My newfound knowledge is eating me up. I want to confront Camilla in person, hear the words from her directly, but I won’t be able to until she’s returned from Canada. Christmas is an effort as exhaustion hits. Feeling utterly disconnected from the rituals, I mentally tick off each one—presents, lunch (even though I have no appetite), crackers, paper hats, the Queen’s speech, drinks with the neighbors, Boxing Day—everything a painfully slow countdown until I can escape the constraints of tradition to give myself space to think clearly, to rewind my memories, to piece it all together with the benefit of fresh knowledge. If my suspicion proves right—which I’m convinced it will—the past takes on a completely different meaning.
I keep busy, distracting myself with to-do lists and outings with the children. I post photos of our woodland walks, museum visits and horse rides on social media under delicately worded captions so they don’t—hopefully—come across as too much.
Ben messages me not long after my latest post.
I know you don’t want to hear it again, especially not from me, but please believe that I did love and care deeply for you. Don’t let Stuart over-rely on you. Help out occasionally, but don’t let him suck you into Nina’s world again. I knew this would happen. You can be a support and a friend without sacrificing your dreams for a family of your own.
I hope you meet someone decent like you deserve. Please don’t think I’m trying to be patronizing, but I couldn’t not say anything.
Unexpected tears form as I unfriend him, but staying in touch—on social media—is clearly not healthy. Ben liked Stuart but felt that he was an opportunist.
“Aren’t we all to varying degrees?” I said at the time, keen to rush to his defense.
“There’s a difference between seizing opportunities and taking advantage,” he replied.
I delete Ben’s message. His supposed care and concern expired the moment he chose to be unfaithful. Quite why he thinks it’s fine to give me advice when he is one of the reasons I’m in this situation, I don’t know.
Yet I can’t deny, his words resonate on some level. I like being needed.
On Stuart’s birthday, the third of January, he is out for most of the afternoon visiting some important client. It’s perfect timing as it gives me and the children a valuable few hours. When he returns, looking tired but no doubt expecting a homemade cake and a few balloons, Goldie (as Felix and Em have renamed her) has taken up residence in her new home.
He is genuinely shocked and keeps asking if “the dog” is really staying?
“It’s a sweet gesture, Marie,” he says when the children are distracted, getting her to chase them around the house. “I know you mean well, but I’m barely managing as it is. I just can’t cope with any more responsibility right now. And you can’t do this, you can’t try to fix us with surprises as a fait accompli. Nina wouldn’t have done something as momentous as adopting a rescue dog without consulting me. I feel hugely manipulated seeing as the children obviously adore her already. It’s not as if you’re going to be around forever.”
That’s what he thinks.
Despite my inner indignation, I assure him that I’ve thought of everything: training school (if need be, but apparently Goldie—formerly Lady—is “a dream”), vet’s appointments, pet insurance and that I’m on hand to bear the bulk of the care. However, his harsh words sting, long after he’s apologized and admitted that maybe it’s a good thing after all. I try not to hold it against him; he is not yet in his right frame of mind. I am the one holding it all together. I am their rock.
Camilla is due home sometime today. I keep an eye out for a taxi. I intend to head over later and confront her with my discovery, hopefully while she’s still jet-lagged and feeling a little overwhelmed in her new surroundings.
However, Stuart throws me.
“A friend of mine is going to pop in later for a drink.”
“Oh,” I say. “Sounds fun.”
“I was wondering...” he says.
“Yes?”
“If you’d mind babysitting for a couple of hours so that we can nip to the pub?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m sure Goldie will keep me busy.”
But I’m miffed, of course I am.
I go through the motions of lighting and blowing out candles, singing “Happy Birthday.” Our hearts are not in it, but the children are putting their all into it, and that’s what counts.
They smile, taking genuine pleasure in having made and decorated the cake themselves. It gives me hope that I’m doing something right.
When Stuart’s friend arrives, I say hello and hang around for a while making polite chitchat. James makes a huge fuss of Goldie.
“I’d love a dog,” he says. “But my wife isn’t keen.”
I’m secretly thrilled because it shows me in a good, tolerant and generous light.
“Can I get you both something to drink?” I say. “We’re still trying to get through the Christmas champagne.”
“No, thanks,” says Stuart.
He doesn’t waste any further time grabbing their coats, as if he doesn’t get out immediately, the opportunity will be lost. However, he bends down to stroke Goldie before he leaves, and I am so relieved that I nearly cry. Honestly. I thought I’d made a huge error.
I hear the front door close.
Apart from Goldie, I am alone, which feels heightened by the party leftovers I’ve been left to clear up.
The house already feels colder, which I know can only be my imagination. Rising frustration that I can’t go over to Camilla’s, that I’m trapped because I’m responsible for the children and Goldie, increases my restlessness. I pour myself a glass of champagne—why not—and wander around, memories keeping me company.
I helped Nina write thank-you cards for her wedding gifts one evening.
“I’ll feel bad if I don’t do it soon. People chose specific gifts for a reason. They were kind enough to come to our wedding. The guilt will get to me.”
We’d both laughed.
The guilt will get to you, was something our religious studies teacher used to say to us.
We had a fun evening making up gratitude paragraphs about vases, kitchen utensils and suchlike. It had given me hope that nothing would change between us. I’d been happy.
However, now the guilt is getting to me, in giant waves.
These are the type of complex feelings I should bring up in therapy. Not sit there yacking away telling stories and divulging unrelated snippets of my life.
I pour the remainder of my champagne down the sink. The acid is burning the back of my throat. I hope I’m not coming down with a cold; I can’t afford to be ill. Maybe it’s the thwarted desire to speak to Camilla that’s causing the problem. I go upstairs and check on the children. I hesitate outside Stuart’s room. There’s no longer any point in searching for clues of potential fairy-tale, wicked stepmothers now that I’m here. I’m Nina’s stand-in, the best protector of Felix and Emily. Another woman on the scene could change my relationship with them or muddy the waters.
I go to my own room and shut the door firmly, as if the gesture itself will prevent me from any temptation to pry.
I sit on my bed and take out my journal. The words don’t come.
Instead, I take out Nina’s paperwork and rework through the figures, making careful notes. Nina was siphoning off and hiding money in dribs and drabs. A few hundred here and there, but all differing amounts. The main pattern is that she did it regularly, once a week usually, starting several years after she began earning money from her various small businesses.
Annoyance builds. I wish Nina had opened up to me. We had opportunities, not just toward the end, but before that. We went to church together once because she said she didn’t want to go alone. It wasn’t during a service—the place was empty. We sat in silence, near the front, for a good ten minutes in the cool darkness. Neither one of us had prayed since school, so we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it in front of one another. Silly, maybe, considering. Still, it was peaceful, until we were disturbed. The church door banged. Nina leaped up, as did I, but no one was there. It was odd, as we’d both heard footsteps.
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Yeah, headless ones running around with axes,” I laughed to ease the mood.
How could I have been so bloody insensitive? A horrible thought: what if she was waiting for me to ask her something, to push her? What if I was too stupid, too self-absorbed, to read the signs? I trawl through all our last moments, desperately trying to think, to grab hold of something relevant. She was deliberately vague, perhaps trying to tell me something without having to spell it out.
“Promises aren’t always easy to keep,” she said when she impressed upon me the importance of keeping mine.
“Not for me,” I assured her.
“I want people, especially the children, naturally, to remember me for who I am now, the person I became, not the self-centered one I was when I was younger.”
“You’ve nothing to worry about there, then. As far as I’m aware, children don’t think that their parents ever had a life before them.”
I waited for her to smile her response, but one never came. I realize now—after talking things through with Christian—that I wanted to give her space. I couldn’t imagine what she felt like, or what she was going through, so when she appeared wistful, I’d go silent and hope that by just being there for her, it would offer some comfort. Maybe that’s why I didn’t push for specifics. Who knows?
We each lit a candle and stood there watching the wax soften as I wished for her to live. I imagine she did the same.
“I’m sorry, Marie,” she said.
“What for?”
The church door opened, and this time, we did see a man enter. The moment was lost.
The pain in my chest aches all the way up through to my jaw, and I give into the tears. She was apologizing for the secret she kept from me. And I didn’t realize. Fresh anger reignites at Camilla. It was because of her that Nina was put in the position of having to withhold information, which clearly went against what she felt was the right thing to do.
It’s gone midnight when I hear Stuart return home. Outside, the wind builds up. I can hear the branches of the New Forest trees swaying and the cries of night creatures. Foxes? Owls? Inside, quiet, apart from the odd creak. I hear him come upstairs, slightly louder than usual. His door shuts.
I creep downstairs to check on Goldie, who really is a chill dog. She opens her eyes but doesn’t move from her bed in the corner. I made sure it wasn’t too cold or too warm. I’ve been warned that there may be an adjustment period of up to three months while she susses things out and that she may sleep at lot at first because it was so noisy with all the dogs constantly barking at her previous home. Mainly, however, it’s all about trust, love and routine. Sounds easy enough.
I turn on the kettle. Goldie seems fine with that. Phew. I open a cupboard and rummage through a pack of mixed herbal teas until I find a chamomile one, which promises me a good night’s rest.
Stuart’s wallet, house and car keys lie on the kitchen counter, a sign that he must’ve had a good few drinks. As I wait for the flavor to infuse, I open his wallet and flick through, craving some form of intimacy through a little more knowledge or insight into him. We haven’t slept together again. It’s concerning. We’ve fallen back into our friendship as if it never happened, and I’m at a bit of a loss as to how to steer us back in the right direction. A little knowledge can’t harm.
The first thing I find is a picture of Nina on their honeymoon, which evokes mixed feelings. Envy, a little, of course, but it would also feel callous of him to discard any memories of her overly soon, so it also reinforces my belief that he is decent. There are the expected pictures of the children, including the most recent school pictures. A parking receipt for Heathrow airport: dated today for around the time Camilla and Louise were due home.
I pick up his keys, slide on Nina’s wellies and go outside. I press the ignition switch on Stuart’s Range Rover. His GPS only confirms what the ticket has already told me.
Why hide the fact he was picking Camilla up from the airport? I feel sick because there is only one reasonable explanation. Images of Stuart and the children forming a perfectly blended family with Camilla—not Nina, not me, but bloody Camilla, of all people—are a real kick to the stomach because I’ve realized that Louise is the daughter I should’ve had with Charlie.