Читать книгу The English Wife - Doreen Roberts - Страница 9

When it had become obvious Brandon and I would not be blessed with children, I’d taken accounting classes at business school and for years I’d worked for my dentist until he retired.

When I saw the ad for a bookkeeper at a new health club, I couldn’t resist applying. I did it to show Brandon he wasn’t in total control of my life, but after talking to Val, it seemed such a happy place compared to the long faces at the dentist’s office, and I was overjoyed when she hired me. Brandon, of course, was horrified.

Over the six years I worked for Val I learned a lot about running a business, and ended up taking over most of the paperwork involved. Val was ten years younger than me and happily divorced, with alimony that would have paid my mortgage twice over. She kept trying to get me physically trained. I absolutely refused. Cramming my body into skintight clothes and bouncing around among all those nubile goddesses was not my idea of a good time. I’d never have a figure like Val’s, no matter how much I sweated and starved. I’d accepted that, even if Val wouldn’t.

Seated opposite me at a vinyl covered table in the club’s cafeteria, she studied my face. “We should be in a bar with a bottle of good Scotch. You look as if you could use one.”

The idea was tempting. “I’ve had a bad morning.” The understatement of the century, but I wasn’t ready to share my suspicions about my late husband’s activities just yet.

All around me young women in tight outfits were battling to be heard above each other’s chatter. The babble did nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. The price I paid for a free lunch.

I should have known I couldn’t fool Val. She pursed her perfectly outlined lips. “You’ve been doing so well up to now. Just tell me what happened.”

Giving up hope of keeping the news to myself, I explained about the cottage and the mystery woman, though I left out all my suspicions. I guess I was hoping Val would dismiss the whole thing as insignificant.

She’d never been blessed with tact. “Are you telling me Brandon had a mistress? God, I didn’t think he had it in him. Just goes to show you can’t tell a book—” She slapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, God, Margie, I’m sorry. This must be tough on you. No wonder you look like crap. It’s hard enough to lose a husband, but to find out he’s been cheating on you…” Her voice trailed off, and tears of sympathy glistened in her gorgeous violet eyes.

I was pretty sure the tears were genuine. Val could be as tough as nails about most things, but if you were a friend in need, she was there for you. To hear her confirm my misgivings almost wrecked the careful hold I had on my composure.

Even so, for some unfathomable reason, I struggled to give Brandon the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t know that he cheated on me. There could be a dozen reasons why he let this woman live there rent-free.”

“Yeah? Name one.”

I groped for possibilities. “She could be a relative, or an important client.”

“So why didn’t he tell you?”

The hollow feeling I’d been fighting all morning invaded my stomach. I reached for the pepper shaker and sprinkled a liberal amount into my soup. “Okay, so I don’t know.”

Val’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Well, there’s one way to find out.”

“How?”

“By going there and confronting the bitch.”

“Go to England? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Why not? At least you’d find out for sure what Brandon was up to, and England is supposed to be beautiful this time of year. All those yards in full bloom, boating on the lake, garden parties, afternoon teas, flower shows…” She clasped her hands and gazed up at the ceiling. “Fabulous. If I had an excuse to get out of Seattle for a while I’d be on the plane tomorrow.”

“You watch too much TV.” I picked up my spoon and tasted the soup. It needed more pepper. “James told me that Miles End is a little fishing village on the southwest coast. It’s probably smelly, grubby and full of sweaty fishermen who haven’t looked at a shower in days. I’d have to stay in some smoky, grimy pub where I’d be kept awake half the night by the drunken brawls.”

Val grinned. “Obviously we watch different movies. Seriously, though, Margie. Think about it. You actually own a cottage in England. What are you going to do with it?”

I didn’t want to think about the cottage. Just the mention of it made me want to dig up Brandon and wring his deceiving neck. My voice was abrupt when I answered her. “Sell it, I guess. Get it out of my life. Forget it ever existed.”

“Why don’t you just throw the bitch out and rent it.”

I had to admit, the idea had merit. Then again, we were both jumping to conclusions. The poor woman could be totally innocent and have a perfectly legitimate reason for enjoying a rent-free existence.

Just to torment me, snippets of items I’d read about well-heeled business men renting luxury penthouse suites for their paramours danced gleefully through my head.

I banished them from my mind. For one thing, if what James said was true, my husband had not been that well-heeled. For another, why go to all that trouble and expense to buy a cottage in England, when surely it would have been cheaper to rent something in the U.S.?

Something just didn’t fit, and much as I hated to acknowledge the fact, I was dying to get to the bottom of the mystery. On the other hand, to let Val know that was inviting an exhaustive campaign to send me over there. I definitely wasn’t ready for that.

“No,” I said firmly. “I just want to get rid of the damn thing.” I pushed the soup away from me, picked up the long dessert spoon and jammed it into my mushy frozen yogurt.

Val was not about to give up that easily. Once she got excited about an idea she refused to let go. “Well, then, if you’re going to sell it, wouldn’t it make sense to go over there to protect your interests? How do you know if you’re getting a fair price and that everything is aboveboard if you’re not there to keep an eye on the proceedings?”

I sent her a look that I hoped conveyed my loathing for that idea. It was all very well for her to give me advice. After all, she was used to living on the edge. She met guys through the Internet and dated them. That sounded a tad risky to me, but Val’s favorite saying was “If you’re not risking, you’re not living,” so I kept my thoughts to myself.

“James gave me the name of a reliable agent.” I reached for my diet soda. “I’m sure the man knows what he’s doing.”

“How can you be sure? You don’t even trust that creepy lawyer. How can you trust someone you’ve never met?” She leaned forward, her face glowing with excitement. “Just think. You could hook up with a good-looking, romantic young Englishman over there.”

The idea was so ridiculous I’d have laughed if I hadn’t been simmering with all that resentment. “Val, I’m a forty-six year-old widow. Look at me. Do I look like I’m ready for a romance?”

She studied me for a moment. Her thick blond hair was cut short, like a man’s. It looked great on her, but it wouldn’t have worked on me. My hair was too baby-fine. I let it hang around my face to hide my wrinkles.

After a moment, Val nodded. “You look great for your age. Besides, someone told me the young Brits love older women. They call it granny grabbing, or something like that.”

I choked, almost spitting a mouthful of soda across the table. “How terribly romantic,” I said, when I could stop coughing.

“Well, I think it is.” She actually looked offended.

I shook my head at her. “Brandon’s only been dead a month. I’m still trying to deal with that. The last thing I need is another man. Period.”

She sat back, obviously disappointed. “Well, you can’t say you had a wildly passionate marriage. In all the times I saw you two together, I never once saw Brandon hold your hand or even touch you.”

I pretended to be interested in the fizzy contents of my glass. True, Brandon hadn’t been into heavy petting. On the rare occasion he’d felt amorous he’d conducted the whole business with his usual precision, and finished up with his customary peck on the cheek.

I’d reached the stage when it didn’t bother me that much anymore. It did bother me, I was surprised to discover, that other people had noticed his lack of affection.

“He wasn’t the romantic type,” I murmured. “You know that. He had trouble expressing his feelings.”

“He didn’t have any trouble expressing them in England, apparently.” She must have seen me flinch, because she hurried to add just the right tinge of sympathy. “Although I’m sure Brandon loved you. In his own way.”

I almost laughed at that. “Who knows what Brandon felt, and who cares.”

“You do,” Val said softly. “I’m sorry, Margie. I know how much this must hurt.”

She was right. It did hurt. On the surface I’d had everything a woman needed to be content. I had a nice home, no worries to speak of, and I had companionship. I could wake up during the night, reassured by the sound of snoring next to me. Even when Brandon left on his business trips, I didn’t feel really alone. I knew he was coming back in a few days. I’d had security, the one thing I valued above all else.

Security wasn’t something I took for granted. I was still a young child when my mother sank into her depression after my father died. She’d gone back to bartending, and buried herself in her job. I was left to fend for myself.

I didn’t bother much with friends. I guess I was ashamed of the pigsty we lived in, and the empty bottles of booze in the sink.

Brandon came into my life shortly after she died. And maybe he wasn’t the prince of my dreams, maybe we weren’t consumed with passion like the characters in my favorite books, but I believed we loved each other and he offered me the security I’d never had. Or so I’d thought. Considering what I’d just learned, my life hadn’t been all that secure after all.

Determined not to let Val’s well-meant sympathy drag me down again, I chugged my soda. “I’m not going to waste my time obsessing over something that might never have happened. There has to be a completely valid reason for all this.”

“A reason for another woman to be living rent-free in a cottage you knew nothing about?” Val shook her head. “Get real, Marjorie. Stop making excuses for that bastard.”

Okay, so maybe I was making excuses for him. Maybe I wasn’t ready to accept the fact I’d been that dense that I couldn’t see what was going on under my nose. I’d thought we were reasonably content with each other.

True, I’d always known something was missing. There were even times, when his arrogance and insensitivity got a little tough to put up with, that I wondered why I stayed with him.

I guess it was that security thing again. I had too many vivid memories of revolting leftovers and freezing nights in our miserable apartment.

How’d that saying go? Better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t. Well, Brandon Maitland was my devil and until now I’d considered it a fair exchange.

“He practically ran your life,” Val said, echoing my thoughts. “Look what good it did you. Here you’ve got a chance to see another part of the world and you’re afraid to take it.”

That stung. “Hey, it wasn’t that bad. Brandon liked to be in charge, sure, and I was okay with that, as long as I had my job and my own interests. I’m not afraid to go to England. I’m just not that interested.”

“That’s bullshit. Aren’t you just the tiniest bit curious? Don’t you even want to know what the bitch looks like?”

“Not at all.” I was lying through my teeth, of course. I was eaten up with curiosity.

Val leaned toward me again, her eyes willing me to agree. “Come on, Margie. It’s time to start taking risks. You don’t have Brandon breathing down your neck anymore. You’re free, girl! Go for it! Go to England, tell that tramp what you think of her and throw her out of your cottage. Then go have yourself one hell of a vacation.”

The waiter arrived with the bill just then, saving me from answering right away. This was a mistake, I thought. I should have gone home instead of going back to work. I needed time to absorb all this.

I wanted a hot bath, perfumed oil, candles, a bottle of wine and a good book. I wanted to throw my clothes all over the bedroom, leave dirty dishes in the sink, turn the CD player on full blast, now that Brandon wasn’t there to frown his disapproval.

I didn’t want to think about the cottage, or what it might mean. Not now. Not yet. Right now I wanted to be alone, to pamper myself, and give myself time to recover.

I’d spent twenty-seven years with a man who’d been leading a secret life. All those years I’d put up with his overbearing attitude and his annoying little habits, telling myself I was better off with him than without him. How wrong could I have been.

Well, now he was gone, and he couldn’t hold me back anymore. I still missed him, more than he deserved, but now I wanted to be done mourning and get on with my life. The sooner the better.

I soon found it wasn’t that easy to get back to normal. Val insisted I go home after lunch, and I was only too happy to agree. I needed to be alone to think.

After all, I was pretty much used to doing things on my own. I didn’t make friends easily—a throwback, no doubt, to my lonely upbringing. Once you get used to doing without people, it becomes a habit.

With the exception of Val, the few women I knew well enough to call friends were wives of Brandon’s business cronies, and had faded out of my life within a few days of the funeral. I didn’t miss them.

As for all those young women at the health club—well, they were mostly athletic types with a focus on perfecting their image and an annoying penchant for trying to outdo each other. All that competitiveness was not for me. I just wasn’t in their league.

I was comfortable in my own company, but as I sat outside the house I’d shared with Brandon, I felt an odd reluctance to go back in there. The memories mocked me, as if chiding me for being so trusting, so accommodating all these years. I’d taken the easier path, and I had only myself to blame if I’d missed the signals.

I climbed out of the car and left it at the curb. I still couldn’t go back into the garage. That’s where I’d found Brandon, that awful night I’d arrived home to see him sprawled half in, half out of his BMW, his head on the ground, those cold blue eyes of his wide open and staring at nothing.

He’d managed to stop the car, though it was angled across the entrance. The heart attack must have hit him before he got to the driveway. Brandon was fussy about parking in the exact same spot every single time. Then again, Brandon was fussy about everything. He wouldn’t have appreciated being seen by strangers with his hair all mussed and his ass in the air.

I let myself into the house, conscious of the deathly quiet with the door closed on the outside world. I decided to forgo the wine that evening. I didn’t want it to become a crutch.

I woke up in the middle of the night, as I’d done for the past three weeks, expecting to hear Brandon snoring next to me. Listening to the house creak and crack in the dark, I thought again about the woman who lived alone in the cottage.

Was she lying awake, too, wondering why Brandon hadn’t been in touch with her? How had he kept in touch with her? The phone? Letters? E-mail? There had to be records of some sort. Or had he ignored her once he was back home, as he’d so often ignored me?

Memories invaded my mind, little things that had meant nothing at the time but now seemed significant in light of what I now knew. The evenings when we’d be watching TV and I’d catch him staring into space, oblivious of what was playing on the screen in front of him. I’d assumed he was thinking about his work, but now I wondered if he was thinking about her.

I tossed over onto my other side and pummeled the pillow. I had to stop all this guesswork. Tomorrow I’d search the room he’d used as an office, and see if I could find any clues to the cottage and its mystery occupant.

I slept through the alarm the next morning. Staring at the neat row of suits, dresses and skirts in my closet, I couldn’t decide what to wear. For once, the thought of sitting at that desk, smiling at all those fresh, eager faces with their perfect figures and their perfect lives depressed me.

Not only that, I just couldn’t handle the prospect of having to field another barrage of questions from Val. I needed some time off. I had some huge decisions to make, stuff to take care of and I simply wanted to be alone for a while.

I called Val. She was understanding, considering I’d left her stranded without a bookkeeper or receptionist. “Don’t worry,” she assured me. “I’ll get a temp until you feel like coming back.”

“I don’t know how long—” I started to say, but she interrupted me.

“Take as long as you need. Is there anything I can do? Let me know if you think of something.”

I heard agitated voices in the background just before she hung up, and guilt pricked at me for letting her down. I felt better after I’d showered, but I put off going into Brandon’s office until I’d drunk two cups of coffee and finished off a box of cereal.

I walked down the passageway to the office and threw open the door. After being shut up for so long the room smelled of worn clothing and rotting apples.

As always, Brandon’s desk had been cleared, except for a neat pile of papers sitting in the tray I’d bought him for Christmas one year.

I flipped through them, finding nothing more exciting than a few bills, all of which had been paid after I got the second notices. The telephone bill was tucked in with them, but I could find no records of a call to Devon, England. Of course not. He would have called from work. He wasn’t a stupid man.

I turned on the computer and played with several possible combinations of words and numbers, knowing all the time how futile it was. Brandon’s E-mail would be lost forever. In any case, he’d have used his work computer if he wanted to hide anything from me.

The lower drawer held a number of files, all neatly labeled. I flipped through them but couldn’t see anything connected to a cottage in England. I should have known he was too clever to leave clues lying around for me to find. Obviously he wasn’t as trusting as I had been.

I gave up and went back into the living room, where I called James. Melanie answered, and I made an appointment to see him. I still had papers to sign, and I wanted the address and phone number of that darn cottage. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it yet, but I’d feel better knowing how to get in touch with her.

The days after that stretched before me without any real purpose, and I felt lost, wondering if I’d made a mistake by taking time off. The house seemed so empty and silent.

At first I filled my time by cleaning all the corners that sometimes got neglected during normal housework. I shoved furniture around and rearranged everything, polished windows and washed all the light fixtures.

I sorted out drawers, cupboards and shelves, managing to avoid Brandon’s closet, his dresser and his office. I’d exhausted the contents of the kitchen cabinets, and I went grocery shopping, coming home loaded with frozen dinners, packages of cookies and gallons of ice cream.

The television kept my evenings occupied until well into the night. I slept until late the next morning, and lived in jeans and oversize shirts. Val kept calling to ask me to lunch, but I couldn’t be bothered to get dressed up, much less face her constant chatter, so I made excuses until finally she stopped calling.

Through it all, an underlying guilt kept nagging at me. Thousands of miles away, a woman waited for a word, a letter, an E-mail or a phone call that would never come. James had given me the address and phone number, but I couldn’t seem to make a decision on what to do about it.

The questions still haunted me. Was she suffering, wondering why she’d been abandoned? Or was she innocent of any wrongdoing, going on with her life, happily unaware that her free ride in the cottage was about to end?

Each time I thought about her I pushed the questions to the back of my mind. I’d deal with that problem later, I told myself. When I felt stronger. After all, there was plenty of time. Or so I thought.