Woman Last Seen(83)
“Clearly not,” mutters Mark, dryly.
“No. You’re right. Turns out she was the most honest person I’ve ever known up until the point she stopped deceiving me. Hilarious.”
“I miss her,” Mark says. It’s hardly a confession. It’s to be expected yet he seems ashamed, distraught admitting as much. “The boys miss her.”
“I know. I do too.”
“I thought we were a team. A two-person, handle-everything-that-might-ever-come-along team. Not just the big stuff. Not just house moves, the kids’ friendship groups, illness.” His voice catches. Fiona thinks of Frances. This man has lost two wives. “But the little stuff too. You know, like taking the cat to the vet, doing the shopping and repainting the hallway, all that boring, essential stuff was just not so bad because we did it together. It was actually sometimes fun.”
It’s been a long time since Fiona has had someone to share life’s mundane tasks with. She remembers clearly, though, her ex Samar calling her his cheerleader, and before him Dirk called her his partner in crime. She used to be feisty and roll her eyes when people referred to their partners as their “other half” or worse yet, their “better half,” but over the last few years her cynicism has become tired, exhausted. Exhausted in the true sense of the word: sapped, wearied, depleted. Now Fiona thinks the idea of having a better half is edifying. People need support. There are worse things than to be propped up. You could be left alone to collapse.
Being married is about legal rights and shared financial goals and responsibilities, yes, but really it is about the other stuff. The nebulous, nuanced stuff like secret in-jokes and pet names—“You had to be there,” “Oh, it’s just something we say to each other”—having a private, nonverbal language whereby a single look might say “let’s get out of here” or “he’s a wanker” or “I love you.” Different looks, obviously. Creating family traditions—“We always go to Salcombe for the May bank holiday. The crowds are a nightmare but it’s our thing.” Fiona has heard them all.
She takes another slug of her wine, to swallow down the bile in her throat. Those are the things she yearns for. She absolutely understands Mark’s dependence on being married. She respects it, craves it.
Mark’s eyes are glassy; he’s a bit drunk. Honestly, he’s been a bit drunk, or very drunk, every night since Leigh disappeared. No one can blame him. Maybe she should talk to him about abstaining for a while, but honestly, she hasn’t got it in her.
“I miss her laugh. She had a weird laugh. Fast and loud,” he muses, mushily. The drink means he bounces about emotionally. One minute furious, the next wistful. No one could expect him to be stable, though, considering the circumstances. “Leigh made the house warmer and happier. Her absence was always felt, you know, when she went to work. What we thought was work,” he adds. Fiona bites her tongue. She hasn’t really heard Mark talk about Leigh this way before she vanished, or at least not for a very long time. He sounds sentimental, syrupy. It is the sort of tone reserved men use when they are forced to make public declarations—at their wedding speeches, for instance. No less sincere for that but slightly awkward to listen to. Mark’s usual tone with and about Leigh is more pedestrian as a rule. He is sometimes teasingly affectionate, but never mawkish. Fiona has heard him use the syrupy voice often enough, though, about Frances. His ex-wife. His dead wife. Does he think Leigh is an ex-wife?
A dead wife?
He carries on, “The boys should be used to her not being here, since she was always gone half the week, but they’re not doing well,” Mark continues. “It’s different now, obviously. No one is expecting her to walk through the door at any moment.”
“Aren’t they?” Fiona asks.
Mark shrugs. “No, not really.” He takes another swig of alcohol. “You can feel their anger in the air.”
Fiona thinks this is true. You can almost taste it, but it is not just the boys’ anger. It is Mark’s too. Without her, the house is drenched in an ominous vibe. “God, she was manipulative. Right? I mean, she had us all fooled. What a bitch, hey, Fiona?”
“Yeah,” Fiona admits. “She’s my best friend but she’s a bitch. I can’t really deny that.”
“She’s my wife but I was the first to say it.” He looks around as though surprised by her absence, all over again. Then he buries his head into the throw. Fiona thinks he’s crying at first, but he’s not. He is taking a long, deep breath in. Perhaps trying to soothe himself. Perhaps trying to catch Leigh’s smell on the fabric. A theory that is confirmed when he sits up. Slick-eyed, but not vacant, he is alert; twitching like a dog that listens for footsteps on the street, a squeak of the gate that indicates his mistress is home. But there are no footsteps on the street; Leigh is not home. Mark mumbles, “I can still smell her in the rooms. That’s something.” He sighs, admitting that it’s not much really.
“I do understand,” says Fiona. Mark flinches, looks skeptical. “Well, not completely, obviously, but I feel betrayed too. I can’t believe this is happening, that something has gone so horribly wrong in our worlds, when we were all just going about our business, you know? How has she kept me out of her life like that, so absolutely?”
“Half her life,” says Mark with a sardonic smirk.