The Wife Before Me(2)

The funeral is over. Fr Collins shakes her hand and departs. Her friends surround her. Tara flew from London as soon as she contacted her. Killian and Susie drove from Galway and the three of them were waiting to greet Elena when her flight from Brisbane landed at Dublin Airport.

They had stayed with her in Brookside, the bungalow Isabelle bought when Elena moved to Australia. No bloodline between them but Elena, an only child, looks upon them as family in the finest sense of the word.

‘Are you okay?’ Susie smothers her in a damp embrace and strokes her hair.

‘I’m fine… fine.’ Elena has warned them to stay cool, no emotional displays that will trigger another storm of tears.

Tara reads the inscription on the granite gravestone and says, ‘Oh, my God, Elena! I never realised your father was only thirty-one when he died. He was so young.’

‘Too young,’ Elena agrees. Her mind blanks, as it always does when she thinks about her father and the silence that filled the house after he died. The rain adds to the dreariness of this bleak cemetery, which she used to visit every Sunday with Isabelle until she was fifteen and deep into a teenage meltdown. ‘I’m sick of going there,’ she had shrieked at Isabelle. ‘Let him go.’ Uneasy memories stir her guilt, but now Nicholas Madison is coming towards her. She is surprised by a jolting awareness of his nearness and the knowledge that she had been hoping he would speak to her again. Her red umbrella gives a last, defiant shudder before the spokes break and it flutters upwards. He takes it from her and snaps it closed before handing it back and shielding her with his own umbrella.

‘It was a fitting service for Isabelle,’ he says as they turn away from the graveside. ‘Dignified and restrained, exactly as she would have liked.’ Raindrops glisten like dew on the shoulders of his cashmere coat and his black brogues are sinking in the mud. Elena feels vaguely responsible for destroying their high polish.

How well did you know my mother?’ she asks.

‘Only through work,’ he replies. ‘Isabelle was a very private person. I liked your homily. It was obvious to everyone in that church how much you loved her.’

‘She died before we’d a chance to say goodbye.’ Her voice quivers. Talking about Isabelle in the past tense is not becoming any easier. ‘Right up to the end I’d no idea… I’d have come home if—’ She stops, unable to continue.

‘How could you have known how quickly she would die?’ He holds her elbow as she stumbles on wet clods of clay. ‘You mustn’t add blame to your sorrow. It’s the last thing she would want.’

They walk towards the limousine that will take her and her friends to the funeral reception. No words are necessary to fill the silence that falls between them. The knot in her chest eases for the first time since she discovered that her mother was dying.

‘Will you join us for lunch at the hotel?’ she asks when they reach the car park.

‘Unfortunately, I’ve a business appointment,’ he replies. ‘It was a pleasure meeting you, Elena. Once again, my sincerest condolences.’ She almost expects him to bow and kiss the back of her hand. He has that way about him, an old-fashioned formality, as if his parents had drilled the importance of politeness into him. Always the right word for the right occasion. ‘Shall I throw that away for you?’ He nods at her umbrella and gestures towards a refuse bin.

‘Thank you.’ She hands the tattered remnants to him and enters the limousine, where her friends are waiting.

Tara holds Elena’s chilled hands and rubs them between her own. ‘Who’s the guy?’ She nods towards Nicholas, who is walking towards a silver Porsche.

‘My mother worked with him,’ Elena replies.

‘Is he coming back to the hotel?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘What a shame. He seemed pretty focused on you.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. He was simply being polite.’

‘Mmm…’ Tara smiles. ‘There’s polite and then there’s polite.’

‘Oh, stop it. The only reason he’s here is because Mum’s boss couldn’t be bothered taking an early flight from New York.’ Elena sounds bitter. She suspects the real reason for Peter Harris’s absence has nothing to do with KHM Investments and everything to do with pleasure. After twenty years of working as his personal assistant, there was little about his personal life that Isabelle hadn’t known. If she was still cognisant, she would probably throw her eyes upwards and say, ‘Typical! I wouldn’t have expected anything else from him.’ No more lying to his wife, Elena thought. No more made-up excuses that had caused Isabelle to threaten to leave the company on more than one occasion.

‘That’s an impressive car he’s driving.’ Tara cranes her neck to get a better view of Nicholas as he zaps the Porsche. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Nicholas Madison.’ The syllables roll easily off Elena’s tongue. Once again, she feels a tug of memory and Killian, who had also been admiring the Porsche, turns to her, his eyebrows raised.

‘Nicholas Madison?’ he asks.

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

He glances across at Susie. ‘What do you think?’

Susie checks the window as Nicholas, his face in profile, settles behind the wheel. ‘Yes.’ She nods. ‘He worked in finance. It has to be him.’