The Perfect Widow

I thought nothing of it, the first time the doorbell rang.

Parcel delivery guy – bound to be. It was that time of the evening. School run done, supper running late. They just want to catch you at home, don’t they? Don’t care if the timing’s terrible, up to your elbows in kids and cooking. Not their problem.

I did a quick mental scan through my recent purchases. Hmm. A few. Well, I had to keep up appearances. And it was hard to get it right just now. A strange September, sweltering by day, then plunging straight to frost when night fell. I wanted to get everyone twittering in the playground when I appeared in something shiny and new. For a second, I was excited. Was it that red handbag? Bit pricey, but I hadn’t been able to resist. But no, it was bound to be those boots I’d ordered last week on sale. Helping Giles was more important.

I looked over at him. Dark head down over the exercise book. Bless. That maths. I could see the line of jagged numbers. He was snagged, like a lamb on a barbed wire fence. But would he ask for help? Ha. I stayed put. Boys. If I didn’t nurse him through it, he’d go off the boil, drift. I’d lose him to that new game, the one he’d been hankering after. He’d be skulking in his bedroom for hours. That would be that. So I called to Emmy – well, yelled. It’s a big house.

‘Love? Can you get that?’

I cocked an ear. No reply, no movement. I sighed inwardly. Girls were no easier. Emmy was 11 going on 17 when it came to attitude. Especially towards her mother. The more love and encouragement I lavished on her, the more elaborate the eye-rolls at everything I said or did. I envied her the freedom to rebel. Did I begrudge it? Most days, no. Today, I was feeling a bit antsy already. I couldn’t face more shouting. That last yell up the stairs had done my head in. It had been a busy day. Very busy.

I was about to give in and get up, but then Giles turned to me. ‘Don’t go, Mum. I can’t do this.’ The voice was all over the place, now he was 13 – Barry White one minute, Sam Smith the next. That pushed-out bottom lip, though, was the same as when he’d been 4, trying to ride his new bike without any help from us, and coming a cropper. I smiled, love filling me like light pouring through a window. Who could resist?

The bell shrilled again. I couldn’t break off, not now Giles was finally concentrating, but I certainly didn’t want to be schlepping to the post office tomorrow to pick up those boots. Outside, the guy would be scribbling the usual hieroglyphs on his card, ready to drop and run. I was torn. But, just in time, there was Emmy, scampering down the stairs, two at a time. Miracle. Bless her. That was the only little-girl thing about her, the bouncy gait.

She never did it again, after that afternoon.

I turned back to Giles. ‘Now, you take this number …’ But I still had half an ear out for Em. Heavy click as the door opened. Murmurs. The sharp slap of cold air. Distant street sounds. More talking. Too much.

I thought for a beat, then two. Why would she chat to the delivery guy? And was that two adult voices I could hear? A man and a woman?

Something was off. But it couldn’t be … could it? Not yet. Surely not.

Then her stifled gasp.

I breathed in, hard. But I was still reluctant to leave Giles, the books and pens at the table. If I didn’t move, everything would stay the same. The cluttered table, the peaceful room, the pristine house. My house, that I’d fought so hard for. I was paralysed.

‘Mum!’

Now there was no mistaking the bleat of fear in Emmy’s voice. But I sang out, ‘No need to yell, love,’ as though she was just being a pain as per usual. I pushed myself up, felt a twinge. It had been a long day, my muscles ached. That morning pilates class. And the rest. I even remembered to give the spag bol a quick stir as I passed the stove.

‘Mum!’ came the shout again, desperate now.

‘Coming.’

But as soon as I got out into the hall, there was no more escaping it. The door was flung wide open. Cold air, gusting in, knifing us after the sizzling day. Normally, I would have told Emmy off, letting the heat out, letting too many curious neighbours peer in, but my eyes flew straight past her to the two figures in the doorway, silhouettes bulky against the cold blue lights pulsing from their car.

Police.

This was real. It was actually happening. I felt sick, but my voice stayed steady.

‘Patrick,’ I said, looking from one granite face to the other, automatically reaching for Emmy. She burrowed her head into my side. I heard the maths book thud heavily from Giles’s hand, his chair scrape back. He ran out into the hall. And then we were three.

Chapter 1 (#u06447ffe-ad4a-5818-a102-24d9c520a040)

Now

Louise

Looking back on that night, I see the whole thing playing out like one of those jerky black-and-white newsreels. Some bits speeded up, some in slow motion. That policewoman moving towards me, breezing down my hall as though she owned the place – this part was fast, much too fast. Then, when we’d all reached the kitchen, time got stuck, snagging on her brutal words. Patrick. Dead.

Then my mouth was open in a big, round O. Was that right? I didn’t know what to do, how to be. Where to put myself, even in my own home. There I was, backed up against a unit, the handle pressing into me. And wearing Lycra, of all things. I was suddenly horrified. I should have been in black, a proper widow’s weeds, but instead, I stood there in my least favourite yoga pants, with the waistband going and the colours clashing.

The kids had no such qualms, they just did what came naturally, both running to me. Giles slamming into my side so that the bruise was visible the next day, Em trying to crawl almost up into my arms like the baby she’d so recently been. They knew what to do, what was necessary, without being told. The three of us, then, clinging together as though we were on a raft and too much motion would pitch us off into the deepest, darkest sea. A little clump of sorrow. That felt right at least.

Even if you are ready for the news – if someone’s being dying of cancer for years, say – there is still no preparing you for the actual moment when you hear. The gulf between your acceptance of the way things must soon be, and the bald fact itself, is as big as the divide between the living and the dead. That last goodbye, the final slam of the door. Patrick gone, already?

Now time was moving like treacle, as I tried to compute it all, get my head round it. Patrick was beyond explanations, apologies, reproaches. All the opportunities I’d had over the years to sort things out, call a truce, make things better, or even just to enjoy life with him, were just ashes now.

Of course I asked, I had to. I forced the mask that was now my face to frame the question. Whispered it over their heads. ‘What happened?’ I didn’t want the kids to hear, but I knew it had to be done.

‘A fire. At the office.’

The heads that had been buried into my side lifted at that, both of them. ‘Dad hates fires,’ said Giles. We were the only house that didn’t have a big shiny barbecue in the garden. No scented candles. And the fireplace by the sofas was gas, flicking on and off with a remote control.

I couldn’t quite see Giles’s face from the angle he had found, but I could imagine it crumpling, like all the times he’d cried as a small child. The mouth suddenly shifting sideways, the rest of his face creasing over it as though to hide the shame of giving in to tears. Em cried differently, so much more openly. Her face now was as wet as though she’d been under the shower. She held it up to me, my beautiful broken-hearted girl. I pressed a kiss onto the top of her hair, with its summer holiday scent, the coconut shampoo she loved. Which I would now forever associate with this moment. I wrapped my arms tighter round the two of them.

‘There were smoke alarms …’

‘Yeah. Didn’t work, did they?’ This was the stocky little policewoman, her head on one side as she looked up at me, face as shuttered as an off-licence after closing time. ‘Or no one heard. Inhalation.’

Did she want a reaction of some sort? I could do nothing but stare back at her, feeling these two smaller hearts beating against mine. It made me think of all those months when I’d carried them inside me, long ago. I didn’t have time to appease her, too. Things were going fast again.

‘Do I need to …?’ I tailed off. Swallowed. I couldn’t bring myself to say it. Someone had to identify him, didn’t they? Go to the mortuary, give that nod so they’d pull back the sheet. I felt nauseous at the thought.

‘No, that’s being taken care of.’ The policewoman looked at her notebook briefly. ‘His mother.’ There was a stab of pity for my mother-in-law, but also a wave of relief. The building?’ She looked back at me. Her eyes, dark as currants, were narrowed, expectant. Had there been a question?

‘Sorry?’

‘The building.’ She tapped the notebook with her pencil. ‘It would have been insured?’ she persisted. This time she was shushed by her colleague. A big, kindly man. Now he apologised, put a hand very briefly on my arm. His knees creaked slightly as he bent forward, almost like a toy policeman. He had the kind of pale skin that mottles with the sun, hair that would have been ginger once but was now the colour of a British beach. His eyes were a watery blue. Patrick had had a polo shirt that exact shade. My sight blurred suddenly. At last. ‘So sorry for your loss. Anyone we can call?’

I shook off all offers of help, even their suggestion that they make me tea or coffee, though later I realised that had no doubt come over as churlish. The widow should accept things gratefully, graciously, after all. Pity is her lot. And the woman officer was probably dying for a cuppa, not to mention a biscuit or three. Never mind. I had very little faith in the ability of that great cure-all, hot sweet tea, to improve this mess. I just wanted these two out, away, gone, with their platitudes and darting eyes. I wanted the doors shut, I wanted to sit and comfort my babies. To push all this horror far away. As far away as my dead husband now was.

So the three of us could start living again.

Chapter 2 (#u06447ffe-ad4a-5818-a102-24d9c520a040)

Now

Becca

PC Becca Holt turned to leave Louise Bridges’ house, whacking her hip painfully against the doorjamb. She still wasn’t used to the extra inches her stab vest put on her, together with all the paraphernalia of radios, cuffs, pocketbook … the list went on. Ironic, really, when you thought about the hours – who was she kidding, years – she’d put into dieting. In this little lot, you couldn’t see if she weighed eight stone or fifteen.

She remembered her mum’s face. Wanting to be proud of her daughter, longing to cheer her on after all that training. Then, seeing her in the full kit, she hadn’t been able to hide her disappointment, rushing forward to try and yank Becca’s stab vest down over her bust. But there was nothing even the most determined mother could do to make this rig look attractive. So much for all that stuff about uniforms being sexy. ‘Well, the hat’s nice, anyway, love,’ her mum had finally managed, turning from her with a sigh at the grandchildren she’d never have.

Becca felt it all the more sharply, ambling out of Louise Bridges’ place. There was something about the woman’s freshly ironed blonde hair, even the way she stood there, pushing the wooden spoon into the spaghetti Bolognese once she’d finally allowed them over the threshold, her work-out gear (athleisure, Becca sniffed) gliding over yards of leg. On Becca, those leggings would have been creased like an accordion, cratered like asphalt after snow. But Mrs Bridges’ thighs were as smooth as an airport runway, and as long. Cellulite? How very dare you.

All that shouldn’t matter. It was irrelevant, absolutely. And so was the fact that the house – what a house! – was like something you’d get in a sitcom about perfect family life. Though Becca had a suspicion that there weren’t many laughs around the place, even at the best of times.