The Subsequent Wife Page 9

  In B8 there were two solicitors, Nash and Broughton, neatly suited, looking rich as Croesus, or maybe David Beckham, who is, I suppose, richer than even Croesus was. They always wore the same uniform, the uniform of the confident and wealthy, and arrived in their waxed and polished Audis oozing aftershave and leaking confidence. They had too many case files in their poky little offices to store them all, they’d told me with the haughty air of someone deigning to speak to an inferior. Legal documents have to be preserved for ever. So they had to keep them somewhere. And for that they had to pay. Grudgingly. Isn’t it funny? They were the rich ones. Out of all the folk who rented our containers, they were the ones who could afford it most easily. But boy, didn’t they grumble when they had to pay the bill? And you always had to remind them they were overdue. It’s always the rich who grumble about money, isn’t it?

  Their files and envelopes smelt too. Of musty old money, of manipulation and deceit and enormous bills. I wouldn’t trust Nash & Broughton with my nonexistent money. They were too greedy. Too mean. Too money-grabbing. I didn’t like them either, with their air of condescension. Often they wouldn’t speak to me at all, just stride in, sign the book and walk straight out again without even looking at me.

  Well, fuck you, I’d think.

  Everyone’s belongings have a peculiar scent of their own which seeps out of their unit doors, so when I walked along the corridor – if I had shut my eyes – I could have told you whose store I was passing. D5. The scent that I recognized most easily was the Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue. It must be his wife’s perfume. She must spray herself with it every day because I could smell it, albeit faintly, on him.

  It was halfway through October before my curiosity burst through and I had the chance to speak to him. The office was, for once, empty.

  I started being businesslike. ‘Do you think you’ll need our storage facility for much longer, Mr Taverner? We do have a waiting list.’ I hadn’t meant to sound quite so sharp but that was how it came out. I was aware that I hadn’t thanked him properly for the dress, just a perfunctory couple of words spoken in front of a couple of browsers studying the cardboard boxes. He’d seemed embarrassed even by that small expression of thanks. He’d received it with a flush, a frown and a nod. While I wondered. Had he bought the dress initially for his wife? Maybe she hadn’t liked it. Or maybe it wasn’t her size. Or had he bought it specially for me, having guessed at the size – and got it right?

  My claim that we had a queue of potential customers was true. In fact, we were so popular we’d recently put up our prices, excluding customers under an existing contract, so we were perfectly happy when people cleared out. The rise in prices had been mirrored by my wage rise. Maybe, I’d thought, if he left and took the stuff away, my dreams and curiosity would fade and I would have peace. But a small, empty space. No one had ever treated me so courteously.

  He didn’t respond to my question straight away but stared at me until it became almost embarrassing. This was scrutiny. Staring almost through me without saying a word or twitching a facial muscle? Then, instead of answering my question, he said the same thing he had said before. ‘You really do have nice hair, Jennifer.’

  I gaped at him utterly confused. Was this clumsy flirting? Personally I think my hair is probably my best feature, but David used to say (with a leer) it was my legs, while Tyrone used to like to span my waist with his big, meaty paws. Sometimes he’d span it so hard I could hardly breathe. ‘Doll,’ he’d have said while I collapsed on the floor, blue as midnight, ‘what’s youz problem?’ Hey ho. That was Tyrone for you. And Scary II?

  Scary II was the product of some internet fishing. And somehow my profile had managed to attract him. (I’ve never worked out what were the fateful phrases or the angle of my selfies that drew him in, and he wasn’t insightful enough to tell me.) He had described himself as ‘into manly pursuits’.

  But while I translated the phrase into boozing with mates and football, Scary II’s idea of manly pursuits was something quite different.

  His real name was Darren Finnegan, but I called him Scary II because six months previously I’d had the encounter with Scary I, Tyrone.

  In Scary II’s photograph he’d looked normal enough – almost handsome – apart from a thin scar which puckered his right cheek from the corner of his eye to around an inch before the side of his mouth. So he wasn’t quite perfect but then neither was I. At that point in my life I had the beginnings of a rounded tummy and my skin had developed some nasty red patches.

  The evening with Scary II had started OK – we’d met outside the pub and the first thing I noticed about him was the way he walked, a rolling gait that reminded me of a sailor. He kissed me on the cheek, got my name right and bought me a drink. A glass of cider, if you must know. He’d started chatting about his job – at a gym in Fenton. He was dressed well – jeans and a clean shirt – and smelt of soap and just a hint of aftershave. Not sweaty feet, stale booze or BO. Tick, tick, tick.

  Things were going nicely with Scary II. I was actually just beginning to enjoy the evening, thinking I’d found Normal Man, when all of a sudden, from his man-bag he produces a magazine and lays it flat on the table. It took me a minute or two to realize what the magazine’s pictures were telling me. And then I did. Images of women mainly but also a few men, handcuffed, frightened, or more probably acting frightened. They were wearing all sorts of clothes – mainly black, with chains, whips, rubber, studs. Piercings in all sorts of places. One man had a stud that went right through his penis and he was leering down at it as though it was his Christmas dinner. I turned that page over pretty quickly – it was making me feel sick. But the worst picture, the one that stayed with me, was a sort of mask that went over the face, black with tiny slits for the eyes while both nose and mouth were sealed. How was one supposed to breathe? They weren’t. I drew in a sharp, reassuring breath and looked away, feeling dizzy. Scary II was watching me curiously and with an intense and meaningful interest. I could read his mind. He was watching for my reaction before suggesting … I looked at the pictures for about twenty seconds more and then across at him. He had this gleam in his eye. Determined, measuring me up for one of those outfits, small, medium or large, waiting for my response, inviting me to join him in this dark and ugly place where suffering was erotic and being suffocated pleasurable. Looking at his face and eager eyes I could read his question. Are you up for this?

  All I knew was I had to get out of there. Fast. I stood up, left my cider on the table (a first for me) and felt his eyes follow me out through the door. I had never been so frightened or felt so ill.

  In fact, I was so frightened he’d follow me out of the pub and back to my flat that I took a taxi home and didn’t go outside my front door for two whole days. Just lay on my bed, periodically peeping to check he wasn’t outside. When a blue Fiat that I didn’t recognize pulled up outside the house, my heart rate went up to 300 and stayed there for half an hour.

  Scary II was from Congleton, he’d told me, in the moments of normal conversation we’d exchanged before he’d pulled out his magazine. Congleton is only twenty minutes away from Brown Edge across the moors, and I’ve had a thing about the place ever since. I never go there. Though I know that’s a bit unfair. I’m sure some lovely people come from Congleton. Just not him. I was tempted to put something online, add something to the Me Too movement warning other women not to give him an opportunity to test his weird and wonderful tastes out on them. But I was worried I might run into legal trouble for blackening his character, so I didn’t. Maybe one day I’ll read he’s been convicted of a sadistic murder and I’ll feel guilty that I didn’t shop him. Maybe that will turn out to be yet another mistake I’ve made.

  My life is potholed with them.

  When he asked for a second date, I blocked him from my social media. You need social media to have a life. But it does expose you.

  One of my nightmares was that one day, when I glanced up at the bank of grey and black monitors, Scar
y II’s face would loom up in front. In many ways I found him more frightening than Scary I. Simple temper and aggression I could understand. Scary II’s predilections were deep, dark, invisible. It is like the film where the camera creeps up on an unsuspecting victim. It is the terror you can’t see that looms largest.

  What was I going to find out about Steven?

  We were at a sort of impasse, him staring at me, me regarding him back completely confused. Then he smiled at me. It was a sweet smile, shy and somehow sad. I felt drawn into him, unable to look away. His eyes warmed, the gold flecks shining like tiny stars. He tilted his head as though listening to or for something then, unpredictable as ever, without saying another word, he nodded, turned around and walked out, leaving me dumbfounded. What was going on in this guy’s mind?

  FIFTEEN

  Again, I didn’t see him for a couple of weeks. The clocks went back and the evenings lengthened while the days shortened. It was dark when I locked the gates. Steven stayed away and I drew my own conclusion. He was embarrassed. When I opened my wardrobe door I’d stare at the blue dress trying to divine some clue, a meaning, but I was as confused as ever.

  Perhaps what I’d interpreted as flirtation was nothing of the sort. Yet again I’d misread the signs. He had paid a simple compliment on my hair and given me a dress his wife probably didn’t want and now he was embarrassed. His stuff was still here but he’d soon stop paying. I’d send reminders and, finally, he would come with a hired van and move the lot out. And that would be the last I’d ever see of him. Mr Steven Taverner would vanish back into the ether. And I would never really know why he had given me the dress.

  But I had one small clue.

  On the price label there was the name of a shop. An upmarket place in Wolstanton. I’d gone past it on the bus and admired the beautiful outfits in the window. The sort of clothes you know instinctively cost megabucks. The sort of clothes you might wear to a society wedding. Beautifully made, no skimping on design or embellishment. But I had never ventured inside. It was not my sort of place.

  I asked Scarlet for the afternoon off and took a bus to Parakeet.

  I am used to shops where you walk in, browse racks of stuff on hangers, fight your way into the changing rooms and make your choice, queueing up at the till. That or charity shops and supermarkets.

  Parakeet was nothing like that. For a start, when I pushed open the door a little bell tinkled – politely. The shop was empty and a woman with lilac hair looked me up and down, sniffed the air and turned up her nose. She knew I didn’t belong here.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  There I floundered. ‘Umm.’

  Her mouth squeezed tight as she waited. I could almost see her mentally counting the seconds ticking by, checking the stock for anything that might be ‘lifted’.

  Her pretend smile was condescending.

  I squared my shoulders and tried out a sort of story. ‘My dad bought me a dress from here but it’s a bit long.’

  She had glasses on a chain around her neck. She lifted them on to her nose. Her eyebrows shot up. ‘We do carry out alterations,’ she said reluctantly, ‘for a price. If you would like to bring it in.’ Again, she looked me up and down, suspicion creasing her brow, and then she smiled. ‘Nice of your dad to buy you a dress.’

  I could read her thoughts. I may be a down-and-out but my dad might have the readies. I gave her a sweet smile and pressed forward with my investigation in my best Queen’s English. ‘You might remember him.’

  She moved her head, querying.

  ‘Taverner,’ I said. ‘Mr Taverner.’

  Her brow wrinkling was almost a comic act. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said.

  I tried a little bit harder. ‘About … so high. Forties, thinning brown hair. Nice eyes.’

  She repeated her get-out clause. ‘I don’t think so.’ She’d tried to make the words sound sweet but it still sounded condescending.

  Blind ending, plus I’d embarrassed myself. I left, summoning up every ounce of dignity.

  I tried to drag myself into reality. He’d only said I had nice hair. And I was so starved of compliments and affection that I’d grabbed at it with both hands, reading something into it that was never meant. The dress I found harder to explain. The boxes and suitcase in D5? Life’s little mysteries. I would never know who or what Margaret was but would have to rely on surmises.

  I caught the bus home on Halloween feeling flat, vulnerable and raw. And watching the kids in their costumes tricking and treating – along with the pumpkin faces leering at me – didn’t help one little bit.

  It was time I stopped seeing ghosts in shadows and moved back into the real world.

  That was my resolution.

  By November the shops were gearing up for Christmas. They were full of Christmas tat, everything red and sparkly and cheap looking. I was dreading Christmas. Not only would the store be closed for four whole days but I would be spending those four whole days confined to my room. Jason and Jodi wouldn’t want me around. Our relationship had soured and I wasn’t sure exactly why. Christmas was my very worst time of year, a parody of what it is supposed to be: family, love, turkey and presents. What was I supposed to do? Sit in my room and have a pretend Christmas dinner? Ring one of my parents (if I could track either of them down) and ask if I was invited for turkey and stuffing? Find out where my shitty little brother was and gatecrash whatever his plans were? Or play the maiden aunt and sit on the sofa while my girlfriends had fabulous presents from their loving husbands and watched their little adorables play with their new toys? My only single friend, Bethan, had recently hooked up with a new Mr Wonderful so that was out. It wasn’t much of a choice, was it? In fact, no choice at all.

  In the end I decided I would probably try and cancel the festive season altogether. The year before I’d bought myself a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream but had felt sick halfway through so I wouldn’t be repeating that experience. No thank you.

  I’d already bought Scarlet and Andy a bottle of prosecco and put it in a festive bag.

  Things at home (or more literally in my room, plus scuttles in and out of the kitchen and bathroom) had become increasingly frosty, but neither Jodi nor Jason had said anything more about a baby or, more importantly, about my moving out. They just seemed to silently resent me, never sparking a conversation, watching me if I was around, as if they thought I might steal the silver. I knew they couldn’t wait to see the back of me. I could feel their hostility beaming on me in every single corner of the house. There were no overtures of friendliness. I never watched TV in the evenings with them any more; neither did we share takeaways. I would have moved out except I had nowhere to go.

  In the middle of December I got a Christmas card from my mother. (So she did know where I lived.) She had remarried a man with the unimaginative name of George. And Dad was currently living in Thailand. He sent a card wishing me a Happy Christmas and mentioning a string of women – a Jasmine, a Meena, a Kachina, which he told me meant dancing spirit. Oh yeah, I thought, I bet she danced all right. Dirty old man gets taken for a ride by beautiful young Thai hooker. Seen it all before, Dad. Anyway, that meant that neither of my parents was in the slightest bit interested whether I lived in Brown Edge or fucking Timbuktu. There is something tacky about being faced with your parents’ sexuality – especially when in my early twenties both of them were probably getting more sex than me. And especially when the objects of my father’s lust were probably younger than me.

  At least ‘George’ sounded like a proper grown-up man.

  I’d kept to my vow about celibacy and not mopping up the wrong guy. But is there a little light that goes out in your head when you’re just not interested? Like a dying firefly? There must have been, because on the odd nights I did manage to persuade Stella or Bethan to abandon husband and kids and come out with me, guys didn’t seem interested in me either. It really was like something had been switched off. I could see right into my future. I was going to be one of those o
ld ladies, looking years older than they actually were, who’d shuffle on to the bus. Someone everyone would ignore or sidle away from as though she smelt. I might even be homeless – again.

  That night when I went to bed I heard Jodi and Jason copulating in a futile effort to make a baby. Mutters and moans and that rhythmic bonking that tells you a couple are connected. I shoved my pillow over my head but couldn’t shut it out. The entire house was vibrating.

  I was beginning to feel terminally sorry for myself. Christmas had dropped me, as usual, right into the Slough of Despond.

  SIXTEEN

  And then on Friday 14 December, at around four o’clock, I saw the white Ford Focus slide into the forecourt and park neatly. Steven climbed out and walked towards the office. I managed a polite smile. ‘Hello, haven’t seen you for a while.’

  ‘There’s been no need for me to come in. And …’ He gave me a proper warm smile that lit his eyes. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  I let my gaze drift around the office, at the three-foot-high artificial tree draped with silver tinsel, the cards stuck around the walls with Blu-Tack and the soundtrack of continual Christmas oldies and managed a smile I would have classed as ironic. ‘I know.’

  What happens to people around Christmas time? Scarlet had been in a jolly mood earlier, twirling around in killer white stilettoes, fishnet tights and a red micro-dress trimmed with fake white fur. Andrew was taking her out for dinner and she was in festive mode, humming Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’. She’d breezed in at a quarter to two and left at two telling me she wouldn’t be in again until Monday so I was on my own.

  I’m no philosopher but I’ve worked out that being dissatisfied with your life at this time of year puts you in a particularly vulnerable position. It heightens the emotions, makes you desperate, makes you long for change. The New Year beckons with threats and promises. Your brain flaps around like a skate on the bottom of the ocean, one eye open but seeing nothing, distorting everything. Not even seeing danger ahead, sharks looming.