Yesterday, after Jess said we had to work things out on our own, I told myself that at least now I would have more room to think.
How wrong I was. Since then, Nicky hasn’t stopped plaguing me, getting inside my head, saying I’m just like her and that if I’m not careful, I’ll end up the same way: alone, unloved.
This morning, I looked up tattoo removal online. I’ve decided that I don’t want the butterfly on my wrist any longer. I hate it, hate that Beau has a mum with a past like mine.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with?” Andy says, zipping up his jacket.
I look up at him in annoyance. Why does he have to say come with? And what’s he done to his hair—all bushy, inane? No wonder Meena calls him The Anorak. And as for his brown corduroys, for God’s sake. Who wears those anymore?
He bends down, hands on my shoulders. “Can I help with the shopping list? What have you got so far?”
I hold up the notepad for him.
“Bread... Okay. Well, it’s a start.” He stands up straight. “Can’t it wait, though? It’s a beautiful day. Seems a shame to spend it in the supermarket.”
“Yes, Mummy, come with us,” Beau chimes in.
See? Even Beau knows it’s come with us.
“I can’t, cherub, I’m afraid. I’d love to, but we have to eat this week, don’t we? We can’t have you going hungry.” I tickle his tummy and he giggles.
“Go get your wellies on, Beau,” Andy says, then turns to me. “Everything all right? You don’t seem your usual self.”
My usual self? So this is how we’re playing it? Almost a month after our discussion of a rape allegation, followed by a few weeks of tiptoeing around and extra nice behavior, and now we’re pretending it never happened.
He seems surprised by the look of anger on my face. “What’s up, my love?”
That does it.
Snatching up the notepad, I storm from the room. Beau is peeling muddy leaves from his wellies, lining them up along the hallway floor. “Stop making a mess!” I yell. “It’s difficult enough, trying to keep this place clean!” And I stomp through to the kitchen, where I start pacing.
Don’t touch the vodka.
I head for the freezer, Nicky following me.
That’s right. Go for the vodka. That’s what I’d do too.
Slamming the freezer door, I’m wringing my hands in exasperation when the door opens. “Do you want to talk about it?” Andy asks cordially.
“No, I don’t! Leave me alone!” I shout, pushing past him. In the hallway, I plow through Beau’s leaves, hating myself, and he starts to wail. Grabbing my parka and bag, I slam the front door behind me and run to the car, barely knowing what I’m doing.
Instinct is telling me to get as far away as possible from everyone, including Nicky. I still have to do the shopping, though—have used that excuse so many times under false pretenses, we’ve no food left in the house. The farthest supermarket I can think of is on the outskirts of Bristol. That’ll do.
Taking off, I speed down the hill, joining the main road out of the city. But the more distance I put between myself and home, the closer Nicky seems to come, as though she’s stronger when I’m alone.
It was she who made me start a fight with Andy and made Beau cry, because that’s what the Waite women do. They brought everything on themselves, every bit of rotten luck in their miserable lives. They had the reverse of the Midas touch: the Sadim touch, ruining everything and everyone they came into contact with. Death hasn’t made them less unlucky to be around.
Jess did the right thing by walking away. No one could accuse her of not having tried. Only a masochist would continue.
But by removing herself, she’s left a big hole in the middle of my life and my marriage that I’ve no idea how to fill. Without her, decision-maker and leader, I’m lost.
I’m at the supermarket already, not having even noticed the journey. It’s so crowded, I can’t find anywhere to park. Around and around I drive, close to giving up, until finally I spot a tight space near the trolleys.
A sensible person would try to compose themselves before going into a megastore on the weekend, but I’m way past that. It takes all of my strength not to whack the car alongside mine as I open my door and squirm out, sucking in my chest.
There’s a queue for trolleys. Searching through my purse, I realize that I don’t have a pound coin to release the trolley lock. I’m about to start crying pathetically, when someone touches my arm and I turn to see a familiar face that I can’t place right away.
And then I’ve got it, because no one ever forgets what their husband’s first wife looks like. And she recognizes me because no one ever forgets his second one either.
“Priyanka? Hi!”
We don’t hug or kiss—barely know each other. So, there’s that awkward moment when we don’t know what to do instead.
“Katie!” I’m about to launch into my familiar comedic routine, when I stop myself. I don’t want to be that person anymore. “What are you doing out this way?”
We step aside from the queue. “I live here. Well, not actually here at the supermarket.” She laughs. “But nearby.”
“Oh, yes. Of course!”
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
Now, that’s a good question, with a very long answer. I gaze up at her wistfully, wishing I could tell her everything. They say strangers make good listeners when you’re desperate, but she’s not a stranger. She’s Andy’s ex-wife, making her one of the worst people to confide in. Plus I’m in awe of her. She’s prettier than I realized and is wearing a red leather jacket with puff shoulders, which I instantly covet.
Still, the timing of this is very strange. She’s been on my mind for weeks. You don’t teach RPE without believing in fate, divine intervention. Call it what you will, I think something bigger than us has caused this encounter and I’d like to know why.
“I don’t suppose you fancy a coffee, do you?” I point at the café at the front of the store.
She looks at her watch, but it’s not just the time that’s bothering her; she’s considering what we could possibly find to talk about. I’m not about to let her get out of it that easily, though.
“Okay,” she says.
“Great.”
We walk in silence, but it’s not noticeable because of the announcements inciting shoppers’ frenzy. I feel like her parole officer, walking her to the café, making sure she doesn’t give me the slip. “I’ll get the drinks. What would you like?”
She shrugs. “You choose.”
I hate it when people say that. I haven’t a clue what she’d like. “Tea? Coffee? Gin?”
She laughs, flicks her hair over her shoulders. “Skinny latte, please.”
“Got it,” I say, pointing both index fingers at her, then regretting it. I thought I was going to drop that. I don’t have to play the fool.
As she takes a seat by the window, I gesture to the iced buns. She nods enthusiastically.
Waiting for the coffees, I practice what to say. I won’t mention the universe or mystical connections because few people like to hear that, in my experience. But somehow, I have to probe into her past—specifically with Andy—all without her knowing why. How am I going to do that?
I pay the cashier, then concentrate on carrying the tray, not spilling anything, not knocking into anyone. I want to seem mature, in control. Perhaps things went wrong with Jess because I didn’t come across like that, but the very opposite, in fact.
There’s a bit of awkwardness as we settle, getting teaspoons—which I forgot—and napkins—those too—and sugar—I haven’t done a great job—both of us laughing and bumping hands. And then there’s nothing else to arrange and it’s time to speak.
“So, Katie...it’s so funny running into you because I was thinking about you only the other day.”
“Really?” Her lips pucker as she tests the latte.
“Yes. You pop into my thoughts from time to time. You know... I never really knew what happened between you and Andy.”
I watch her expression change. Something’s there, but I don’t know what. It’s gone too quickly.
“Oh?” she says. “Well, there’s not much to know. It was a bit of a disaster. We were young, didn’t think it through.”
“He said something similar.”
“Well, that’s because it’s true.” She frowns, her voice slightly edgy, vexed.
I pop a piece of bun into my mouth, just to have something to do. It’s busy in here, yet the tables are well spaced. No one can hear us.
“Would you mind if I asked what the problem was?” Picking up my coffee, I sip it, wincing; no sugar.
“You can ask, but I probably won’t tell.”
“Why not?” I take in the details of her face, watching as she tries to decide how to reply. There’s a fine thread of red above her mouth where her lipstick has run into a wrinkle. It’s her only flaw, to my mind—a tiny dropped stitch.
“How much do you know about him, exactly?”
I glance around the room, my heart racing. “A fair amount, I believe.”
“So, when you said you’d been thinking about me lately, was there a reason for that?”
“Um, yes.”
“Do you know what I do for a living?” Her voice has lowered for discretion, but has also taken on a weight of meaning.
Crossing my boots one over the other, I shake my head dumbly.
“I’m a crisis counselor. Part of my role involves being based at a rape crisis center in Bristol.” She waits for my reaction.
I can’t speak. My eyes are stinging where I’m unable to blink or move any part of my body.
I don’t know what my face is doing, what she reads there. But she reaches for my hand, leather jacket creaking. “I’m so sorry, Priyanka. I wasn’t sure if you knew.”
This feels like the biggest confirmation I could have had.
I feel tiny, alone, even with this stranger holding my hand.
“How did you find out?” she asks.
“I...I got a letter, from the daughter of the woman he raped.”
She stares at me uneasily. “That must have been very difficult. I know how that feels.”
I realize then what she’s saying: she knew—went through the same thing.
“Oh my goodness. How could you have let me marry him?”
“It was...complicated.” Her face tenses as she looks away, out of the window.
“Then please try to explain.”
“I... Okay,” she says, shoulders sinking. “Well, we were on our honeymoon in Santorini, and on the second night, he told me there was an incident in his past involving him, a young woman and two other men.”
She looks at me then, but it’s as though I’m not there—as though she’s looking straight through me. I wait, hands pressed together underneath the table.
“He said the woman accused them of rape and that they were shocked. He wanted to know my thoughts—to pick my brains, was the phrase he used, I think—on whether it was possible to rape someone without realizing... We were in a floating restaurant at the time. You can imagine how I felt.”
“What did you do? What did you say?”
“What could I say?” Her brow furrows. “I was stunned, horrified.”
“And what else did he tell you?” I pick up my coffee, having forgotten it was there. Reaching for a sachet of sugar, I rip it shakily, tapping it messily over the mug.
“Nothing. I couldn’t face sitting through the rest of the meal. I caught the next flight home, and as soon as we’d met the legal requirements, I filed for divorce.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. I didn’t tell anyone the real reason. We just cited irreconcilable differences and parted ways.”
“But what about your job?”
Her cheeks redden. “What about it?”
“As a rape counselor,” I whisper. “Surely—”
“I should have reported him?”
“Well, yes.”
“I wanted to. I thought about it a lot, but I knew how the system worked. Six years had already passed since the incident. And when it came down to it, I didn’t have any facts, didn’t even know the victim’s name or who the other men were.”
“Couldn’t you have pushed him to tell you—to confess?”
“Really? You think he’d have done that?” She looks at me with a stony expression. “He didn’t even think it was rape.” She glances about her, then leans toward me. “I don’t think he even realized why he was drawn to me in the first place.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I was already specializing in domestic violence and rape by that point. I think that must have played at least some part in his interest in me, whether he knew it or not.” She grips the handle of her coffee cup, knuckles whitening. “Once I knew what had happened in his past, I couldn’t shake the thought that he was looking for some kind of absolution from me. I think he actually thought we were going to sit there on our honeymoon in that restaurant and discuss how easy it is to misread a situation and commit gang rape completely innocently.”
“When you put it like that, it sounds insane.”
“Yes.” She sighs, propping her head on her hand as though suddenly tired. “I think that’s what shocked me the most—the thing I’ve thought about most over the years—his total lack of perception.”
“But he must have known on some level that he was guilty, otherwise why even bring it up in the first place?”
“Exactly.” She leans forward, animated. “He knew what he did, deep down. I’m sure of it. Which is why the last time I saw him, shortly before getting divorced, I urged him to go forward to the police and to convince the others to do the same.”
“Well, they didn’t,” I say bitterly.
“Of course not.” She finishes her latte, the iced bun untouched. I haven’t eaten much of mine either, my appetite diminished.
“Are you still with him?” she asks.
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“You have a child together, don’t you...? I’m a bit of a Facebook addict.” She smiles.
“Beau.” I brighten at the mention of him. “He’s only three. He needs his dad, but he also needs a good man, and I’m not sure that’s Andy anymore.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t try to warn you,” she says softly. “But in all honesty, I didn’t know he was remarrying. And by the time I’d heard the news, it was too late for me to say anything... Was it quite quick?”
I nod. “Just under a year.”
Maybe he rushed it before I changed my mind—before I found out anything about him or bumped into Katie.
I feel hopeless, desolate. Looking down at my wrist, I gaze at my patchy butterfly tattoo.
She reaches for my hand again and this time clasps it tightly. Our eyes meet, two women who both made the same mistake. “What are you going to do, Priyanka?”
By the time we leave, the sky is an inflamed red and there’s a frost shimmering on the car roofs. Katie waves goodbye before moving out of sight.
I didn’t do the shopping, ran out of time. I didn’t even buy a loaf of bread.
Getting into the car, I sense a subtle shift of some kind. I sit for a while thinking about what it might be, replaying the conversation with Katie, thinking about how much she must have suffered in silence—yet another woman bearing a load that wasn’t hers.
I didn’t want to say goodbye, could have carried on sitting there for hours, sharing a secret that’s painful and overwhelming.
And I realize then what’s different: Nicky’s gone and it’s just me now.