The Wife Before Me(19)
The months that follow blur between brief periods of wellness when she finds the energy to meet with estate agents. She makes arrangements to view houses she likes and is forced to cancel these appointments, either because she is too sick to attend the viewing or because Nicholas has to deal with a crisis at work. Today, they have arranged to meet at noon for an auction. The property for sale, a spacious three-storey renovated Victorian house nestling above Killiney Bay, has an outrageous asking price but it will be affordable when Woodbine is sold and the proceeds combined with Elena’s inheritance. The sooner they move the better, as far as she is concerned. Woodbine is dominated by Amelia’s spectral presence, the photographs and paintings still in place, the recipe books with her floured fingerprints still slanted on the kitchen shelf. It will take more than a coat of paint and rolls of wallpaper to eradicate her personality and Elena’s efforts to persuade Nicholas to have the rooms redecorated have been met with steely resistance. The house is in perfect condition, he argues. Why waste money changing it when it will soon be sold?
He rings as she is about to enter the auction room. He has to fly to the New York office at short notice. Some cock-up due to Peter Harris’s ineptness and Nicholas has to sort it out, as usual. There will be other houses, he reassures her. He sounds far away, as if he is already in flight.
That evening, Elena checks the auction site. The house sold for a price they could, at a stretch, have afforded. Unable to sit still, she tackles the living room and moves the armchairs into different positions. She rearranges the photographs so that Amelia’s vibrant face is not the first thing she sees each time she enters the room.
On the cluttered sideboard, she discovers a photograph that, until now, has been hidden from view behind larger frames. This is a group photograph that had been taken at a KHM Christmas function. Elena touches her chest instinctively when she recognises Isabelle standing beside Rosemary Williams. Lilian Harris, her mouth pulled downward by discontent or, perhaps, unhappiness, was posed like a ramrod between her husband and Christopher Keogh, KHM’s senior partner. The sainted Amelia, sleekly slim in a silver lamé dress, short wings of black hair swinging over her cheeks, was laughing into the camera, while Nicholas was positioned behind her, one hand resting on her shoulder, his downcast eyes gazing tenderly on her. Unable to bear the image of their glowing happiness, Elena hides the photograph behind a sheet of wood in the garden shed.
His face hardens when he returns from New York and surveys the rearranged armchairs. He immediately moves them back into their original positions and demands to know why she made these changes without his agreement. Her skin feels stretched, branded red with frustration. Is he expecting her to walk in his dead wife’s shoes? If so, this is unacceptable. Her voice, rising to a shriek, sounds appalling to her own ears.
He stands in front of the sideboard and studies the photographs. ‘Where is it?’ He does not raise his voice but his grip on her arm is tight. ‘I want that photograph back in its place, immediately.’
‘Why are you making such a fuss?’ she demands. ‘You hid it behind the others, so you obviously didn’t think it was that important.’
‘Don’t you dare presume to know what I consider to be important. This is my house and you had no right to disobey my instructions.’
‘You tell me you love me yet she’s still blinding you to my needs? You were hardly aware of that photograph’s existence until I removed it.’
‘I’m aware of everything in this house.’ He is close enough to kiss her or strike her. The realisation that he could do either fills her with alarm. Has he been so warped by this tragedy that he is unable to see how outrageous his behaviour has become? Is that grief stronger than the love he claims to feel for her? Elena’s cheeks tingle, as if brushed by fleeting fingertips, and the sense that another presence, powerful but invisible, is listening to them sends shivers through her.
She pulls away from him and walks out into the garden. Not so long ago, the gentle pressure of his fingers lingered on her skin. Now, her arm is bruised and hurting. The full moon shines on the glass butterflies and the oddly shaped metal sculptures have acquired a pale, ghostly hue. She removes the photograph from its hiding place and hands it to him. Wordlessly, he stares at it. She wants to say something, anything, to break the tension, but there is a warning in his silence that unnerves her.
Suddenly, he slams his fist into the photograph. Glass shatters and falls to the floor. Blood spurts from his hand. He ignores Elena’s cry and holds up his other hand, palm forward, to prevent her moving closer. He removes the photograph and tears it in two, flings the pieces and the remains of the frame into the empty fireplace. An ornate brass dragon on the mantlepiece serves as a matchbox holder. He removes a match, strikes it off the dragon’s scales and sets fire to the photograph. His blood drips into the fireplace but does not quench the flame. This is ritualistic, almost barbaric. Elena looks away as the paper coils and browns.
She finds bandages in a first aid box in the kitchen and stems the bleeding. The photograph has turned to ash. Her stomach lurches. Bile fills her mouth. She just makes it to the bathroom on time. Afterwards, she brushes her teeth and stares at her reflection. She’s losing weight, not putting it on. That’s not surprising as this so-called morning sickness can afflict her at any time.
Her baby moves that night and Nicholas awakens, as if he, too, has experienced that first fluttery sensation of butterfly wings beating down the months.