My Husband's Wife (24 page)

‘I wasn't sure that you'd come.'

We're sitting outside an Italian restaurant just off Leicester Square. I'm still shaken after our dinner with Carla. Not to mention everything that's been going on with Tom. After all, that's partly the reason I'm here.

It's unseasonably sunny for this time of year. I'm not wearing a coat, but I do have my sunglasses on. Red frames. They're necessary protection against the low-burning orange circle in the sky, but they also let me observe my companion without allowing him to make that eye contact he was always so good at.

Joe Thomas, it has to be said, looks like any of the businessmen walking past. Respectable in that dark-blue suit. Clean-shaven. Tidy hair. Shiny, black, pointed shoes. And a tan.

‘What do you want?' I'm keeping my tone deliberately level. Act normal, I tell myself. It's why I suggested this place in full view of the world.

His fingers position the cutlery so that it is perfectly in line with the edge of the place mat. His nails are clean. Well kept. ‘That's not very polite.'

‘Polite!' I laugh. ‘What do you call perverting the course of justice then?' I lower my voice, even though it's
quite low anyway. ‘You killed your girlfriend and then made me believe you were innocent.'

‘You
wanted
to believe I was innocent.' My companion leans forward so his breath mingles with mine. ‘You thought I was like your brother.'

I sit back. It was a mistake to come here. I see this now. Yet I too have my questions to ask. ‘I don't want you to send cards any more. How did you know when my birthday was?'

‘I looked it up. You can look almost anything up.' Joe Thomas smiles. ‘You should know that. I wanted to remind you that I was still thinking of you. But it's Tom I'm here about.'

I freeze. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I think you know already. It's why you're here. I would have come earlier, but I've been working abroad until recently. And when I came back, I found out you'd had a child.'

He leans across the table towards me again. ‘I need to know, Lily. Is he mine?'

My body goes cold. Numb. Underneath the table, my legs start to shake. Words are about to tumble out of my mouth, but I manage to pull them back and replace them with better ones. ‘Of course not. Don't be so ridiculous. I don't know what you're talking about.'

Gripping the edge of the table, I stand up.

‘I'm talking about us.' Joe's voice is pleading. His former arrogance now carries a note of desperation. ‘Don't go. I must have the truth.'

‘The truth?' I laugh. ‘What do you know about truth? You've allowed your imagination to run riot, Mr Thomas.'
I stop myself. It's not his fault he has ‘behavioural issues', as we argued in court. But that doesn't explain everything he's done. ‘You were my client twelve years ago and I've lived to rue the day I helped you get off. It's something I will never forgive myself for.' Tears blind my eyes. ‘Poor Sarah …'

Joe is clutching my hand now. ‘I do have some feelings, you know. I made a mistake, and I'm sorry. But it helped others – all of those other victims.'

I pull my hand out of his. People are looking at us from the adjoining table. I throw down a twenty-pound note to cover our drinks and walk off, through the square.

‘
It's Tom. He's in trouble.' Even now, some weeks later, my mother's taut voice, sprung with fear, haunts me. I hear it in my dreams. I hear it when I wake up. And I hear it when I'm meant to be concentrating in meetings, even though I know that that particular ‘Tom emergency' has been sorted.

Until the next one.

Ed and I had rushed down to Devon of course. It was just after that shock encounter with Carla at the gallery. I left quick, sharp messages of instructions to my secretary and junior partners while Ed drove, his mouth set in that thin line which said, ‘For God's sake, can't you forget about work while we sort out our son.'

I know what he meant. I've told myself the same thing over and over again, especially when I see another woman with a son of Tom's age walking past us in the streets or queuing up for Madame Tussauds.

But Tom would never stand like that in a line. He would
be worried about whether our feet were in the ‘right' position. He would be asking the woman behind us why she had a mole on her chin and how long it had been there and why she hadn't had it removed. Children like Tom don't always realize when they're being rude.

It would cause an awkward explanation on my part and a stepping away on the part of the imaginary woman with the mole. Naturally it's difficult having an almost-teenager who behaves like a toddler. But I can deal with that.

It's the violence that's not so easy. Take this scar on my forehead. It's from when Tom once accidentally hit me with a saucepan. I hadn't put the offending item back in its ‘proper' place in the kitchen, so he charged past me to put it right. And that mark on Ed's arm? That's because Ed once tried to play football with his boy, but Tom's poor spatial awareness skills (which can sometimes go with the label, apparently) made him frustrated.

So he bit Ed.

We'd been trying our best to ‘put strategies of structure in place to address challenging behaviour' (according to one rather useful piece of online advice). But as he'd got older and bigger – even taller than me, despite his age! – he got worse. More violent. And now the time had come to do something about it. That much was clear when, after a five-hour dash to Devon that night, we had an emergency meeting at our son's school the next morning.

‘He flew at his teacher with a pair of scissors.'

The head's exhausted tone – usually more sympathetic – made me realize we'd reached the end of the line. Tom had been allowed to go to the local school, despite his
special needs; partly because of our local connections (I had been there too, and Mum is on the board of governors), and partly because we'd argued that we wanted him to be in mainstream schooling. If he was with others ‘like him', Ed and I had argued, Tom wouldn't have any role models to help him improve.

‘We've tried, but we simply can't cope with this behaviour any more.' The head spoke as if Ed and I had picked up the scissors ourselves.

‘But she's all right, yes?' Ed was just about controlling himself.

‘That depends,' said the head curtly, ‘on whether you count five stitches as being acceptable.'

‘Tom was hurt too,' snapped Ed.

‘That was self-inflicted.'

I'm used to arbitrating between clients. Between clients and barristers too. But when it comes to my own family, my skills seem to fly out of the window. Stick to the facts, I told myself, just as I told my clients. Stick to the facts.

‘Can you tell us exactly what happened?' I asked. ‘Mum told me there had been an argument in Geography.'

Those disapproving eyes swivelled back to me. ‘The children were asked to cut out maps. Tom was fussing about his outline. He said he needed more time to get it right. The teacher told him that his was perfectly acceptable and that they needed to finish before break-time. There was an argument, during which he picked up the scissors and nearly stabbed her. Luckily she stepped to one side and they went into the desk.'

‘Hang on. You said she needed stitches!'

‘She did.' The head was regarding Ed as though he was no better than Tom. ‘She fell in her attempt to avoid the scissors and hit her head.'

‘He didn't cut her then? It was an accident.'

‘That's not the point.' The head's voice was rising. ‘It could have been fatal.'

‘So that explains it!' My relief sang out. ‘It wasn't because he wanted to hurt her. He was hurting inside because his outlines weren't right. Don't you see?'

There was a shake of the head. ‘No, Mrs Macdonald, I don't.'

‘You
know
Tom needs to get everything right. It's part of his condition.'

‘That's as may be, but I won't accept any kind of abuse towards my staff. You're lucky we didn't call the police.' The head stood up, indicating the interview was at an end. ‘I'm sorry, but you must remember what the educational psychologist said the last time this happened.'

Briefly, I thought back to the day Tom had got too near a girl in the playground. (Problems with personal space again.) She'd pushed him away and he'd pushed her back. She'd fallen awkwardly and cracked her wrist. Full blame, rather unfairly in my view, had fallen on our son.

‘It's another example of his behaviour.' The head was sounding weary now. ‘We can't keep Tom here any more. It's time to consider a special school. One that can deal with his … his issues. In the meantime, Tom is suspended.'

Of course, Mum stepped in. She'd been through ‘challenging behaviour' before with Daniel. This time she would get it right. ‘We'll look after him at home until they
sort something out,' she insisted when we returned, drained and worried after the meeting.

‘Where is he now?'

My mother bit her lip. ‘Upstairs. He's pushed something against the door so I can't open it. But he's talking, so I think he's all right.'

A cold shaft of terror caught at my heart. I could see him climbing out of the window. Cutting his own wrist with scissors. Hanging from the ceiling …

Together Ed and I raced up the stairs. ‘Tom, it's Mum. Are you all right?'

No answer.

‘Tom.' Ed tried again. ‘We understand what happened at school. Just let us in.'

He could try all day, but Tom wouldn't give in.

‘I don't want to talk.'

Ed tried again. ‘Do you know that your teacher has had to have stitches?'

‘She didn't have to,' he retorted quickly. ‘She shouldn't have fallen.'

Her fault for falling. My fault for upsetting Daniel at the end. Ed's fault for not telling me about the trust. Joe's fault for killing Sarah.

Who knows where blame really lies? It's never as simple as it seems.

Desperately, Ed and I attempted to keep our lives together while sorting out Tom's educational future at the same time. It wasn't easy to find a school that could deal with Tom's needs. But, once more, an online help group, along with the consultant, pointed us in the right direction.
Some parents, we later found out, take ages to find ‘the right education package for children with autism spectrum disorders'. We were lucky.

There was a ‘good school' (according to reviews) about an hour from my parents. It offered flexible boarding, which would take the strain off us all, yet also made us feel guilty. But something had to be done. So we both went down to visit it. There were children like Tom. But many were more challenging. One teacher was wiping faeces off the wall of a corridor as we passed. The smell clung to us, suffocating us in the knowledge that this was the world we were condemning him to.

‘How can we send him to a boarding school?' wept Ed on the way back. The traffic on the snarled-up motorway appeared to reflect our own personal impasse.

‘
You
went to one.'

‘That was different.'

‘Yours was posh, you mean.'

‘If you like.'

‘We're sending him to a boarding school because we can't cope and because they have specialized help,' I said, tapping my fingers on the wheel.

‘You sound so cold. Emotionless.'

It was the only way I could manage. Better than Ed's method, which was to start drinking vodka as well as wine.

A few weeks later, I finally picked up the phone to Carla and apologized for not having returned her calls. ‘We've had a few problems,' I said, and explained that Tom had got into trouble at school but that it was all sorted now.

We invited her round for dinner. I still felt tense. But it went better than I'd expected, apart from some awkward bits about Ed's paintings and when my husband said too much about Tom. At least my husband didn't let slip that we've sent our son to another school – one that's used to dealing with ‘that kind of behaviour' – and that Tom now refuses to speak to us on the phone.

Before that, the three of us had talked about the old days when Carla was a child and we were a newly married couple. It reminded me of our difficult start and, at one point, I reached under the table for Ed's hand to squeeze it.
I'm sorry
, said my squeeze,
that I'm on edge. It's not just the case. It's Joe Thomas too
. But of course, Ed didn't hear any of that because I didn't have the guts to say it out loud.

Meanwhile, Carla chatted away about her studies. And we talked about poor Tony Gordon and where Carla could find him, because she wanted to visit to give a message from her mother. Really? What had happened to that unlikely pair after our awful row in the corridor? Had Francesca and Tony kept in touch? But I didn't like to ask Carla. Besides, part of me still feels bad for having interfered at the time.

So slightly against my better judgement, I gave Tony's contact details to our guest.

Why not? I reassured myself. Carla is a nice girl. How could she possibly harm a dying man?

Carla had only been to a hospice once before. A friend of Nonna's had been in one, just days before she died. Mamma had taken her to visit. It was disrespectful, she said, that her friend's family couldn't look after her at home themselves. But the daughter-in-law was English. What could you expect?

‘I am here to visit Tony Gordon,' she said firmly to the woman on reception.

The woman glanced at a sheet of paper in front of her. ‘I'm afraid I can't find you on the list.'

Carla summoned up one of her most charming smiles. ‘I am an old friend, visiting from Italy, and I do not have long. Please. I would be very grateful.'

The woman returned her smile. Smiles were catching, Carla knew. Mamma had taught her that many years ago. ‘Tony is resting at the moment, but you can go in for a few minutes. You might not get much sense out of him, mind you. One of our volunteers will show you the way.'

Gingerly, Carla walked down the corridor. As she passed open doors, she glanced in. A young woman was
lying on her back, her mouth open, dozing noisily. And then the volunteer stopped. ‘Just in there,' he said.

Was that really him? Larry with the shiny car? Larry who had been so tall and imposing?

Carla stared at the grey man lying on his back in the bed. There was no hat. No hair either. But there was a strange box-like thing attached to his throat. His eyes were closed, but as she approached they snapped open, then froze.

‘Larry,' she said grimly.

‘This is Tony,' whispered the young man behind her.

Carla whipped round. ‘Please leave us,' she said firmly. ‘I need a private conversation.'

The young man nodded and closed the door.

Carla fixed her gaze on Larry again. His eyes were frozen, she realized, with fear. Good.

‘Yes, it's me.' Slowly she forced herself to touch the box on his throat. ‘You cannot talk, I hear. Throat cancer. That means you will have to listen.'

Her voice felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone cruel. A bully. Like the ones who had tormented her at school. ‘You promised a future to my mother, Larry. But you did not deliver. Do you know what that meant?'

His ill, milky eyes were staring up at her, scared. ‘It meant she had to go back to Italy, downcast and despised, because she had a child and no husband. Mamma wasted the best years of her life waiting for you to leave your wife. But you did not do that, did you? And why? Because you wanted to have your cake and eat it, as you English say.'

There was a small movement. So small that it was
barely noticeable. The eyes were still rigidly fixed on her. Carla could almost smell his fear. But it didn't give her the satisfaction she thought it would. Instead, she almost felt sorry for this curled-up, shrivelled shell of a man.

‘My mother has sent me here with a message.' Her hands clenched inside her jacket pockets. ‘I am to tell you that she still loves you. That she would like to see you again, if you were to come to Italy. But I can see now that this is not possible.'

A silent tear began to roll down from Larry's left eye. And then his right.

Carla swallowed hard. She had not been expecting this.

‘I just hope you regret your behaviour,' she said quietly.

Then she turned on her heel and walked fast down the corridor. Past the dozing young woman. Past the lady at reception. And out of this hellhole as fast as she could possibly go.

Four nights later, her mobile rang.

Lily's voice at the other end was quiet. ‘I thought you ought to know, Carla. Tony Gordon died last night. Did you manage to see him before he went?'

‘No.' Carla began to tremble. What if they tried to blame her for upsetting him? ‘No. I didn't.'

‘That's a shame.' Yet Carla could tell that Lily was relieved. In fact, she'd been surprised when Lily had given her his details so easily. ‘It's sad really. Tony Gordon wasn't a saint, but he had his troubles.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘His wife has had multiple sclerosis for years. It couldn't
have been easy for him. Ironic that she's outlived him, really. Poor woman is in a wheelchair. It will be hard for her without him.'

Something faltered inside Carla. Larry had needed something his wife couldn't offer. Laughter and company. Yet he couldn't leave his wife. Not if she was an invalid. Had her mother known all this?

‘The funeral is next Wednesday, if you would like to come.'