The Wife Before Me(26)
He has not yet made an appointment with a psychologist to discuss his stress disorder, which is becoming more pronounced. He accuses her of nagging at him when she reminds him of the promise he made to her. If she continues to undermine him, he will be forced to take action. He speaks softly, as if they are sharing an intimate exchange; a promise of pleasures to come, and she, hearing his implicit warning, is silenced.
Amelia’s make-up is still on the dressing table. Nicholas has made no attempt to tidy it away. Lipsticks are lined up in rows according to their shade. Tubes of foundation, jars of moisturising creams and bottles of perfume are aligned with the same symmetry. The only item to disturb this evenness is a crumpled sheet of tissue paper. Elena picks it up, then lets it fall when she sees the imprint of Amelia’s lips, a vibrant, fuchsia pink. Why has he not thrown it away? Does he hold it to his own lips when he is here, remembering… remembering?
She opens drawers filled with underwear, rainbow colours in satin and lace. Stockings and tights, two suspender belts, fun pyjamas with cartoon prints, some sexy, flouncy nightdresses. Her stomach turns as the intimacy of the life he shared with Amelia is spread before her.
She reaches the en suite just in time. Holding her hair back from her face, she kneels in front of the toilet bowl and retches, convulsively. Afterwards, sitting back on her heels, she wipes her mouth. The last time she was this sick— no, it isn’t possible… but that night when they met Steve… she was dazed with sleep and can’t remember if Nicholas used a condom. She rises and returns to the bedroom, slams the drawers closed. The nausea has passed. A stomach bug, that has to be the reason. Anything else is unthinkable.
She opens the wardrobe. The coat hangers all face the same way and the clothes – colour-coded and coordinated, look as though they are on display in a boutique. After seeing Amelia’s lingerie, Elena finds it hard to imagine her wearing these structured suits, tailored trousers and formal dresses. She had always imagined Amelia floating from room to room in layers of silk. The only dress to attract her attention is the silver lamé one she saw in the photograph Nicholas has burned. Sleek and slim-fitting with a long slit at the side, it must have hugged every curve of her slender body.
The zip is easy to slide down. Elena lays it on the bed and takes off her top, wriggles out of the trousers with the elasticated waist. She used to laugh with Tara when they went shopping and saw these shapeless, chain-store trousers that offered comfort instead of style. Never, in her wildest nightmares, did she believe she would ever wear them but Nicholas had bought two pairs for her – one navy, one indigo – as a stopgap, he said, until she recovered her figure.
She stands before the long cheval mirror and steps into the dress. Amelia was smaller than Elena, and the hem hangs a few inches above her ankles. The zip sticks at her waist and won’t go any higher. She tugs hard but it’s caught in the fabric. Her tears fall without warning. She can’t believe she is making this sound, her body racked with sobs, her face livid and blotchy. The dress, glittering in the mirror, is a mocking tribute to Amelia’s beauty and svelte figure.
Downstairs, Grace is also crying. Elena glances at her watch and is shocked at how much time has passed since she entered the bedroom. Her hands shake as she shoves the dress into the back of the wardrobe. The clothes have the musty smell of unopened spaces and Nicholas, she hopes, will never notice that they have been disturbed.
* * *
That tingle on her skin, the feathery brush against her cheeks fuels her fear when he comes downstairs from the bedroom that evening. She has become accustomed to his waxen complexion when he is angry, his eyes glazing over as he studies her.
‘What were you doing in her bedroom?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ It is futile to lie but confessing the truth is not an option either.
He wrenches her from the armchair to her feet and twists her arm behind her. ‘You are a deceitful bitch.’ He breathes hotly into her ear. ‘I gave you the run of my house. Her bedroom was my only refuge from your prying obsessions. All I asked in return was that you should respect my privacy. Was that too much to expect? Was it? Answer me. Why did you have to defy me and enter it?’
She is sprawled on the floor, blows raining on her shoulders, her legs. He is being careful, she notes in the midst of her terror, to avoid her face. When he lifts his foot, she cradles her stomach and finds the strength to breathe a warning.
‘I’m pregnant.’ The words are almost inaudible but they penetrate his fury. His foot freezes. His stillness suggests he is trying to decide whether or not she is lying. Then he bends and helps her to stand.
‘How long have you known?’ he asks.
‘Not long.’ She has no idea if she is telling the truth but the possibility that she is carrying his child has stayed his fists, his feet. She sobs and pushes him away. Denial is no longer possible. She has fallen in love with a man racked by memories, whose violence stems from the fact that Elena will never replace his lost love.
Thirteen
The pressure on Nicholas to work late increases as Elena enters the final months of her pregnancy. Is there another woman in his life, besides the one who haunts him? Is that the reason he is avoiding her? Does he find her repulsive, her wan face and bulging stomach, the constant retching that leaves her without the energy or desire for anything except sleep? The only consolation she has is that his rages have ended. When they are together he is solicitous, soothing Grace and feeding her when she awakens at night, apologetic when he rings Elena to tell her not to wait up for him. His concern, though, only feeds her suspicions.