My Husband's Wives (6 page)

‘I'm happy for you,' Grace lied, but she knew it was a white lie. In time, it would be the truth. How can you not wish the man you love most in the whole world well; how can you not wish him all the happiness they deserve?

‘Are you, are you really?'

‘Of course.' Grace nodded. ‘Of course I'm happy for you.' She reached out and touched his hand, only for a second. She couldn't trust herself for any longer than that. What had she expected? He and Annalise were living together after all. Mostly, when he was with Grace and Delilah, it was as if nothing had changed much. Grace could forget that he had another life somewhere with a young woman whom he still did not feel the need to marry. At odd moments, she found herself grateful for that at least.

‘I'm glad; I wouldn't want to hurt you.' His face broke into a beaming smile. ‘I'm so happy,' he said just as Delilah walked into the room.

‘Why are you so pleased with yourself?' she asked, and for a moment, emotion whipped Grace into silence. She wanted to cry for both of them. Of course, she couldn't.

Some moments stay with you forever. The day Evie Considine knocked on her door would be one of those that would not fade from Grace's memory easily, or ever. It was a warm day. They had planned a picnic the evening before, just Delilah and herself.

Delilah left Evie standing in the doorway, as unsure where to put her as Grace was about how to welcome this familiar stranger to their home.

‘Hello,' Grace said. Her voice held a little trepidation. Why do you always have a fair idea when you are about to hear bad news?

‘Hello – we've never actually met, Grace, but my name is Evie. Evie Considine-Starr.' She was an icy grey-blonde, coiffed and immaculately tailored. Her navy blue eyes were large and childlike beneath lids that hooded with age more than shrewdness. Her voice was porcelain, but softened by nerves. She held herself straight and might be formidable, but there was a little girl quality to her that picked out her vulnerability so she couldn't hide it, even if she tried. She was absurdly overdressed for the weather and younger-looking than the sixty-five years she must surely be at this stage.

Grace held out her hand. ‘It's nice to meet you.' They shared a handshake with no warmth. ‘What can I do for you?' She reversed backwards into her hallway, feeling as if this perfectly prepared woman who had slipped silently about in her imagination for so long had caught her in the act of some sordid activity. She moved into the nearby dining room that they never used. She could feel Evie inspecting the place as they entered the room. ‘Have a seat.' But she did not sit. This was not a social visit.

‘I'm here about Paul.' Her voice was even, unemotional, but Grace knew it couldn't be good news; she was a million miles off just how bad though. ‘He's dead.' Evie said the words with a finality that took all the air from the room between them.

Grace could not speak, she tried to take in the words, but they weren't hitting home, her lungs had cut off breathing and after a moment she had to remind herself to suck and blow. It was as though someone had bubbled-wrapped the world and insulated her from those two words.

‘I thought you should be first to hear, and of course to tell Delilah.'

‘He can't be; he can't be dead – how?' Grace's voice didn't sound as if it belonged to her. She dropped to the nearest chair. Paul, dead? There had to be a mistake. This was all some awful mix up. ‘How…' Her mind raced. ‘I mean, when…'

‘Look dear, you're in shock, we're both in shock, probably. You'll have to decide how best to break it to Delilah. She's, what…' Evie leaned her head to the side. It was strange to hear this woman speak of her daughter as though she knew her well, as though there were some connection there far beyond what Grace felt there was any right to be. ‘She's sixteen this year, isn't she?' Evie nodded sagely, twisted the emerald and diamond band on her wedding finger. ‘A difficult age to lose her father,' she shook her head, as though it was all a question of timing. Shock, even Grace could see it, she was in shock. ‘All she needs to hear is that it was painless, as far as the doctors are saying. He was driving at the time, so…'

‘Can we see him?' Grace had to let the fact that Evie knew anything about their lives slip past her. In this moment, she had to concentrate on taking in the news. ‘What about…'

‘It would be better for Delilah to wait; at least until we see what she has to be prepared for.' Evie picked an imaginary hair from the lapel of her soft expensive jacket. ‘They want us to identify him. Well, they want me to identify him.' She sniffed. Perhaps it was as close as she came to crying.

‘Oh?' Grace felt the room spin about her. Her hands were sweating against her bare legs. She'd put on a denim skirt for a day at the beach. It felt sticky and clingy and as though it might have grown a couple of sizes too small. The whole house suddenly moved in closer about her for a moment. She felt she might faint. She took a deep breath, raised her eyes to see Evie regarding her reservedly.

‘It's shock. Better to be in the boat you're in than where Annalise Connolly is.' The words were cold, but maybe Evie too was still in shock. ‘She was in the car with him. They were travelling from the hospital early in the morning, and swerved to avoid a dog.' Her voice quivered, only slightly, and then she straightened herself, cleared her throat. ‘He careered into one of those big trucks, from what the traffic police could tell me.' She nodded towards the front of the house. ‘He was trying to avoid a dog. A blasted dog.'

‘Is she… is she going to be okay?'

‘I didn't ask.' Evie stared blankly at Grace; perhaps it was just dawning on her that she should have. ‘I suppose she must be or they'd have said, wouldn't they?'

‘And the boys?' It was strange talking about Annalise Connolly's children like this. They never talked about them; Paul talked about everything but his life with Annalise and the two sons they had together.

‘No, it was just Paul and Annalise, from what the guards can make out.' Evie shook her head. ‘You'd have to wonder…' She didn't finish the sentence, but Grace had a fair idea of the sentiment. Maybe before Delilah was born she'd have felt the same.

‘So, do you want to come?' She was looking at her watch, a simple Cartier gold snake slid about her papery wrist.

‘Pardon?' Grace had lost track of Evie's words, as though she'd missed a step somewhere between the kitchen and the front door; the universe had taken a sidestep on her.

‘The guards, they're waiting outside to take us to see him. It's only right that you're there too. After all, you had a child together.'

‘He was my husband,' Grace said. He'd never divorced her. She still wore her ring most days. He was still a big part of their lives, even if he had fathered the two boys with Annalise Connolly.

‘No, Grace.' Evie gazed with the fervour of a zealot. ‘No, Grace. He was still my husband. We never got divorced.'

Annalise had a feeling they were laughing at her, but she wasn't sure why. Of course, she was nervous, it wasn't every day you got on ‘Talkshop'. It was a big deal and she wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Gail and the Miss Ireland contest. The show was meant to be ‘current affairs for women, by women'. Annalise wasn't really into current affairs, so she hadn't made too many comments so far. Gail said keep quiet unless they talk about fashion or beauty. Well, when Annalise heard them start up about Titanic, she figured that was her cue. She'd gone to see it with her mum, yonks ago. To her mind, it was a classic, none of that old black and white stuff for Annalise thank you. She didn't really get the whole thing about commemorating it, but to her mind, it was as good as anything to commemorate. She'd take Leo DiCaprio any day over some long-dead war hero who probably had poor grooming and no interest in fashion or appearance. Not that she was shallow, of course, but looks were very important for media work.

‘So sad,' she said as soon as she got a chance and tried to look doe-eyed for the camera.

‘Actually the people of Belfast are delighted to celebrate it,' the haughty feminist on the far side of the table said over glasses that didn't quite sit before her eyes.

‘Well, I don't know how anyone wouldn't cry when Leonardo DiCaprio died at the end,' Annalise said.

‘We are talking about the same thing here, right?' The feminist sat forward a little, as though she might produce a little square egg to show everyone just how much in control she was of those ovaries. ‘I mean, you do realize that was just a film?'

‘Of course, I went to see it with my mum, and you're wrong, you know; it wasn't a hundred years ago, I was still at school when we went to see it.' Annalise could hear the muffled snigger of Susan Lynsey, although she was no one to be laughing at anyone, with her boring junior minister boyfriend. Susan was a model too, but she was strictly fashion and snotty about it. Susan didn't ‘do' bikini shots, she had said earlier, swiping disdainfully at Annalise when they mentioned her Miss Ireland title.

‘Oh, Annalise,' Susan said, her voice syrupy, but her eyes were mocking. ‘We're talking about the actual Titanic,' she smiled sweetly, ‘the one that sank on its maiden voyage a hundred years ago.' They all laughed at that. Annalise didn't see the joke, but she remembered to smile at the camera when it zoomed in close to her face, doing her best to look like Kim Kardashian after her divorce was announced.

*

Annalise couldn't say a word. She patted at her lashes, could feel the mascara thick and clumpy come apart. How was she supposed to know there was an actual ship that sank a hundred years ago? Who really cared about a hundred years ago anyway? She was a laughing stock, knew it before she left the studio. She was defeated. It felt as if she'd managed to throw away her big opportunity before it had even arrived on her doorstep. To think that this morning she'd been dreaming about a career in television. Hah, they wouldn't ask her back now.

Annalise hadn't the heart to tell her father. He was so proud of her. Instead, she sat in the little Mini Cooper he gave her for Christmas and made her way to see Gail Rosenstock. Gail had a suite of rooms in one of the smart Georgian Squares south of Grafton Street. The whole place was a mixture of fresh lilies and grey walls hung with large black frames of her best models in black and white prints. Annalise never really believed she'd make it onto the wall. Not fashionable enough; Miss Irelands never were. She hadn't realized it before she won the competition, but there was a difference between fashion and glamour. The first, Gail told her, was chic; the other was glitz. No matter what Annalise did, she was never going to be fashion. As she weaved her way stylishly along the path, she was conscious as ever that Gail might be watching her approach. Annalise wanted to throw herself at the glossed front door and bawl like a baby at the unfairness of it all. Perhaps she was naively hoping for support or at the very least constructive advice. Gail Rosenstock had put her on her books just eighteen months earlier. It wasn't an easy relationship. She was in no doubt that Gail had her favourites. The Miss Ireland crown seemed to have pushed her to the top of the pile, but before the finals, she'd been handing out leaflets in a bikini at the boat show.

‘You're not seriously going to tell me you never knew the Titanic was a real ship, a real disaster story.' Gail looked at her as though Annalise had just attached herself to her shoe and she knew it was going to be problematic to extricate herself.

‘Of course I knew, I was just nervous, first time on the telly and all that. They weren't nice at all.' She couldn't admit it, but what good did it do anyone knowing about things that happened that long ago? Annalise prided herself on her in-depth understanding of pertinent facts. For instance, not one of those intellectual types could have named out the hottest nail colours for the coming season from all the top French houses.

‘You know the Pageant are trying to shake off that whole dumb blonde image. The feminists are doing a real hatchet job on everything this year.' Gail was looking at the backs of her hands, but her voice was dangerously low. ‘They called me this morning, Annalise.'

‘Oh,' Annalise felt her mouth go dry. ‘And?'

‘The clip went viral. Susan Lynsey posted it on social media and it seems she made it look even worse than it was. You're on repeat saying the same thing over and over, and then there's that dreadful empty-headed pout at the end.'

‘Well, didn't you say that all publicity is good publicity?' Maybe they weren't exactly the words, but it was the gist.

‘This makes you look silly, and the pageant people feel, by extension, it makes them look ridiculous.' She shook her head; the only sentiment here was annoyance. Annalise had messed up and Gail wasn't going to make her feel good about it. ‘They want the crown back and they are giving you the opportunity to do it quietly or else they will make an example of you.'

‘That's not fair.' Annalise knew she sounded no better than a teenager – worse, she sounded like a pre-schooler. ‘They wouldn't.' It was all she could manage. She caught sight of herself in the mirror behind Gail. For a moment, all she could see was a disappointed little girl. She felt as though all the blood in her body was travelling fast from her head to the tips of her new Gucci stilettos. ‘Don't they understand what this means to me? To my family? God, my dad will be devastated.' She whispered the words, hardly aware of Gail anymore. These days, Annalise, with her false hair, nails and permatan rarely looked vulnerable, but now she knew she was disintegrating into a horrible caricature of the carefully created image. And she was far too upset to do anything about it.