The Silenced Wife Read online

  Yes. Mansion. I took a gulp of wine, not sure that I should be on a date with a man that could sit there and say that he lived in a mansion without a trace of irony.

  In return, I had disclosed the barest bones of my past with regard to career and education, from my brief stint as a counsellor, to working as a journalist for various, low-brow tabloids, before winding up in my final career incarnation as resident agony aunt for one of said tabloids.

  ‘A neurosurgeon,’ I repeated, deeply impressed after Aaron had given me the briefest outline of his job.

  It was hard to concentrate on what he was saying because he was looking even more handsome tonight, if that was at all possible. He wore black jeans and a midnight-blue shirt that somehow made his cold, grey eyes look a little warmer. Or maybe that was just the lighting.

  Or perhaps, I reasoned, it was the softening effects of the wine.

  ‘Yes,’ he said with a smile. ‘Although I’m hoping to downscale significantly this coming year.’

  ‘You mean go part time?’ I asked. ‘Is there any such thing as a part-time neurosurgeon?’

  He laughed at that, displaying perfectly straight, white teeth that almost made me ashamed to even open my own mouth.

  ‘You certainly have something there. And when I say downscale, what I really mean is retire. I’m going to discuss it with my boss in very short order. In fact, the Chief Executive of West London NHS Trust is coming to dinner in a few weeks with his wife when he’s down here in Cornwall on business, and I plan to talk about it then. I’m already on a sabbatical of sorts, so it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise to him. Maybe you’d like to be my date that night? The CMO and his wife will be coming, too.’

  For a moment I couldn’t reply, stunned as I was that he had asked me out on another date.

  But was it a date? I asked myself. Or did he just want to make up the numbers?

  ‘Sure,’ I said casually. ‘And the CMO? That stands for Chief Medical Officer, doesn’t it? As in the guy that runs the whole show?’

  ‘That’s right, although the CMO has less power than you might think. His world is a political minefield, liaising between the government and the hospital. He heads a team of medical experts on matters of public health importance. Although, as Gary himself would say, he’s really just in advertising. Either that, or he likes to call himself a spin-doctor. Gary and his wife are all right. You’ll like them.’

  A double date, I thought dreamily. Or perhaps a triple date. Maybe he does like me. The scathing voice in my head warned me not to get ahead of myself. Part of me felt a little foolish because a man like Aaron Bailey was completely out of my league and I was carrying too much emotional baggage anyway so the whole thing was a no-go right from the start. And, more importantly, there was Becky to consider. No, a relationship was completely out of the question. With a sinking heart I realised that I shouldn’t even be here. It had been a mistake agreeing to this whole thing.

  ‘Wow. Those are some circles you move in,’ I said carefully.

  ‘Hey, what’s up? You suddenly look really sad.’

  ‘I do?’ I said, trying my best to sound surprised and forcing a smile.

  ‘You don’t have to pretend with me. What are thinking?’

  That a woman like me doesn’t deserve a second chance with someone as spectacular as you.

  ‘Nothing interesting.’

  ‘Oh, I beg to differ. I’ll wager everything that goes through your head is interesting.’

  I could feel myself blushing and the more I tried to stop it, the hotter my cheeks became.

  ‘You’re quite the charmer, aren’t you?’ I said to unsuccessfully hide my blushes.

  ‘Not really. Since my wife died, people tell me that I’ve been pretty short on charm.’

  ‘How did she die?’ I found myself asking.

  ‘Housefire. Faulty electrics. We lived in a house in Kensington, and it happened one day when I was at work. Thankfully, it was a detached house, so it didn’t take the neighbours with it. But the whole damn place was incinerated.’

  ‘Oh God, how awful, I’m so sorry.’

  A detached house in Kensington, a cruel heartless voice whispered in my mind. That must have been worth a small fortune.

  ‘Don’t be. It was almost five years ago now. How about you? How did your husband pass away?’

  I took a gulp of red wine to steady my nerves. It had been three years and eleven months since the accident, but it many ways, it still felt like only yesterday.

  And it still hurt like a bastard.

  ‘A car accident. He was driving to work one morning – he was a University lecturer – and the brakes were faulty. He couldn’t control the car and he went careering into the side of a lorry on a busy roundabout. He and the lorry driver were killed instantly…’

  My voice trailed off as I anticipated the tears. Amazingly, for the first time ever, I managed to get the words out without crying. I didn’t even have a lump in my throat. Immediately, I felt guilty for being proud of that fact.

  ‘That’s just horrendous,’ Aaron said with feeling.

  I looked into his eyes and saw kindness there. Kindness and something else, like he actually, genuinely, cared for me.

  Mixed emotions twisted in my stomach; part elation that a man like Aaron Bailey would look at me like that, part guilt that I was being unfaithful to James, and part outright terror.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumbled, reaching for my wine again.

  To my dismay, my glass was empty.

  ‘Here, let me,’ he said, reaching for the wine bottle to top me up.

  I noticed that he had barely touched his and the bottle was already nearly three quarters gone.

  ‘I’m not normally much of a drinker,’ I said truthfully, swiftly realising how lame that sounded. Wasn’t that what all heavy drinkers said?

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with letting your guard down, occasionally. Heaven knows, I’m a fine one to talk because I never do it either.’ He sighed, a strange look flashing across his face – one that appeared to be almost wistful. ‘You know what, Joyce? I’m sick of my life. I’m sick of working so hard and I’m sick of missing Cynthia. She’s dead, and there’s nothing that I can do to bring her back. I’m sick of the guilt I carry, constantly thinking that I should’ve been there for her. I feel like life is passing me by. That people are passing me by. Important people.’

  When he said that last bit he looked at me so intently that my breath caught in my throat and I had to look away. His sudden outpouring had left me disorientated and unsure in which direction my emotional compass was pointing. All I knew was, in that moment, I would’ve done anything to take away his hurt.

  Instinctively, I reached across the table and placed my hand on his, which was resting on the white tablecloth next to his wineglass. I gently squeezed, then snatched back my hand, embarrassed.

  Shit, why did I do that? I really needed to go easy on the wine.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said simply.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For not judging me, or belittling me. Shit, I don’t normally go on like this to relative strangers, please forgive me. It’s just that the last few years I’m not even sure that I recognise myself anymore. I’ve been so busy putting up a front that, somewhere along the line, I’ve lost myself behind the wall.’

  I knew exactly what he meant, it was as if his words touched the deepest part of me.

  ‘God, I need a drink,’ he said quickly, saving me from having to answer. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, it’s just that you’re so easy to talk to.’

  And I believed him. God help me, I believed him. Maybe I did so because it was something I had been so used to hearing during my career as an in-house agony aunt, or maybe it was just because I was so starved of male attention and that sense of sharing and emotional disclosure, that I so desperately wanted to believe him.

  Or maybe it was because I was just a stupid fool.

  He
raised his glass. ‘I’m not much of a drinker, either. Here’s to letting our guards down.’

  I smiled at him, loving the way his eyes twinkled in the candlelight. ‘Yes. Here’s to.’

  Aaron drank deeply of his glass, and I felt inordinately pleased. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he was drinking with me. He trusted me enough to let his guard down, to show me his true feelings.

  ‘But enough about me,’ he said with a smile. ‘I want to hear about you and Becky. Cynthia and I were trying for a baby before she died, before I found out that I couldn’t have children. You’re so lucky to have your daughter, a child is the most precious gift in the world. I would’ve given anything to have had a child with Cynthia. Not just to feel like there was still a part of Cynthia here with me, but because without children, what is the point of any of it? The older I get, the more I realise the truth of that.’

  Mixed in with the sympathy I felt for him was a swell of pride in my chest. He was right; Becky was the most precious gift, and I loved her so much. I still had so much to be thankful for.

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Going on about me. I just don’t know what’s come over me tonight.’

  I smiled at him, feeling absurdly flattered and generally kind of cushioned by the wine. ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘You’re a really good person, Joyce, you know that? Becky’s so lucky to have you as a mother.’

  ‘No, I’m the lucky one, truly. What you said about you and Cynthia…’ I paused, alarmed to feel myself welling up. Definitely time to go easy on the wine. ‘Well, it’s just so sad. I’m so sorry that you have nothing left of her.’

  ‘Yeah. Me too.’

  The waiter took that moment to appear with our dinner, a rare sirloin steak for him and a well-done Tuna steak for me.

  ‘This looks wonderful,’ I said as the waiter set down our plates of food.

  ‘God, it does, doesn’t it?’ Aaron enthused. He beamed up at the waiter. ‘Thank you so much.’

  I sipped my wine, quite forgetting about the whole “go easy” thing, watching him with interest. I was firmly of the opinion that the way a person treated waiting staff said everything about their personality, and Aaron had impressed me.

  We tucked into our dinners, the conversation – and the wine – flowing pleasantly. I found myself opening up about topics I normally spoke little about to anyone, not even to Mum. He was so easy to talk to, so non-judgmental, attentive and encouraging. I spoke freely about how I had sold the flat in London after James’s death and moved in with my mother here in Cornwall. I told him about her Alzheimer’s, that she seemed to be fine right now, but how I knew that the day would inevitably come when she would need round the clock care. I would have to give up my life to come and look after her anyway, and probably at a point in the not too distant future, so I figured it made sense to move in with her now, rather than later.

  He nodded sympathetically in all the right places, asking all the right questions.

  ‘I think you’re incredibly noble, doing this for your mother,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, not really, I’m just pre-empting it, that’s all.’

  ‘And what about you, Joyce?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘As wonderful as you are, as good and as kind, I hope you haven’t forgotten about your needs.’

  I squirmed slightly in my seat, unsure of where he was going with this. Was he talking about sex?

  ‘My needs are Becky’s needs. If she’s happy than I’m happy. That’s all that matters to me.’

  ‘I meant with your career. I fully understand that rearing a child Becky’s age is a fulltime job if one were to take on the sole responsibility of it, but what about the career you gave up in London? Don’t you miss it all? When Becky is a little older, do you have plans to get back to it?’

  I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or disappointed that he meant my career rather than sex. ‘Oh. Well, I have been working on a book in the evenings, when Becky is asleep. I’ve always wanted to write a novel, but journalism was so all-consuming that I never seemed to find the time to start one.’

  A big grin spread over his face. ‘That’s fantastic, I do so admire novelists. What’s it about?’

  ‘It’s a psychological thriller, actually,’ I said, feeling a bit silly and expecting him to laugh. ‘It’s not exactly literary fiction.’

  ‘What fun. Literary fiction is vastly overrated, anyway. Is it gory?’

  ‘I haven’t written much of it,’ I said, thinking how that had to be the understatement of the century. ‘But yes, it probably will be. I’ve always liked horror films, and part of my degree was on the origins of gothic literature. I devour horror, all of it. I always have. With books I love everything from Bram Stoker to Richard Laymon. The 1974 Texas Chainsaw Massacre is my all-time favourite film.’

  I was still feeling rather silly. James found my fascination with all things macabre deeply amusing. Most people did, in fact. In my teens and early twenties, my look bordered on goth, and my taste in music was still rather on the alternative side.

  ‘Well, why not, that’s what I say. Never judge a book on its cover. I have a soft spot for horror, too, you’ll have to let me read it some time. Although I don’t like it when things get too gory.’

  I laughed. ‘So says the neurosurgeon.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a bundle of contradictions. Besides, that’s just work, it doesn’t count. But seriously, I’d love to read your book when you’ve finished it.’

  ‘It really won’t be that exciting,’ I muttered, getting embarrassed.

  ‘And she’s modest, too. Modest and beautiful.’

  I batted away his compliment with a smile and a roll of my eyes, but inside I was absurdly flattered.

  ‘When you start working less, will you spend more time in Cornwall?’ I asked to deflect the attention off me.

  ‘That’s the plan. London is starting to lose its charms for me. I just love it here, it relaxes me, and make me feel like myself again. I feel no affiliation with London like I do here. Not anymore, anyway. Cornwall is my home, it was where I was born and raised.’

  ‘I love it here, too. I mean, I miss my friends in London, and I guess I can get pretty lonely sometimes. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, I love my mum, but sometimes I miss my circle of friends in London. I’ve been a bit of a hermit since I moved here, partly out of choice and partly because I simply don’t know anybody here.’

  ‘Don’t you have any friends here at all? Not even old school friends?’

  ‘No. I was shipped out to a boarding school in Devon when I was thirteen, and then I went straight to University in London when I turned eighteen.’

  ‘Something else we have in common, then. I was sent away to boarding school, too. But I was nine when I started.’

  ‘Wow, that’s young.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘That must’ve been hard.’

  He shrugged. ‘It taught me to be self-sufficient. So you mainly feel settled here in Cornwall, then?’

  ‘Yes, mainly. At least, I think I’m getting to that happy point. When I had Becky here I kind of went into hiding, concentrating just on her. But she starts school, come September, which has to be a good thing. It feels like the right time.’

  ‘That’s great, Joyce. It takes time to heal and grow. Having a baby is an all-consuming thing, but the start of school will be a positive step, for both of you. You’re right, now is the time to slowly start living again.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said thoughtfully, knowing that he was right. ‘It’s scary though. Sometimes, I feel like two different people. There’s the pre-Becky me, with a career, a husband, tons of friends, and then there’s the post-Becky me. A lonely, single mother; jobless, friendless, and living with her mum at the age of thirty-five. Pretty sad, huh?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re sad at all. I think you’re amazing. Life can be hard, Joyce. I was on automatic pilot for so long after Cynthia died, and
me spending more time in Cornwall feels symbolic, somehow. It feels like I’m starting to live again.’

  I felt such a wave of sympathy for the man. I wished I could take away his pain, absorb it into me to join my own. It wasn’t fair that he’d had to suffer the way that he had. He was a good man.

  ‘I’m sorry, Aaron. But we both know that it gets easier, with time. And it will get easier still, the further along we go.’

  We ate in silence for a while, me simply enjoying his company and the food.

  ‘When should I collect Buster?’ he asked me gently over our coffee. ‘Does tomorrow suit you?’

  I flinched in guilt; I’d been having such a good time I’d forgotten about the dog, the whole reason for us being here in the first place. It wasn’t me he was interested in at all, just Buster. And then I felt guilty for having envious thoughts about poor old Buster. God, I thought, what the hell was with me tonight? I was all over the place.

  Him going with Aaron is better than having him put down, I reminded myself.

  ‘Don’t look so sad,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s for the best. My place is huge with a mammoth garden. Two acres of garden, in fact. Buster will be allowed to roam free, and there’s no danger of him ever biting anyone ever again because there’s no need for him to ever leave the premises.’

  I didn’t like the sound of that. Buster loved the beach, and his clifftop walks. It sounded very much like he was being served a prison sentence.

  It’s for the best, I had to remind myself.

  I nodded remorsefully. ‘I know that this is the kindest thing you can do, in the circumstances, but we’re going to miss him so much. Becky’s going to miss him so much.’

  ‘You can come and visit him whenever you want. In fact, I insist that you bring Becky with you tomorrow, she can help settle him in into his new home.’

  Through the wine-fog, something niggled at me. It was only slight, but there, nonetheless. Because what difference did it really make if Buster lived with me, or with Aaron? Somehow, what he was saying didn’t quite add up. If Buster was a biter – which, indeed, he had proved himself to be – then surely it didn’t matter where he lived?