The Wife Before Me(35)
‘You’re being extraordinarily rude, Elena. It’s difficult dealing with post-partum depression but that doesn’t give you the right to make such appalling accusations―’
‘Did Amelia ever complain to you about Nicholas’s temper?’
‘She certainly did nothing of the sort.’ Yvonne’s tone is hard, flinty, yet Elena senses there is something else behind it, a guardedness, and it gives her the courage to continue.
‘Did she accuse him of violence against her when―’
‘How dare you. He adored the ground Amelia walked on.’ She stabs her finger at Elena. ‘You can never hope to compete with his memories of her, no matter how hard you try with that ridiculous haircut. You’re the mother of his children and in a position to make new memories for both of you. But you’re certainly not going about it the right way. Work on your relationship, Elena. Pull yourself together and seek help for your depression. I can recommend an excellent psychiatrist—’
‘It’s your son who’s in need of a psychiatrist, not me.’ Elena has gone too far to stop now. ‘You’ve both been undermining me since Grace was born and I’m not prepared to tolerate it any longer.’
‘How dare you interpret my kindness as undermining you? If that’s what you think I’m doing, then Nicholas has every reason to be worried about your mental state.’
‘In future, I want you to phone in advance to let me know you are calling.’
‘How dare you tell me I need to seek permission to see my grandchildren?’ Yvonne pushes the chair back so violently it topples over. Joel jerks at the sound and begins to cry. Grace flings bricks over the side of the playpen and holds up her arms to be lifted out.
‘Don’t touch her,’ Elena says when Yvonne bends to pick her up. ‘I want you to leave my house right now.’
‘Your house.’
‘Are you implying it belongs to Nicholas?’
‘Obviously, it belongs to him!’ Yvonne shrieks. ‘I’ve heard enough of your craziness for one day. You haven’t heard the last of this, young lady.’
The slam of the front door reverberates through Elena. The fury that possessed her is now spent and she will have to cope with the consequences.
Eighteen
The way he brakes, pebbles spraying like a backwash from the wheels as he parks in front of her car, alerts her that Yvonne has already spoken to him. His stride is fast, briefcase swinging, his shoulders squared. The children are sleeping upstairs, the baby monitor on. Candles are ablaze and cast a soft glow over the throws and cushions on the armchairs. This scene of domestic bliss is a stage, set for action, and the ghost of Amelia trembles in every corner.
‘You lying bitch.’ He closes the door softly behind him and lowers his briefcase to the floor. ‘My mother takes the kids for the afternoon to help you get yourself together and you reduce her to tears with your deranged accusations. You called me a crook to her face. Accused me of abusing my dead wife.’ No preamble then. Just a body blow of abuse, which he continues to spew at her.
‘I told Yvonne you had a temper,’ Elena says when he pauses for breath. ‘It’s obvious I was telling the truth. I also accused her of undermining me. Another truth. As is the fact that you’ve beggared me. I don’t have any money, apart from what you condescend to give me – and then you demand a receipt for every penny I spend. I’m sick of living this life, Nicholas―’
‘Ghosts.’ He speaks above her, ignoring the accusations. ‘What the fuck was all that about?’
‘Amelia… she’s always here between us.’ Her cheeks burn, as if his hand has already scorched her skin.
‘You are one crazy bitch.’ He presses his fingertips against his temples. ‘I feel as if there’s a wire being pulled through my head when I try to talk sense to you.’ He starts slapping his hand against his forehead, his movements becoming more rapid, harder.
‘Stop it, Nicholas. You’ll hurt yourself.’ She reaches towards him but teeters back when he lashes out, narrowly missing her face. Before she can recover, she is being walked towards the door. His grip on her arm is light yet firm as they mount the stairs together. The urge to fight back is a fleeting impulse. His strength is contained but capable of being unleashed in an instant.
He unlocks the door of the master bedroom and stands aside for her to enter. The room is exactly the same as she remembers. He locks the door behind them and gestures towards the chair in front of the dressing table. When she is seated, he lifts Amelia’s hairbrush and begins to brush her hair. She holds her head stiffly as she endures the slow, deliberate strokes. Strands of hair spring upwards, as if charged with her terror. Is he angry? Or simply playing with her? Unable to assess his mood, she is afraid to stir from her position. He walks to the wardrobe and removes the silver lamé dress. The fabric shimmers under the light, seeming almost to move, and the dress looks as if it is possessed by the rippling elegance of the woman who once wore it.
‘Put it on.’ He lifts it from the hanger and holds it towards her.
‘It won’t fit me.’
‘Make it fit,’ he replies.
Her breasts feel tight. Joel is due a feed. Soon, he’ll be awake and crying. ‘Why are you doing this to me, Nicholas?’ A futile question, she knows, yet she asks it in the faint hope that he will see reason.