My Husband's Wife(95)

Yet why should she be surprised? Lily was a lawyer. Clinical and cold. Used to setting murderers and rapists free.

Somehow she managed to calm poor Ed. A friendly arm on his shoulder. Poured him a drink (just a touch of hot water with the whisky). And then, even though his hand was still shaking, she persuaded him to start painting.

Thank you, Rupert, she said silently, as she sat in front of Ed. (‘Nose to the left a bit, please, Carla.’) With any luck everything was going to work out after all.





43


Lily


Despite my recent court losses, and my own reservations, the other partners agreed to my ‘favour’ and Carla duly started work with me in the middle of July. ‘You’ve got a bright girl there,’ said one of my colleagues by the end of the week. ‘She might look stunning but she’s on the ball.’

He spoke as though looks were a disadvantage, which in a way they are. If you’re more than averagely attractive, especially in a profession like law, people don’t always take you seriously. I’m aware that I will never be considered beautiful, even though I take pleasure in the fact that I have grown into my skin. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

But Carla turns heads wherever she goes. And not just because of her face or because she is doing well at my firm. Ed’s portrait of her is finally finished. After one of our weekends in Devon, for once without Carla, everything seemed to fall into place. We’d argued, and he’d left early, but sometimes I think our difficulties spur him on. When I returned, he was working on the hardest part – the eyes.

Now the painting has been accepted for a big London show in the autumn and the national press has got wind of it.

Suddenly, Carla’s everywhere. In women’s magazines. In the Times art pages. And in the cocktail party invitations we begin to receive. Of course, everyone wants to know the story. How we came across her again. Or rather how she came across us. When I open one magazine, I find that Carla has managed to tell the story with barely a reference to me. It’s as though it was Ed who offered her a home after the hostel fire. Ed who is her mentor rather than me. Ed who says how wonderful she is with our son, Tom, who is in a ‘special school’, far away in Devon. She doesn’t refer to the fact that he lives with my parents.

How dare she?

‘You have no right to mention Tom,’ I say to Carla, trying to control my voice.

We’re on our way to work. Walking briskly. It reminds me of the mornings when I used to see her at the bus stop with her mother.

‘He is part of our private life,’ I continue, still hot with rage after spotting the offending article in one of the lobby magazines.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says but in a tone that suggests anything but. Her chin juts out. It seems more angular than usual. Almost pointy like a cat’s. ‘But it is true, is it not?’

‘He is,’ I say, struggling to remain composed, ‘in the best place for him.’

She shrugs. ‘In Italy, we keep our family close, whatever the circumstances. It is better that way I think.’

‘You are living in the UK now,’ I splutter, almost unable to believe her audacity. We’re going into the office building now. I can say no more. But later that day, I receive a note from one of the other partners.

Luckily this has not yet gone out to the client. One of the trainees spotted the mistake, highlighted below. Please amend.



I’ve made a mistake in drafting a document about a company fraud. It isn’t big. But big enough. Yet the worse thing is that the trainee, according to the initials on the correction, is our Italian ‘guest’.

Later that night, Ed turns on me. ‘Why were you so horrid to Carla about Tom?’

A cold feeling crawls over me. I feel like the school prefect, reprimanded by a teacher for snitching on a girl caught smoking in the loo. Why should I be blamed for something she’s done? ‘Because Carla shouldn’t have mentioned Tom or the fact that he’s at a special school. He’s private.’

‘Clearly, our son is to be categorized as “Not to be opened”. Are you embarrassed of him?’

This isn’t fair. ‘You know that’s not true. Do you think you could work if Tom was here all the time? Do you think you could concentrate if he was in the studio demanding to know why paint is called paint? Or giving you every statistic imaginable on Monet or John Singer Sargent?’

Ed sits up and turns on the bedroom light. His eyes are sad. I know that my words sound selfish and I hate myself for it. But it is horrifyingly easy for the resentment to bubble up every now and then, to burst through the carefully painted veneer of outward sainthood. I know he thinks it too sometimes – it’s simply easier to put the blame on me.

‘I just can’t help feeling,’ says Ed slowly, mirroring the thoughts in my head, ‘that when you have a child like Tom, you have a duty to do the right thing. That’s all.’

Then he switches off the light, leaving me to thrash around all night. Wondering. Telling myself that separating our lives like strands of unruly silk is better than being with my son. And why? Because I practically followed Daniel round for years, trying to protect him from himself. But I cracked. I said things I shouldn’t have done. Did things I shouldn’t have. And that’s what finally tipped my brother over the edge.