The Wife Before Me(34)
Walking swiftly through the back garden, she returns the folder to its hiding place and closes the door behind her. The branches she hacked with such ferocity are already wilting on the ground and the ice house, stripped of its unruly cover, is as exposed as a hobbit’s lair. If Nicholas comes this way he will know what she has done. Is he aware of its existence? It’s on Billy Tobin’s land, so, perhaps not. The trail leading to it is barely passable; only someone who had known Woodbine since birth would be able to find their way to it.
But she, Elena, has found her way into his wife’s past. Did Amelia guide her there, invisible arms reaching out to entice her to that derelict cranny? Is she watching out for Elena, her spirit rising from the barnacled underworld to warn her? It’s no longer possible to know what is chance and what is guidance in this life of uncertainty that she once embraced so willingly. She presses her face to the raddled bark of a tree. It pains her. Gives her proof that she is not yet a husk, nor lost so deeply within herself that nothing else exists except his will. She shivers, as if the chill from the ice house has entered her bones. She waits until her legs are strong enough to carry her back to the house.
* * *
‘We’re home.’ Yvonne breezes into the kitchen, Joel on one arm, Grace clinging to her hand.
‘Oh dear… oh dear!’ Her appraising gaze sweeps over Elena. ‘You didn’t go to the hairdressers after all.’
‘I couldn’t get an appointment.’ Elena takes Joel from her and sits down in the rocking chair she always uses when feeding him. ‘I spent my time catching up on chores.’
‘You certainly look as if you’ve been exerting yourself.’ Yvonne plucks a twig from Elena’s hair. ‘I’m happy to help out any time but you really should have taken the opportunity to pamper yourself. If we don’t do that, who else will look after our appearance?’
‘I pampered myself with some thought time, which is just as important.’
‘I guess it is.’ Yvonne’s tone suggests otherwise. ‘At least you were out of doors. You need more fresh air to bring some colour back to your cheeks. The children were as good as gold, as they always are when they’re with me. I’ll take them whenever you need a break. Nicholas says you’re exhausted all the time.’
An exhausted drudge, neurotic and incapable of managing her own children: is that how Yvonne sees her? Has she formed that opinion independently, or has it been planted in her mind by Nicholas? Still talking, Yvonne, switches on the kettle and opens the tea caddy, stretches up for the teapot. She takes biscuits from the press, sets cups on the table, her knowledge of the kitchen adding to Elena’s annoyance.
‘You called Amelia a diva once,’ she says when Joel has fallen asleep in her arms. She lowers him into his carrycot and sits down with Yvonne at the kitchen table. ‘Why was that?
‘Did I?’ Yvonne pauses, teapot in hand. ‘I don’t recall using that word.’
‘You said she created dramas from nothing.’
‘I admit she was highly strung,’ Yvonne concurs. ‘And she certainly could be a diva when she wanted her own way.’
‘How?’ Elena asks.
‘Oh, you know how it is…’ Tea poured, Yvonne hands a cup across the table to her. ‘The number of times I had to listen to her complaining if Nicholas had to work late or entertain clients, especially if they were female. She was very insecure. I guess that must have added to her possessiveness.’
‘Is that why she haunts this house?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Don’t you feel her presence here?’
‘I certainly do not.’
‘Nicholas does.’
‘Nonsense. I worry about you―’
‘She keeps me company when Nicholas is working late. He’s still doing it, you know. Coming home after the children are in bed so he doesn’t have to entertain them.’
‘Being a junior partner brings responsibilities, Elena. Surely you can appreciate the effort he’s putting into his career to provide for you and the children.’
‘All the effort he puts into his career didn’t stop him beggaring me.’
There it is, out in the open at last, and Yvonne draws back, as if from a spray of spittle. Colour mounts her cheeks; but her forehead, which should be furrowed with shock, remains taut and smooth.
‘Beggaring you? What exactly do you mean?’
Elena has never noticed the resemblance between Yvonne and her son until now. The chilling impassivity of their expressions when they are angry.
‘It’s self-explanatory,’ she replies. ‘He invested my inheritance and lost it all. I’m penniless because of him. So, you can imagine why I’m not impressed when he tells me he’s working late.’
‘Elena, relax down. Nicholas hasn’t lost your money. The market rises and falls and, as a fund manager, he understands its volatility. In time, your money will be returned to you with profits. I should know. The investments Nicholas manages for myself and Henry fluctuate regularly but we always earn our dividend. You need to trust him and stop using inflammatory words like “beggaring”.’
‘What should I use instead? Defrauding? Swindling? Fleecing?’ Her anger is reckless, a flare of rage that banishes caution.