Her Best Friend's Husband, page 23
‘Dad accepted a job with a company which did building work for the security forces. It was better pay which came with a price. A target on his back. One day, he was waiting with two other workmen for the minibus to collect them to take them to their next job. He nipped into the newsagents for a sneaky packet of cigarettes. As he paid for them at the till, he heard gunfire.’ She was upset now, eyes glistening with tears. ‘He hid in the shop until the shooting stopped, then went outside. His two workmates were dead on the footpath. If he hadn’t gone into the shop for the cigarettes, he would have been shot as well.’
She looked defeated at the memory, and I recognised her pain as raw as if it had been yesterday, not decades ago.
‘He couldn’t forgive himself. He felt he was a coward. Survivor’s guilt, they call it now. It plagued him, the image of those men lying there. Him hiding in the shop. He came to believe it would have been better if he’d run out and been shot too. He lived, when so many others didn’t. What did he have to complain about? Soon the only respite he got from his nightmares was drinking to forget. He would come home; I would fight with him and he’d lash out. Over and over until he drank himself into oblivion one last time.’
My insides wrenched at the tale. I never knew any of this because I had never asked. Selfishly, I had no interest in why a man would become a pale shadow of himself. Of the trauma he had witnessed and lived through. Of a guilt so great he could see no other way out.
‘I loved him so much, Clare, and we had been so happy until then. One sunny June day changed everything, and he withdrew to a place I couldn’t reach. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t. Nothing could. The booze took the edge off it for him.’
Stiffly she got up and went over to the wooden display cabinet, overcrowded with her ornaments, and opened the middle drawer. Stooping down, she reached in and brought out an old-fashioned photo album in purple, green and brown. A throwback to the seventies. She placed it gently on my knee with the simple instruction to open it.
Nervous for some unknown reason, I did and on the first page was a wedding photo of a young couple running through a shower of confetti. Their grins were wide and they held hands firmly. My parents. How in love they looked. Without speaking, I turned the pages, photo after photo of them together, happiness personified. Then one after the other with first one little girl, then a second. Both with the striking green eyes like their father. My father. In every photo we were smiling; on the beach, in a swimming pool with armbands on, gathering bluebells in a wood. I remembered none of it. I had erased the good memories and retained only the bad.
At the back I found a dry, ancient newspaper article dated June 19th 1985:
WORKMEN GUNNED DOWN ON THE STREET
I skim-read the article with mounting horror. Read the vivid account of the day which had changed my father’s life, our lives, forever. His name was barely mentioned at the end, a minor footnote in history.
A third workman was inside the shop at the time and it saved his life.
‘Why did you never tell me this before now?’ I wiped the tears away, reluctant to set the photo album down.
‘It was so long ago. I tried to protect you from it, you were only children. Maybe you would have understood him better if I had told you.’ A beat, as if to say it was unimportant now. ‘You do what you think is right at the time. Hindsight is a wonderful thing.’
How true that was.
The door to the sitting room opened and Phil stuck his head around it. Immediately he took in the scene, tear-stained faces and the photo album.
‘I wondered if you wanted another cup of coffee?’ he asked gently.
I shook my head, as did Mum.
‘I’ve told Clare about Martin. It was time.’ She looked fondly at my stepfather. He stepped into the room, went over to Mum and placed his large hand on her small shoulder.
‘Are you okay?’ His words were for her.
She reached up for his hand, then said, ‘Phil worked with your dad. He was the foreman in the company. If you have any more questions, he’ll try and answer them. Won’t you?’
Phil nodded, his face a mass of worry lines and concern.
I finished my coffee and hugged them both before leaving. While I had no questions for now, they would certainly come over time.
What do you do when your entire history hasn’t been what you supposed it was? When you knew a fraction of the story, but not all of it?
Without giving it any consideration, I drove to the cemetery my dad had been buried in. I’d never visited his grave, not even once since he died so many years ago. When I reached the car park, I parked and sat lost in my thoughts for a time. I had no idea where his plot was, and shame weighed me down.
Luckily there was a groundsman tidying up, and I asked if he knew where my father’s grave might be. He pointed to the end of a row and I walked along the ancient path, reading the headstones until I found his.
A simple headstone marked the plot, which was spotless and well-tended. A fresh winter wreath lay on the green stone chips; red berries, holly and ivy. Someone had placed it there recently. It was under a wide old tree, beside a wall and the serenity of the churchyard calmed me. I read the headstone, the words blurring.
* * *
MARTIN HEFTON
Beloved son, husband, father
1st January 1950 – 29th April 1998
He had been forty-eight when he died. What a waste. What a tragedy.
Great sobs built up in me as I remembered his smile, the sound of our laughter as he had given us piggybacks in the garden, chased us into the waves on Portrush strand. Memories I had refused to recall, that I had rigorously and thoughtlessly repressed. I wept for the lost years and the great misfortune of this small country, where it seemed nearly every family had been touched by the violence of the past.
And I wept for the hideous disaster I had made of my once gilded life. When I had allowed my obsession to consume me and destroy not only my marriage, but also another marriage and our friendships.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
The following day I had the harrowing experience of telling my daughters Will had left me because I was having an affair with his friend. The ferocity of their outrage had stunned me. When I had tried to defend my illogical reasoning, they had yelled their disgust and mortification in my face. Cruel and hurtful words which stabbed the core of me.
They were shrill, whirling banshees, but I deserved it. A deadly silence had descended as they packed more of their belongings into bags and instructed me not to contact them. I pleaded and begged for forgiveness, as they threw their belongings into the boot of the car and drove off, faces tear-stained and haggard with emotion. I wailed on the doorstep like someone demented, oblivious to the cutting wind and hailstones like pellets. The pain in my heart was crushing.
Completely spent, I’d staggered inside, locked the doors, pulled all the blinds and drunk myself into a stupor. The hangover had lasted two full days and into the mix came a raging Kate and a furious Annie. I’d consumed at least another bottle and a half of wine before they arrived, and was living on bags of crisps and microwave meals. My brain was befuddled and sleep deprived, and I’d taken to listening to sad songs on repeat, wallowing in the past and the abject bleakness of my future. There seemed to be no light at the end of this vast, gloomy tunnel.
Unwilling to answer the door, I had crouched out of sight in the conservatory. They rang the doorbell insistently, while Kate screeched through the letter box that they knew I was inside and wouldn’t leave until I opened the door. I’d not showered since the hotel and was wearing the same clothes I’d been in for days, when I flung the door wide open.
It was plain they were shocked by my appearance as Kate’s mouth formed a round O and Annie stammered they wanted to hear my side of the story. Abruptly I stepped aside and waved them indoors. No point in freezing to death on the doorstep for what I assumed would be a fleeting visit. Before I shut the door, I was amazed to see the weather had changed, and a thick layer of frost coated the world. One of Will’s reindeer had fallen over and the Christmas trees he’d lovingly decorated for my homecoming now had sparkling tips. The fields in the valley below were dusted with white and the clear blue sky taunted me. The air was crisp and cool and I sucked it eagerly into my lungs, easing the tension. In times gone by, I would have adored this winter wonderland. Now it swamped me with jagged loss.
I slammed the front door with a bang, and turned to find them speaking animatedly together in the hallway. I had no intention of offering them a coffee or a seat, so crossed my arms and leaned as casually as possible against the door.
‘Well, what do you want to know?’ I asked defiantly.
Annie’s glare was calm and direct, while Kate’s intense desire to unravel the whole despicable tale spilled over. She was practically bouncing up and down in her trainers, eyes alert with barely restrained hunger for every scandalous detail. ‘Why did you do it?’ she asked tremulously. Honest to goodness, if she cried I’d push her out of the door and down the steps.
‘What have you heard?’ I replied, interested to find out exactly how one sided Vicky’s story had been. I stared at them both, these friends of mine who thought they had known my every secret, had shared every feeling. How wrong they had been.
‘You and Tom have been having an affair and you’ve broken Vicky’s heart!’ Kate exclaimed, chin jutting aggressively.
Not even trying to stop from rolling my eyes, I looked at Annie and raised my eyebrows.
‘We’re here so you can tell us your side of the story, Claire. I don’t believe for one minute you’ve done this for no reason.’ At least Annie was showing a modicum of wit.
‘And if I tell you my side, what then?’ I said tiredly. ‘You only know a small bit of it. Did Vicky tell you we knew each other from school?’
Obviously confused, they shook their heads. So I gave them the potted version of how our lives had been in the good old days. How Tori/Vicky hadn’t recognised Hefty Lump and somehow the bully and the victim had become friends. Years later, I had sought my revenge. My words were empty, my justifications clumsy, and I stumbled over them.
And ultimately I could tell they didn’t fully believe me. They supposed I was embellishing, that it was unthinkable Vicky could have been a bully. For they were acquainted with only one side of the caring, altruistic doctor, having never witnessed or been on the receiving end of the arrogant, malicious teenager. Abruptly I stopped, and waited for the inevitable outcry.
‘What a debacle, Claire! I’m sorry, I can’t believe it,’ said Annie at last, sadly shaking her head. ‘Even if what you say is true, you’ve still been having an affair with Tom. With our friend’s husband. It seems like you’ve used all of us, lied to us for a long time.’ Her disappointment was evident. ‘What about Will and the girls? Did you think of them at all? I don’t understand you or why you would do it.’
Kate nodded vigorously. ‘I don’t either. No matter what you say, you’ve broken the girl code.’
I snorted at the incongruous image of a middle-aged woman preaching about girl code. They looked at me like I’d lost my mind, so I opened the door and told them to get lost. Or words to that effect. I was too weary to describe the exact events which had defined my school life, and the legacy of trauma they had wrought.
Annie came to a halt beside me and said in a very serious and ever so sombre tone, ‘Go and sober up, Claire. Accept you’ve done something terrible and ruined our friendship.’
Before I could stop myself, I sneered, ‘It takes two to tango, Annie. Tom cheated on Vicky. Have you lectured him yet on his lack of morals?’
I knew by the stiffening of her shoulders she hadn’t. Nor could she answer me. So I slammed the door with such force I thought it might split down the middle. Then I roared with incompetent rage at the injustice of it all. They didn’t believe me. No one believed me. And they all blamed me, irrespective of Tom’s role. Hurt and despair struck me, like a physical blow. I told myself it was no less than I had expected. I had known they would choose Vicky, like all those years ago, when the school had taken the side of her and her friends.
I returned to the conservatory, flicked on Netflix and poured another glass of wine.
The days merged into one, as each grey morning crawled into the black of night. I rarely opened the curtains, living on alcohol and food from the freezer, languishing with regret. My house became my refuge, my mind numb, my heavy limbs lethargic.
It was almost Christmas and apart from my mum and most surprisingly Liz, I’d had no contact from anyone. Mum rang me daily and encouraged me to stay with her and Phil for a time, worried I might do something stupid. I mollified her with reassurances I was coping, and confirmed I’d spend Christmas Day with them. Liz messaged me regularly, asking if I wanted her to visit, offering company. Her kindness was unexpected and meant all the more after our precarious history. Their unwavering support stopped me from sinking into a deep depression in those early days.
Apart from them, my phone was stubbornly mute. There was nothing from Will, my daughters or the Book Club. I’d been removed from the WhatsApp group. There had been radio silence from Tom and Vicky as well. No doubt they were whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, or perhaps renewing their wedding vows. I’d never taken Vicky for a fool, but if she stayed with him after this, that’s exactly what she was.
I messaged Will and the girls daily, begging their forgiveness. They never responded. I wished they would miraculously reappear on the doorstep and we could rebuild our lives. Helpless, hopeless wishing which tormented me. I suspected Will had moved in with his parents. Sadly I lacked the courage to go and find out. The thought of seeing the animosity and revulsion in their eyes stopped me. I could have driven to the girls’ digs, but again my nerve failed me, terrified they would refuse to answer the door.
Surely they would come home for Christmas, for it seemed impossible they wouldn’t. After a few days, I had to face the unpalatable fact they were not going to simply reappear and resume our lives as though nothing had happened.
At some point I ran out of alcohol and basics, so risked driving into the neighbouring town to buy more. I avoided the village, scared I would see Vicky or Tom, reeling at the prospect. I showered quickly and changed my clothes for the first time in days. As I pushed the trolley around the supermarket, hair still wet, my nerve endings jangled as tinny Christmas music played deafeningly throughout the shop, and over-excited children ran like headless chickens up and down the aisles. I detested Christmas now and sobbed in the sweet aisle as I remembered I hadn’t bought Eva and Poppy any treats for their stockings. The sinking realisation, even if I had, they wouldn’t be opening them beside the tree and they’d be somewhere else with someone else and I’d be alone.
I’d wiped my streaming eyes and wheeled the trolley to the self-service till, which refused to serve me until some young girl with long talons and a puckered mouth confirmed I was over twenty-five. Her contemptuous look at the three bottles of gin and six bottles of wine made my cheeks hot with indignation and shame.
‘I’m having a Christmas party,’ I lied, and her sniff of disdain was audible.
My shoulders slumped with embarrassment as I scurried out of the shop, head down, hoping not to bump into anyone I recognised. Relief swept through me when I reached the solitude of the car and I hastily unloaded the bags into the boot. I’d have to shop elsewhere for a while, fearful of the shop assistant and her withering gaze.
Spontaneously I drove the long route home, into the hills and along the coast road. When I reached a curve in the road, I slowed down, searching for a white car parked in front of my in-law’s house. As anticipated, Will’s car was out in front, though there was no sign of life. I sped up, tears blinding me, having confirmed where he was, glad he was with people who loved him. I had to suppress the urge to swing around, and drive up and down outside until he burst from the house and I caught a glimpse of him.
When I arrived home, I heated the tasteless chicken curry I had bought and washed it down with wine.
I was surviving, but only just.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
A day or two later, I lolled dejectedly on the conservatory sofa when the doorbell rang. The last thing I wanted was to speak to anyone or get another lecture on my loose morals. I wanted to flounder alone in my misery. So I let it ring, and swallowed another huge gulp of my gin. They were persistent, and it rang again and again, until I had to answer it.
Laura stood there, wearing an uncertain smile and holding a bottle of Pinot in front of her.
‘I thought you could do with a friend,’ she commented, pushing past me and heading straight for the kitchen.
‘Do you really want to be friends with an adulterer? What will all your nice friends think?’ I asked bitterly. Misery does not love company.
‘Oh, boohoo, Claire. Toughen up and quit whingeing.’
She surprised me, this straight-talking Laura. What happened to the mealy-mouthed, downtrodden widow I knew so well?
‘Find me a wine glass and pour me a big one please.’ She plonked the bottle down on the granite worktop with a clunk, deposited her coat on a nearby chair and raised her eyebrows at me.
Mulishly I did as I was told and also topped up my gin while I was at it. Wordlessly, she followed me into the conservatory, though the light was dimming and the shadows stretching outside. I should have switched on a lamp, but preferred the dark these days. Mysteriously my fear of the dark had vanished along with my family.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked, taking a mouthful of her wine, looking at me over the rim of her glass.
‘Great thanks. My kids hate me, my husband’s left me and I’ve lost all my friends. Oh, and I’m also at risk of losing my job. So life couldn’t be better.’
