The Second Wife Read online

  When she hears my footsteps she turns, her face pale and haunted, staring across the distance between us. She stubs out the cigarette on the railing and tosses it to the ground, folds her arms uncertainly in front of her as she watches me approach. Her eyes are wide and glistening, waiting for a signal. And as I cross the last few feet the coldness that has collected around my heart melts away as if it was never there and I’m trembling with love for her and I realize I need her support and her comfort, now more than ever before.

  She reads my face and throws her arms around me, hugging me tightly, and we stand like that for what seems like several minutes. The wind whips at her coat, sending it billowing out and enfolding us.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I can’t explain what it was like. The heat and the shock. I stayed in there as long as I could but I knew I had to get out or I was going to die. I knew it.’

  I nod, my face pressed into the soft sweep of hair at her collar. I think of what I asked in the ambulance, the empty circling of her hands. ‘I just don’t understand how this happened,’ I say. ‘I’m not angry, but if you know, you have to tell me. If you have any idea … If you might have left a candle burning, or a cigarette. Anything. It happens all the time.’ Dimly, I realize how ridiculous this sounds. Something like this happens once in a lifetime, or not at all.

  Natalie shakes her head vehemently, drawing back. ‘There was nothing,’ she tells me. Her voice is low and hoarse with the effort of sincerity. ‘It was just a normal evening,’ she says after a while. ‘I watched some television, read a book. I remember looking at the clock at about half eleven, and then I fell asleep on the sofa. I must have only been asleep for half an hour, maybe even less. I don’t know what woke me. But I realized straight away. I could hardly open my eyes. I’m not sure why … The smoke, or the heat, or something else.’ Still holding her, I feel a shudder pass abruptly and violently through the length of her body. ‘It was just a normal evening,’ she says again. ‘If there was anything to tell, I would tell you. You know that, don’t you?’ She is still trembling slightly, biting convulsively at her lower lip, her eyes liquid and shining.

  Slowly, I nod. I know she wouldn’t lie to me. ‘I shouldn’t have gone out,’ I say. The thought is a knife to the heart. ‘If I had been at home, this would never have happened.’ At midnight, I would probably have still been awake. I would have been there to see whatever had happened, to prevent it.

  Natalie shrugs, not understanding. ‘That’s crazy,’ she says softly.

  The wind is picking up, sending drifts of dried-out autumn leaves scuttling across the car park from where they have collected along the tree-lined road beyond. I turn around and see the lights from the hospital windows, rows of bright squares shining out from the shadows. Glancing at my watch, I move away from her.

  ‘We should go back,’ I say. ‘The doctor told me there’s someone who needs to speak to us.’ I am already walking back towards the flat grey building.

  The woman from the housing authority is in her fifties and comfortably plump, with greying hair escaping from an untidy bun and bitten fingernails. I try to keep my mind on the forms she is pushing in front of us, the relentless questions and explanations, but I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and the information is falling through me. I know I’ll remember very little of this tomorrow.

  ‘And just to confirm,’ she is saying, ‘it’s been the three of you in the property? The two of you and your daughter?’ Her eyes flick awkwardly from me to Natalie. We’ve only been married six months, and she hasn’t yet changed her name. Even in this day and age, it seems that’s enough to raise a question. It pisses me off that her conventional little assumption is correct.

  ‘My daughter,’ I say, ‘yes.’

  ‘Ah,’ the woman says, nodding furiously, clearly relieved to have understood. ‘And it’s a joint mortgage? Fifty fifty?’

  I launch into the details of the mortgage agreement, making an effort to be clear and concise despite my exhaustion. I know I’m on safe ground. Comprehensive house insurance was one of the first things we sorted out when we moved in together: battening down the hatches, protecting what we could. I even remember Natalie talking about what we were doing. You can’t prevent disaster, she had said, but you can make sure you’re ready. It has taken a while to prove her right, but here we are.

  ‘I’m sure I can source the paperwork,’ I finish. ‘If it’s been destroyed in the fire, then everything should be on record electronically. I’ll put you in touch with the insurers.’

  ‘Perfect,’ the woman says, scribbling in her notebook, then glancing up again. ‘But right now, the priority is to make sure you have somewhere to stay. Do you have any family or friends nearby who could accommodate you temporarily?’

  I look blankly at her. My family, such as they are, are hundreds of miles away in the wilds of Northumbria, and it has been years since our contact has extended past a dutifully scrawled Christmas card. Natalie’s are no better – her father long since dead, her mother estranged. The friends I have in this town live in cutely compact cottages, stuffed to the rafters with their possessions, or in chaotic flat-shares. ‘No,’ I say, a little curtly. It’s not pleasant to realize that you have no plan B.

  The woman just nods, as if this is expected. ‘In the short term, it seems best that we place you in a local hotel or bed and breakfast facility,’ she says. ‘We have links with several. I’ve already made some initial calls, so I can give you some options and if you have a preference we can arrange a transfer right away. Of course, it won’t be clear just yet how extensive the damage to your property is, and how long it will take to rebuild. It may be that we have to look for another option. But for now, does that sound good?’

  ‘Yes, that makes sense.’ I draw the papers she is pushing across the table towards me, run my eye quickly down the short list of local hotels and B&Bs. ‘Do you mind where we stay?’ I ask Natalie, but she shrugs and shakes her head. I try and visualize these places, but nothing comes to me. This town is full of tourist traps, and when you live here they’re like white noise. I pick a name at random: the Sea Breeze hotel. The street name sounds familiar; I don’t think it’s far from the hospital, and I want to stay as close to Jade as possible. ‘This one, if it’s feasible,’ I say to the woman.

  She nods again, the soft flesh of her chin wobbling earnestly. ‘That should be fine, Mr Carmichael,’ she says. ‘I’ll call them again now to confirm, and then I’ll book you a taxi. It’s a nice hotel. Very homely.’ As soon as she says it her lips press fractionally together; a tiny moment of self-chastisement, a mental reminder that our home cannot be so easily replaced.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I say.

  Less than an hour later dawn is breaking and we are in the back of a cab, riding along the deserted coastal road. I close my eyes against the crisp September sunlight striking through the glass. Rows of houses whip past in pastel streaks of colour, blurring into one.

  ‘Here you go,’ the cabbie sings out, swinging the car towards the kerb. I raise my head and stare out at the hotel. I’ve definitely seen it before. I remember noticing the collection of little shells and sea-polished pebbles lined up unevenly along the windowsill. It looks OK. Homely, as the woman said. Under normal circumstances, I might have said something scathing about its old-fashioned facade, maybe walked on to somewhere slicker and smarter. But it doesn’t seem to matter now.

  Climbing out of the taxi, I follow Natalie to the door and wait. It is only a few seconds before it swings open and a man is standing there. Around forty, with sandy hair falling to his collar and several days of stubble peppering his face, a sky-blue checked shirt and faded jeans.

  ‘I’ve been expecting you both. Come in,’ he is saying as he ushers us over the threshold. ‘God, what an ordeal. I can’t imagine what you’re going through.’

  Natalie murmurs something; without hearing, I nod. I don’t have much time for platitudes, but all the same it is somehow comforting to know
that what is happening to us is so easily categorized – a legitimate tragedy.

  The man is leading us upstairs, pushing open a bedroom door and waving an arm vaguely in its direction. ‘Lots free at the moment,’ he says. ‘End of season, you know. I thought this might do. Quiet, and you’ve got a good view of the sea if you want it. But let me know if anything isn’t right. Anything you want, I’ll try to get. Don’t stand on ceremony.’ He is seconds away, I think, from saying that we should make ourselves at home, and having to drag himself back from the social faux pas. I had never realized before how casual these mentions of home are, how much they pepper conversation.

  I step into the room. Faded yellow-painted walls, scuffed cream carpet underfoot. A little lamp in the shape of a seashell and a vase of flowers beside it, blue petals scattered on the bedside table like confetti. The air in this room is light and empty. For an instant it makes me dizzy, a strange mixture of sickness and relief.

  ‘I’ll let you settle in,’ the man says. ‘If you need anything, just ring down.’

  When he has gone I go into the bathroom and find Natalie leaning out of the open window and smoking another cigarette, her hands shaking in the morning breeze. She half twists round, holding out her free hand to encourage me to join her, but I shake my head.

  ‘I’m going to try and sleep for a short while,’ I say, ‘and then get back to the hospital.’

  ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I’m going to have a shower and then I’ll do the same.’ She stubs out the cigarette half smoked, brushes it aside. ‘I don’t want this.’ She stands up and moves towards me, sliding in underneath my arm and pressing her face briefly to my shoulder; a wordless little moment of comfort that touches my heart.

  While she showers I close the bedroom curtains, but the room is still light. Sitting down on the bed, I shrug my suit jacket off and turn out the pockets, laying them in neat little piles on the duvet. A wallet containing my credit cards and around seven pounds in change. My mobile. My pocket organizer and pencil, a packet of tissues, a small photo of Jade on the beach laughing and screwing her eyes up against the sun. A bunch of keys that I could throw into the sea now for all the good they are to me. For all I know, this is all I have left. My possessions, caught in the circle of my two hands. The thought is bleakly fascinating.

  I pile the items back into the pockets and lie down, placing my hands behind my head and closing my eyes. Despite the nervous energy pulsing through me, I feel myself falling almost at once, sucked down into a black hole of exhaustion, and I don’t try to stop it.

  When I open my eyes again and reach for my phone I see that it is past midday. I have slept for almost six hours. There is no fog of doubt or uncertainty. I know exactly where I am, exactly what has happened. A shutter has been pushed up over my eyelids in an instant, moving me out of the dark and back into this frightening clarity.

  ‘Shit,’ I say aloud. I jab at the phone, dialling the number of the hospital. I’ve been left no messages, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Hospitals are chaotic places, the left hand often not knowing what the right hand is doing. As I listen to the phone ring I’m thinking of Jade, alone in that unfamiliar place, with God knows what happening while I’m not there. How could I have slept for so long?

  Eventually I get through to a doctor in Intensive Care and without preamble he tells me that Jade is still unconscious and that there has been little discernible change, and that they will be happy to take me through the test results so far when I return at two. It’s a relief, of sorts.

  Visiting time isn’t far away, but the couple of hours I need to fill stretch ahead, flat and directionless. Next to me, Natalie lies with her eyes closed, an arm extended above her head. The curve of her left breast is exposed, the skin pale and clear. I remember the pulse of desire I felt last night on my way home, that urgent need to get to her. An echo of it is still there – dampened down, a sick parody of itself. I think about pushing the thin fabric of her vest top away and losing myself in her for a few minutes. But I’m already lost and there doesn’t seem much point.

  I ease myself out of bed and push open the little bedroom window, leaning out and looking across the seafront. The water is almost still, rippled faintly by gusts of wind. Seagulls are swooping on the horizon, rising and dipping as if pulled on invisible strings. A couple of tourists wander along the promenade, arms desultorily swinging. The woman is wearing a strappy red dress that reminds me of one of Natalie’s, and I wonder for a moment if I’ll ever see her in it again. Something in me recoils from the idea of us wearing the clothes we might retrieve from the house. I can imagine the smell of smoke clinging to the fabric, and it doesn’t feel like something that a quick wash would solve.

  I pull my shoes and jacket back on. Silently, I move away from Natalie and slip out of the room, filled with a new sense of purpose. I can go to the shops and buy some clothes for my family, enough to see us through for a short while until we know where we are. It seems like a pitifully small act, but God knows there isn’t much I can do for Jade or Natalie right now, and at least it’s something.

  I head inland up the Western Road towards the shopping centre, realizing that it’s the first time I’ve been there in well over a year. Natalie usually handles this kind of thing, and I soon remember why. It’s easy enough to pick out some basic things for myself – a few shirts, a pack of boxers, a couple of jumpers and pairs of trousers, a warmer jacket – but when it comes to my wife and daughter I find myself standing aimlessly in front of rails and rails of clothes, staring at them like a fool with absolutely no idea what I should be buying. Colours and patterns and fabrics and styles are all mixed up like a jumble sale and I can’t see the logic.

  I try and think about Jade, about what she wears when she isn’t at school. A little flashback: walking with her in town one day and her head turning to look at a girl’s flowing skirt, a covetous gleam in her eyes as she squeezed my arm. The skirt was bright blue, I think, and dotted with small sequins. Hey, Dad, that’s nice, isn’t it? You could get me one like that for my birthday. Or, you know, whenever. I remember us laughing, me exclaiming at the brazenness of the request. But that’s not the sort of thing you wear for an average day around the house, or that you’d take to a hospital. The longer I stand there, tinny music screeching from the speakers and the harsh lights flickering above my head, the more I start to panic. What kind of father am I, that I can’t even fucking remember what my daughter likes to wear?

  ‘Can I help you at all?’ a sales assistant pipes up. She doesn’t look much older than Jade herself, and for a moment I experience a sharp, irrational pang of jealousy that she’s here, bright-eyed and bouncy in her uniform, and my Jade is lying unconscious halfway across town.

  I dampen it down, forcing a smile. ‘I’m just looking for some basic stuff for my daughter,’ I say. ‘She’s fourteen, about a size ten I think. I’m at a bit of a loss.’

  The sales girl takes pity on me and before I know it I’m being whisked around the store, having various items showcased, and her confidence rubs off on me. I leave with a couple of bulging bags – mostly jeans and long-sleeved tops, with a few things for Natalie thrown in. I’m on safer ground with her, feel pretty sure about what she will like. I can’t help buzzing with pride as I glance down at the bags, walking swiftly back down towards the beach. I suppose the bar for achievement is set pretty damn low right now.

  I’ve still got an hour to kill and I decide to wander along the beach before going back to the hotel, breathe in the fresh air. There is little or no sand on this part of the coast and the soles of my shoes slip unsteadily between the stones, making my progress slow.

  I pass the small beachside stall that seems to stay open all year round. The owner, an elderly grey-haired man with a paunch and a red striped apron, stares out towards the sea with glazed eyes, shut off. I glance at the billowing bags of pink candyfloss, suspended from the roof of the stall and swaying in the breeze, and wonder if I should buy some. I’m l
ight-headed, and I know I should try and keep my strength up, but food feels strangely irrelevant. The man eyes me warily, cocking his head to one side, but I shake my own and wheel away, walking towards the sea. I wander along the beachfront, looking out on to the churning water. My mind is blank and for a few moments I just stand still, the wind blowing into my face and the waves rising and falling in relentless rhythm.

  A sly tremor of instinct passes over me, raising the hairs on my neck. It’s that strange, primal feeling when you know that someone’s eyes are on you, and when I turn round I’m unsurprised to see that I’m not alone. A man is standing motionless at the far end of the beach, the direction from which I have come. Sun streams across him, casting him into silhouette. I can’t see his face, but something in the set of his shoulders and the angle of his body tells me he’s watching me.

  I stare back, half raising my hand; whether in query or warning I’m not sure. He pauses, and then turns and walks slowly and deliberately away down the pier. He doesn’t look back. I walk up the beach on the diagonal, reaching the road by the traffic lights. But by the time I’m there, he’s long gone.

  As I head back to the hotel I tell myself that it’s no surprise if I’m paranoid. This is an abnormal situation, and it’s natural for my responses to be heightened. As if to make my point, when my phone starts to ring and vibrate, I almost jump out of my skin.

  I answer it quickly. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Carmichael? This is Doctor Rai.’

  ‘Yes?’ I glance at my watch, but it’s still only twenty past one. I spoke to the hospital less than an hour and a half ago. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Jade has regained consciousness,’ the doctor says, and with the words I let out a breath that I hadn’t even realized I was holding. ‘She is still very weak, of course, and we have numerous tests still to do. We’ll need to monitor her here for a few days at least. But it is very positive that she has come round relatively quickly.’