I’m not really sure,’ I replied. ‘I have to confess that I’m not one of those girls who has always had the idea of the perfect wedding dress in her mind.’

‘Nonsense,’ Hector said, jovially. ‘Every woman has the idea of the perfect dress for her wedding, even if it’s not a traditional kind of wedding dress.’ He affectionately patted Harriet’s knee and she laughed a little in response. ‘Or so I’m told.’

Not traditional like Eve’s, you mean
? I thought. ‘Oh, dear,’ I said, laughing along, ‘I really have let the side down. I’ll build a time machine as soon as I can to go back and have a quiet word with my younger self.’

Hector and Harriet both laughed while Harriet set about transferring the crockery to the table before she started pouring the tea and dispensing the scones.

Jack’s not the only person still a little hung up on Eve
, I thought. I kept wanting to look back at the picture of the woman I was constantly worrying I could never match up to. Not that I needed to see the image again, it was traced with indelible ink onto my mind’s eye – obviously the same ink that her memory was written with onto the hearts of all the Britcham family.

Jack comes down the steps and I reach out to lean on him to go up the stairs. ‘I think I can do better than that,’ he says, and stoops to scoop me up in his arms, gentle enough to not jar anything.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask, laughing softly.

‘Carrying you over the threshold, of course.’

‘Of course,’ I say.

And he does, just like he did every day for a week after we were married.

jack

Libby is compliant and unmoving in my arms, so different from how she usually is when I pick her up. She usually screams with laughter, telling me to put her down and swearing all sorts of revenge if I drop her. She’s lighter than usual, but that is because she hasn’t eaten much in the past week.

One of the things I love about Libby is her appetite, the way she’ll attack any meal put in front of her like it is her last. She’s a tidy eater, but an enthusiastic one. She told me that for the first year of her PhD she lived on soup, bread, beans, Gari that her mum sent her from London, and homemade Ghanaian stew. ‘You can make most things taste nice with a few herbs, but God I got sick of having to make do. Now, I buy the most expensive foods I can afford and I never let them go to waste because I know what doing without is like.’

The past few days have stripped her of her appetite; all she can manage is a little soup.

I carry her into the drawing room, to show her what I have done down here. I continue to hold her in my arms, as she casts her eyes about the room. I have moved most of our bedroom downstairs: the chest of drawers where I have neatly folded her most regularly worn clothes; the portable television and DVD player; the bedside tables with their crystal base
lamps and on ‘her’ side the picture of Benji and me sitting in the park after a particularly muddy game of football; as well as the two huge heart-shaped rugs that she brought from her other flat. I’ve even put hooks on the back of the door to hang up our dressing gowns. The only thing not moved from upstairs is the bed. It is new. I had to go from shop to shop to find it, but it is a replica of the iron-framed bed she had in her flat, the first bed we made love in. I bought it to remind her that I love her, that, no matter what, I cherish every moment of being with her.

Before Libby moved in, Grace had bought us a baleful of new linen, and Libby’s friend Angela had bought us an airing cupboard’s worth of new towels – both of them had said they were early wedding presents. I’d called Grace to thank her and to ask her why she’d bought them when she knew we had enough linen to service a medium-sized hotel.

‘What woman wants to sleep on the sheets the last woman bought?’ she replied, scathingly. ‘New bed, new linen.’

‘New bed?’ I’d asked.

‘Tell me you’ve got a new bed and you don’t expect Libby to sleep in Eve’s marital bed?’ Grace replied.

I thought about it: Libby had slept over a few times in the time we decided to get married, but she was always keen to stay at her flat where she said it was warmer and she had all her things around her.

‘God, you’re thick sometimes,’ Grace said.

‘Is that why she keeps suggesting she brings her bed with her?’ I asked Grace.

‘Yes, idiot.’

‘Why didn’t she say?’

‘Erm, let’s see, why didn’t the woman you’re marrying, who loves you with every fibre of her being, want to upset you by suggesting you get rid of something that reminds you of your wife that died? Hmmm … I don’t know, you’d think she’d simply come out and say something like that, wouldn’t you?’

‘I had no idea,’ I confessed to Grace. ‘It didn’t even cross my mind.’

‘Try to think about things from her perspective, eh? She’s on shaky ground because you’ve done this before and she, like the rest of the world, can see you get irrationally upset whenever Eve is mentioned. Just give her a fighting chance, eh?’

I’d suggested to Libby that we start from scratch; that we go out shopping for bedroom furniture together, and maybe buy some other bits and pieces for the rest of the house as well. The sheer relief in Libby’s eyes said everything I needed to know about whether Grace was right or not.

I made the effort for a while, I tried to think about Libby, tried to show her in word and deed that I was always thinking of her first, but I’ve let that slip over the last year or so. I don’t pay as much attention, I shut her out and turn away from her when I should turn towards her. This bed is a sign that I want to undo that. A new bed for another new start, if she’ll have me.

Reluctantly, because it means being apart from her, I place her gently on the bed and stand back.

She smoothes her hands over the cream duvet, and stares long and hard at the bedpost. ‘You bought a new bed,’ she says.

‘Yeah, I thought it’d be easier for you down here, rather than trying to negotiate the stairs. It seemed fitting to get a new bed.’

Her eyes fill with tears, and I feel that kick of pain in my head and chest that I always feel whenever Libby is hurt. ‘It’s like the one I had in the flat,’ she says.

I nod, unable to speak as I watch her wipe away the tear that has just fallen from her eye.

‘Thanks,’ she says, finding a smile for her face. ‘Really. I’ve been so scared, you know, of coming back and things being different and not being able to settle again at home.’ She looks around the room. ‘But this is probably the best thing, isn’t it? It’s something new and we can share it.’

I nod at her. Carefully, she eases herself backwards onto the
bed, and reclines against the pillows, the agony of movement evident in her eyes and on her face.

‘Do you want a cup of tea or coffee?’ I ask her.

‘No,’ she says with a small shake of her head, ‘I’m fine. I might try to sleep for a bit.’

‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll wake you for dinner.’

‘OK,’ she says. ‘Or you could come and lie with me for a bit?’

My face relaxes into a smile as I realise that she really doesn’t blame me for what happened. I go to the bed, so grateful for the chance to hold her, while pushing away the guilt that I haven’t told her everything about the crash.

libby

This is not who I am.

I am not like this. I don’t care about looks, I know that beauty comes from within, I know that hair length, and weight and the smoothness of your skin is not as important as the person you are. Yet, I can’t seem to stop it. The thoughts, the feelings, the pain that drives me to be like this, to be sitting in front of a mirror with tears falling silently from my eyes as I float in a sea of despair.

I am still Libby. That jagged line that snakes its way from my forehead to the nape of my neck has not stopped me from laughing out loud whenever I find something funny. The scratches that fleck my face like gravel scattered carelessly across a path have not stopped me from flicking over when the adverts start on TV. The line that diagonally bisects the left side of my face has not stopped me from loving to wake up to the sound of seagulls shrieking and calling like overzealous market vendors.

None of these marks, these superficial things, can change who I really am. Who Libby truly is. Which is why I shouldn’t be crying right now. I have not changed.

And when Angela, reflected in the mirror, holding her scissors and waiting for me to give her the nod, starts cutting I still won’t have changed.

I am only looking at the long strands of my black hair and
saying goodbye to the person I am with them because I am probably still in shock about the accident.

It is not because I am scared I will look ugly and unlike me without my hair.

I close my eyes and nod.

‘Are you sure about this, babe?’ she asks. ‘We can try to work with what we’ve got, you know.’ Angela has stunning skin and heavenly hair. She is as dark as me, and her complexion is smooth and unblemished. She has long, thin dreadlocks, which are kinked and wavy all the way to the middle of her back. She looks like a woman, she looks like a real woman.

‘Please, just do it.’

She is gentle, she is careful as she hacks away my hair but I do not open my eyes. I can’t watch. I can’t see myself in the mirror, and I can’t watch her hands in real life as she works.

Once she stops, I can hear her changing implements. ‘Next stage, OK, babe?’