First wifes shadow, p.6
First Wife's Shadow, page 6
I see the woods as either restful or playful, always wonderful and comforting, no matter what the element, season or time. Heidi enjoys them well enough during a bright sunny day – at least she did when her kids were a bit younger and spent hours charging through them, beating brambles with sticks, running off the energy that in her suburban terrace could never be fully expended. She’s liked the big windows and the view from them less as time has passed and the kids started to use the woods to hide from her, to experiment with vaping and drinking. I think on a subconscious level she resents the fact that her children have to grow up, but it’s easier to resent the woods. At night she thinks of them as spooky. She often talks about threats, intruders and being watched. I always laugh at her fears. Now she follows my gaze and comments, ‘I wish you would at least buy curtains or blinds. I hate looking out on the blackness and wondering who’s looking in.’ She says the same thing every time she visits.
‘Who would be looking in? I have no neighbours,’ I reply, as I always do.
‘Anyone could.’ She shivers, even though the wood burner is still glowing.
I laugh. ‘This fictional peeping Tom would have to be very determined. Unless I buzzed them in, they would have to leave their car at the electric gate, scale it, then walk the half-mile to the house. You need to stop listening to those scary podcasts. You’re terrifying yourself.’
‘Maybe,’ she mumbles, but her lips are pulled tight, strained white like knuckles, rather than forming the huge red beam she normally wears. We both fall silent. Unusually, we have nothing to say to one another. Instead we listen to the rain thrum on the roof and drip from the eaves. It sounds like someone is knocking to get in.
9
April
I have two principal commutes. AirBright’s main wind plants are in Scotland, and I sometimes need to travel there if a Zoom call can’t suffice with expediting whatever business I’m tackling; and I generally need to be in the London office at least three days a week. Late-night events sometimes necessitate a stopover there. I used to resent the London jaunts, preferring to secrete myself away in my beautiful country home. Since I’ve been dating Matthew, all that has changed as he lives in the capital.
I’ve started to enjoy the hotels more. Before Matthew, I stayed at a Travelodge or a Premier Inn. Practical, clean and functional. Nothing more luxe than two cartons of UHT and a packet of non-branded ginger biscuits. Those rooms aren’t the sort that lend themselves to passionate lovemaking sessions; they’re more suited to half an hour of TV-watching at low volume, then lights off to settle in for a decent night’s sleep. Recently I’ve started booking myself into more resplendent, indulgent places. One Aldwych near Covent Garden; the Ned in the financial district of the City; the Mondrian in Shoreditch. We get a kick out of meeting in the lobby or bar before we go to the room. The moment the lift doors glide closed behind us, we fling ourselves at one another, like filings to a magnet. We practically run along the corridor, frustrated with the moments needed to open the bedroom door. A little green light. All systems go. Sex in hotel rooms is, I find, especially uninhibited. Particularly candid and satisfying. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to think about laundering the sheets, maybe it’s because it feels like a holiday even after a long day in the office.
Or maybe it’s him.
It’s really rather special now. The sex. It’s the sort that makes me resent the moment it is over, even while I’m still shuddering and glowing. It’s the sort that makes me want to see him every day. I now actively look for opportunities to visit the office and stay in town. I know I’m making it convenient for us to meet regularly, taking away the potential obstacle of distance. Making myself readily available would be pathetic except for the fact that he is equally accommodating. Besides the meet-ups in London, he’s very willing to travel to Hampshire and stay at mine, which he does most weekends. It nets out that we see each other three or four nights out of seven. We are dating exclusively. There’s no room or time for anyone else. More poignantly, there’s no need or desire either.
‘I don’t want to be out there in that mad world of dating,’ he explained when I brought up the matter. ‘After Becky, I never thought I’d want to be with anyone again. Then you came along.’ He kissed me, and I could feel his smile in the kiss. I tried to think about that and not the words ‘after Becky’. The fact is, she came first. I am second to her. Nothing can be done about that, and wishing something in the past was different is a fool’s game. It could drive you mad.
At the weekend, I set the alarm for 6.08, allowing myself an extra hour’s sleep: I don’t have to be at my desk, but I still like to make the most of the day. When the alarm went off this morning, Matthew groaned and insisted that I’m out of my mind to want to get up so early, so instead of me going on my run, we had sex. It’s a good workout, but not as energetic as a five-mile run. I will have a level of pent-up energy lingering all day. A bird in a cage. I try to explain to Matthew why it’s so important to me to run every morning, and he says, ‘Babe, you don’t need to exercise. You have a brilliant body. You’re so slim and trim.’
‘It’s not about staying slim,’ I point out. ‘It’s about the power of knowing I’m fit, strong and fast. I work long hours. It’s easier to do that if I’m fit.’
‘You really should try and relax, babe.’
People have told me this all my life. I’ve never listened. He leans in to kiss me and then sets about teasing another orgasm out of me. I’m left quivering, and for the first time I consider that he might have a point; maybe relaxing suits me. At least, this sort of relaxation. I am so chilled that I don’t even bother to tell him I’m not especially keen on the endearment ‘babe’. I’m aware that it’s infantilising and basic-level sexist. I’m not a tiny being, helpless or naive; I don’t need him to look after me, far from it. But the thing is (whisper it), part of me does rather like him having a special name for me. It’s sort of wonderful. I’ve never been a fan of pet names (even the term turns my stomach), but every time he calls me ‘babe’, I find I inwardly smile. ‘Hey, babe, how’s your day going?’ His voice breezy down the telephone line. Or the endearment sprinkled through his texts. Babe, I was wondering, do you want to go to … Babe, have you ever read … It’s delightfully strange.
I wonder what his pet name for Becky was.
This invasive thought about her is unwelcome. It tinges my current joy with a streak of something rotten. All my pervasive thoughts about her do that, and yet they keep coming, as annoying as uninvited visitors knocking at the door just when you’re settling down to watch TV. Might he have called her babe too? I don’t like that idea, but worse still is the thought that her pet name might have been something deeper. Something more. He probably called her ‘my darling’ or ‘my love’. I won’t ask him, because he will tell me; he’s scrupulously honest and straightforward, a characteristic that sounds more appealing than it turns out to be in fact.
A few weeks ago, I asked him how they met, and while it turned out to be in a very standard way, through work, when he spoke of their first meeting, his face lit up as though a switch had been flicked somewhere deep in his head, and his eyes sparkled on full beam. The intensity was disarming, and I stupidly asked, ‘Was it love at first sight?’ I posed this question without sincere conviction, because that’s not a real thing, is it? It makes no sense. Real love must be based upon mutual respect, common ground and shared experience. It can’t be instantaneous. I was really asking was the attraction immediate, mutual? I should have been more disciplined. I shouldn’t want to know.
His face softened as he recollected. ‘I think it was, yes. I think that’s how it would be judged. Certainly I’ve never felt like that before or since. She consumed me from the off.’
I was made uncomfortable by the intensity of his response. And yes, I was peeved by it. Was it necessary to add ‘or since’? In a fated effort to hide my awkwardness, I blurted out a second question. ‘And did she feel the same?’
‘I’m not sure she did, no.’ He grinned nostalgically. ‘I proposed within a year of us meeting, but she turned me down.’
‘So you proposed again?’
‘And again, and again.’
‘So when did she finally accept?’
He looked a little startled by my tone. I suppose I might have sounded exasperated, or irritated, or envious. Not great.
‘I had to work quite hard for a few years to persuade her to marry me,’ he said carefully.
His response gave me a painful insight into their relationship. I was embarrassed for him, mortified that he had done the running. In our case, he hadn’t had to do much running. Any at all. I wanted to be caught by him. This fact makes me feel less important, less interesting and challenging. I wish I didn’t always feel less in comparison to her. I’m not used to it. Until I started dating Matthew, I was very firmly OK with who I am, what I contribute to the world, what my worth is. I’m frustrated that she hadn’t matched his devotion. But if he’d told me she was equally enamoured with him as he was with her, would that have been better? Would I want to think of their reciprocal unparalleled passion? I don’t think so.
I tried to keep my tone jovial as I probed. ‘How did you eventually woo her?’
He laughed out loud. ‘The traditional way. I maxed out all my credit cards.’
I am ashamed to admit, even to myself, that I want to find fault with his poor dead wife. I conclude that his relationship with Becky was obviously transactional. Basic. But even that isn’t as comforting as I’d hoped. He doesn’t spend a lot of money on me. We both know I’m far wealthier, so I pick up the tab for the hotel rooms and the dinners. He doesn’t buy me gifts. What’s the point? I can buy myself anything I need or want. I’ve never wanted him, or any man, to buy me things. Being jealous or irritated of something I don’t want is irrational; I don’t like being irrational. Thinking of her usually makes me feel frustrated, angry, sad or defensive. Always something bad.
I’ve googled her. Naturally. I couldn’t stop myself. Becky Charlton and Rebecca Charlton. The search results were dominated by a TV presenter of that name. I discovered there are several Becky Charltons, but none of them is obviously identifiable as Matthew’s dead wife. Even when I tried to narrow down my search by age, profession, obituaries, I didn’t discover any definitive information or images. I suppose she might not even have been called Charlton; she might have kept her own surname. I don’t know what that was.
Matthew hasn’t volunteered a photograph, and I can’t bring myself to ask him to show me one. It’s undignified. It’s a giveaway. He’d know I’m thinking about her. Fixating on her. Not knowing what she looks like drives me wild. Was she white or black or brown? Tall, petite, athletically built or voluptuous? I imagine her in endless, various incarnations: authoritative sleek dark bob, cool room-owning afro, romantic soft blonde curls, dynamic peroxide pixie cut. My own hair is shoulder length, it’s a mid-brown colour, made a little bit more exciting by professional highlights. I don’t have a fringe. I sometimes wear it in a ponytail, nothing more adventurous than that. It’s the sort of hair many women around my age have, hair that’s not quite as glossy as it once was. I wonder if Becky had piercings, tattoos. She was arty, so either or both are probable. Does he find me dull by comparison? My skin is devoid of ink. I have my ears pierced once and wear discreet gold studs. I waste time wondering what sort of clothes she preferred. Was she all about sleek monotones or a colourful statement dresser? Perhaps she made her own clothes, or bought exclusively in vintage shops; both styles intimidate me. That’s madness, right? I run a company with a multimillion-pound turnover, and I’m intimidated by women who wear aqua crimplene day dresses.
I am not myself.
Is this love? Losing yourself? I don’t know. Past partners have never crawled under my skin. Until recently, my big, enduring passion has always been work. This is the first time I’ve been willing to be overwhelmed by a person. I want this.
I can’t focus my attention; I can’t be logical and sensible. Because I don’t know what I’m looking for, I imagine echoes of her in every woman I meet. In every version of her that I conjure, she is beautiful. Show-stoppingly beautiful. And young. Or at least younger than I am, by over a decade. Therefore vibrant in an ephemeral, inimitable way. Of course, Matthew is young too. They matched. He knew her intimately, but I wonder, does he still do the same, constantly scan faces, hoping to recognise her in other women?
A new thought occurs to me that I haven’t had before. Perhaps he sees her in me. It is possible he has a type; maybe that’s why he committed so quickly. That thought alarms me more than all the others. I’m just her, but second best. Less. I am infuriated with my irrationality. I don’t know her, I never did and I never will, so how can I compare myself? Why do I put myself through this?
Still, I asked, ‘Did you remain as in love throughout, all those years you were together?’ I wanted to hear that it had waned, I suppose. That it was hard to maintain the passion.
‘I’ve never stopped,’ he muttered.
‘Well, that’s good,’ I said, not certain it was, at least not for me. ‘It must be a comfort.’
‘The last words I said to her were “I love you, you sexy bitch.”’ He laughed to himself, pleased by the memory.
So yes, he’s scrupulously honest, disarmingly frank, and I will not ask about her pet name. It’s here and this moment that counts. From this point on, to protect myself, I’m only going to ask innocuous questions.
‘Have you ever been to Lyndhurst?’ I say. ‘It’s a beautiful little town, stuffed full of antique shops. Do you like antiquing? I know it’s not everyone’s thing.’
‘I love poking around antique shops,’ he says with glee. ‘Becky loved it too, actually. We used to go all the time. She had a great eye. I’ve missed it. Come on, let’s get cracking.’
As Matthew sings in the shower, I tell myself it’s a great thing to have a shared hobby and that he’s so enthusiastic about doing something I enjoy. It doesn’t matter at all that Becky had a great eye.
And I reconsider what might be defined as an innocuous question in our particular situation.
10
Maybe Becky did have a great eye for antiques. Matthew certainly does not. He seems to be drawn to anything ugly, damaged or dirty. A fact we both find amusing rather than annoying or embarrassing.
‘These are fun,’ he says, pointing at a collection of gut-wrenchingly ugly Toby jugs.
‘They’re absolutely awful,’ I declare with a grin. He shrugs good-naturedly and moves on.
‘But this is rather nice, right?’ He’s landed on an elaborate dragon ornament. It’s supposed to look like a wooden carving but is clearly moulded. ‘What would you say, late eighteen hundreds?’
‘Nineteen eighties reproduction, more like. And hideous.’ I laugh. Matthew puts the dragon back on the shelf and shrugs again.
‘What do I know?’
It’s a bright April day, spring at its best. There is a sense that the world is creeping back to life after a long, dull winter. Daffodils and crocuses are bravely sprouting on the grass verges. The little artisan shops have their doors wedged open, welcoming in customers. Dog-walkers slow down for a chat, giving me a moment to pet their dogs. We buy hand-made fudge from one shop, get excited about chilli and orange marmalade in another, and enjoy a glass of local cider in a tiny café. All morning, I get the feeling eyes are on us. We draw smiles and nods from strangers. I guess people like to see others walking hand in hand, laughing, chatting.
My favourite shop in Lyndhurst is an enormous antique shop that spreads over three floors. It’s not the sort of place that sells elegant eighteenth-century Italian furniture; it offers a mishmash of clutter: stamps, jewellery, lamps, chinaware and musical instruments. Some would think the place is full of junk, but I believe in the adage ‘One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.’ I am gratified when I lead Matthew into the shop that he stops dramatically in the doorway, looks around and smiles appreciatively at the curious and varied offerings in this dusty paradise. He inhales deeply, taking in the particular smell of grimy books and maps, the shadow of something lingering in objects that have been handled, worn, loved, lost. His eyes bounce around the store before he heads upstairs to where the antique maps and books are housed. I like to start in the basement. It’s cold and draughty down there, a little dank, and as a result people rarely linger. That’s where traditionally I have uncovered something special, something overlooked. I head to the treasure cave.
The shop is almost empty, as is often the way with antique shops. Ambling about dusty rooms looking at things that are obsolete, the original owners long dead, doesn’t appeal to everyone. Personally, I like the peace. When I’m in an upmarket antique shop, I sometimes spot things that remind me of being in my grandparents’ home. It wasn’t somewhere I felt especially happy or loved, but I knew I was safe and that counted for something. They had beautiful furniture: a George III flame mahogany secretaire, Japanese silk screens from the eighteenth century, and a number of Regency long clocks with enamel faces that counted out my lonely minutes. When they died, I couldn’t see the financial or emotional value in the pieces. I let the executers of the will sell off everything in a hurry; Tom was once again in rehab and I had enough on my plate. All the beautiful things vanished. I find myself keeping an eye out and occasionally buying the odd small piece that reminds me of something they owned that I think might fit in my home. I’m not exactly sure why.
Today I get lucky. In among the chinaware, glass decanters and rather run-of-the-mill watercolours, I discover a pair of splendid Victorian hand-blown glass taxidermy domes. My grandparents had a similar pair that housed a collection of bright blue butterflies. The butterflies were suspended as though in flight in a way that as a child I thought was magical. I feel a shiver of mounting excitement in response to a thrilling find. The glass is bright and shiny and free from cracks; there are the usual tiny nibbles to the edge, but they are only detectable to touch, not to the eye. The handsome domes are about sixty centimetres tall and just less than thirty in diameter. The little cardboard label dates them circa 1880, which I think is accurate. They are sitting on black ebonised bases lined with the original claret velvet. The cloth is slightly sun-worn, but that only adds to their appeal as far as I’m concerned. I like things that are weathered and have endured. My heart lifts a little. This is the reason I enjoy antiquing; you never know what you are going to unearth.
