The Wife Before Me
Laura Elliot
Prologue
Amelia Madison drove slowly down the steep incline leading to Mason’s Pier. The road was little more than a fissure carved into the side of the cliff and an earlier rainfall combined with mulching seaweed had added a dangerous slickness to the surface. As she swerved round the bends, she avoided looking down to the rocks below, knowing that her fear, balanced so finely on her resolve, would overwhelm her once again.
At the end of the road she turned left and passed the collapsed barrier of an empty car park. The half-moon cove behind her was deserted, as she had expected it to be. In years gone by the sheltering face of the cliff had made it a popular beach for sunbathing, but erosion and rockfall had turned it into a perilous place to visit. Efforts by the local council to stem the danger with steel mesh had only succeeded in adding to its grimness and underlying its dereliction was the bleak memory of a drowning tragedy that had occurred there years earlier.
In Amelia’s nightmares, the cove filled the breadth of her terror. Up close, it looked smaller and more insignificant than she remembered. The slipway was no longer in use and the pier, where local fishermen once cast their lines, had fallen out of favour. Buffered by waves and pitted with potholes, Mason’s Pier jutted out over the Atlantic like a grey, forlorn snout.
She did not hesitate as she drove onto the rutted surface. Nor did she look back towards the cove where she had once built an enormous sandcastle with her father. She had helped him to flood the moat by constructing a channel to the ocean, gathered shells and white feathers to adorn the turrets. She had chased a beach ball— no, she would not think about that day. Not now when her mind was set in only one direction.
As she neared the slant down onto the slipway, she slowed her car. At first, when she pulled on the handbrake, she was sure that the wheels would remain stationary; but then she became aware of a slight forward momentum, almost subtle enough to seem imagined. It was a warning, she knew, and soon it would be too late to stop the inevitable slide on the scum of moss and algae.
Kittiwakes screamed as they dive-bombed towards the cliff and a cormorant, standing steady on a nearby rock, watched impassively as Amelia’s tyres began to spin. This was it, then. An end to the marriage she had once embraced with such eagerness, such hope. The setting sun lanced the windscreen. She was dazzled by its splendour, yet she must keep looking beyond it towards a new horizon.
The cormorant blinked its dark-green eyes and spread its wings like a cross as her car slid slowly but inexorably towards the end of the slipway.
The ocean heaved.
Part One
One
The Present
Elena’s red umbrella looks frivolous and flimsy among the sturdy black ones surrounding her. It offers little protection against the rain and the wind, gusting between the tombstones, threatens to whip it inside out. Thorns from the white rose she holds in her hand dig deeply into her skin as Father Collins lifts his aspergillum to sprinkle holy water over her mother’s coffin. Men in baggy jeans, who have been waiting discreetly in the background, step forward with ropes to lower Isabelle Langdon into the earth. Elena is stunned with grief yet, even in the midst of this final ritual, her eyes are drawn towards a man standing opposite her. He is watching her and in that silent exchange his sympathy stretches like a lifeline across the width of the open grave.
Earlier, outside the church, he had introduced himself. ‘I’m Nicholas Madison,’ he said as he shook her hand. ‘I’m here on Peter Harris’s behalf. He asked me to extend his deepest sympathies to you and his apologies at being unavoidably delayed in New York.’
She had heard his name before. Nicholas Madison… Nicholas Madison… But nothing came to mind as she thanked him and he moved politely aside to allow the woman behind him to offer her condolences to Elena.
She had forgotten him instantly. Smudged him in with the other mourners leaving the churchyard as her mother’s coffin was lifted into the hearse.
Not quite smudged him from memory, Elena realises now. His tanned, angular face is a vibrant contrast to the grey complexions of the mourners surrounding him, their lips pinched from the cold. His lips are full but not fleshy, his mouth slightly open, as if he is about to speak words of comfort to her. His eyes, dark-grey and long-lashed – Elena recalls this from their earlier encounter – have such intensity that she finds it impossible to look away. She has seen much sympathy on the faces of those who have supported her since Isabelle died but in Nicholas Madison’s expression she recognises an empathy that goes beyond compassion. Instead of sharing this last moment with her mother, she smiles at him. A clown’s smile, as grotesque as it is false. Why did she do that? Better than keening, she supposes. The thin wail that acknowledges the missed opportunities, the broken promises, the too-late-to-be-offered apologies.
Stumbling over prayers that were once familiar to her, Elena tears her gaze away. She watches the white rose tumble and settle on the coffin. The gravediggers lay a plank of artificial grass over the open space and place the wreath of white roses on top. No other flowers, she had requested on the death notice. Those who wished to honour Isabelle’s memory should make a donation to the Irish Cancer Society where, Elena hopes, a cure will soon be found to prevent the disease that took her mother so mercilessly from her.