The Wife Before Me(9)
‘It’s no trouble. I’d like to see you safely to your door.’
‘But we’ve both been drinking. You should also take a taxi.’ She tries to sound casual and fails.
He smiles, sensing her nervousness. ‘I’m under the limit.’ He gestures towards his wine glass, still half-full. The water jug is empty. Elena doesn’t remember drinking from it, which explains the muzziness in her head. She’ll have a hangover in the morning, while he’ll awaken clear-eyed and remembering everything she said. And everything he didn’t have a chance to say because, tonight, she hogged the limelight on anguish?
‘It’s okay… okay.’ He leans across the table and holds her hands. ‘My nights are long and I often drive to pass the time. Tonight, you’ve given me a reason.’
He steadies her when she sways on the steps of the restaurant. The sensation of his fingers on her arm remains with her even though they are now walking sedately apart. He drives at a leisurely pace from the city and brakes outside the bungalow.
‘You don’t have to ask me in,’ he says. ‘I’ve enjoyed your company and you’ve shortened the dark hours. I’m grateful for that.’
‘Thank you for listening to me, Nicholas. I’m sorry if I talked too much.’
‘You didn’t,’ he assures her. ‘If I helped a little by listening, I’m glad.’
After he has driven away, she sits before the mirror on the dressing table and studies her face. Her lips feel voluptuous, as if he has crushed them with kisses instead of politely shaking her hand at the door.
‘I’ve fallen in love with him.’ She utters the words to her reflection, then repeats them. Her stomach lurches, as if caught unawares by the giddiness of desire. She believed she was in love with Zac but that emotion now seems like a feeble pulse compared to this sensation of bliss and wonder and terror. She is not ready to be consumed. Not now, when she is so vulnerable, so prone to mood swings that leave her listless or filled with a manic energy. They plan to meet again next week. This feeling that has come upon her like a low fever turned delirium cannot be denied. No more talking about Zac. That conversation is over. She wants to know everything about Nicholas Madison, about Amelia, about their marriage. When he speaks of Amelia she will be as sympathetic as he was with her tonight.
* * *
She believed Zac had broken her heart but she had only suffered a mild fracture. Losing her baby and Isabelle had shattered it into tiny pieces – but hearts can mend. Does Nicholas believe that? She hopes desperately that he does. She sways forward, her arms wrapped round her chest, and thinks of Zac, pictures him riding towards her on the belly of a wave… then lets him fall.
Four
When they are not seeing each other, Nicholas rings her late at night. An hour later, they are still talking. They tease each other over who will be the first to end the call.
Flowers are delivered to the bungalow when Elena is not expecting them. He books tickets for the theatre and the Concert Hall, takes out membership for both of them at the Irish Film Centre. The films he chooses are interesting, sometimes difficult to understand until later, in a pub, he explains the concepts behind them. He enjoys classical music. This is more than just a preference, he tells her after a Bach recital by a Polish pianist, whose name Elena has already forgotten. Classical music has been proven to help people process grief and other traumatic events from their past. That is why he prefers it to popular music. This is the moment, Elena thinks. The perfect opportunity for him to confide in her. The moment passes.
She has checked everything that is available online about Amelia Madison. In back issues of glossy magazines, she has read about her high-flying career in interior design. She has watched on YouTube her television appearances, where she demonstrates how to achieve harmony and unity within the living and working space.
‘Perhaps I should sign up for a course in interior design,’ Elena says one night when they are dining in a restaurant. ‘I’ve always believed I’ve a knack for optimising space.’
He turns his head away. His jaw clenches. Elena wants to bite down on her tongue. She must be more sensitive, more understanding of his emotions, as he is of hers. He has remained a good listener, pressing her hands gently if she becomes agitated, holding her to him when she tells him about the tiny life she and Zac created and lost. He has opened her up in a way that no one else – not even Zac at the height of their relationship – has done.
When she tries to understand the uneasiness she sometimes feels after confiding in him, she can only describe it as being undressed, emotionally. It’s as if he can see deep into her soul. Not that Elena believes in the concept of a soul or in a life that continues after the grave. Isabelle’s spirit is not haunting the bungalow, nor is Amelia Madison’s wraithlike hand on his shoulder when Elena is with him. It’s just the power of memory that gives lifeblood to the dead.
She thinks about Zac, his rumbustious passion that petered out as soon as it was challenged. In bed she imagines Nicholas beside her, his probing tongue, his muscular arms and hard, thrusting body. She moans and tosses off the duvet, seeking relief, whispering his name as her body shudders. How long can this continue before her desire spills over and demands more from him than reticence and a chaste kiss on her cheek at the end of each date?