The Second Wife Page 5

  I move on, reaching the staircase and making my ascent. It’s our bedroom that I really want to look around, but as I step on to the landing my eye is caught by Jade’s room first. The carpet is stained and there’s a jagged hole burned into the far wall, but as I scan the room I note with relief that a lot can be saved. The little collection of swimming trophies she keeps on the windowsill is almost clean, and so are the bundles of jewellery and make-up on her dressing table. Gingerly, I ease open a drawer and find a sheaf of papers, and the sight of them pristine and untouched is enough to bring senseless tears to my eyes. I’ll come back here tomorrow with a couple of cases, I decide, collect together more of her possessions and take them to the hospital.

  Swinging round again, I notice her mobile, poking out from beneath her pillow – I have no idea if it will be working, but I slip it into my pocket anyway along with the charger that is plugged in at the wall. After a moment’s hesitation, I also take Sidney, the soft toy rabbit that Heather bought for her when she was only a few months old, and which still nestles at the end of her bed, covered with a fine layer of dust but still salvageable.

  Carrying Jade’s things, I turn and go to my own bedroom, and I wince. It looks more brutal in here – the wallpaper ripped away in streaks, the floorboards charred and jagged, every surface stained with soot that feels smooth and oily against my skin when I touch it. I almost walk straight out again, but my eye is caught by the wardrobe – the door swinging open, and a collection of Natalie’s scarves and bags bundled at the back, looking at first sight to be undamaged.

  I hesitate, and then I pick my way towards it, walking softly and slowly as if the room is a coiled snake that could unfurl and strike. Crouching down, I pull some of the handbags from the wardrobe, then retreat to the landing, emptying them into my lap as I sit down on the floor. I sift through the contents: a couple of compact mirrors, an almost used-up lipstick, a spiral-bound notebook full of shopping lists and half-written reminders, a load of train tickets and supermarket receipts. And then I find something else.

  The photo is faded, a thick white line across the centre as if it’s been folded hard in two, then smoothed out. It looks to have been taken inside some kind of bar or nightclub: slick metallic surfaces, spotlights picking out the rows of glinting bottles. I don’t recognize the place, and I don’t recognize the exotic-looking man lounging on the stool with his elbows resting idly on the bar. He’s young – in his late twenties, perhaps. His arms are bare and muscular, the skin taut and olive-coloured. He’s sitting next to a woman, and for one stupid moment I’m not sure whether or not this woman is my wife. She looks similar, at a glance, although younger. But when I look more closely I see that she’s someone I don’t know. The curve of her mouth, the colour of her eyes, the height of her cheekbones – they’re all slightly different. She’s looking straight at the camera but her expression is flat, as if she doesn’t want the photo taken.

  I look back at the man beside her. By contrast, he’s barely looking at the camera, but there’s a kind of contemptuous curve to his mouth, a sly knowledge in his slanting, challenging gaze, that shows he’s aware he’s being watched, and that he expects it. The muscles of his arms are tautly defined. I can imagine those arms lifting weights in the gym; can imagine them swinging a punch that finds its mark. I can imagine them pinning down my wife. Even in print, there’s an indefinable energy that radiates off him. I don’t know who this man is, but I don’t trust him. And I don’t want his picture in my wife’s handbag.

  I fold the photo back along the crease and press it down hard, then shove it into the pocket of my coat. My heart is beating fast and unevenly, and I realize that the palms of my hands are wet. Of course, this proves nothing. It’s just a photo of a man and a woman, probably from years ago. And yet it’s unnerving, this glimpse into something of which I knew nothing. I go back into the bedroom. This time I excavate further, pushing the tangle of bags and scarves in the wardrobe aside and reaching a small pile of folders. Most of them are labelled: Finances, Household, Birthday Cards.

  I flick through them briefly but their contents are just as mundane as the labels suggest. All except for one, and even that is nothing exceptional at first sight. Just a few old documents: a certificate from a music exam, a couple of schoolbooks, a torn-out article from a newspaper. The only unusual thing is that they relate to someone I don’t know. The name that pops out at me from all the papers is Rachel Castelle. Rachel Castelle has passed her Grade 4 piano with merit. Rachel Castelle has been feted in the paper for winning a local tennis tournament. Rachel Castelle has meticulously cut and stuck and annotated and put together a school project about Tudor history. There’s no reason for me to be worried by these things – they certainly aren’t the sordid evidence of infidelity that I feared I might find – but somehow they add to the strangeness. A childhood friend, perhaps, or a relative. Perhaps even someone who’s died.

  The thought makes me replace the papers, feeling a little ashamed. Taking the photograph is one thing, but it feels wrong to be rifling through Natalie’s things like this – and besides, I don’t think there are any more answers to be gained here, not yet.

  Slowly, I pick my way back downstairs and go out on to the street, blinking in the sudden harsh daylight. As I shield my eyes against it, I notice that the workmen have been joined by a lean man in his thirties with a shaved head and wearing police uniform, who eyes me a little suspiciously as I emerge.

  I stride up to him and offer him my hand. ‘Alex Carmichael,’ I say. ‘This is my house.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ The policeman shakes my hand and mutters a few perfunctory words of condolence. ‘I was going to contact you in any case, now that the initial investigation into the damage is concluded. You’ve probably seen already that the house seems to be salvageable. If you want to rebuild and renovate then it should be doable. Are you sorted with insurance?’

  I nod, mentally adding the need to contact the insurance company to my list. But we entered into a watertight plan when we bought the place, and it’s the least of my worries. ‘That’s all fine.’

  He nods. ‘The other major point of the investigation is locating the cause of the fire, of course,’ he continues. ‘We’ve discounted all the usual suspects – dodgy wiring and electrics, that kind of thing. But we’ve turned up something else which is more unusual.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ I ask abruptly.

  His narrow eyes flicker in my direction. ‘The burn pattern isn’t typical.’

  I must look blank, because he turns and gestures up at the house, his hand tracing an invisible line down its centre. ‘Normally, you’d see what looks like a V shape. It basically indicates the fire spreading out from a central point, almost like an arrow pointing to the source. As you can see, there’s nothing like that here.’ I follow his gaze and see that it’s true; the external walls are darkly pockmarked with burns, like paint splashed randomly on to a canvas. I stare at them as if I’m trying to make sense of an optical illusion, expecting to see some order rising from the chaos.

  ‘The reason for that is clear when you look a bit deeper,’ the policeman says. ‘What we’ve established is that this fire had multiple points of origin. It wasn’t caused by a freak localized explosion or anything of that sort.’

  Multiple points of origin. I turn the phrase over in my head. ‘And that indicates what exactly?’ I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know.

  ‘It’s usually a good indicator that we’re dealing with a case of arson. Not a certainty. Not at this stage. But enough to kick-start a deeper investigation. It’s best for you to be aware.’

  ‘Right,’ I say again. ‘But you’re not suggesting – I mean, obviously you’re not suggesting that we set fire to our own home, are you.’ I deliberately don’t make it sound like a question.

  The policeman twists his mouth briefly in a smile, straightening up and moving a little away from me, signalling his detachment. ‘You’d be surprised what some people do,’ he sa
ys. ‘Mostly to cash in on the insurance, you know. Get a nice new revamp on their property.’ His tone is casual, but there’s an inference I don’t like.

  I smile back tightly. ‘That is surprising, yes.’

  ‘Well,’ he says as he begins to stroll up towards the workmen, ‘we’ll be in touch.’

  My head is whirling as I walk back up the hill, trying to take in the implications of what he’s said. If someone did set fire to the house deliberately, then surely it’s a sign that the man Jade saw was an intruder, and that he’s the one responsible. When I think of my family under threat in this way, my suspicions of Natalie seem reprehensible, and irrelevant. But then I think of the man in the photograph, my sense that there are things about my wife of which I know nothing – and I’m unsure again, my thoughts spinning off wildly, taking me down paths I don’t want to follow.

  When I get back to the hotel dusk is falling and our room is empty. I go over to the minibar and take out a miniature of gin and a bottle of tonic, pour myself a glass and swig it down in three gulps. For a few seconds there’s a buzz, but it soon fizzes into nothing. I could drink my way through the entire minibar and it wouldn’t solve this. I need to find Natalie and talk to her.

  I already know where she’ll be; when we’ve argued in the past, she’s always told me afterwards that she went down to the seafront to be alone with her thoughts. There’s something calming for her in facing the water and forgetting that anyone else exists. I walk fast down the esplanade. The sun is sinking on the horizon, a blaze of virulent pink and gold splashed against the darkening sky, and I can barely make out the coastline beyond the rocky beach. I strike out across it all the same and make for the water’s edge, sea-slicked pebbles crunching against my boots, my breath blowing out ahead of me in fine clouds.

  It’s only a few minutes before I see her, sitting huddled on the rocks with her knees drawn up. Her dark hair is blowing behind her and as I get closer I can see her profile as she looks out to sea. She looks shut off, absorbed in her thoughts.

  ‘Natalie,’ I say, but she’s already turning her head and I know she’s seen me. More than that, she’s expecting me.

  Natalie

  September 2017

  I SEE HIM from a way off, but I pretend I haven’t. It’s ridiculous, because I’ve been waiting for him for hours, but all of a sudden I feel like I need more time. I’ve been so lost in thoughts of the past that returning to the present, with all its sudden complications, is a wrench.

  ‘Hi,’ he says quietly, perching awkwardly on the outcrop of rock. He reaches out his hand to where mine is resting, but in the same moment I’ve brought my own hand up to push my hair away from my face, and he’s left grasping at nothing. It’s just a silly little hiccup of misalignment but his expression flickers with hurt and he curls his fingers swiftly back into his palm.

  ‘Look,’ he says after a moment. ‘I’m not stupid, Natalie. I know how traumatic the fire must have been, but it seems like there’s something else going on here. And I have to say, when I think about it, it isn’t even just since the fire. You haven’t seemed yourself for … for a while now.’

  His gaze is serious and intense; he’s not playing around. And for an instant it’s as if I’ve spiralled out of my own body and am coolly looking down at myself, my own voice clear and present in my head: This guy loves you, but he doesn’t know who the hell you are. He doesn’t know you at all. And yet he’s not stupid. He senses something.

  I must take longer than I think to formulate an answer, because Alex shrugs impatiently, and then, as if he’s made a snap decision, he rummages in his coat pocket and pulls something out. ‘I found this in the house earlier.’

  I peer forward in the semi-dark and when I see what it is my heart stops. It’s strange, because of course I’ve looked at this photo hundreds of times. I probably only looked at it last week. But this time I wasn’t expecting it, and it’s bizarrely and painfully out of context – here on the rocks in the cold with my husband, whose hand is trembling ever so slightly as he holds it out to me.

  ‘Are you having an affair with him?’ he asks bluntly. His tone is a challenge but the look in his eyes tells a different story. He’s terrified I’m going to say yes.

  Something washes through me: a kind of darkly amused horror. He doesn’t know just how improbable – impossible – this would be. I can’t help giving a brief, humourless snort of laughter. ‘God, no.’

  ‘Then why do you have this picture?’ he asks. ‘And who’s the woman? You’ve never mentioned either of these people to me, have you?’

  Slowly, I shake my head. ‘No, I haven’t.’ My mind is whirring and I realize I’ve thought about this moment several times, or variations of it, and yet I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to say. When you’ve kept so many secrets from someone for so long, it changes the shape of your life. I can’t imagine how it might shift again if I let them out, and I’m not sure – not at all sure – if I want to, or if I even can.

  ‘And that’s not all,’ Alex says. He doesn’t sound angry, exactly. More frightened, behind that prickly, defensive edge. ‘I found some other stuff. A load of papers about someone called Rachel. You’ve never mentioned her to me either. It feels like there’s all this …’ He raises his hands helplessly into the air, encircling us for a moment. ‘All this stuff coming out of the woodwork, and I don’t know what any of it means, or even if it means anything at all, I don’t …’

  He carries on talking but I’m not truly listening. My mind has snagged on the sound of the name in his mouth. Rachel. I never thought anyone would look me in the eye and say that name ever again. It’s shocking. Exciting, almost. I can’t just pretend this isn’t happening, or try and fob him off. And all of a sudden my head clears and I know what I have to do.

  ‘I’m going to tell you something,’ I say abruptly. ‘Something that I didn’t intend to tell you now, or at all.’

  Alex is motionless and watchful. ‘What? Whatever it is, Natalie, you can tell me. It won’t change how I feel about you. I love you – I know you.’ Our faces are close together and his lips are inches away from mine, his breath sweet and cool on my face.

  ‘You don’t know me as well as you think you do,’ I say at last.

  He waits a little, then frowns. ‘What do you mean?’ he says slowly.

  I draw in a breath and the night air rushes into my lungs. My head spins lightly. Am I really going to do this? ‘When I was younger,’ I say, ‘I was someone else.’

  ‘Well,’ he says automatically, configuring this into something he can understand, ‘we all change. We all do things that—’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I don’t just mean that I behaved differently, or that I did things I wouldn’t do now. I mean I was someone else entirely. I had a different life, a different name. All the things I’ve told you about my past, my childhood – they weren’t real.’

  I’ve been speaking with clinical precision, because it seems the easiest way to get through this. The only way. But now I cut myself off and I’m staring at him, waiting for his reaction.

  He frowns again, looking puzzled and lost. I can tell he hasn’t fully taken it in.

  ‘Those papers you found,’ I say. ‘They’re mine. I mean, they’re me. About me. Rachel …’ I shake my head, aware I’m not really making sense. ‘She’s me,’ I say. ‘I’m her.’

  He stares at me. ‘Rachel?’ he repeats. Softly, as if he’s trying it out for size and finding it somehow lacking. ‘But … I don’t understand. Why?’

  ‘I want to explain this to you,’ I say, ‘but I need more time. Like I said, I didn’t think I’d ever be doing this. It feels so strange.’

  ‘Join the club.’ It’s a weak attempt at flippancy; he forces a smile, clearly lost at sea. ‘Look, you’re landing a lot on me here. This is … You’re scaring me. Did you – did something bad happen?’ He grimaces, as if he’s just heard how childish the words sound.

  I half nod. But no, I’m not ready to go a
ll the way, not yet. ‘Yes. Something to do with my sister. Sadie.’ I glance down at the photograph, which he still holds in his outstretched hands. The painted-on smile, the slanted eyes, the cheekbones that are angled and defined, the same as my own. He follows my gaze, and I know he gets it.

  ‘I didn’t even know you had a sister,’ he says flatly.

  ‘I don’t,’ I reply, and the conviction that I’m speaking the truth floods through me viciously. ‘Not really. Not anymore.’

  Part Two

  * * *

  Rachel

  1999

  IT’S ALMOST ELEVEN at night and she’s alone in the flat. At times like this, when she’s tidied up and dimmed the lights and is wandering slowly back and forth through the rooms, she likes to shift into make-believe. Part of this fantasy is that the flat is actually hers. She’s somehow come into enough money to buy it, in this exclusive part of London, just overlooking Covent Garden market. Everything she sees and touches belongs to her, and no one can take it away. In reality the flat belongs to Martine, a friend from uni who promptly went off travelling after they graduated, her father’s seemingly limitless wallet acting as the wind beneath her wings. But Rachel knows she’s been lucky to be chosen as the friend who gets to look after the flat and pay a nominal rent, and in truth this isn’t the most important part of the fantasy. The real key to it – the thing that keeps her coming back to this compulsive little ritual – is the idea that she lives here alone.