My Husband's Wife (5 page)

‘Sugar? Sellotape? Sharp implements? Crisps?' barks the man on the other side of the glass divide.

It's true what they told me in the office. You get used to prison: even by your second visit. I face the officer impassively. His skin is clean-shaven. Almost baby-like.

‘No,' I say in a confident voice which doesn't belong to me. Then I step aside to be searched. What would happen, I wonder, if I succeeded in hiding anything illegal – drugs or simply an innocuous packet of sugar from a coffee shop? The idea is strangely exciting.

Clip-clop across the courtyard in my new red kitten heels. Just to boost my self-confidence, I told myself when I bought them. Today, there are no men in prison uniform tending the garden. It's a dull day with a nip in the air. I wrap my navy-blue jacket protectively around me and follow the officer through the double doors.

‘What's it like in prison?' Ed asked the evening after my first visit.

To be honest, I'd almost put it out of my head after the drama of taking the little Italian girl to hospital and then facing the wrath of her mother until she'd calmed down.
Her reaction was, of course, understandable. She'd been worried. ‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart for looking after my Carla,' she had written in a little note that I found slipped under the door later.

I still doubt my wisdom in stepping in. But that's what happens when you have an overdeveloped conscience.

‘It's airless,' I said to my husband in reply to his question. ‘You can't breathe properly.'

‘And the men?' His arm tightened protectively around me. We were lying on the sofa, side by side in front of the evening television; a little squashed, but in that nice together sort of way. A married cosiness that almost (but not quite) makes up for the other part of a relationship.

I thought of the prisoners I'd seen in the corridor with their staring eyes and short-sleeved T-shirts with bulging muscles underneath. And I thought of Joe Thomas with his surprisingly intelligent (if odd) observations and the puzzle he had set me.

‘Not what you'd think.' I shifted towards my husband so my nose was nestling comfortably against his neck. ‘My client could be an ordinary next-door neighbour. He was clever too.'

‘Really?'

I could feel Ed's interest stirring. ‘But what did he actually look like?'

‘Well built. A beard. Tall – about your height. Very dark-brown eyes. Long thin fingers. Surprisingly so.'

My husband nodded, and I could feel him drawing my client in his head.

‘He talked a lot about Rupert Brooke, the war poet,' I added. ‘Implied that this had something to do with his case.'

‘Was he in the army?'

It was a tradition that the men in Ed's family went to Sandhurst before enjoying distinguished careers in the army. During our first date, he told me how disappointed his parents had been when he refused to follow suit. Art school? Was he mad? A proper job. That's what he needed. Graphic design in an advertising company was an unhappy compromise all round. People didn't rebel in Ed's family, he told me. They toed the line. Ironically, I rather liked that at the time. It made me feel safe. Secure. But it seems to have given my husband a chip on the shoulder. At the few family gatherings I've been to with him, he's always felt like the odd one out. Not that he's said so. He doesn't need to. I can just see.

‘The army?' I repeated. ‘No, apparently not.'

Then Ed sat up and I felt a breeze of coldness between us. Not just the loss of warmth from his body, but the distance that comes when someone is on another plane. I hadn't realized, until our marriage, that an artist could move so smoothly from real life to an imagined world. Ed's family may have refused to finance art school, but no one could stop him from doing what he did best, in his spare time. Already a sketchpad appeared in his hands and my husband was jotting down the facial features of one of the men in the photographs staring across at us from the mantelpiece. This particular one was of his father as a young man.

Father …

And now, here I am, walking across the courtyard with the answer to my lifer's puzzle right here, in my briefcase.

‘Your father was in the army,' I say in the visitors' room, sliding a folder across the table towards my client.

Joe Thomas's face goes blank. ‘So what?'

‘So he was discharged. Not honourably either.'

I'm purposefully speaking in staccato. I want to stir this man, make him react. Something tells me it's the only way to help him.
If
I want to help him.

‘He tried to protect himself when a man threatened to stab him in a pub, according to his statement.' I look down at the notes which had taken me days to put together with the help of a keen junior trainee. ‘But when your father pushed the man away, he fell through a window and nearly bled to death. I think there's a link between that and your case. Am I right?'

Joe Thomas's eyes grow black in front of me. I glance around the room.

‘There's no emergency button here,' says my client softly.

My skin goes clammy. Is this man threatening me?

Then he sits back in his chair and regards me as though I'm in the hot seat instead of him. ‘My father was punished for acting in self-defence. He was shamed. Our family was ridiculed. We had to move to Civvy Street. I was bullied at school. But I learned a big lesson. Self-defence is no defence, because no one ever believes you.'

I look at this man in the chair before me and then draw out a photograph from my file. It shows a slim redhead. The dead woman. Sarah Evans. Joe Thomas's girlfriend.

‘Are you saying that you acted in self-defence against a woman who barely looks as if she's got enough strength to pick up a brick?'

‘Not exactly.' His face swivels towards the window.
Two officers are walking past outside, deep in conversation. Would they hear me if things got nasty? I suspect not. So why am I not afraid any more?

Joe Thomas, too, is looking at the men, an amused smile playing on his lips.

I'm growing impatient. ‘So what exactly do you want to base your appeal on?'

‘You've passed the first test. Now you've got to pass the second. Then you'll know.'

He's writing something down on the scrap of paper he's brought with him.

101.2

97.3

The list keeps on growing.

I've never been great at numbers. Words are more my strength. There are letters too next to some of the numbers. But they mean nothing to me.

‘What is this?'

He smiles. ‘That's for you to find out.'

‘Listen, Joe. If you want me to help you, you've got to stop playing games.' I stand up.

He stands up too. Our faces are close. Too close. Once more, I smell him. Imagine what it would be like to lean forward … But this time, I am ready for it. Mentally, I smash the image against the window like the pigeon. I can almost see the feathers.

‘If you're to help me, Mrs Macdonald, you need to understand me. Call it another test, if you like, to check you're up to this job. This appeal is everything to me. I want to be
satisfied I've got the right person for the job. Until then, I'm not Joe. I'm Mr Thomas. Got it?'

Then he looks me up and down. Slowly. ‘Tall, aren't you?'

Every part of my skin feels like it's on fire.

He strides across to the door. ‘See you when you work out the answer.'

The man isn't just being overfamiliar, I tell myself as I make my way to the office and sign out. He's acting as though
he's
in charge instead of me.

So why do I feel a sense of rising excitement as well as annoyance?

‘Everything all right?' asks the baby-faced officer when I sign out.

‘Fine,' I say. Something warns me not to add any more.

‘Bit of a rum one, isn't he?'

‘In what way?'

‘You know. Arrogant. Always acting as if everyone else is beneath him. Cold fish, too. Still, at least he hasn't given us any trouble. Not like the other one.' The officer is smiling nastily as though trying to scare me.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Didn't you hear? One of the boys went for his solicitor the other day. Didn't hurt him. Just gave him a fright.' His face hardens. ‘But if your lot are intent on defending murderers and rapists, what can you expect?'

‘What do you do for a living, then?' asks the man who has just sat down next to me (‘Do you mind?').

I'm perched on the edge of a lime-green sofa in Davina's Chelsea flat with its rose-pink walls and soft lighting. Music is playing loudly and my stomach is rumbling.
‘Don't bother to cook before we go,' Ed had declared. ‘There'll be food at the party.' But there are merely mushroom vol-au-vents and wine. Lots of it. My new companion appears pleasant and easy to talk to. It's just that right now the last thing I want to do is talk.

‘I'm a lawyer,' I reply.

He nods, in deference. It's a gesture, I've noticed, that many people use when I tell them what I do. Sometimes it's flattering. At other times, it's almost demeaning, as if they assume a woman isn't capable of such a job.

Four hours ago, I was in prison. Now I'm surrounded by people chatting loudly and getting drunk. Some are even dancing. It seems weird.

‘What about you?' Even as I speak, I'm not really interested in the answer. What I really want to know is where Ed has gone. I didn't want to come here. In fact, I didn't know anything about it until I got home and found my husband at the door wearing his new cream collarless shirt. The smell of pine aftershave was strong. ‘We're going out.'

My heart lifted. The last couple of weeks had been difficult, yes. But my new husband wanted to take me out!

‘Davina rang. She's having some of the old crowd round and wants us too.' He ran his eye over my navy lawyer suit. ‘Better get changed.'

And now, here we are. Me in my pale-blue sprigged M&S dress. And Davina in a clingy, bright red skirt. An outfit that clearly caught my husband's attention – much more than mine – when she welcomed us in. That was over an hour ago. Where is she? And where is Ed?

‘I'm an actuary.' My companion's voice cuts into my thoughts.

‘Sorry?'

There's a rueful grin. ‘Don't worry. Lots of people don't know what it is. I work out how long people have to live from statistics. How many people are likely to choke to death or get leukaemia before they're sixty. Cheery stuff, I know, but it's important, you see, for insurance.' He puts out his hand. ‘The name's Ross. Nice to meet you. I know your husband. In fact …'

There they are! I almost leap off the sofa, and make my way towards Ed. His face is flushed and I smell wine on his breath. ‘Where've you been?'

‘What do you mean?' His voice is defensive, abrupt. ‘I just went out to get some air.'

‘You didn't tell me?'

‘Do I have to tell you every time I leave a room?'

Tears prick my eyes. ‘Why are you being like this?'

A different Ed from the one I curl up with on the sofa stares at me. ‘Why are y
ou
being like this?'

Because I can't see Davina
, I want to say. But that would be stupid.

‘Because I couldn't see Davina,' I hear myself saying.

Ed's face hardens. ‘And you thought she and I were together.'

My heart skips a beat. ‘No. I didn't mean …'

‘Right. That's it.' He grabs my arm.

‘Wait – what …?'

‘We're going.' He pulls me towards the door.

‘But I need my coat,' I protest.

People are watching us – including Davina, who is walking into the room, arm in arm with a much older man I hadn't seen before.

‘Leaving already?' Her voice is silky smooth. ‘What a shame. I wanted to introduce you to Gus.' She gazes up at her companion adoringly. ‘I must apologize for not being a very good hostess. But Gus and I have been … busy.'

Ed's hand grips mine so hard that it hurts. Then he releases me and moves away. ‘Lily's got a headache.'

No I haven't
, I almost say. But I hear myself thanking her for a lovely time and am appalled at how easy it is for the lie to escape so smoothly. ‘You must come to us, next time,' I add.

Davina's eyes sparkle with amusement. ‘We'd love that. Wouldn't we, Gus?'

Then she walks up and nestles her head in the spot between my husband's arm and chest. It's a smooth, natural gesture, reminding me that they had once dated. She smiles at me.
See
, she seems to say,
I had him long before you
.

Appalled, I wait for Ed to move away. But for a minute he just stands there as if weighing up his options.

I want to say something. But I'm too scared of the consequences. Thankfully, Gus breaks the uneasy silence that has fallen, despite the music around us. ‘I think we ought to let the newly-weds go. Don't you?'

Ed refuses to speak to me all the way home. It's a one-sided conversation.

‘I don't know why you're being like this,' I say, running to keep up with him. ‘I only wondered where you were. I was worried. And I didn't know anyone …'

The more I say, the more stupid I sound.

‘You're jealous of her.'

At least he's speaking to me now.

‘No. No, I'm not.'

‘Yes, you are.' There's a click as Ed opens our door.

‘All right. I am.'

I can't stop myself. ‘You followed her around like a puppy from the minute we went into that smart flat of hers. You couldn't take your eyes off her. And then you disappeared for ages …'

‘TO GET SOME BLOODY AIR!'

I stand back, shocked. Despite his ups and downs, Ed has never shouted at me before.