My Husband's Wife Page 23

  All Ed needs is another big sale for the sake of his self-esteem and to pay the new gallery bills. Maybe, I tell myself, edging down the narrow stone steps, that’s why he’s summoned me here. Perhaps another buyer has walked in!

  As I enter the gallery, I see Ed’s head from the back. It gives me a warm feeling of contentment.

  ‘Lily!’ He swivels round, saying my name as though it is fresh in his mouth. As if I am an acquaintance he hasn’t seen for a long time instead of the wife he kissed goodbye this morning. ‘Guess who walked into the gallery an hour ago?’

  As he speaks, a petite woman with a sleek black bob slides out from behind the pillar. Her hairstyle, apart from the colour, is almost identical to mine. But she’s young. Early twenties, at a guess. Big, wide, sunny smile with glossy bee-stung lips and a flash of fleshy gum. A wide smooth forehead. She’s stunning without being conventionally beautiful. Her face is the sort that makes you stare. I twist my silver bracelet – the one I always wear – with inexplicable nervousness.

  ‘Hello, Lily!’ she sings. There’s an unexpected kiss on both my cheeks. Then she stands back. I feel a cold slice inside as though a carving knife is paring my body in two. ‘You don’t remember me? It’s Carla.’

  Carla? Little Carla who used to live in the same block of flats all those years ago, when Ed and I were first married? The shy at times but also precocious child with the beautiful mother who had been carrying on with Tony? Carla, alias The Italian Girl? Is it really possible that this is the confident young woman who stands before me now with glossy lips and an immaculate complexion, her sharp, cat-like eyes accentuated with just the right touch of eyeliner? Such poise!

  It has taken me years to achieve a confidence like that.

  But of course it’s Carla. She’s a mini-Francesca, minus the long curls. The spitting image of the single mother from number 7 all those years ago.

  ‘Where have you been?’ I manage to say. ‘How is your mother?’

  This beautiful colt-like creature dips her chin and then tilts her head to one side as if considering the question. ‘Mamma, she is very well, thank you. She is living in Italy. We have been there for some time.’

  Ed breaks in. ‘Carla’s been trying to get hold of us. She wrote to us.’

  I breathe steadily, just as I do in court when I need to be careful. ‘Really?’ I say.

  It’s not a lie. Just a question.

  ‘Twice,’ says Carla.

  She is looking straight at me. Briefly I think back to that first letter with the Italian stamp, which was sent to our old address last year but forwarded to us by the current occupants.

  My first instinct was to throw it away like all the other begging letters we received around that time. People assume, rightly or wrongly, that if an artist has one big success, he or she is rich. The reality is that even with the picture sale and Ed’s trust money and my salary, we are still not that well off. Our mortgages on both the gallery and the house are crippling. And of course we also have Tom’s expensive therapy and his unknown future to think of.

  I want to help people like any other decent person. But if you give to one, where do you stop? Yet Carla was different. She was right. In a way we did owe our success to her.

  I would talk to Ed, I decided. But a critic had just written yet another snide review, questioning why anyone would want to pay so much for a ‘brash acrylic work that was worthy of a Montmartre street artist’. My husband had been hurt. It was all I could do to assure Ed that this reviewer was wrong. Better to leave Carla’s letter, I decided, until things were calmer.

  Then came the second one, sent to the gallery where Ed had been exhibiting temporarily before it had been forwarded to our home. Luckily, I happened to bump into the postman on the way to work. Recognizing the handwriting and stamp, I slipped it in my briefcase and opened it in the office. The tone was angrier this time. More demanding. It frightened me to be honest. I sensed Francesca’s hand behind it. If we gave them some money, they might ask for more.

  So I put it away, pretending to myself that I would deal with it at ‘some point’. And then I conveniently forgot about it. It wasn’t the right thing to do. I can see that now. But if I had written back to Carla explaining our financial situation, she might not have believed it.

  ‘We were worried when you left so suddenly all those years ago,’ Ed is saying now. ‘Why didn’t you tell us you were going?’

  His question takes me back to the last time I saw Carla. That awful row between Tony, Francesca and me. On top of that, I was trying to work out if Ed and I should stay together.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, gritting my teeth, ‘we were very worried about you.’ Then my eye falls on the painting behind her. It’s hard not to. There are paintings of Carla as a child all over the room.

  ‘What do you think of your pictures?’ I ask. Might as well play devil’s advocate, I tell myself. Try to draw Carla out. It would also make me look more innocent in the matter of those unanswered letters.

  The young woman in front of me flushes. ‘They are lovely.’ Then she flushes again. ‘I do not mean that I am lovely, you understand –’

  ‘Oh, but you are,’ breaks in Ed. ‘Such a beautiful child. We both thought so, didn’t we, Lily?’

  I nod. ‘Remember that portrait of you which he entered for an award all those years ago? It got third prize. And although it didn’t sell then, it was recently bought by a collector.’

  I watch her intently. She had mentioned both the competition and the sale in her letters. So I knew that she knew about them. But now she gasps as if in surprise, placing fingers to her mouth. Both are exquisitely painted in matching rose. The nails are a perfect oval. Not one chip on the polish. ‘Fantastic,’ she coos.

  Perhaps she’s embarrassed now about the demanding tone of that second letter that she thinks we haven’t received. I can understand that.

  ‘That’s why I was trying to find you,’ adds Ed eagerly.

  Really? If so, that’s news to me. Sometimes Ed says things just to please people.

  ‘I got quite a lot of money,’ my husband babbles on. He’s getting excited, almost high. I know the signs. It means he is capable of behaving recklessly. I touch his arm, hoping to slow him down, but he continues. ‘It helped me get a gallery of my own!’

  There’s a slight pause as my husband and I both think the same thing. That happens quite a lot nowadays. Maybe it’s the same for all couples who have been married for a long time. ‘We ought to thank you,’ I say, reluctantly accepting that this would indeed be the honourable thing to do, even though we can’t afford it.

  ‘We should, indeed,’ agrees Ed. He’s looking away from me, but I know his mind is going round. How much should he pay? What could we afford?

  ‘Where are you living?’ I ask, to buy time.

  ‘In a place called King’s Cross. In a hostel.’ She sighs. ‘There are cockroaches everywhere.’

  Suddenly that confident woman is no longer there. I see a young girl who has just left her native country and is now finding her feet in a city that has probably changed a great deal. I stop wondering about how much we owe her and how her presence makes me feel nervous because it reminds me of the past. Once more, I want to help. Partly out of guilt.

  ‘You must come over for dinner.’

  ‘Yes.’ Ed is glowing with excitement. I know why. Already he is painting her in his head. It’s a great angle. I can see that. Italian Girl Grown Up. No more curls. A bob instead. A new look. Maybe pastels instead of acrylics. He’s been talking about changing style. It suddenly occurs to me that Carla’s reappearance in our lives could be exactly what my husband needs.

  ‘Come over tonight,’ Ed says.

  No. Not so soon. We need time to talk. ‘Tonight isn’t so good,’ I say, reaching into my bag for a pen. ‘Give me your number and I’ll call you.’

  Carla scribbles it down eagerly. ‘I start college soon, but I am sure I will have some free time.’ Then she stands up straight. �
�I have done a law degree in Italy and now I am going to take a transfer course and then qualify as a lawyer in England. Like you, Lily!’

  Why is my chest tightening? Why do I feel as though this beautiful girl is creeping on to my territory? It’s my patch. Not hers.

  ‘It’s a very competitive world,’ I find myself saying. ‘Tough. Unforgiving. Are you sure about this?’

  ‘You were my inspiration!’ Her eyes are bright. ‘I always remember that famous boiler murder case you were working on when Ed was painting me. I studied it at university. What was the man’s name – Joe Thomas? “This man is innocent,” you kept saying. “I am going to make the rest of the world see that.” ’

  Why do I feel this is a prepared speech? That there’s another reason for her coming here? Or is it me, being neurotic because the girl has mentioned the man I have tried so hard to forget?

  I do my best not to think about my phone call earlier today.

  ‘Lily will be able to help you with your assignments,’ Ed bursts in. He’s like an excited child, keen to please. I understand why. He feels guilty. After all, he’s built a career on this girl.

  ‘We will be in touch to arrange dinner at our place.’ I press a card into her hand. ‘Meanwhile, here are our details.’

  ‘Take this too.’ My husband is pressing a twenty-pound note into her hand. ‘Get a taxi from the Tube station.’

  ‘Ed,’ I say, trying to stay calm. ‘Can you be back early tonight? There’s something we need to discuss.’

  He pauses, his eye catching mine. Something we need to discuss. Something we need to talk about. Every time we have used that phrase in our life, it’s been to do with something big. Our marriage. The pregnancy test. Tom’s diagnosis. And now how much we should pay Carla.

  ‘Sure,’ he says uncertainly. ‘I’ll be there if you are.’ He laughs. ‘My wife’s really important now, you know. Practically lives in the office, she does. Keeps a duvet there.’

  He hasn’t been sarcastic like this for ages. I don’t have a spare bed in the office, but I do often get back late. How can you not when you’re a partner?

  ‘There’s something else we haven’t told Carla,’ I add.

  Ed frowns. ‘There is?’

  That’s the other thing about being an artist. You can block yourself out. Hide.

  ‘We have a child. A boy.’ I falter as I often do when telling strangers I have a son. ‘He’s called Tom.’

  ‘Really?’ Carla’s eyes soften. ‘I can’t wait to meet him.’

  30

  Carla

  Perhaps it was best that they hadn’t received her letters. It could, Carla told herself, make things easier, provided she played her cards right.

  Now, as she made her way back to the hostel, all Carla could think about was the admiration in Ed’s face and the lovely warmth that flowed through her body because of it. The sight of crisp autumn leaves and the cold, early evening air that caught in her throat reminded Carla of the time she had first met Lily and Ed. In her childish eyes, they had seemed so grown up! Yet Lily had probably not been much older than she was now.

  How her once-friend had changed! Carla had always remembered her as being very tall and plump. Her only asset had been that beautiful long blonde hair. ‘I would like to teach that English woman how to dress,’ Mamma was always saying. ‘You do not need money for style. It is a question of putting together the right things and then wearing them with pride.’

  Well, someone, somewhere, must have taught Lily because she had style now. Carla had hardly recognized her when she had appeared in the gallery. She was much thinner and was wearing a beautifully cut jacket that resembled a Max Mara. The blonde bob looked even better in person than it had done in the picture. By framing Lily’s face, it accentuated her cheekbones. The older woman had become almost beautiful.

  Ed may have changed too, but he still had that aura of kindness and that manner of speaking as if he knew exactly what you meant. You were also aware when talking to him that he was taking in your nose, your ears, your bone structure. It was what a real artist did. And how flattering that it was her portrait that had been bought by this unknown buyer!

  Meanwhile, she had her first day in front of her. Law school! Carla’s heart quickened. She wanted to be good at this. She really did.

  ‘We will be in touch,’ Lily had promised, ‘to arrange dinner at our place.’

  Perhaps by then she would have heard back from Larry.

  ‘Do not worry, Mamma,’ she told herself, nodding a thank you at the good-looking young man who had invited her to go through the main doors first. ‘I will make sure that justice is done.’

  31

  Lily

  Ed is true to his word. He is not only back early from the gallery for our ‘little chat’, but he has also cooked supper. Our signature dish, we call it. Salmon en croute. It was the first meal we ate after my pregnancy test: the beginning of our new life together after its false start.

  How long can you pretend for? How long will it be before someone comes from the past to bring it all back?

  Carla. Joe.

  Maybe that’s why I made such a supreme effort to be back early myself. ‘No more tonight,’ I told the eager young intern who was still poring over the papers I had given him. ‘We all need a break at times.’

  ‘But it’s only 7 p.m.!’

  He might as well have said 4 p.m. Late nights aren’t just expected of you when you’re a lawyer; they’re one of many sandbags between you and the door marked ‘Exit’. In other words, long hours show you’re committed. They help protect you from the constant threat of being pushed out. Law can be a cut-throat business.

  ‘That smells good,’ I say to Ed. Why is it that you often end up complimenting someone you’re afraid of hurting? My husband produces the dish with a flourish, then places it carefully on the table. On the wall opposite, a picture of Tom looks down on us. He is serious. Like Daniel, he rarely smiles.

  ‘So what is it that you need to talk about? Something so urgent that we couldn’t afford to share our time with the girl who has made our money?’

  ‘She made your money. Not mine. I make my own.’

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Ed’s eyes are shining. ‘Carla has come back. If she allows me to paint her again, it will kick-start my career. The publicity will be great.’

  Haven’t I already thought of that? Yet something doesn’t feel quite right. ‘Maybe,’ I begin. And then the phone rings.

  ‘You’d better get it,’ says Ed, tucking in. ‘It will be work again. Always is.’

  Reluctantly I pick up the phone.

  ‘Darling?’

  My heart freezes. I tried to ring Mum earlier, as I do every day. A quick call to see if everything is all right. A guilt call because my mother is dealing with a situation that I’m no good at. But there wasn’t any reply. Then work took over and I forgot. Yes, I know.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  My mother’s voice is tight. ‘It’s Tom. He’s in trouble.’

  What we want and what we need in life are two very different things.

  But it takes death to put those two contenders into perspective.

  Right now, there’s only one thing I really want.

  To live.

  32

  Carla

  October was almost halfway through already. She had waited for weeks now for Lily to call. Carla had begun to feel foolish and not a little annoyed. This was just like the letters. Clearly Lily and Ed were the kind of people who said one thing and did another. They had no intention of ‘thanking her’ as promised. They just wanted her to go away! Frankly, she expected this of Lily. But it was Ed with the kind eyes who had disappointed her.

  If they thought this was over, though, they were mistaken. She would, Carla told herself as she stared at her law books in her cold hostel room (she’d got used to the cockroaches now), give them two more weeks and then turn up at the gallery again.

  Just as disappointing was the
email reply from Tony Gordon’s clerk.

  Mr Gordon is not available at present. Your message will be passed on to him at the earliest possible opportunity.

  In other words, he didn’t want to see her.

  ‘Go round to his house,’ Mamma had pleaded when Carla had told her in a rushed phone call. But Mamma couldn’t remember the name of the street, apart from the fact that it was ‘somewhere in a place called Islington’. Even Google hadn’t come up with his address.

  Determined not to be beaten, she spent some hours walking round Islington one Saturday, hoping that something would trigger off a childhood memory from that terrible Christmas when Mamma had been hysterical because Larry couldn’t be with them. But all she could remember was a tall building with big windows. There were so many of them that it was like looking for a needle in a haystack, as the English said.

  There was nothing for it but to plough her energies into her demanding studies. Everyone at college was so clever. Yet she had an advantage. She knew that. There was only one other Italian girl there, and she lacked the natural assets that Carla had. Beauty as well as brains. Everyone (the boys, that was) wanted to help her. She was asked out for coffee and dinner so many times she couldn’t count them.

  Each time she turned down the invitation with a smile and the excuse that she needed to work instead. However, she would say with a slight turn of the head, it would be very kind if they could just explain something about the last assignment.

  Then, one evening, when her hands were stiff with cold in her little room, the mobile rang.

  Lily!

  ‘I’m sorry it’s taken so long to get in touch.’ The voice was uncertain. ‘The truth is that since we saw you, we’ve had some … some problems.’