My Husband's Wife(83)
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.’
35
Lily
‘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.’