The Lost Wife: An uplifting page-turner about grief, love and friendship Read online

  ‘Hi. Mo asked me to…’ He pulls at his neck, his face taking on a gentle pink hue. ‘You’re off out late.’

  ‘Yeah. Quick job to do. Erm… Mo’s in her room.’ I hold the door open for him to take it, then take the stairs three at a time. Greg watches me leave. ‘Tell her I'll be back in a bit,’ I shout back up the stairwell before darting out of the building.

  A passing car lights up my way as I jog over to the car park, coat pulled over my head to hide from the downpour that has been on and off all day. I jump over the puddles, surprising myself with uncharacteristic agility. Amazing what you can do when the adrenaline kicks in.

  Ten minutes later, just as promised, I pull into his street. His house, in the middle of the grand terrace, is all lit up. Every single light on except for the tiny window upstairs at the front, which, if memory serves, is Oli’s room. Ed stands in the lounge, looking out, so I flash my car lights to let him know it’s me. He disappears from the lounge and, seconds later, the front door opens.

  ‘Thank you so much for this.’ He stands back for me to come in.

  ‘It’s no problem, I’m glad you called me.’

  I peel my wet coat off, shaking it out on the top step before hanging it on a vintage hat stand beside the door. I brush myself down and ruffle my hair to refresh it from the weather, while trying to catch my breath. There’s a nervousness in the air and I don’t know if it is him, me, or both of us. Nor do I know why it’s there. ‘Phew! Right. Is there anything I need to know before you go?’

  ‘Oli went down at seven, I don’t think you’ll hear from him now. I made you a tea, it’s in the lounge. But there’s coffee in the cupboard, if you’d prefer it, or wine on the side. Just help yourself to whichever you want.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I don't know how long I’ll be. I...’ He drops his head.

  ‘It’s fine, take your time.’

  ‘Simon is at home. He disappeared for a while. I just… I need to ask him about the accident. About what happened. About the things Lisa is saying, I need to know they weren’t—’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me, Ed. It’s fine. Go on. Do what you need to do.’

  He stares at me, seemingly gathering breath and strength. ‘I need to know the truth about Simon and Ellie.’ He stuffs his hands in his pockets, change rattling as he pulls his keys out. ‘Before he disappears again.’

  ‘Of course you do. I understand. And I’m sure he will too, when you talk.’ I resist the temptation to reach out and reassure him before he leaves the house. Not least because there’s nothing I can say to help, not really.

  From the back of his lounge, I see him jump into his car, pause, then start the engine up and race up the street. A window in the lounge is open, making the sound of rain bouncing off the pavements even louder. I’m taken back to the days when Mum was in her bed, not able to move. If it rained, I’d climb in with her, having first opened the windows so we could hear it fall. We’d cuddle, listening, smelling the air that flooded in through the open bay. She always told me to look out for the rainbow. I have always looked for the rainbows ever since.

  Those are the little things you miss. Things that Oli will never know. Whatever truth Ed needs to find, without it, years down the line, he can’t help Oli see the magic in memories he had no time to collect. He can’t give him thoughts and feelings and magic that she might have created, were she still here. They both need that, desperately.

  I look around, feeling out of place in the room. A gentle, flameless glow from the fireplace teases the room with half-hearted heat. Mum loved our open fire. If this was home, Dad would have complained at the heat in early May and Mum would have told him it was just a little bit, because she loved the process of fire-lighting, of keeping it going. Of watching the flames. Is that why Ed has it lit now?

  I stoke the embers, trying to revive it for him. On the hearth, beside the stoker, there’s a gilt metal-framed picture of Ed and Ellie. It’s heavy, ornate; it’s beautiful. As with the photo by the front door, which I noticed the first time I was here, hers is not the face of someone in love with anyone else but him. Their bodies are in sync, their heads tilt at the same angle. Their smiles are mirrored and their fingers intertwine. She loves him. Whatever Ed is questioning, it can’t be this. Surely? It’s here, plain to see. It’s in the house, in the walls. Beyond the sadness, there’s a history of home, of love. Can he not sense that any more? Could he ever?

  Lights on Oli’s monitor, which sits on the coffee table beside my tea, suddenly spark into life and distract me, green gathers pace to orange, hinting at red until all the lights flash as a piercing cry comes over the speaker. I take the stairs two at a time. ‘Sshhhhh, shhhhhh,’ I say, entering Oli’s room. He pulls at his ear, his cheeks ruddy red. He grumbles and fidgets as I pick him up, crying into my neck. ‘Hey, sssshhhhhh…’ I hold him out to take a good look. Too early for teething, surely? Earache? Medicine and a clean syringe sit in a small wicker basket on a shelf above his cot. ‘Do you need medicine, little man?’ I ask, propping him on my hip as I reach for the bottle, syringing some sugary syrup into his mouth. Almost instantly he calms, enough for me to lie him down. Sporadic fits of movement pass and after five minutes of head stroking and soothing, he’s sleeping again, his breath heavy and content.

  I tiptoe away and hover outside on the landing, just to be sure. There’s a door, wide open, lights on. Is it Ed’s room? I fight the urge to look, to peep inside his room, so I look down to the floor until I’m satisfied that Oli is fully settled. But I’m drawn back to the open door, which, I see now, leads to an open box beside an open wardrobe. What looks like drawings are scattered around the box and its lid. A tiny step is all it takes from landing to beyond the threshold; my racing heart stops sharply as a floorboard squeaks. I hold my breath as silence returns. I rest against the wardrobe to steady myself. Unmade bed, curtains drawn tight shut, his switched-on bedside lamp is drowned by the strength of the main light, spotlighting the box and its contents.

  I peer. Pictures, drawn in the same hand as the one on the fridge. The initials ‘EM’ are written neatly in the corner of each one. Ellie or Ed? Whoever, there are loads. Tiny scribbles, bigger illustrations. I bend over, taking a closer look. Most are of Ellie, some with them both. A car, a house, a beach. A babe in the arms of its mother or its father. Who’s drawn them? I lift them up to see the detail. Beautifully drawn hearts hold messages inside. Messages, it’s clear, from him to her. There are cartoons of conversations between the main protagonists.

  These are cherished. Ed drew them for Ellie and she has kept them because they’re precious. Yet again, his answer is here, in front of him. This is it. And as I reach, absent-mindedly, to drop the pictures back inside the box, beneath her hanging clothes, I see something else at the back of the wardrobe.

  Books.

  Pulling the sleeves of my jumper down over itching hands, I sink into the thick cream carpet. Large-petalled lilac and cream flowers cover the bedroom walls, reducing the size of the room to boudoir cosy. The sight of these books before me, and the urge to take a closer look, make the room all the smaller.

  Lines of colour-ordered clothes hang above, neatly packed shelves of folded cashmere jumpers, pure cotton T-shirts and scarves line one side. Stacked beneath it all are more boxes, each, apparently, with a photo of its contents. And there, behind those, I see book spines. Glimpses of numbers that make up years: 2001, 2002, 200… something I can't quite read… 2004... all the way up to this year.

  I reach out, hovering above them, my fingers tingling. Does Ed know these diaries are here? Surely, he must. But what if he doesn’t? What if he doesn’t and the truth lies within these books? The truth he’s so desperate to prove so he can lay Ellie’s ghost to rest? For him to read it in her own hand would solve everything, wouldn’t it?

  Twenty-Six

  Ed

  A neighbour’s curtain twitches before I’ve turned the engine off. Simon’s house is lit by an orange glow. At the end of the path, by th
e front door, their box of recycling now leans up against the step, seemingly empty. Was that only last week? The week before? I’ve lost track of time, it seems so much longer ago.

  Lime-green light on the dashboard flips to 11.15 p.m. and second thoughts begin to creep in. Why am I doing this now? Why am I doing this to Ellie? Have I forgotten so much that the memory of her words and her touch have altered? Have they changed into the words and touch of a woman who lied? There’s a burning sensation in my pocket where her picture rests. I see her; for the first time in days I can see her clearly. I close my eyes and I can smell her, sweet, strong, evocative. I can feel her holding my hand and kissing my face. I can hear her: ‘I love you, Ed. It's me, you and him against the rest of the world.’ That’s what she told me when Oli was born; she was exhausted but bursting with love. Our heads touched as he lay naked on her chest, skin to skin, and we morphed into one that day. Before he arrived it was me and her; in that moment it changed to us. Us.

  So I know Lisa’s lying, I do really. I don’t need to talk to Simon…

  Except that I don’t know why Lisa is lying, and I need it to stop. For Oli’s sake; for mine. For Ellie’s.

  A deep breath lifts my head, rejuvenates my will and launches me out of the car, up to the front door. Their too-loud TV blares through the windows, but I try knocking anyway. The single-glazed glass flexes, my reflection warps, but nobody comes. I grasp the cold, wet door handle and push the door open. Inside, the blistering temperature of too-high heating hits me in the face with the same force as Ellie’s perfume from her wardrobe. I catch my breath.

  Standing in their hallway for a second, the kitchen is up ahead of me. To one side, a frosted-glass door to their lounge is closed, but hazy colours from the TV reflect on the gloss-painted staircase. Gritting my teeth, I open the lounge door, which scuffs against the carpet, to see Simon, slumped, bottle in one hand, empty glass in another.

  I swallow a soreness that rests in the back of my throat. My heart pounds.

  ‘Simon?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Simon?’ I try, louder.

  Still nothing. I can feel irritation grow, anger. The invisible straps of my constraint tighten as I walk towards him, then press ‘mute’ on his remote before leaning into him. The smell of stale alcohol itches my nose. ‘SIMON!’

  His eyelids lift stickily, his head shifting back slightly to focus on my face.

  ‘S’Ed,’ he slurs, his eyelids shutting again.

  ‘Where’ve you been?’ I ask him, his head lolling down, chin to chest. ‘Simon!’ I try, shaking him, his head falling back in the chair.

  ‘S’Ed,’ he repeats, eyes still shut. He doesn’t look like my brother. His face is grey, his hair thin. He looks like he’s not eaten in weeks. He stinks of alcohol and BO, and his fingernails are filthy, what hasn’t been bitten quick-short.

  ‘What’s been going on, Simon?’ I ask. ‘Where’ve you been? Why are you…’ I look down at the empty bottle: whisky. He always hated whisky. And the wine bottle on the other side of the chair is red, not his usual white. ‘Where’s Lisa?’ I demand. ‘Where’ve you been?’ But there’s nothing, no chance of sense from the state he’s in.

  Do I leave? Do I move him? Do I wait until he’s sobered up? He slurs something undetectable and I feel compelled to shift him upstairs. To put him to bed until the morning, when I can come back and try to talk to him before he disappears again.

  I pull him up from the floor and try to get him to stand, but his legs give way and I have to catch him by the waist, pulling him back up. With his arm around one of mine, and my other arm around his waist, he leans against me as we take the stairs. The bedroom door opens with my kick, darkness stretching out before us. The bedroom light bulb blows as I manage to flick the switch on, leaving me to wait until my eyes adjust to the darkness.

  Leaning Simon up against a wall, he slides down to the floor, floppy and completely out of it. Getting the landing light on gives me enough light to see the way to the bed, and I drag him over to it. A phone falls from his pocket, so I put it into one of my pockets to avoid standing on it. When I’ve tucked him in the bed, I pull him onto his side, just in case he’s sick, then go back downstairs for water.

  The kitchen is a mess. Filthy plates, empty milk cartons, half-eaten food all over. Is this Lisa’s doing? Is this how she’s been living in his absence? I open the cupboard for a clean glass, finding nothing. I search for a mug that hasn’t grown mould, eventually finding one that I can just about rinse out. I fill it with tap water, then take it upstairs for him.

  ‘Here, for when you wake up,’ I say, though he won’t hear me over the snoring. I study his face in the half-light, anger fizzling out to be replaced with sadness. How did he get like this? How did we let him get like this? ‘What happened, Si?’ I ask, crouching down beside him. ‘What are you doing? How long have you been like this?’

  Then I remember his phone and put a hand into my pocket, finding it inside. Which makes me wonder…

  I flip it open to find it just surviving on the last of its battery juice. I click open his text messages but the folder is empty. Not a single one. Deleted on purpose? I tap my finger on the screen, thinking, which opens up his voicemail folder.

  My heart stops. There’s a message from Ellie. Her voice. The sound of her. Will it be how I remember it? The way she’d inflect certain words, the lilt of her Northumberland accent, the softness?

  My hands shake as I press ‘play’, and she speaks. It’s like she’s here. Like nothing has changed. ‘Simon, it’s me,’ she says, then pauses.

  I cough all air from my lungs. If I can hear her, why can’t I touch her?

  ‘I think I’ve worked out what we say. It’s going to hurt, of course it is, but I think we can do this. And in the long term… it will be better this way, I promise.’

  What is, Ellie? What will be better? And what way?

  The sound of her hanging up, the end of her message, makes me sink to the floor. I press ‘play’ again, desperate to hear her voice, my eyes tight shut with the pain of hearing her hurting almost as much as her words confuse me. Tell us what?

  ‘Tell us what!’ I shout out. Simon mumbles something before turning over. ‘What’s going on, Simon?’ I pull at him. ‘Why was my wife in your car? What the FUCK was going on?’ I shout, my hands now pulling Simon up, his head lolling back. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Edward!’

  Mum, wrapped up in her coat, rushes into the room. She pulls me off Simon, who falls back on the bed, groaning. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she says, looking down at Simon, checking, in what light we have, to see I haven’t hurt him.

  ‘What am I doing?’ I spit. ‘I’m trying to find out what the hell he was doing the day he killed my wife. I’m trying to find out what on earth they were doing together on that day, when she should have been at home, with me. I’m trying to—’

  ‘Well, it’s a good job I came when I did. I think perhaps you should leave,’ she says sternly. ‘You’re clearly in no state to help, and he’s in no state to listen. I didn’t tell you he was back for this to happen, Edward. I told you because I thought you’d want to know that he was okay, that he was alive. I thought I’d check in on him myself, and thank goodness I did.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, I was glad you told me. And I did come to check he was okay, but I have questions, Mum, and I’ve every right to the answers.’

  ‘Of course you do, but he can’t answer them in this state, can he?’

  ‘I didn’t know he’d be in this state when I came around. All I want is the truth, Mum. It’s not much to ask, just the truth. Something I can’t ask my wife because she’s dead.’ My breath is heavy with more, more I want to say but can’t because I don’t know where to start.

  ‘What truth is there to know, Edward? What on earth are you talking about?’

  Mum stands before me, her own breath now heavy. Nerves in her voice. Despite the half-light, I can clearly see she’s frail, thin. Shad
ows form in the hollow of her cheeks. She looks old, older than I remember. Is this a new thing? Is the stress of all this ageing her, or had I just not noticed before?

  She looks between me and Simon, her sons at war, and I realise I can’t answer her question. I can’t tell the woman who gives us a cheek to kiss, who hovers in the background of our lives, because showing affection or love is more than she can cope with. I can’t tell her anything because she’s already broken enough. What would she do with any of this information I have? Defend him? I can’t hear it. Explain it? How could she?

  ‘Mum, Ellie was in Simon’s car,’ I say, breathless. ‘I don’t understand why. I don’t know if he was drinking then—’

  ‘Of course he wasn’t.’

  ‘How do we know that?’

  ‘The police would have breathalysed him, Edward. They’d have to. At the scene.’

  I fall silent, because I realise she’s right about that much. The idea he was drinking has poisoned my perception of events; a suggestion that’s lingered from the second Lisa told me he was back on the booze. But even if he was sober, it still doesn’t answer everything. The text message, the voicemail. Lisa’s accusations. Something was going on, no question about it. And standing before Mum, her chest heavy with the rise and fall of split loyalties, I feel the most alone I’ve felt since leaving hospital on the day of the accident, carrying Oli’s car seat out into a winter sun that blinded me, strapping him into the car, clumsy with disbelief.

  I’m on my own. It’s as simple as that.

  ‘Whatever questions you may have, now is not the time to seek answers. You’re my sons, the two most…’ She trails off, turning her back. She tucks Edward into his sheets, silence replacing the end of that sentence. ‘Get some sleep. Calm down. Let’s talk about this in the morning. God willing, your brother will be sober.’ She moves to usher me out of his room. ‘You only have half the story, Edward. You cannot assume the ending.’