The English Wife. Doreen Roberts
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