My Husband's Wife Read online

  That had been just before the saint’s day when she’d persuaded her mother to phone in sick to work. One of the best days of her life! Together they had taken a picnic to a place called Hide Park where Mamma had sung songs and told her what it was like when she was a child in Italy.

  ‘My brothers would take me swimming,’ she had said in a dreamy voice. ‘Sometimes we would catch fish for supper and then we would sing and dance and drink wine.’

  Carla, drunk with happiness at having escaped school, wove a strand of her mother’s dark hair round her little finger. ‘Was Papa there then too?’

  Suddenly her mother’s black dancing eyes stopped dancing. ‘No, my little one. He was not.’ Then she started to gather the Thermos and the cheese from the red tartan rug on the ground. ‘Come. We must go home.’

  And suddenly it wasn’t the best day of her life any more.

  Today didn’t look too good either. There was to be a test first thing, the teacher had warned. Maths and spelling. Two of her worst subjects. Carla’s grip on her mother’s hand, as they neared the bus stop, grew stronger.

  ‘You might be small for your age,’ the man with the shiny car had said the other evening when she’d objected to going to bed early, ‘but you’re very determined, aren’t you?’

  And why not? she nearly replied.

  ‘You must be nice to Larry,’ Mamma was always saying. ‘Without him, we could not live here.’

  ‘Please can we stay at home together? Please?’ she now begged.

  But Mamma was having none of it. ‘I have to work.’

  ‘But why? Larry will understand if you can’t meet him for lunch.’

  Usually she didn’t give him his name. It felt better to call him the man with the shiny car. It meant he wasn’t part of them.

  Mamma turned round in the street, almost colliding with a lamp post. For a moment she looked almost angry. ‘Because, my little one, I still have some pride.’ Her eyes lightened. ‘Besides, I like my job.’

  Mamma’s work was very important. She had to make plain women look pretty! She worked in a big shop that sold lipsticks and mascaras and special lotions that made your skin look ‘beautiful beige’ or ‘wistful white’ or something in between, depending on your colouring. Sometimes, Mamma would bring samples home and make up Carla’s face so that she looked much older than she was. It was all part of being beautiful, so that one day she would find a man with a shiny car who would dance with her round the sitting room.

  That’s how Mamma had found Larry. She’d been on the perfume counter that day because someone was off sick. Sick was good, Mamma had said, if it meant you could step in instead. Larry had come to the shop to buy perfume for his wife. She was sick too. And now Mamma was doing the wife a favour because she was making Larry happy again. He was good to Carla as well, wasn’t he? He brought her sweets.

  But right now, as they walked towards the bus stop where the woman with golden hair was waiting (the neighbour who, according to Mamma, must eat too many cakes), Carla wanted something else.

  ‘Can I ask Larry for a caterpillar pencil case?’

  ‘No.’ Mamma made a sweeping gesture with her long arms and red fingernails. ‘You cannot.’

  It wasn’t fair. Carla could almost feel its soft fur as she stroked it in her mind. She could almost hear it too: I should belong to you. Then everyone will like us. Come on, Carla. You can find a way.

  3

  Lily

  The prison is at the end of the District line, followed by a long bus ride. Its gentle woody-green on the Underground map makes me feel safe; not like the Central red, which is brash and shrieks of danger. Right now, my train is stopping at Barking and I stiffen, searching the platform through rain-streaked windows, seeking familiar faces from my childhood.

  But there are none. Only flocks of baggy-eyed commuters like wrinkled crows in raincoats, and a woman, shepherding a small boy in a smart red and grey uniform.

  Once upon a time, I had a normal life not far from here. I can still see the house in my head: pebble-dash,1950s build with primrose-yellow window frames that argued with its neighbour’s more orthodox cream. Still remember trotting down the high street, hand in hand with my mother on the way to the library. I recall with startling clarity my father telling me that soon I was going to have a new brother or sister. At last! Now I would be like all the others in class; the ones from exciting, noisy, bustling families. So different from our own quiet threesome.

  For some reason, I am reminded of the whining little girl in the navy-blue uniform from our block this morning, and her mother with those bee-stung lips, black mane and perfect white teeth. They’d been speaking in Italian. I’d been half tempted to stop and tell them we’d just been there on honeymoon.

  Often, I wonder about other people’s lives. What kind of job does that beautiful woman do? A model perhaps? But today I can’t stop my thoughts from turning back to myself. To my own life. What would my life be like if I’d become that social worker instead of a lawyer? What if, just after moving to London, I hadn’t gone to that party with my new flatmate, something I’d normally always say no to? What if I hadn’t spilled my wine on the beige carpet? What if the kindly sandy-haired man (‘Hi, I’m Ed’) with the navy cravat and well-educated voice hadn’t helped me to mop it up, telling me that in his view the carpet was very dull anyway and needed ‘livening up’. What if I hadn’t been so drunk (out of nerves) that I told him about my brother’s death when he’d asked about my own family? What if this funny man who made me laugh, but listened at the same time, hadn’t proposed on the second date? What if his arty, privileged world (so clearly different from mine) hadn’t represented an escape from all the horrors of my past …

  Are you telling me the truth about your brother? My mother’s voice cuts through the swathes of commuter crows and pulls me on an invisible towline away from London to Devon, where we moved two years after Daniel had arrived.

  I wrap my grown-up coat around me and throw her voice out of the window, on to the tracks. I don’t have to listen to it now. I’m an adult. Married. I have a proper job with responsibilities. Responsibilities I should be paying attention to now, rather than going back in time. ‘You need to picture what the prosecution is thinking,’ the senior partner is always saying. ‘Get one stage ahead.’

  Shuffling in an attempt to make room between two sets of sturdy, grey-trousered knees – one on either side of my seat – I open my bulging black briefcase. No easy task in a crammed carriage. Shielding the case summary with my hand (we’re not meant to read private documents in public), I scan it to refresh my memory.

  CONFIDENTIAL

  Pro Bono case

  Joe Thomas, 30, insurance salesman. Convicted in 1998 of murdering Sarah Evans, 26, fashion sales assistant and girlfriend of the accused, by pushing her into a scalding-hot bath. Heart failure combined with severe burns the cause of death. Neighbours testified to sounds of a violent argument. Bruises on the body consistent with being forcibly pushed.

  It’s the water bit that freaks me out. Murder should be committed with something nasty like a sharp blade or a rock, or poison, like the Borgias. But a bath should be safe. Comforting. Like the woody-green District line. Like honeymoons.

  The train jolts erratically and I’m thrown against the knees on my left and then those on my right. My papers scatter on the wet floor. Horrified, I gather them up, but it’s too late. The owner of the trousers on my right is handing back the case summary, but not before his eyes have taken in the neat typed writing.

  My first murder trial, I want to say, if only to smooth the wary look in his eyes.

  But instead I blush furiously and stuff the papers back into my bag, aware that if my boss was present I would be sacked on the spot.

  All too soon, the train stops. It’s time to get out. Time to try and save a man whom I already loathe – a bath! – when all I want is to be back in Italy. To live our honeymoon again.

  To get it right this time.


  Whenever I’ve thought about a prison, I’ve always imagined something like Colditz. Not a long drive that reminds me of Ed’s parents’ rambling pile in Gloucestershire. I’ve only been there once, but that was enough. The atmosphere was freezing, and I’m not just talking about the absence of central heating.

  ‘Are you sure this is right?’ I ask the taxi driver.

  He nods, and I can feel his grin even though I can’t see it from behind.

  ‘Everyone’s surprised when they see this place. Used to be a private home till Her Majesty’s Prison Service took over.’ Then his voice grows dark. ‘Pack of bleeding nutters in there now, and I don’t just mean the criminals inside.’

  I sit forward. My initial worry about putting a taxi on expenses (the bus didn’t go far enough, as it turned out) has been dissipated by this rather intriguing information. Of course I knew that HMP Breakville has a high proportion of psychopaths and that it specializes in psychological counselling. But a bit of local knowledge might be useful.

  ‘Are you talking about the staff?’ I venture.

  There’s a snort as we carry on up the drive, past a row of what appear to be council houses. ‘You can say that again. My brother-in-law used to be a prison officer here before he had his breakdown. Lived in one of those, he did.’

  My driver jerks his head at the council houses. Then we round another corner. On the left rises one of the most beautiful houses I’ve seen, with lovely sash windows and a stunning golden-red ivy climbing up the outside. At a rough guess, I’d say it was Edwardian. It’s certainly a complete contrast to the crop of Portakabins on my right.

  ‘You check in there,’ says the taxi man, pointing at the house. I scrabble in my purse, feeling obliged to tip him if only for the extra information.

  ‘Ta.’ His voice is pleased but his eyes are troubled. ‘Prison visiting, are you?’

  I hesitate. Is that what he has me down as? One of those do-gooders who feel it’s their duty to befriend the wicked?

  ‘Sort of.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Take care. Those blokes … they’re in there for a reason, you know.’

  Then he’s off. I watch the taxi go back down the drive, my last link to the outside world. It’s only when I start to walk towards the house that I realize I forgot to ask for a fare receipt. If I couldn’t get that right, what hope is there for Joe Thomas?

  And, more importantly, does he deserve any?

  ‘Sugar? Sellotape? Crisps? Sharp implements?’ barks the man on the other side of the glass divide.

  For a moment, I wonder if I’ve heard right. My mind is still reeling from the strange journey I’ve just taken. I’d gone towards the lovely house, relieved that prison wasn’t that terrifying after all. But when I got there, someone directed me back across the grounds, past the Portakabins and towards a high wall with curled-up barbed wire on top that I hadn’t noticed before. My heart thudding, I walked along it until I reached a small door.

  Ring, instructed the sign on the wall.

  My breath coming shorter, I did so. The door opened automatically and I found myself in a little room, not that different from the waiting area in a small domestic airport. On one side was a glass partition, which is where I am right now.

  ‘Sugar, Sellotape, crisps, sharp implements?’ repeats the man. Then he looks at my briefcase. ‘It saves time if you get them out before you’re searched.’

  ‘I don’t have any … but why would it matter if I had the first three?’

  His small beady eyes bore into mine. ‘They can use sugar to make hooch; Sellotape to gag you. And you might be bringing in crisps to bribe them or make yourself popular with the men. It’s happened before, trust me. Satisfied?’

  He certainly seems to be. I know his sort. Rather like my boss. The type who relish making you uncomfortable. He’s succeeded, but something inside me – a strength I didn’t know I had – makes me determined not to rise to it.

  ‘If, by “they”, you’re referring to your inmates, then I’m afraid they’re out of luck,’ I retort. ‘I don’t have anything on your list.’

  He mutters something that sounds like ‘bleeding-heart defence lawyers’ before pressing a bell. Another door opens and a female officer comes out. ‘Arms up,’ she instructs.

  Again I’m reminded of an airport, except this time nothing bleeps. For a minute I’m back in Rome where my silver bracelet – Ed’s wedding present to me – set off the alarm at security.

  ‘Open your case, please.’

  I do as instructed. There’s a stack of documents, my make-up bag and a packet of Polos.

  The woman seizes on the last two as if trophies. ‘Afraid we’ll have to confiscate these until you’re out. Your umbrella too.’

  ‘My umbrella?’

  ‘Possible weapon.’ She speaks crisply, but I detect a touch of kindness that was absent in the man behind the glass partition.

  ‘This way, please.’

  She escorts me through another door and, to my surprise, I find myself in a rather pleasant courtyard garden. There are men in Robin-Hood-green jogging bottoms and matching tops, planting wallflowers. My mother is doing the same in Devon: she told me so on the phone last night. It strikes me that different people might be doing exactly the same thing all over the world, but that a united task doesn’t mean they have anything in common.

  One of the men glances at the leather belt around the officer’s waist. There’s a bundle of keys attached and a silver whistle. How effective would that be, if these men attacked us?

  We’ve crossed the square towards another building. My companion takes the keys from her pouch, selects one and opens up. We’re in another hall. Two more doors are in front. Double doors and also double gates, separated by an inch or so of space. She unlocks them and then locks them again after we’ve gone through. ‘Make sure you don’t trap your fingers.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder if you’ve done it properly?’ I ask.

  She fixes me with a stare. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m the kind of person who has to go back and double-check our own front door,’ I say. Quite why I admit this, I don’t know. Maybe it’s to introduce a note of humour into this weird world I’ve found myself in.

  ‘You have to be on top of things here,’ she says reprovingly. ‘This way.’

  The corridor stretches out before us. There are more doors on either side with signs next to them: ‘A Wing’, ‘B Wing’, ‘C Wing’.

  A group of men is coming towards us in orange tracksuits.

  One of them – bald with a shiny scalp – nods at the officer. ‘Morning, miss.’

  Then he stares at me. They all do. I blush. Hotly. Deeply.

  I wait until they’ve passed. ‘Are they allowed to wander around?’

  ‘Only when it’s freeflow.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘When the men are off the wing and on their way somewhere like gym or chapel or Education. It requires less supervision than a situation where officers escort each prisoner individually.’

  I want to ask what kind of situation that might be. But instead, partly from nervousness, I find a different question coming out of my mouth.

  ‘Can they choose the colours they wear? Like that bright orange?’

  ‘It’s to show what wing they’re on. And don’t ask them questions like that or they’ll think you’re interested in them. Some of these men are dangerously smart. They’ll try to condition you if you’re not careful. Make friends with you to get you onside or make you less vigilant. The next thing, they’re getting information out of you without you realizing it, or making you do things you shouldn’t.’

  That’s ridiculous! What kind of idiot would fall for something like that? We’ve stopped now. D Wing. Another set of double doors and gates. I step through as the officer closes both behind us. A wide gangway stretches out before us, with rooms on both sides. Three men are waiting, as if loitering on a street. They all stare. A fourth man is busy cleaning out a goldfish tank,
his back to us. It strikes me as being incongruous – murderers looking after goldfish? – but before I can ask anything, I’m being taken into an office on the left.

  Two young men are sitting at a desk. They don’t look very different from those in the corridor – short hair and inquisitive eyes – except they’re in uniform. I’m aware that my skirt band is cutting into my waist, and once again I wish I’d been more disciplined in Italy. Is comfort-eating normal on a honeymoon?

  ‘Legal for Mr Thomas,’ says my companion. She pronounces the ‘Mr’ with emphasis. It sounds sarcastic.

  ‘Sign here, please,’ says one of the officers. His eye travels from my briefcase to my chest and then back to my briefcase again. I notice that in front of us is a tabloid, sporting a scantily clad model. Then he glances at his watch. ‘You’re five minutes late.’

  That’s not my fault, I want to say. Your security delayed me. But something tells me to hold my tongue. To save it for battles that matter.

  ‘Heard Thomas was making an appeal,’ says the other man. ‘Some people, they just don’t give up, do they?’

  There’s a polite cough behind us. A tall, well-built, dark-haired man with a short neat beard is standing at the door of the office. He was one of those waiting in the corridor, I realize. But instead of staring, he is smiling thinly. His hand is extended. His handshake squeezes my knuckles. This is a practised salesman, I remind myself.

  Yet he doesn’t look like an archetypal prisoner, or, at least, not the type I’d imagined. There are no obvious tattoos, unlike the prison officer beside me, who is sporting a red and blue dragon’s head on his arm. My new client is wearing an expensive-looking watch and polished brown brogues which stand out among the other men’s trainers and are at odds with his green prison uniform. I get the feeling that this is a man who is more used to a jacket and tie. Indeed, I can see now that there is a crisp white shirt collar peeping out from under the regulation sweatshirt. His hair is short but well cut, revealing a high forehead above a pair of dark eyebrows. His eyes suggest someone who is wary, hopeful and slightly nervous all at the same time. His voice, when it comes, is deep. Assured but with an accent that is neither rough nor polished. He could be a neighbour. Another solicitor. Or the manager of the local deli.