My Husband's Wife (11 page)

What was that scratching noise under the door? An envelope! Eager to please, she ran to get it, handing it to Lily. Ed looked annoyed – whoops, she'd forgotten not to move!

‘Ed?' Lily's voice sounded like Mamma's when Larry couldn't come over in the evening. ‘Take a look at this.'

Ed's face stiffened. ‘We'll have to call the police.'

Then he looked at Carla. ‘Shall we see if your mamma is home from work now?'

My first thought, as Ed hands the note to me, is that it must have come from Sarah. My mind races back to the message that the secretary gave me last week.

‘The caller?' I asked at the time. ‘What did she sound like?'

The girl shrugged. ‘I don't know. Normal.'

‘Not dead?' I almost asked.

Trembling, my fingers dialled the number.

‘Sarah Evans speaking.'

There was no doubt about it. Sarah Evans was speaking to me. What was going on?

‘I'm Lily Macdonald,' I began, remembering at the last minute to use my new surname. ‘I'm returning your call about –'

Angrily, she cut in. ‘About my daughter.'

Relief flooded through me. Sarah Evans must have been named after her mother.

‘How can you defend that man?' she hissed. ‘How could you?'

Relief was soon replaced by a sinking inside my chest. Wouldn't I feel the same if I had a daughter? Until this point, I'd been more concerned with whether we could get Joe Thomas off.

But the distraught voice reminded me of my own
mother's words all those years ago.
How could you, Lily? How could you?

My fingers began to sweat. Poor woman. Then I recalled the newspaper article and felt worse. She had cancer.

‘I'm so sorry, Mrs Evans, but I can't discuss the case with you.'

Then, hating myself, I replaced the receiver and went to tell my boss the bad news about ‘losing' certain papers that were vital to Joe Thomas's appeal.

Now, in our flat, as I read the note that has just appeared under our door, I assume it's from her. ‘How did she find me?' I say, shaking. ‘How does she know where we live?'

‘
She?
' Ed's mouth is grim. ‘You know who wrote it?'

Briefly I explain what happened.

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Because we don't have that kind of relationship.' The words burst out of my mouth like an angry rush of bathwater. (It's an image which has been haunting me ever since I took on Joe's case.) ‘You never ask me about my day. All you do when you come back is draw or paint.'

‘Please don't argue, Lily and Ed.'

The little voice at my side reminds us that someone else is present. A child we are responsible for, if only for a day at a time.

‘Sorry, poppet.' I put my arm around her. ‘Ed's right. We need to see if your mother is back home now. I've got an important phone call to make.'

‘Can't I stay while you do it?'

Those deep brown eyes are imploring.

‘Not today.' Ed's voice is firm. Then he looks at me. ‘Do you want me to call this woman?'

‘Why?'

‘I'm your husband.'

But what kind of husband doesn't tell his wife he was previously engaged until after the wedding? Yet I can't say any of this in front of the child. It wouldn't be right.

‘Let's go, shall we?' says Ed to Carla. I hear them walk along the corridor, Ed's slow measured step next to Carla's little hopping ones. Then I look at the note again. It is typed with several spelling errors. It doesn't seem like the kind of note that an educated-sounding Sarah Evans would write. But then again, you never know.

IF YOU TRY TOO HELP THAT MAN, YOU WILL BE SORY

I try to stop the shaking but it won't go away. Ed's right. I have to report this before it gets worse.

I'm lying in bed struggling not to think about my new reality. Someone out there wants to hurt me. It's a scary feeling.

‘Tell me one more time what happened,' instructed Tony Gordon when I rang the following day. So I did. Just as I had told the police and my boss. A child who was visiting heard the note being pushed under the door. No, we didn't see the person who did it, although I had received a phone call from the victim's mother a few days earlier. On the same day that vital papers were stolen.

The more I had to repeat it, the more I felt as though I was the accused. There was also the weird temptation to embellish it slightly; to make it more interesting or easier to be believed. Was this how criminals felt? Was this how they dug themselves into an even deeper grave? Like Daniel?

Of course, no one could do anything about it. How could they trace a typed note from an unknown sender without a postmark? All they could do was warn me to ‘be careful', as if that might help. Instead, it has done the opposite. Even when I walk to the bus and hear footsteps behind me, I purposefully do not look behind.

I will not be scared. I will not be intimidated. That was the whole point of entering the law. I have to believe in something that has power over evil. If I allow myself to be bullied, I've lost.

I turn restlessly, staring at the ceiling as it's lit up by a passing car's headlights.

Then I hear it. Clearly.

‘Please. Davina,' says Ed. Then, louder, ‘Davina.' He's talking in his sleep.

‘I'm not Davina.' I begin to shake him. He jerks awake.

‘What's wrong? What's happened?'

‘You called me Davina.'

‘Don't be ridiculous.'

‘I'm not. You still feel something for her. Don't you?'

‘For pity's sake, Lily. Go back to sleep and stop imagining things.'

But I know I'm not.

This time, it's him who is lying.

Almost immediately, a new coolness develops between us. We act like the other doesn't exist; trying to squeeze past each other in our tiny flat and sleeping as far apart as possible in the bed as though a mistaken brush of skin against skin might kill us both.

I've never been the kind of woman who has close friends. Always shied away from too much intimacy – too
many chances of sharing confidences. But now I find myself in desperate need of having someone to talk to. Someone who might be able to give me advice about Ed.

There's only one person I can think of.

I ring Ross during my lunch hour. Tell him about Ed and the ‘Davinas' in his sleep. Then, because he's so understanding and sympathetic, I find myself telling him too about the threatening letter from the unknown sender and how the police had merely told me to ‘be careful'.

Ross listens rather than offering quick-fix solutions. (As if there are any!) But it helps just to voice my own fears to someone other than myself.

That night, Ed comes home late. ‘I've been out for a drink,' he says.

‘With Davina?' I demand, my heart beating. So he's going to leave me after all. Despite his behaviour, I'm terrified. Now I'm going to have to start again. Who else would ever love me?

‘With Ross, actually.' He reaches for my hands. ‘Look, I know our marriage hasn't got off to the best start but I do love you, Lily. And I'm worried about you. This letter … that man who took your bag … you visiting that criminal in prison … I don't like it. I'm scared.'

‘Too bad. It's my job.'

My words come out harshly, but inside I'm relieved that he seems to care.

‘I know it is and I admire you for it. Ross said you're a girl in a million. And he's right.'

If only he knew!

‘Just talking to him,' Ed continues, ‘reminded me how lucky I am.' His hands are gripping mine now. They're warm
even though it's a frosty night outside. ‘Let's start again, shall we? Please?'

‘What about Davina?'

‘What about her?' He looks straight back at me. ‘I'm over her, Lily. It's you I married. And I want to stay that way. Do you think we could start again?'

I'm exhausted. It's been full on in the office, with constant phone calls from Tony Gordon. Luckily he has copies of the documents that were stolen – he tells me he always photocopies documents at least twice – even though it's ‘unfortunate' that someone else has the originals.

And full on with Ed.

It's as though this time he is really seeing me. And no one else. He says my name and not hers. As I slowly start to trust my husband, my body begins to respond to his. Yet there are still occasions when I slip, and imagine Ed is someone else.

It makes me tetchy with guilt. And the constant pressure of my work makes us both snappy.

‘You need to switch off,' says Ed when I work through another file while eating supper at the same time. ‘I've barely spoken to you this week.'

I glance at his sketchpad by the place mat. ‘At least I get paid for it. It's not a hobby.'

A mean jibe. Provoked by my annoyance at what I'm reading. But it's too late to take it back.

‘One day,' says Ed in a voice that sounds like it's being squeezed out of his mouth, ‘I
will
be paid for doing what I want to do more than anything else. In the meantime, I
am flogging myself during the week in a job that I loathe in order to bring in the bacon.'

‘I contribute too.'

‘And don't we know it.'

I want this marriage to work. But despite what's going on in the bedroom, I'm beginning to wonder if it can. Maybe it's just this case with Joe Thomas. When it's been resolved, I'll be able to think straight again. But not now. There's too much going on.

At the back of my mind
that
day is looming. November 24th. Eight years ago. Every year it comes round faster than I expect.

‘I have to visit my parents,' I tell Ed the next day as we lie entwined in each other's arms. The alarm clock has gone off. We are both steeling ourselves to get out of our warm bed (the flat is like an icebox) and set off for work. But I have to face the thing I've been putting off.

‘It's the anniversary of Daniel's death,' I add.

His arms tighten. ‘You should have told me. Shall I come with you? I can call in sick.'

No more lies. ‘Thanks. But I think it's best if I go alone.'

I think again about the version of events I gave Ed. Back when we first met. We haven't talked about it since.

I'd briefed my parents too.

They agree with me.

There are some things that none of us want the rest of the world to know.

I'd hoped Mum and Dad would move after Daniel. But no. There they stayed. A rather tired but still lovely Georgian village house, bought years ago by my grandparents.
Nestling in its spot on top of the cliffs, with its neatly trimmed topiary bushes in the front garden and its footpath down to the sea at the back.

Stables too.

And ghosts.

‘We don't want to lose the memories,' my mother had said at the time.

Memories! Wasn't that exactly what we needed to shed?

‘There were good ones too, you know,' my father reminded me gently.

As I walk down the gravel drive towards my old home I find myself wishing Ed were here to hold my hand. Wishing now that I'd told him everything when I had the chance.

But if I had, he would surely have left me.

‘Lily!' My father wraps me up in a bear hug. There is no resisting. I am a child again. Back in the days when I felt secure.

‘Lily.' My mother's faint voice, laden with bravery, cuts in. ‘It's been so long since your last visit.'

‘I'm sorry,' I begin.

‘It's all right. We know you've been busy at work.' My father is already leading me into the sitting room. I sit down on the worn sofa. My parents may have inherited this lovely house, but they have little money to run it. The oil-fired central heating is rarely on. I shiver, wishing I'd brought a thicker jumper.

‘I've been reading about this new case of yours,' says Dad. ‘Sounds very interesting.'

He flourishes a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
at me and my heart quickens. There it is. A large article on the second page.

I scan it quickly. There are the usual gory details about the crime, a picture of Sarah Evans that I try not to look at, and a quote from her mother: ‘I can't understand how anyone can defend this evil monster …'

Below are two pictures. Me and Tony Gordon. We each have a smile on our face. Not very suitable under the circumstances. Great. Where did they get them from? A listed professional profile perhaps, in the public domain?

‘Sounds like you've taken on something very big.'

My father's voice swells with pride as he pours me a gin and tonic.

‘How do you know this man is innocent?' asks my mother quietly, sitting next to me on the sofa, a glass already in her hand. She's gazing wistfully out of the window, across the garden with its bare trees and down towards the paddock.

When I was a child, I had been the apple of her eye. I can remember her cooking with me like I bake with Carla. We'd cuddle up together and sing songs. Go for long walks to find chestnuts. But then Daniel had come along and there'd been no time for these normal things any more.

How do I know Joe is innocent? My mother's question catches me out.

Because there are similarities to Daniel, I want to say. Because he can't help telling the truth even if it's rude. And because my gut feeling tells me that I need to save him.

I select the only part that would make sense. ‘Some new evidence has emerged that shows …' Then I stop.

‘She can't talk about it. You know that, love.'

My father might be retired (after Daniel, it proved impossible for him to carry on), but as a social worker he dealt a lot with lawyers. He understands the etiquette. To me, however, he'll always be Daddy. The man who read me stories at night and assured me that there wasn't anyone hiding under the bed.

‘Are you staying over?' My mother again.

‘Sorry. I need to be back for Ed.'

Their disappointment is tangible.

‘Lunch is almost ready now.' She rises and, en route to the kitchen, tops up her own glass.

The meal is a torment. We talk about everything else except the reason I am here. My mother tops up her glass frequently. Meanwhile, I pick at the fish pie, my brother's favourite.