Two dead wives, p.8
Two Dead Wives, page 8
Giles is alone. It’s a relief, it’s what she wanted, and yet her stomach lurches. It’s the last thing she wants. He doesn’t stop working on the car to jump up and kiss her, like he’s in some sort of romantic novel. He doesn’t passionately reach for her and take her over the bonnet of the car, like something more X-rated.
“Hiya, love,” he says. Like they’re an old married couple who have been together a hundred years. He glances her way; notices she is wet through. “Is it raining?”
“We need to talk.” She hates herself. It’s such a ridiculous cliché of a line. But what else can she say?
We think we’re all so different and yet we’re the same. Over the long history of humankind, people have needed to ditch their partners, and the decent ones decide to do it face-to-face. So there’s nothing other than We need to talk.
She sees him bring her into focus. Finally. He watches her carefully. Perhaps he’s noticing the fine droplets of rainwater hanging around her hairline, on her eyelashes and cheekbones; maybe he’s thinking something romantic, like she looks luminous, like a mermaid. Maybe he’s thinking he loves her a lot. She doesn’t know what he’s thinking. But she watches his expression change as the words find a way to stumble out of her mouth. It’s hard. The hardest thing she’s ever had to do. She manages to say that she doesn’t love him enough to give it all up. This isn’t what she wants. He isn’t what she wants.
“What? Give what up exactly?” he asks, confused.
“My future.”
“But I am your future.”
She doesn’t answer that. Which says everything really.
11
Stacie
Stacie thinks the only thing she can possibly do now is run. Leave immediately. She doesn’t want to have to unpick the mess she’s created; to stick around to hear the judgment and condemnation from nosy neighbors, concerned friends and disappointed relatives, who will all have a view. She doesn’t want anyone to try to talk her out of her decision. Speaking to Giles took all the energy and courage she had. She’s teetering on the edge. She wants to jump and take flight, but there’s a chance she might slink back to the safety of a well-worn path if anyone really tries to persuade her to do so.
Everyone is excited about the wedding. It wasn’t her wedding she’d just canceled, not even hers and Giles’s; it belonged to the entire village. She’s stolen from them. Stolen something they were looking forward to. She’s aware that people have already bought new outfits for the big day. Those coming from further afield have booked trains and accommodation. How could she be so selfish? And Giles’s parents. The thought of them sends a flash of angst through her core. What will Heidi and Ian say? They have paid for the drinks, cars and flowers. They will be devastated, obviously. They will be disappointed in her, furious. They’ll probably just outright hate her. She is like a daughter to them. They are always saying so. Everyone is always saying so.
Except she isn’t, because if she was like a daughter to them, they wouldn’t hate her; they’d try to understand her, that’s what parents do. Her dad is struggling with it, but she can see he is trying.
He’s followed her into her bedroom. He rarely comes in here. He respects her privacy; they chat in the kitchen or living room. This is her space, but today he’s stumbled into her room, tracked her down; he is wide-eyed with stress. He didn’t even knock. Heidi has probably already been on the phone. Stacie has the bigger of the two bedrooms in the house. When her mother was still living with them, this was her parents’ room, but after she left, her father said it made sense for Stacie to have it. Stacie thought he was simply being practical or generous—she had more toys, clothes, sports equipment, she needed the extra space more than he did. As an adult, she now understands that maybe his decision was more of an emotional one; he wouldn’t have wanted to continue to sleep alone in his marital bedroom after the woman he loved had gone.
There are layers that evidence Stacie staking a claim on the room, making it hers over the years. Her old school books and notebooks laze on shelves and under her bed. Untouched for ages but not thrown away, because she isn’t the sort to spend time decluttering. Broken bits of jewelry lie scattered on the dressing table, waiting for a day when they will be fixed. Bottles of nail varnish, odd socks and tennis balls languish. There are unframed pictures cut out of magazines, old birthday cards and postcards tacked to the wall. The yellowing tape is failing and the pictures droop, slip, slide. It doesn’t matter. Stacie has always believed it’s not what’s inside this room that makes it special, it’s what lies outside.
The room faces out onto the sea. The window is enormous; it’s sometimes possible to imagine you are standing on the beach, being engulfed by the elements. Buffeted on a windy day, soused on a wet one, cocooned on a warm one. On extremely hot days, Stacie lies on her bed and watches the sun drip over the tiny Juliet balcony, fall through the window and pool beside her. There is no sun today, though, just a flat sky the color of a bruise. The downpour has settled into a hopeless drizzle.
Her dad watches, with obvious despair, as she darts around the room picking up clothes off the floor or urgently pulling them out of the wardrobe, then flinging them into a suitcase. She’s not wasting any time folding; she’s just throwing T-shirts, jumpers, jeans and pants together higgledy-piggledy. It doesn’t matter to her. All she wants is as many things as possible packed as quickly as possible, and then she wants to get out of here. Ideally before a neighbor knocks on the door and says they’ve heard the news, demanding to know what the hell she’s thinking.
“You don’t have to run off,” her dad says.
“I do.” The words echo around her messy room. Spitefully pinching her. The very words she can’t bring herself to say to Giles.
Her dad must be thinking the same thing, because color floods into his cheeks, which happens when he’s embarrassed. Or angry. He does get angry sometimes. Infrequently but incredibly so. He goes red when shouting at the news; anything about animal cruelty quite naturally makes him boil, as do tourists swimming in the sea when a red flag is flying. “Bloody idiots, if they get into trouble, they put others at risk saving them.” He tries to stay calm. Prides himself on remaining in control. He thinks rowing is uncivil. Violence barbaric. Stacie can remember just two occasions in her life when her father really lost it. Once when Jed Illingworth, her little friend from next door, pushed her into the road and a car had to swerve to avoid hitting her. They were only messing, he hadn’t meant to put her in danger, but her dad went ape. He shook Jed so hard she thought his teeth were going to fall out. And the other time was when her mother left. He smashed plates, put his fists through paintings, tore books from shelves. He was unrecognizable.
“I thought you were so happy,” he says, quietly. Not angry then, embarrassed for her. Of her?
Stacie pauses, sits on the edge of the bed and faces her dad through their reflections in the dressing table mirror. “You know what it’s like around here.”
“Lovely,” he replies with conviction.
“Limiting,” she counters.
He winces. “How so?”
“Everyone is given a role. I don’t like the role I’ve been given.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like Prue McCullen is the village busybody, and Mr. Baxter plays the church organ and likes to play the fool. Always relied upon for the dad jokes. Naomi Thomas is ‘such a good mum’ and Tanya Vaughan is ‘no better than she ought to be.’ Popular opinion is that she’ll never be a mother, and if she is, there will be no sign of a dad. Even if Naomi literally ate her kids on the village green, people would somehow blame Tanya. Al Morgan is a solid bloke, going to do well for himself, whereas Luca Cinelli is known as a work-shy feck. No one can change or grow here.”
“What’s my role?”
“You’re Poor Ken, whose wife ran off.”
“I see.”
“Come on, Dad, that can’t be news.”
“I’d hoped you were going to say I’m the hot divorcé.” Stacie can’t help but grin. Her dad is trying to make a joke, trying to understand and be on her team. “And you are...?”
“Pretty young thing about to marry her childhood sweetheart. Destined to become the farmer’s wife.” Her dad stifles a guffaw. “What?” Stacie demands, doubting very much that there is anything to laugh at.
“I’m just thinking about that nursery rhyme. You know, ‘The farmer wants a wife, the farmer wants a wife, e-a-adio, the farmer wants a wife.’ The whole village is going to be singing it.”
Stacie sighs, because it’s true and awful. “Well, I’m not that woman. For a start, I don’t want a child, and that’s how the rhyme goes, isn’t it?” Giles has often said he wants to have at least four children. Stacie always nodded when he said as much. She should perhaps have contradicted him. Or at the very least raised an eyebrow, given him some indication that she wasn’t buying into the big family idea. She misled him and she feels awful about that. Really horrible.
“What? Not ever?” Her dad looks shocked. He’s obviously never considered this possibility. Most likely he daydreamed about grandchildren.
Four children would ground her.
Tether her.
Grind her down.
She isn’t sure which.
“I don’t know. Certainly not anytime soon,” she says, panicked. She feels like an animal being backed into a corner.
“But you are a pretty young thing. That’s a fair assessment.”
Stacie knows she is more than that. And less. “Look, Dad, I can’t think about this right now. Any of this.” She stands up and closes her suitcase with an air of finality and determination. She scrambles the combination lock, then goes to her bedside table and roots around in the drawer until she retrieves her passport. “It’s best if I just leave. It’s the coward’s way, but it’s also the only way.”
“Giles is a good man. He loves you so much.”
“I know.”
“But that’s not enough?”
“It’s not everything.”
Her dad closes his eyes, sways back a little on his heels. His shoulders touch the wall behind him. He jumps as though startled, but then instantly seems relieved that the wall is there to prop him up. He looks broken. In some ways this feels harder than explaining it to Giles. Whatever Giles thinks now, Stacie knows he will meet someone else. The farmer will get his wife, a child, a nurse, a dog, a bone. Honestly, Stacie would put money on the fact that he’ll marry the next girl he dates and that they’ll marry in the local church, as he and Stacie were supposed to. They will have the reception in the village pub; he might not even lose his deposit, he can carry it over. It will be the same vicar, same order of service, same hymns and florist. Just a different bride. That is part of the reason she has called the whole thing off, because she’s come to realize that she was following Giles’s life plan, not her own. She felt trapped by him. She had to break away.
But her father isn’t in the same boat as Giles. He will not be able to get himself a substitute daughter and gamely carry on. He depends on her. She is his everything, his world.
And in all honesty, she feels trapped by that too.
Her father is a coconspirator with Giles, Heidi, Prue, the lot of them, because he loves the idea of his daughter settling down on the farm just a couple of miles away from his house. He wants to see Stacie every day, to be part of her life. He doesn’t mind sharing her—that’s natural and normal—but he can’t stand the idea of not having anything of her. Not seeing her. “What’s wrong with settling down?” he asks. His voice is almost a groan.
“It’s not just the settling down I object to, it’s the settling for. I need to see more, Dad. More than the twenty square miles that we all live out our lives in around here.”
“Well, yes, of course you do. That’s natural. But you have had more. You went to art college.”
“I did. Yes. And do you honestly think I’m putting my degree to good use by working in the café in the garden center?”
“You’re the assistant manager. You make the cakes. People love your cakes, and there’s a lot of creativity involved in cake-making.”
“Dad, the only people who ever come into the garden center café are people I’ve known all my life. They are bound to say my cakes are delicious. They’ve been saying that since I baked for Brownie fundraisers.”
“Well, that doesn’t make it any less true.”
“I need more.”
“Well, a holiday then. That’s what you need. Maybe you and Giles should still go to Ibiza, but not as a married couple. Just think of it as a regular holiday rather than a honeymoon.” He is speaking quickly. She can hear the desperation in his voice; it sticks in the back of his throat. “You haven’t been away together for years. Not since he started saving for an engagement ring and then you both started saving for the wedding. Going away will give you time to talk.”
Stacie throws him a despairing look. “Seriously, Dad, can you imagine the two of us arriving at an all-inclusive honeymoon package resort and not being married? The place will be full of loved-up couples. It will be all rose petals on the bed and champagne on ice. It would be mortifying. I need to go away on my own. Live somewhere different.” She declares it as a fact. Solid. Impenetrable. Non-negotiable.
“How long for?”
“I don’t know. Months. Maybe a year. Maybe longer.” She never lies to her dad.
“Where will you go?” She doesn’t answer him. She hasn’t decided, and she knows that admitting to the absence of a plan will expose her. “You won’t manage, Stacie. I know you. You’re best off around here. Honestly, ask anyone you like and everyone will say the same. I’m your dad, I want what’s best for you. Around here are all the people who love you, all your friends who have known you your whole life. Any one of us would do anything for you.” They don’t know her or understand her. She’s sure of that. “You think out there there’s nothing but fun and adventure, but you’re wrong, Stacie. The world is a big and scary place. At least it can be.” He’s gasping now, shaking.
She stares at him. Every word he utters proves to her that she is right. They don’t have a clue. They think she’s an innocent, rather naive child, who is throwing away her best opportunity. They think she came back from art college with fancy ideas and has since been a bit above herself. With a tendency toward being haughty and distant.
It is the opposite. She came back broken. A drug habit that was veering away from recreational and toward dependency, an abortion and a third-class degree had punched the spirit out of her. She has never known how to talk to them about any of it.
Giles seemed so clean and good. Which was, at the beginning, fascinating and attractive but has become alienating and remote. She didn’t actively choose to be with him; it was more a case of him being the hardest person for her to scare away. He is such a confident optimist. So she found herself dating him, then becoming engaged to him. She just sort of drifted into it; everyone expected it from them.
Sometimes it irritated her that he was so damned positive that he was unaware that anyone might be something other. He didn’t seem to notice when she was rude to him, which she tried to avoid because she hated herself when she was rude to him. She didn’t want to hate herself, but she couldn’t help feeling sordid and unpleasant in comparison to him. On occasion, his obliviousness irritated her so much she was flat-out nasty to him. He didn’t deserve that. But sometimes she couldn’t stop herself. He was a sitting fucking duck.
She didn’t want to fuck a duck.
It was kindest just to end it. She’d come back here to hide from the first man she’d really loved. Despite her dad’s insistence that everyone around here knew her, no one knew that. She needn’t have bothered hiding; it wasn’t as though he ever actively looked for her. Even when they were together, he wasn’t always aware she was in the room. That was what she was hiding from, really. That utter and total rejection. That sense of not being seen at all. Not mattering at all.
When she first returned, she was relieved to be seen, noted. It was reassuring. She felt more real because they noticed her: the nosy neighbors, her dad, Giles, the dog. She felt validated and healthy. It was easier to be healthy here because it was almost impossible to find drugs. At college you could hardly move without being offered boy, beans and blow. Here, you had to go out of your way, which she did sometimes, but just for a bit of hash, no pills, no powder. That was behind her. For a while, she really believed that Giles was in front of her. With his round cheeks, his Hunter wellies and his life plan.
It seemed enough. A lot. Then, unexpectedly, it seemed too much. What started as concerned interest, notice, soon felt like surveillance; her every damn move was documented. Their gazes caged her. “Be careful what you wish for,” that’s what they say, isn’t it. The worst of it was that they were all looking at her all the time, but no one could see her. Not really. They all thought they knew her. They repeatedly insisted on it. “Oh, you’ve always loved pink.” “You like a Malibu and Coke, that’s your poison.” Yes, when she was seven; yes, when she was seventeen, but they don’t know who she is now that she is twenty-seven.
The scariest thing of all is that sometimes, she doesn’t know who she is either. She hasn’t had time or space to work it out.
Giles would never have given her space. And nor will her father. She has to snatch it for herself.
“I have to leave,” she reaffirms with dogged determination. She drags her case off the bed and takes one, two long strides out the bedroom door. More steps take her down the stairs.
