My Husband's Wife(98)
Wasn’t that what she’d wanted? But all she could think of were those grey hairs on his chest, that little bald spot in the middle of his hair, and the tears on Lily’s face from the night before.
The headlines came swiftly:
PAINTER LEAVES WIFE FOR SEXY ITALIAN SITTER
ARTIST BLOTS CANVAS FOR ITALIAN GIRL GROWN UP
‘I’m definitely keeping the house,’ Ed told her a few days later. ‘I’m going to borrow some money so I can buy Lily out. She’s going to leave London and set up a practice in Devon near Tom. It’s the best thing for everyone.’
‘But will we have enough to live on?’
He held her in his arms. ‘Don’t worry about that.’
She took a deep breath. ‘I’m broke, Ed.’
‘Don’t worry.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I will look after you now.’
‘But I don’t have any cash.’
Then he reached into his back pocket and peeled off some notes. ‘Is that enough?’
Her heart filled with relief. ‘Thank you.’
Of course, she banked most of it and sent a transfer straight to Mamma.
For a few weeks, Carla’s doubts began to fade. There was something rather flattering about living with a famous painter. They went to nice restaurants. Waiters bobbed obsequiously. They were the couple of the moment. Everyone knew them.
She didn’t have to worry about paying rent or bills. Edward – she liked to give him his full name at times – bought her lovely clothes. So Lily had been lying about the money! She even managed to stay working in the London office – they could hardly sack her, it would be against the law. And thankfully Lily was no longer there.
Some people of course were cool to begin with. ‘Memories are short,’ Ed reassured her. And he was right. Within a couple of months or so, the coldness began to thaw, especially when one of the partners left his wife for his secretary and everyone had something else to talk about.
As for Ed, he couldn’t have been more attentive. Sometimes too much so. One day, in the post, she received a handwritten note in ink with beautiful sloping writing from Rupert.
Glad to see you are doing so well.
‘Who is that from?’ asked Ed, reading the note over her shoulder.
‘Just a friend from law school.’
‘That kid who came here?’
Uncomfortable memories of Ed finding her and Rupert in the house came back to her.
‘Yes.’
Ed said nothing. But later that night when she put something in the bin, Carla found Rupert’s note torn into tiny bits. ‘Why did you do that?’ she asked him. But instead of replying, he kissed her deeply, and then began to make love to her with a passion that he had not shown for some time.
The shredded note was worth it, Carla told herself, as she lay gasping on the sheets. It was like it had been at the beginning, when Ed was still just enough out of her grasp for him to be exciting. And she suspected he felt the same.
There was nothing like unavailability for attraction. For the first time in ages, she thought of that pencil case. The one she’d stolen from another child. How she had wanted it! But then, when she’d had it, the craze had turned to something else instead. What was wrong with her, she wondered as she felt her way to the bathroom in the dark so as not to disturb Ed, that she always needed something more?
45
Lily
November 2014
‘I can’t eat it now.’ Tom glares at me with fury in his eyes. ‘You’ve moved the cutlery. Look!’
He points angrily at the fork which I have edged a couple of inches to the left to make room for an extra setting. I’ve been looking after Tom for long enough now to remember not to do that, but every now and then something slips and I forget. The results can be spectacular. Like now.
CRASH.
Mum and I jump, grabbing each other’s arms. It’s not just the cutlery which has flown off the table. It’s the plate next to it and a rather nice crystal wine glass which belonged to a wedding-gift set from all those years ago.
After Ed and I split and began dividing our possessions (which was nothing compared with the division in my own heart), I couldn’t help thinking how ironic it was that wedding presents could long outlast the marriage itself.
To my horror, I feel tears pricking my eyes. Tears which I usually ban on the grounds that they do no good. Besides, who wants an unfaithful husband? Good-quality wine glasses are far more useful.
‘Why did you do that?’ I shout, ignoring the warning look in Mum’s eyes. Don’t question Tom. Definitely don’t argue with him. You won’t win. During the divorce – a ‘quickie’, which had come through with indecent haste – Ed had claimed it was ‘useless’ arguing with a lawyer. People like me, apparently, never listen to others; they always have their own answers at the ready.
Maybe that’s where Tom gets it from. His ability to see his own point of view and no one else’s.
‘You touched my knife,’ he states factually, squinting through his new thick-framed black glasses. ‘I’ve told you before. I don’t like that.’
Bending down, I sweep up the pieces of broken glass. ‘You’re acting like a three-year-old,’ I mutter.