The Almost Wife: An absolutely gripping and emotional summer read Page 6

  ‘I personally believe marriage needs two out of three things to survive: love, a sense of humour and money. There is a lot of truth in that, don’t you think?’

  ‘I love Adam very much, Camilla, I hope you know that?’ The suggestion otherwise has pricked at Jessie and her words sound clipped and defensive. She can feel the heat flood her face but Camilla is the last person she can afford to get annoyed with, not tonight.

  ‘Well then in that we are completely united. I am biased of course but Adam is a wonderful man, one of the very best. His achilles heel is that he’s often too trusting. That’s what needs to be watched. Just like Henry, he has a natural love of people, always seeing the good before the bad. It is honourable but I worry it might be his downfall.’

  The three large glasses of wine Jessie polished off over their light supper are proving a real hindrance now as she tries to decipher any hidden meaning in Camilla’s words.

  ‘I will try my best.’ It’s like flunking an exam. That feeling that you are capable of doing so much better but somehow you didn’t. Like there is a mountain of work ahead of you now and you’ll be playing catch up forever. Can she play it right? Is it within her? Camilla doesn’t seem to think so.

  ‘But Jessica,’ there is a light laugh escaping Camilla’s perfectly painted lips now. ‘Even if you were bitten by seventeen dogs as a baby, never admit you don’t like them, no one will ever trust you!’ She’s reaching out her hand across the table now and tapping the back of Jessie’s. ‘You have to remember that most of the upper classes are emotionally constipated and unable to communicate with each other – call it the side effects of being sent to boarding school at seven, hardly ever seeing their parents except when they were patted on the head before a governess took them back upstairs to bed. It’s no wonder most of them prefer to communicate with animals!’

  ‘Got it!’ The dog snub is clearly going to be held against Jessie forever more.

  ‘And one final piece of advice, if I may. Adam’s friend Annabel. She’s been in love with him for as long as I can remember. Maybe it’s her day job, but she’s shown more interest in this wedding than anyone else. Tread very carefully there. Tilly is your woman. She’s one of Adam’s closest and oldest friends and he trusts her implicitly. Stick with her.’

  This makes only some sense to Jessie – she’s yet to meet this Annabel – but the suddenly serious look on Camilla’s face tells her it might not be entirely pleasant when she does.

  As Jessie and Adam say their goodbyes later that evening and climb back into the Landrover, Jessie has never felt so self-conscious or shell-shocked at the speed and accuracy of Camilla’s dissection of her. She has taken her apart in less than two hours.

  ‘I probably should have mentioned this earlier,’ says Adam as they rejoin the main road on their way home, ‘but Lady C is actually allergic to chocolate.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ sighs Jessie, unable to hide her feelings of despair any longer.

  * * *

  As Jessie’s Mini turns past the high-rise council flats on the edge of the Roehampton estate, she moves her Asprey ostrich leather handbag into the front passenger footwell so it is out of sight and turns her engagement ring around so the rock is tucked into her left palm. She drives on down the main shopping street, which looks deserted on this lifeless Sunday morning; only the dregs of last night’s revelry remain – broken bottles, dumped takeaway cartons and one randomly discarded trainer. She passes the small playground where she spent such happy days as a child, endless hours hurling herself down the slide, making pretty daisy-chains and sharing childish gossip with school friends. This morning, there is a large scorch mark in the centre of the roundabout where someone has attempted to light a fire and two of the three swings have had their seats ripped off and dumped in the bin. Someone has left a broken pushchair where the seesaw used to be and the black tarmac is cracked and lifting everywhere.

  It feels so weird for Jessie, returning to her childhood home now where fond memories of late nights out playing in the dark and the tight family bubble of love she remembers so well mix awkwardly with the feeling of no longer belonging. She feels unsafe, like everyone is watching her, wondering how she took a wrong turn and ended up here. Despite the fact she despises and rejects so much about this ambitionless life, it hurts, far more than she will ever admit, that this place is also rejecting her. She’s not one of them any more, can’t possibly understand their lives when her own is so far removed. It makes her feel rootless, like she no longer has a claim on it. She lost all those rights the day her bank balance swelled skyward, protecting her from the financial worries that are played out every day behind these cheap PVC windows.

  Stepping out of the car, Jessie glances up at the block of flats above her, its tiny balconies crammed with washing that has no chance of drying on this damp morning, towers of kids’ plastic toys, barking dogs, a barbecue, a pushbike and in one case, an actual washing machine.

  She’s parked outside her parent’s tiny three-bedroom house, which is identical to every other in the street. Her mum has obviously been twitching at her net curtains waiting for Jessie to arrive because the door flies inwards before she can hit the rusty knocker.

  ‘Jessica!’ her mum is throwing her arms around her and pulling her in through the front door. ‘Everyone is here and we are all desperate to hear about the wedding plans.’

  If that’s the case, her siblings are doing a great job of pretending otherwise, as neither of them has risen from the lounge floor where they are busy dunking bourbon biscuits into their mugs of tea.

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on and then let’s hear all about it, starting with when we’re going wedding dress shopping. I wouldn’t want to miss that for the world, Jessica!’

  As she follows her mum into the narrow galley kitchen, Jessie can feel her heart collapsing in on itself. There is never going to be any shared shopping trip, she’s already seen to that. And as she watches her mum fuss over the tea making, asking a thousand excited questions about the wedding, she knows she’s failed her again, the guilt of that making her feel she has no right to her mum’s unswerving love.

  How many times can you let someone down before they start to love you a little less? Does her mum have a limit? Standing in the heart of her family home, Jessie has never felt so lonely. With so much work to do to find her natural place among the Coleridges and the sense of slipping further away from her own flesh and blood, the future doesn’t look promising; it suddenly looks very empty.

  6

  Helen

  Helen folds out her neat antique dining table and begins to lay it for dinner with two placemats, two sets of cutlery and two water glasses. She tells herself it’s force of habit but she knows it’s more than that. Nearly four years on from Phillip’s death, she still clings to the small everyday rituals, somehow keeping her connected to the husband she will love for a lifetime. His favourite aftershave still sits next to her perfume on the dressing table, his toothbrush leans against hers in the glass in the bathroom. The gentle man who was the centre of her world for so long may be gone, but Helen can’t let go of him completely – she doesn’t want to. She returns to the kitchen and pours herself a small glass of white wine, noticing again the invitation that is stuck to the fridge door:

  Cheese, wine & gossip!

  with the residents of Little Bloombury

  Saturday March 15th at 7.30pm

  The Village Hall

  Tickets: £7

  RSVP: Jayne on 0749 866 741

  * * *

  For two weeks Helen has been staring at the invitation, knowing she should go, dreading the idea of it more. Now the evening has arrived, what is she going to do? Sit here alone, just like every other night? Add the invitation to the stack of others she has declined because she’s too afraid to go it alone, because she still doesn’t know who she is without him? Or finally seize the chance to make friends and move on? She looks at the redundant place setting across the table from he
rs, where she so desperately wishes Phillip was sitting. How much longer can she live in the past trying to keep him present in a life he departed long ago? How long can she keep avoiding her neighbours who must be thinking her the rudest woman on earth?

  Helen sits in total silence, contemplating another five hours with no one to talk to, just the TV for company, until it’s a reasonable time to go to bed. She misses the loud, chaotic madness that was once the soundtrack of her bustling family life. Someone always shouting after a missing hairbrush, a packed itinerary, trips here, there and everywhere as the family taxi, shopping, cleaning, organising, cooking, repeat, repeat, repeat. Now just silence. She flicks on Radio 2 to fill the room with something other than her loneliness.

  ‘I can’t do this, Phillip,’ she whispers. ‘I just can’t do it.’

  Helen walks into the bedroom and pulls open the wooden drawer of her dressing table. She lifts out a small piece of weathered-looking paper, a treasured favourite poem of Phillip’s by Henry Scott Holland. He had buried it within the pages of her novel, when he knew the end was coming. She hadn’t discovered it until weeks after the funeral and when she did the tears poured out of her like they were never going to stop. Helen reads the words again now, as she has countless times before.

  Death is nothing at all.

  I have only slipped away to the next room.

  I am I and you are you.

  Whatever we were to each other,

  That, we still are.

  * * *

  Call me by my old familiar name.

  Speak to me in the easy way

  which you always used.

  Put no difference into your tone.

  Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

  * * *

  Laugh as we always laughed

  at the little jokes we enjoyed together.

  Play, smile, think of me. Pray for me.

  Let my name be ever the household word

  that it always was.

  Let it be spoken without effect.

  Without the trace of a shadow on it.

  * * *

  Life means all that it ever meant.

  It is the same that it ever was.

  There is absolute unbroken continuity.

  Why should I be out of mind

  because I am out of sight?

  * * *

  I am but waiting for you.

  For an interval.

  Somewhere. Very near.

  Just around the corner.

  * * *

  All is well.

  * * *

  Phillip knew his wife well enough to know that this was asking the impossible – asking her to live a happy life without him – but that if he did ask it of her, she would try her very best, one last dutiful role for the devoted wife to play.

  Helen sits back at the dining table, one hand holding the passage, the other cradling her forehead. ‘Why is it so hard, Phillip? I’m trying, I am. But I don’t want to wake up every morning alone, thinking of you before anything else…’ She lifts the glass of cold wine to her lips and takes a large soothing mouthful. ‘Oh, come on Helen, for goodness sake, you can do this. Just go, you can always leave if it’s awful. What’s the worst that can happen?’ There’s precious little conviction in her pep talk but as much as Helen doesn’t want to go, neither can she bear another evening staring at but not really watching the TV. Tomorrow is Sunday and the boutique is closed so she can’t even pretend that there is preparation to do for the working day ahead.

  Before she can over-think it any more Helen picks up the phone and dials Jayne’s number. After two brief rings, the line connects.

  ‘Hello, is that Jayne?’

  ‘It is indeed!’

  ‘Hello Jayne, it’s Helen from The White Gallery.’

  ‘Oh, hi, Helen. Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yes, I was just calling about the cheese and wine evening tonight. I’m sure I’m far too late and you probably don’t have space—’

  ‘Yes, we do! How many tickets do you need?’

  ‘… just one please.’ Immediate regret.

  ‘OK, I’ll hold one on the door for you, see you in about an hour.’

  ‘Thank you, Jayne. See you later.’

  * * *

  As Helen walks along the stone path towards the front door of the village hall, she can hear the muffled sound of warm laughter coming from inside and her stomach tightens. It would be so much easier to just turn around and go home. But home to what, another big, empty evening with no purpose? Her hand hovers over the door handle as she takes a deep breath then pushes the door open. Inside, the room is full of about forty people, mostly her age, clustered in small groups, deep in relaxed conversation. She scans the room quickly, not recognising a single face, hardly surprising given her lack of effort to get to know anyone in the village.

  After Phillip’s death she sold the family home in Bristol and used the proceeds to buy The White Gallery and the small apartment above it. Everyone thought she was mad at the time – and at this moment she would probably have to agree with them – but she couldn’t stay in the family home, it was suffocating, paralysing her progress. So she chose the Cotswolds where she and Phillip had spent so many happy weekends away together. That was as far as her bravery went. Sorting the practicalities of buying a new home and business, while complicated, have given Helen something to focus on. The motivation to build new relationships and friendships has eluded her, until tonight – her first big step.

  But now she is rooted to the spot, not quite knowing what to do with herself. Everything is so much easier when you have someone by your side. Her eyes are searching the room, desperate for some flicker of recognition that isn’t coming. Oh my God, is she actually going to have to walk up to a group of strangers and introduce herself? No, she can’t. She starts to shuffle slowly backwards towards the door, just as a slim woman spots her and makes a beeline.

  ‘Helen, isn’t it? I’m Jayne and here’s your ticket. Now, if you’re on your own, can I introduce you to a few people, and let’s get you a drink. Red or white? Follow me.’

  ‘White, thank you, that would be lovely,’ says Helen, relief washing over her that Jayne is taking charge.

  ‘Susan and David, can I introduce you to Helen, she owns The White Gallery, opposite Willow Manor.’

  ‘Ahh, hello, Helen, lovely to meet you,’ offers Susan, an overly animated woman with flushed cheeks and enough cheese stacked on her plate to feed three people.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve ever met,’ adds David. ‘Have you been here long?’

  ‘Yes, three years actually,’ says Helen. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been out and about much.’

  ‘What fun to be surrounded by those wedding dresses all day, I often poke my nose up to the window when you’re closed, to have a sneaky look,’ says Susan. ‘It’s a long time since I was a size to fit in to any of them, mind you!’

  Jayne returns with a glass of wine, hands it to Helen and promptly disappears again, leaving Helen to it. David is also making his excuses, probably sensing there’s about to be a lot of dress chat.

  ‘Tell me, Helen, what on earth does a wedding dress cost these days?’ probes Susan. ‘I think I paid about two hundred pounds for mine back in the day and David thought that was ridiculous. That’s men for you, though. Are you married?’

  ‘Most girls I see spend upwards of three thousand pounds on their dress—’

  ‘What! Good grief, are you serious?’

  ‘Yes, a lot has changed since our day.’

  ‘I’d say! Did you say you are married?’

  ‘No, not any more.’ It’s like Helen’s brain has momentarily disconnected from her mouth. She can’t think of a single other thing to say to qualify the awkwardly short statement.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Susan leaves the question hanging in the air, obviously expecting Helen to elaborate but she can’t and an uncomfortable silence falls between them.

  ‘Divorced?’ Susan isn’t
giving up.

  ‘No.’ Surely now she’ll stop?

  Susan continues to look directly at Helen, seemingly hell bent on getting to the bottom of Helen’s marital status.

  Helen decides to steer the conversation back to the safer subject of the boutique, hoping that will satisfy Susan for the time being.

  ‘I do love my job,’ Helen offers, feeling responsible for the now stilted conversation they’re stuck in. ‘It’s really about so much more than selling a wedding dress. I’m usually only with my ladies for an hour but in that time I’m their therapist, stylist, agony aunt, marriage guidance counsellor, referee, friend and mother. Whatever they need me to be. And it is wonderful to be needed again.’

  ‘How lovely. Do you run the business on your own?

  Just as Helen is thinking that coming tonight is a huge mistake and the first chance she gets, she will make for the door, a man stands up at one end of the room and starts tapping his glass.

  ‘If I could have your attention please, everyone. Please, everyone, ssshhhhhh. They’re going to kill me, but there is a very special couple in the room with us tonight that deserve our attention for a moment. Sylvia and Keith, please join me up here. Not all of you will know this but these two are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary today and look at them, will you – just as in love now as they always were!’

  A shocked but clearly chuffed Keith and Sylvia walk hand-in-hand to the front of the crowd to a huge round of applause.

  ‘If there are two people more in love than you pair, then I am yet to meet them,’ continues the man. ‘Gill, bring out the cake!’

  On his orders a tea trolley is wheeled through the crowd, carrying a large white cake with the faces of Keith and Sylvia beaming out from the top of it. Someone pops a champagne cork to shrieks of laughter and cheers from the crowd. Just as Keith plants a huge kiss on his wife’s cheek, Helen’s face crumples and she is suddenly sobbing uncontrollably and making a dash for the ladies’.