My Dead Husband, page 5
I was too good for the regular rules, for the law, for common decency.
Oh yes, I was the special young woman in the woods, the fairy-woman, skipping around with her magic voices and her unrealistic dreams and her supreme self-belief, and it was wrong, what I did, how it ended, where it led me. It was wrong.
It was wicked and evil and I wish I could take it back.
But sitting there in the woods with the voices of my friends around me, I felt strangely at peace. I felt – I dare say – more me than I’d ever felt before or I’ve felt since. How odd that I was able to block out the rest of it, tear whole pages from my mind, right until the very end.
Which makes me something of a monster considering what came after, who came after, and the pain I inflicted.
When I set out to write this journal, I promised myself I would be completely honest, and that’s a promise I intend to keep. But honesty comes in shades. I am going to be honest to my experience: to the order in which things happened to me, not the order in which they truly occurred. In the mind of the psychotic these are often very different things.
For the first time in my life, I am going to tell the truth about what happened between me and my daughter’s husband.
13
The next day at work, there were a couple more calls from the pervert saying disgusting things to me down the phone. He seemed to delight in calling me every name that could be hurled at a woman, getting cruder and meaner the more I maintained my professional façade. Georgia was on annual leave with her family, holidaying in Cornwall for a few days, so I didn’t have my best friend for backup.
‘Think you’re special because you’ve got a shit book coming out, do ya? Think anyone’s really gonna read that bollocks?’
I hung up after giving him ample warning, which was a requirement in this job. We didn’t have the right to satisfyingly slam the receiver down. All I could do was click end call with as much passion as I could muster.
I took my fifteen-minute break alone, sitting in the corner of the break room with my Kindle and a mug of much-needed coffee.
It was strange, perhaps, how easily I’d come to accept seeing Kayden in the glass. But my mind was strange, a landscape I never liked to delve too deeply into unless I was writing, and I wasn’t going to spend too long questioning my own sanity. I might not like the answer.
I looked up from my Kindle when Freddy swaggered in, moving with that casual confidence that infuriated me. He slinked over to the kettle, moving like a jungle cat or something, as though he had all the time in the world.
With his back to me, I was free to study the way his shirt pulled tautly from shoulder to shoulder, the way his muscles twitched at his smallest movements. He was waiting to explode into action any second, and my mind flooded with all the actions he might perform. I imagined him spinning on me with that annoying smirk, his eyes glimmering.
You want this, he growled in my mind, stop fighting it.
‘Getting a good look there?’ He spooned coffee into his mug. ‘I’m happy to pose if you’ve got anything special in mind.’
‘What?’ I stared at my Kindle. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
He turned to me, folding his arms. Why couldn’t he roll his sleeves down? I’d never been so fascinated by forearms before. ‘Come on, Ellie. I could feel you undressing me with your eyes. It’s all right. You don’t have to be ashamed.’
‘Do you always have to be such a prick?’
He chuckled, holding his hands up. ‘I’m the one who saved the damsel in distress yesterday. And what do I get for it, eh? Shouted at in front of the whole office. How’s that for grateful?’
My cheeks burned. I affected my best glaring don’t-give-a-fuck face. ‘I’m not a damsel. And I don’t need saving.’
He shrugged and returned to his coffee, making the process last far longer than he needed to. I couldn’t stop myself from studying him, the way the sunlight slanted through the window, resting on his face: the edge of his mouth, always twitched upward as if he knew the punchline to a joke I couldn’t guess at.
I thought he’d leave once he’d finally finished, but instead he swaggered over to me and dropped into the seat opposite. We exchanged a look – his smirk widened – and then he took a long, slow sip of his coffee, keeping his eyes on me the whole time.
It was so weird, I couldn’t help but laugh. He grinned and laid his mug down. ‘Mission accomplished.’
‘What, your mission was to stare at me like a freak?’
‘To make you laugh. And I succeeded.’
I rolled my eyes and tapped the Kindle’s screen, turning the page. ‘Good for you.’
‘What are you reading?’
I scoffed, hating the noise the moment I made it. I sounded pretentious. But it did seem an absurd question coming from him. ‘Why?’
‘Goddamn, Ellie. Why? It’s a simple question.’
‘I’m reading a book about how madwomen were treated in the Victorian era.’
‘Oh yeah? And how were they treated?’
‘Terribly.’
He nodded. ‘Makes sense.’
‘How does that make sense?’
His grin widened, wolfish. His musky cologne was far too strong, washing around me. ‘Those men had important stuff to do. The last thing they needed was a bunch of hysterical women running around ruining everything for them.’
‘You’re an asshole, Freddy. Has anybody ever told you that?’
‘Only about a hundred or so.’ He shrugged. I wished I could care as little as he did. ‘So, when are you going to let me take you for a drink?’
I laughed, hating the sound. It was the same way I’d laughed when Kayden had stared down at me that day on the beach, when he started his Nice Kayden routine, turning on the charm to crumble my defences. It was my flirty laugh. There was something here, something primal and urgent, and I was trying to fight it. But it was difficult.
‘I might be a tad old for you. But thanks for the offer.’
‘Come on, Ellie. I’m twenty-five. You’re thirty-three. How is that so bad?’
‘I guess you’ve been talking to Georgia.’
‘She said you were worried about the age gap and I had to subtly make you understand I didn’t give a damn. Here it is: my subtle hint. I don’t give a fucking fuck about our age gap, all right? You’re beautiful. You’re funny. You’re interesting. Let me take you for one drink, Ellie.’
I made a mental note to send Gee a vicious text and royally ruin her good mood in Cornwall. But I couldn’t deny the truth. His words were sending feelings flurrying around my body, waking up parts of me I’d promised to put to sleep after Kayden. The thing with Theo – waking up after a year with no idea where he was or what had happened – was bad enough. But Kayden had been worse.
I couldn’t risk myself with another man, not so soon.
‘One drink.’ He laid his elbows on the table, staring hard. ‘I’m not going to pounce on you. I’m not going to pressure you. It’s just… come on, you must know I like you. I haven’t exactly been subtle.’
I turned my gaze down, resenting the flush moving across my cheeks. ‘I guess you’re not very subtle in general, are you?’
‘Nope.’ He chuckled. ‘And I’m not ashamed to admit it. Life’s too short.’
‘Says the boy.’
‘The age thing again? Goddamn, if it makes you feel any better I’ll invent a time machine so we’re the same age.’
I giggled. I giggled. I had to stop. ‘And how would you go about doing that, hmm?’
‘For you I’d find a way.’
I mimed gagging. ‘Do those lines work on your other girlfriends?’
‘My other girlfriends?’
‘Girlfriends,’ I corrected. ‘Forget I said other.’
‘But, my sweet damsel, I don’t think I can. It seems to me you’re keener on this than you’re letting on.’
I groaned, but it wasn’t a leave-me-the-hell-alone noise. It was the groan of a woman who was interested, and I couldn’t stop myself from smiling at him.
It was one date: one drink. Surely I was allowed a little fun after all I’d been through. I wouldn’t let my guard drop. I’d die before I let another Kayden into my life.
‘I don’t understand why…’
‘Why what?’ He leaned closer, our hands almost touching on the table. His eyes pinned me in place. I loved the way he was looking at me, with total attention. ‘Why I’d want to take you out?’
I bit my lip. I nodded.
I wasn’t the most drop-dead gorgeous woman in the world. I wasn’t the smartest. I wasn’t the most successful. I was definitely not twenty-five years old anymore. I knew thoughts like these were cruel and counterproductive, but that didn’t mean they didn’t flurry around my mind, self-hating arrows flung here and there.
He reached across, our fingers brushing. I felt it then. Sparks. I felt the sparks. People talk about that all the time. But I truly felt it when his fingers moved over mine.
‘Because you’re you, Ellie.’
I snatched my hand away and forced a laugh, but it came out garbled and wrong-sounding. ‘Do you have any idea how cheesy you are?’
He sat back, his eyes more serious than usual, his smirk replaced by a soft frown. ‘I mean it. I’ve wanted to ask you out ever since I started. But believe it or not, you’re pretty intimidating.’
‘I struggle to believe you could be intimidated.’
‘Fair point. I am pretty badass.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘One drink. Don’t make me get on my knees and beg.’
I wondered what it would be like with his thick arms around me, or showing up at a party in a glittering dress with Freddy made more handsome in a suit. I imagined his lips on my neck, kissing down toward my collarbone, and a shiver moved through me.
‘One drink,’ I said. ‘And I mean one.’
‘Of course, Ells. I’ll respect your boundaries.’
‘Ells?’ I cocked my eyebrow at him. ‘That’s the first time you’ve called me that.’
He stared. Freddy was good at staring. ‘Are you complaining?’
I picked up my Kindle. ‘Please leave me alone so I can read in peace.’
‘Friday. I’ll leave my number on your desk. Text me yours and we’ll arrange it. And Ells… if you stand me up I will cry.’
‘Ha, ha, ha,’ I muttered as he left the office.
I waited until he was gone and set the Kindle down, grasping my hands together, trying to fight the budding excitement rising inside of me. But it was impossible.
I hadn’t been on a date since Kayden and I had separated. I hadn’t masturbated, worried if I allowed myself to indulge, Kayden would emerge cruelly into my fantasies. It was a sick thought. But he was the only man I’d been with in years, the only skin I’d felt, the only person whose body had fused with mine. It had been an ugly fusing, a caricature of affection, but it was still the only intimacy I’d felt in years.
I should’ve known better.
But the truth was I was looking forward to the date already, abandoning my book so I could think about what I was going to wear.
I promised myself: one drink. That was all.
I couldn’t let myself be duped by Freddy’s charm the same way I’d been snared by Kayden.
14
My life quietened down over the next few days. Except for the occasional perv caller at work, I was able to return to my regular routine of writing and getting ready for my book launch. I was beginning to feel excited as the big day got closer, the butterflies in my belly reminding me of how I’d felt leading up to my wedding.
But when Friday evening came, as I settled down at my window – forty-five minutes before my date with Freddy – I felt sick at the thought of how excited I’d been. I remembered how I’d let my mind flood with thoughts of mine and Kayden’s future, stupidly convinced he’d remain Prince Charming after he got the ring on my finger.
Freddy was charming, the same way Kayden had been, and for the millionth time that week I promised myself I would take things slow with him.
I looked over the sea at the setting sun, taking a deep breath and letting the glittering view calm my nerves.
After a sip of wine – there was no way I could face my first date in years stone-cold sober – I took out my phone and went to Goodreads.
My publisher had given out advance copies to dozens of readers, meaning they got to read the book early in exchange for an honest review. I knew many of these reviewers through Facebook, and some of them had already reached out privately to tell me they’d enjoyed it.
I almost spat wine when I saw the rating.
Two stars.
Two fucking stars.
There were more reviews on there than I’d expected: almost a hundred. It didn’t make any sense. We hadn’t given out that many copies.
I scrolled to the bottom of the page and scanned them, my belly cramping. There were seven reviews from names I recognised, five five-stars and two four-stars, but the rest were from people I’d never heard of, who couldn’t possibly have read my book.
This is the worst book I’ve ever had the misfortune of reading. I can’t believe the author thinks this is acceptable.
If I could give this zero stars I would.
Immature writing, pathetic plotting, poor editing.
Drivel, complete and utter drivel.
I hope this author never gets the chance to release another book.
Hahahahaha, is this some sort of joke? This book is terrible.
I dropped my phone on the table, the sound seeming far louder than it had any right to be.
I stood and paced, wringing my hands together, knowing this was a dangerous sign. As a woman who’d lived on the edge of madness her whole life – with a missing year and schizophrenia waiting to burst into my personality – I’d learned the warning signs of mania.
Pacing was one. Squeezing my hands together so hard they hurt was another.
Was Paisley behind this? Somebody had clearly arranged to have my book review-bombed, which meant people who’d never read it were giving it one-star ratings. It had happened to a few authors who’d been in scandals, but I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t made a fool of myself publicly.
I could imagine Paisley rubbing her nicotine-stained hands together as she read these. I could imagine Paisley and Kayden sharing a bottle of wine as they read them out loud to each other, laughing in that strange way they had, that too-close way.
They’d always had a bizarre relationship. One Christmas, Paisley had kissed her son on the cheek when he’d brought in the Yorkshire puddings, but the kiss had lingered far too long, and then afterward she’d licked her lips and given me this skin-crawling look, as if to say, He was mine first, bitch. He’ll always be mine.
After Kayden’s father died of cancer – a similarity we’d bonded over before he’d revealed his true self – it was like she’d transferred her affections to her son. It was sick, but Kayden had always assured me I’d imagined that look.
That was Kayden: gaslighter extraordinaire.
The thought struck again. Kayden had faked his death. Kayden was toying with me.
But it didn’t make any sense.
Kayden had stayed in Scotland for a year, leaving me alone, never showing his face. And he wouldn’t need to fake his own death to do any of this: to hire people to yell at me down the phone, homeless people to accost me in public, reviewers to pillory me.
I forcibly stopped my pacing, cautioning myself to slow my thoughts down.
Perhaps Paisley was behind this as revenge for her son’s death. She’d said Kayden had mentioned me in his suicide note. That would make some sort of sense, I supposed, even if it was psychotic reasoning. But if Kayden was alive, I couldn’t imagine him playing it this subtle.
I thought of the glass: of his face in the glass.
‘I’m not like Mum,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not fucking mad.’
I picked up my phone, meaning to call my publisher, but I couldn’t resist another look at the reviews. It was foolish and I knew it, but I read them all, every scathing one.
I’ve read more sophisticated prose in a children’s book.
This wannabe Fitzgerald isn’t fooling anyone.
Terrible from start to finish. There isn’t a single redeeming quality.
I swiped off the page, not daring to look on Amazon.
My mind filled with violent vivid vignettes: stabbing Paisley in her neck, turn her folds of flesh into crimson tatters; kick and punch and hurt something, anything until I didn’t have to think about those reviews anymore.
The other stuff – the creepy callers and the homeless guy – I could put that down to my very minor celebrity around Weston since my book had been announced.
But this was a targeted attack.
I navigated to Blakelyn Younger’s name on my phone. She was the head of my publishing house. One of the benefits of being with a smaller publisher was I had her phone number. She was an approachable person, but even so I felt guilty for ringing on a Friday night.
But the ever-reliable Blakelyn picked up.
‘Ellie?’ There was murmuring in the background. A cork popped and somebody clapped. ‘Hello? Can you hear me?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry to ring so late.’
‘No worries. What’s up?’
‘Have you seen my Goodreads page?’
There was a pause as she walked outside, a door opening and closing, causing the background noise to become more distant. ‘No. I don’t tend to. We have so many authors. Why, is something wrong?’
