The Wife Before Me(3)
Nicholas’s car is still stationary as he waits in the line of traffic leaving the cemetery.
‘His wife drowned,’ says Killian. ‘It was big news at the time.’
‘Oh, my God!’ Tara sounds as shocked as Elena feels. ‘How did that happen?’
‘She was parked on Mason’s Pier,’ says Susie. ‘It’s an old pier close to where we live. No one uses it any longer and there’s a warning sign beside it. Her car slid into the sea. It’s a really dangerous stretch of water, deep enough even in low tide.’
‘We were involved in the search for her body,’ Killian adds. ‘All the boats in the vicinity took part, but we had to call it off in the end.’
‘Not that he ever gave up.’ Susie twists strands of brown hair around her index finger, a childhood habit she still displays when upset. ‘He was convinced he’d find her if the search would last for another day, then another. She escaped from her car but she couldn’t swim. No one discovered she was missing until the following day when a man walking his dog noticed the skid marks on the slipway.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Elena gasps, her hand to her mouth. ‘I remember that time. I thought his name was familiar.’ No wonder she had found his gaze so compelling. He could hide his emotions in a polite exchange of words but he had been unable to control his eyes. In them, she had recognised the savagery of loss. A yearning she had seen so often in Isabelle’s eyes when she heard a song that reminded her of her young husband, or came across old photographs, the two of them arm in arm, wide, happy smiles. ‘Isabelle phoned me and told me about his wife after it happened. I didn’t make the connection. No wonder he looks so sad.’
Nicholas, as if he knows he is being discussed, glances across at the limousine and sees them staring at him. Elena sinks back into the seat and turns to Tara, who is still holding her hand. ‘He knows we’re talking about him.’
‘So what?’ Tara replies. ‘With his looks and his history, he must be used to it.’
Nicholas starts his car and indicates left for the city. The limousine driver indicates right and soon reaches the hotel where the post-funeral reception has been organised.
The afternoon passes in a blur. The atmosphere lightens when food and wine are served. The noise level rises. Old friends from Isabelle’s single days tell stories about her youthful exploits. Stories so outrageous that Elena wonders if these fifty-somethings, with their trim figures and highlighted hair, are attending the right funeral reception. All-night parties, clubbing on Leeson Street, rock concerts and discos in Ibiza – she finds it impossible to reconcile her mother’s contained personality with these vivid descriptions and realises that her perception of Isabelle was formed in the years following her father’s death.
Isabelle’s friends remember Elena as a baby with a halo of Orphan Annie curls. Her hair is darker now, a deep chestnut, its unruly curls straightened this morning by Tara. They admire everything about Elena and are thrilled, they claim, to discover that she has become such an elegant, lovely young woman. Overpowered by their perfumes and reminiscences, Elena thanks them and wonders what they really think of her.
Can you believe it… the grieving daughter? Couldn’t be bothered coming home in time to look after her mother. No good pretending that she didn’t know the seriousness of cervical cancer. The word alone should have alerted her to pack her bags and do her duty.
If such thoughts exist, she is not made aware of them. Rosemary Williams, a contract solicitor with KHM Investments, embraces her as she’s leaving. She was the only friend Isabelle made when she joined KHM and it was Rosemary who broke the news of the seriousness of her mother’s condition to Elena. They arrange a date to meet in Rosemary’s office for the reading of Isabelle’s will. Her departure signals a general move towards the exit. Air-kisses and handshakes are exchanged, promises made to keep in touch.
* * *
Exhaustion sets in when Elena’s friends depart the following day. That night she goes to bed and huddles under the duvet, convinced she’ll sleep around the clock. Hours later, she is still awake, her mind spinning from one grief-stricken memory to another. She cries for Isabelle, for Zac, for the tiny life they had created and which she carried so briefly. A life that will never have a name or a gender, fingers barely formed before sliding so painfully from her. A trilogy of grief. Elena can take her pick, unsure which one she mourns the most.
Two
Rising every morning, after another fitful night’s sleep, is the most important decision Elena is able to make. In Isabelle’s bedroom, the wardrobe still bulges with her clothes. Her shoes remain stacked on racks. Neighbours ring the doorbell and are ignored as Elena battles against an overwhelming tiredness. Dishes pile up on the draining board, dust gathers on the furniture. She orders pizzas in the evenings and forces herself to eat, washes them down with beer. Empty packaging and beer bottles litter the floor as guilt-ridden memories she never knew she had suppressed bubble up.
‘He was so young,’ Tara had said at the cemetery when she read the date of birth and death of Joseph Langdon. Elena realises she has never thought of her father as a young man. She never mourned him, not properly. At five years of age, what did she know of grief? Or anger at the drunk driver who drove through a set of red lights and killed him instantly?