My Husband's Wife(37)

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.