My Husband's Wife (25 page)

‘Live each day as if it were your last.'

The words of the hymn reach out to me. It's a salutary reminder that the past is only a second ago. The present merely exists for a brief second too, before being relegated to history.

Tony apparently chose the hymns himself.

I look around the church at the other mourners. From the outside, it's a rather lovely grey building which rises with a calmness of its own next to the busy Aldgate street that runs past. I've walked by it a few times but never been inside before. Now I wish I had. It's surprisingly peaceful, with a beautiful stained-glass window of the Virgin Mary to the right of me. I find myself praying for Tom, and for Daniel, and for Ed, and for me.

Somehow I never had Tony down as the churchgoing type. But according to the vicar's eulogy, he went every Sunday. Was generous, too, to local charities. Especially one for multiple sclerosis.

Silently, we all watch the pale ash coffin pass by, carried by six men of varying ages. Friends? Colleagues?

Is it really possible that inside is the body of the keen-minded barrister I once admired so much? Who made such an impression on me when I was still so young
and naive? The same man who had been seeing Carla's mother on the quiet?

I'm reminded acutely of the latter when Tony's widow greets us graciously at the reception afterwards. It is being held in the hall adjoining the church. She is sitting in her wheelchair, back straight and head held high like it's a throne. ‘Thank you for coming,' she says, as if welcoming me to a cocktail party. She has tiny features, I note. Her complexion is pale and translucent, the kind one might see in an ‘over sixty and still beautiful' magazine feature. On her knees is a fuchsia silk shawl; the invitation had clearly said ‘No black'. I, myself, am wearing a dove-grey designer dress suit with wide white lapels.

A young woman is leaning over her protectively. I presume she is Tony's daughter – there's definitely something about the nose.

‘Go and look after our guests, darling, would you?' Then Tony's widow turns her face to mine.

‘I'm Lily Macdonald,' I say. ‘I used to work with your husband.'

‘I know. He told me all about you.' Her eyes go hard. She looks around. People are keeping a respectful distance. Then she leans towards me. ‘I am aware my husband had his indiscretions,' she whispers. ‘He told me about that Italian woman on his deathbed. She wasn't the first, you know. But he stayed with me. And that's what counts. I'll thank you to keep any gossip to yourself.'

I am shocked by her directness. It's as if she has been waiting for a meeting with me so she can fire this warning shot.

‘Do you know, he did everything for me,' she continues.
She holds out her hands and I see that the fingers are tightly closed like claws. ‘When I could no longer cut up my food, he did it for me.' She leans forward again. There's a smile on her lips, but her eyes are icy. ‘He dressed me every morning. He ran my bath every night and helped me into it.'

I am taken back through time. To the visitors' room and Joe Thomas, who liked to run Sarah's bath. I remember thinking at the time that Tony Gordon wasn't the sort to do the same for his wife.

How wrong can you be?

‘I understand,' I say. And as the words come out of my mouth, I realize it's true. Marriages go through all kinds of ups and downs. But you can make them work. Just look at Ed and me.

‘Thank you.' Then her head nods and the daughter appears, as if silently summoned to the chair. Tony's widow is off, mingling with other guests. Thanking them graciously. Wondering, perhaps, how many others know of her late husband's hidden life. Yet, at the same time, believing utterly in her own version of Tony's loyalty.

How can we deceive ourselves so easily?

I'm leaving the church when I bump into a tall man in a dark suit who's hovering on the pavement. A cold chill passes through me. The brown-black eyes. His hair is shorter than last time. It's cut in an almost military fashion.

‘What are you doing here?' My voice is scratchy with fear.

‘Why shouldn't I be?'

Joe Thomas's voice bears a slightly rougher edge than
the highly polished accents around us. ‘Tony and I were good friends.'

I make to move away from him, but the crowds are too thick. The whole world, it seems, has been to pay its respects. ‘He was your barrister. He got you off for something you should have stayed inside for. That was all.'

‘Please.' He lays a hand on my arm. ‘Not so loud.'

I try to shake him off, but the hand is tightening around my arm. ‘How dare you,' I splutter.

Joe is grinning. The same way he grinned after the case was over when we emerged from the court to the flash of cameras and journalists begging for quotes. ‘Dare is one of those words that can be taken two ways, isn't it? You can have a brave kind of dare. Or an offensive sort of dare.'

Already I've had enough. ‘Stop playing word games with me.'

‘Just want to get a few points straight, that's all. It's for your benefit, Lily. I'm sure you don't want that lot in there to know.'

‘Know what?'

We're close to the edge of the pavement now. Traffic is rushing past. I want to run away. Hide.

‘I helped Tony a lot after my release. It was my way of saying thank you.'

‘I don't understand.'

But I do. At least I am beginning to.

‘I gave Tony extra information for his cases.' He taps the side of his nose. ‘It's one of the reasons why he tried so hard to get me off. Told him I could help in the future,
you see. And I did. Picked up quite a lot when I was inside. Turned out that some of those things were useful.'

‘What kinds of things?'

‘I can't go into details, Lily, you must know that. And don't go getting all high and mighty. You've benefited too.'

‘Me?'

‘Come on. What about the tip-off over the lorry driver?'

I go cold. We hadn't been sure we were going to get the poor man off until that envelope arrived anonymously. No postmark. Just the name of the dealer who had supplied drugs to the teenager. Crucial evidence which helped me win. I told myself that anonymous tip-offs happened every now and then. It could be someone completely unrelated to my past.

‘How did you know what cases I was working on?'

He taps the side of his nose again. ‘Maybe I've been dating one of the secretaries.'

‘Which one?'

He seems to misinterpret my question for interest. ‘Does it matter?' he shrugs. ‘She means nothing. It's just a means to an end.'

‘But you've been abroad.'

‘Not all the time.'

I stare at Joe. ‘Why are you doing this?'

‘Because you got me off. So I want to help you too. Express my thanks. I've been keeping an eye on you. Heard you were having problems with that case, so I thought I'd try and give you a helping hand.'

‘How
did you hear?'

‘I won't say.'

Not ‘can't'. But won't.

‘And there's Tom, too, of course,' he continues. ‘If I'm helping you, it means I'm helping him as well.'

‘I don't want your help.' But even as I speak, I feel the same crawling sensation from the past. That pull – that magnetic pull towards a man I despise, yet at the same time feel inexplicably drawn to.

‘I think you do.' His face is so close that we are almost touching. ‘Admit it. We have something between us, Lily.'

I can smell his breath on mine. I can smell his skin. It reeks of danger, but I can't move.

‘I need to know, Lily.' His mouth is hovering over mine. ‘How is our son?'

Our
son?

‘I've already told you,' I say, pulling away. ‘He's not yours.'

Then I'm off. Walking as fast as I can in my heels. Down the street. Past the supermarket and the cinema where ordinary lives are being lived. Putting as much distance between Joe Thomas and me as possible. Before I do something stupid.

Again.

Barrister Tony Gordon passed away on 22 November after a long brave fight. Loyal and doting father and husband.

Darling Mamma,

There is something I have to tell you.

No, that wasn't right.

Dearest Mamma,

I need to tell you that I found Larry …

No. That might raise her hopes.

Dearest Mamma,

I have some news that you might find distressing.

At least that might warn her gently.

Tony Gordon – whom we knew as Larry – has died. I went to see him before he passed away and gave him your message. He was not worthy of you, Mamma. God has made him pay through an early death. Now we can put him out of our lives.

Tucking the obituary clip from the newspaper inside the envelope and sealing it hastily, Carla dropped it into the post box on the way to the church.

‘The funeral is next Wednesday if you would like to come,' Lily had said when she'd called.

‘Thank you, but no,' she'd replied, and she'd meant it. But at the last moment, her lecture on tort had been cancelled. There was just time to get to the service and back for her next tutorial. It had seemed almost like fate.

As Carla stood at the back of the church (there weren't any seats left), the priest's words boomed out around them on the microphone.

‘Wonderful family man … respected pillar of the community … unwavering in his fight for justice …'

What a hypocrite! To think that all she'd have to do was run through these crowds, jump up into the pulpit and tell the congregation all about Tony.

‘Makes you sick, doesn't it?' said a tall man, squeezing in next to her. He had very short hair and a clipped way of speaking. ‘If only they really knew.'

Carla started with surprise. But although he appeared to be talking to her, his eyes were fixed on a figure further forward in the congregation. A woman wearing a beautifully cut suit that set off her blonde hair and slim figure perfectly.

Lily! Did this man know her? Or was she merely a symbol of everything that he clearly despised?

‘What do you mean?' she whispered.

Those dark eyes now turned their focus to her. ‘I think you understand perfectly.'

He was speaking as if they were old acquaintances.

‘But –' she began, mystified.

‘Shh,' hissed someone.

And before she could say any more, the man with the short haircut slipped out of the church door behind them, as silently as he had come in.

‘What are you doing for Christmas, Carla?'

It was the phrase on everyone's lips, from the auburn-haired boy with the floppy fringe who had started following her around at law school, to Lily when Carla – frustrated at not having heard from her old ‘friend' since the call about Tony Gordon's funeral – had called to check on her postcode ‘so I can send you and Ed a Christmas card'. With any luck, it would prompt another invitation.

‘What am I doing for Christmas?' she repeated for effect. ‘I was hoping to go back to Italy, but my mother is visiting a widowed aunt in Naples and says it would be better if I stayed here.'

Carla didn't have to fake the note of sadness in her voice. Indeed, she had felt a pain in her chest when Mamma had written to outline her plans. Never before had they spent Christmas apart! Her mother's loopy writing made her feel homesick. She so desperately wanted to feel Mamma's soft cheek against hers. To speak her own language every day. To eat Nonna's bread which she baked herself. Not only that but she was broke! Studying abroad was so expensive and the small allowance from her grandfather was running out. If it hadn't been for Lily and Ed's £ 1,000, she wouldn't have been able to pay the hostel fees or even eat. What would happen when she'd got through their money?

‘Then you must come with us to my parents' home in Devon.'

Yes! Yet there had been something in Lily's tone which made Carla feel that the invitation was slightly reluctant, made out of politeness. Ed, she was sure, would have been warmer. She'd noticed last time that out of the two, he had seemed the friendlier.

‘There's just one thing,' Lily added. ‘Tom, our son. He's … different, as I said before. We never quite know how he's going to behave in front of strangers. So be prepared.'

Different? Carla understood ‘different'. Had she not felt different for most of her life at school in England, even when she had tried so hard to be the same?

And now here she was, on a train heading out of London along with lots of other passengers, who were, unusually for English people, chattering away. Asking her where she was going for Christmas, and didn't she think the lights in Oxford Street were beautiful?

In her bag, she had some small presents. An embroidered purse for Lily, an artist's notebook for Ed and a plane kit for Tom. All clever buys from a charity shop in King's Cross. She was particularly pleased with the plane kit. It had been hard finding a present for a boy. Besides, she couldn't remember exactly how old he was. Still, even if he didn't like it, it was a gesture. Meanwhile, Carla sat back in her seat and watched the green fields roll past. ‘We are by the sea,' Lily had said. ‘You will love it.'

‘You must ask them for more money,' Mamma had reminded her in another letter which had arrived just before she left.

But that would be so awkward, thought Carla as she opened her law books and began to study, despite the rocking motion of the train. How was she to just come out with it?
You'll think of something
, sang the train as it rocked along.
You'll think of something …

‘But why can't it fly?' demanded the tall, skinny boy, waving his arms around in frustration.

‘I've told you, Tom. It's only a model.'

‘But the picture on the box shows it in the air.'

‘That's to make it look exciting,' Ed groaned.

‘Then they shouldn't show it like that, should they? We ought to report them to the Advertising Standards Authority.'

Carla was impressed. ‘You have a point, Tom! You'll have to be a lawyer like your mum.'

‘Heaven forbid.' Ed grimaced. ‘One in the family is more than enough. Sorry, Carla, no offence intended.'

She flashed him a smile. ‘None taken.'

Up until Tom's outburst, her present of a model plane set had been a great success. The boy had assembled it in ten minutes flat, even though it was much more complicated than she'd realized. But it was afterwards that was difficult. All these questions! Questions that could not be answered. It was exhausting for them all, including Lily's parents, who had been kindness itself to her.

When she'd arrived at this beautiful house, Carla had been astounded. She'd thought the place in London was lovely, but this was extraordinary, with its huge sash windows, a hall that was big enough for a whole family to live in, and a large airy conservatory facing out over an
expansive lawn! Just the kind of house she would love to own.

‘My grandparents used to live here,' Lily had explained.

They must have been very rich, thought Carla, to have afforded such a palace by the sea. It stood high on the cliff overlooking the water; the view from her bedroom was staggering. Below twinkled the lights from the town, just as the lights would be twinkling in the Florentine hills right now. But Carla had forced herself to bite back the homesickness and concentrate instead on the tall Christmas tree in the hall – what a wonderful smell of pine! – with the presents at the bottom. There was even a small pile with her own name on it.

The drawing room, as Lily's mother called it, was tastefully furnished with a sage-green carpet and old mahogany wood hinting of lavender polish. There were pictures hanging on the walls; not Ed's, but older ones, showing scenes of fields and setting suns.

‘Copies,' Ed had said dismissively when she'd admired them, although he'd spoken in a low voice so no one else had heard.

There were photographs too. Everywhere. On the mantelpiece. On the side tables. Pictures of Lily as a child and also pictures of a boy who was a little taller than she was. ‘That's Daniel,' Lily's mother had said in a bright voice.

Daniel? Dimly, Carla remembered a conversation she'd had with Lily about her brother, all those years ago when she'd first lived in England.

I don't want to talk about him.

Wasn't that what she'd said?

‘Is he coming here for the holiday?' Carla had started to ask, but her question was drowned in confusion because Tom had suddenly started ripping open his presents, even though they hadn't been to Midnight Mass yet.

And now there was all this fuss about why the model plane couldn't fly. It had become heated, Carla noticed. Tom was getting increasingly upset, tugging at his own hair and pulling out strands. Lily was really edgy, although she'd been like that since she'd picked Carla up from the station. She didn't remember Lily being so irritable when she used to know her. Lily's mother, who looked just like her daughter, with the same height and hair colour, was apologizing profusely.

Different
, Lily had said.
Tom, our son … he's different
. When people said that, they usually meant they were embarrassed by the difference. What they didn't consider was how it affected that person.

The only thing that would help was to make him feel good about himself. Reassure him. And since no one else was doing that – Lily constantly had her nose in files – the task clearly fell to Carla. ‘Actually,' she said, ‘Leonardo da Vinci got his models to fly.'

Who is Leonardo da Vinci?
she expected Tom to ask. But his face had begun to clear. ‘The artist? The man who drew Christ like a clock?'

‘Exactly.' That was the way she had seen the picture as a child too. A Jesus-like figure, spread-eagled at quarter to three. ‘He designed one of the early aeroplanes. Did you know that?'

Tom shook his head. ‘I haven't got that far. I've only just got the book out of the library …'

‘I didn't know you were studying Leonardo at school, darling,' said Lily, emerging unexpectedly from the study. Her expression reminded her of Mamma's all those years ago when she was trying to help her understand her maths homework.

‘I'm not. I just liked the picture on the cover.' He frowned. ‘If Leonardo could make his models fly, why can't I?'

‘It's a different kind of model.' Carla was kneeling down next to him now. ‘Tell you what, in the morning we'll see if we can make our own design.'

Tom frowned again. ‘How?'

‘We can use paper.'

‘That's not strong enough for us to fly in.'

We're not going to get in it
, Carla almost said.
It's just a model
. But already she could see that Tom didn't reason like any of the children she'd known in Italy.

‘Then I will teach you Italian instead,' she said suddenly.

‘Italian?' Tom's face brightened. ‘I would like that. Then I could tell the man at the pizza place that I don't like tomatoes. He will listen to me if I speak his language. I'm teaching myself Chinese as well, you know. I bought a book on it.'

‘How fantastic!'

‘Thank you,' said Ed as they made their way into the dining room with its big oak table, gleaming silver cutlery, red cloth napkins, cut-glass wine goblets and a circle of holly in the middle for decoration. ‘It's kind of you to put yourself out.'

A warm glow spread through her, and she gave him her best smile.

‘I enjoy being with Tom,' she replied, allowing Ed to pull out a chair for her. ‘I understand how he feels.'

‘How?' Ed was watching her. Instinctively, she could feel his mind sketching her.

‘Because I felt different as a child too and I know what it's like.'

His eyes were still on her. ‘I love it when the passion crosses your face like that.' His fingers were fiddling with his cutlery now, as though he wished they were charcoal sticks. ‘I wonder, would you mind if …'

‘If you painted me again?'

His face jerked as if he'd woken up suddenly after dozing off. ‘Exactly.'

She flushed with excitement. Of course she didn't mind. ‘I'd be honoured.'

He grasped her hands. His felt hot and big. ‘Thank you.'

From the corner of her eye she saw Lily watching.

‘Who's for a walk along the beach tomorrow before Christmas lunch?' asked Lily's father from the other end of the table.

‘Me. ME!' Tom was leaping out of his seat. ‘Me and Carla.' Then his face creased with anxiety. ‘But I can't make sandcastles. I don't like the feel of wet sand.'

Poor child! ‘I'm not keen on wet sand either,' she said. ‘It makes you mucky, doesn't it?'

Tom nodded – so hard she feared he might hurt his head. ‘Exactly.'

Carla glanced at Lily's face. Carla knew that look. It meant she felt hurt. Shut out. Carla should be pleased. Yet part of her actually felt rather sorry for the woman.

That night, she couldn't sleep. If only she could ring Mamma to wish her a happy Christmas, but the aunt
didn't have a phone apparently, and Nonno considered mobiles to be unnecessary.

Restlessly, Carla got out of bed and wandered towards the window. The moon was sitting on the line between sky and sea as if balancing on a bar. Perhaps she would go for a walk. Pulling on her coat, she tiptoed along the landing. Lights were out apart from a low line under the door of Ed and Lily's room. What was that? Unable to stop herself, Carla paused to listen.

They were rowing.

‘You should have given Carla money for Christmas,' Ed was saying angrily.