‘It’s okay, Martin. Say what you think. People can’t tip-toe around the subject for the rest of their lives. Chris is dead, and there’s nothing I can do about that. Ignoring it isn’t going to make it any more bearable.’
‘You know that he had it written into all his contracts that, if anything happened to him, you were to become beneficiary of all his money from royalties and advances?’ Connelly said.
She nodded.
‘I remember when we first met, before Chris was earning decent money from his books. People used to tell me I was crazy to stay with him, that he’d never earn a good living. Then, when he did start earning good money, those same people told me that was the only reason I’d stayed with him.’ She shook her head.
‘Jealousy. You’ll always get it. The wives of successful men always get that thrown at them, that they’re only with the bloke because of his money. It happens the other way round, too. Behind every successful woman is a spongeing bastard; behind every successful man is a gold-digger.’ He smiled and took another drag on his cigarette. ‘Of course sometimes it’s true.’
Now it was Donna’s turn to smile. The atmosphere seemed to lighten a little.
Connelly moved away from the fireplace and sat down opposite her, chancing another swift glance at her as she ran a hand over her face.
‘How much did you know about Chris?’ she asked.
Connelly frowned.
‘What do you mean?’ the agent asked, looking a little puzzled.
‘I mean about his work, his character. What he did in his spare time. How much did you know about what he thought?’
Connelly looked bemused.
‘Would you say you
knew
him, Martin? Knew him as a person, not just as a client?’
‘That’s a strange question, Donna. I don’t see what you’re driving at.’
Their conversation was momentarily interrupted as Julie arrived with a tray of coffee cups, milk and sugar. She set it down and poured cups for Donna and Connelly, saying she had some things to unpack. ‘I’ll leave you to talk.’ She smiled at Connelly. ‘It was good to meet you.’ Again she disappeared and Donna heard her footsteps on the stairs.
Connelly dropped sugar cubes into his cup and stirred gently.
‘What do you mean, did I know Chris?’ he asked.
‘You were pretty close, weren’t you? I mean, he must have told you things. About himself, about his work, about me.’
‘Donna, I was his agent, not his bloody confessor. If my clients want to tell me their problems, that’s up to them. I care about them, and I like to think it’s not just on a professional level.’
‘Did Chris tell you his problems?’
‘What kind of problems?’ Connelly said, taken aback by her questions. ‘What made you think he had any? If he had, you’d know more about them than me. You
were
his wife.’
‘I hadn’t forgotten, Martin,’ she said acidly. ‘But there might have been things he told you that he
couldn’t
tell me.’
Connelly shook his head.
‘Did he tell you he was having an affair?’ she demanded.
The agent looked at her evenly.
‘What makes you think he was?’ he wanted to know. ‘And even if he was, which I doubt, what makes you so sure he’d tell
me
?’
‘You said you were close to your clients. He couldn’t very well tell me, could he?’
‘What gives you the idea he was having an affair, for Christ’s sake? He loved you. Why would he want to screw around with other women?’
‘Does your professionalism run to protecting him when he’s dead, Martin?’
‘Donna, I know you’re going through a bad time, I understand that. But this is shit.’ There was a hint of anger in Connelly’s voice. ‘Chris wasn’t having an affair and if he was, he didn’t say anything to me about it. You’re on about that crap in the paper about him being found in the car with a woman, aren’t you?’
‘He
was
found in the car with a woman.’
‘That doesn’t mean she was his mistress. Jesus Christ, Donna. Think about it logically.’
‘I don’t know what to think any more, Martin,’ she hissed. ‘But I’ll tell you this, if you’re keeping quiet just because you think it’s saving me hurt then you may as well tell me what you know. I couldn’t suffer any more than I’m suffering now.’
‘Just listen to what you’re saying, Donna,’ Connelly told her, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Your husband is dead and all you can think about is whether or not he was having a fucking affair.’
An uneasy silence descended.
Donna rested her head on her hand, her eyes averted. Connelly kept his gaze on her. When he sipped at his coffee again it was cold. He put the cup back on the tray and got to his feet, taking a step towards her.
‘He never said anything to me, Donna, believe me. I know as much as you.’ He wanted to reach out and touch her shoulder but resisted the temptation. ‘If I knew anything I’d tell you.’
‘Would you, Martin?’ she said, eyeing him challengingly.
‘I’d better go,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll let you get on.’
She got to her feet and they walked to the front door where she paused on the step and pecked him on the cheek.
‘Don’t forget,’ he said. ‘If you need
anything,
just let me know.’
She nodded and watched as he walked to the waiting Porsche and slid behind the steering wheel. He started the engine and waved, watching her disappear back inside the house. Connelly pulled away, the house falling away behind him.
On the landing, hidden by the curtains, Julie Craig also watched the agent leave.
Fourteen
They had done all they could that day. The two women had risen early and begun the tasks which needed completion. Now, as night began to creep across the sky, they sat in the dining-room eating, occasionally glancing at each other and smiling.
Donna, wearing make-up for the first time in two days, looked pale and tired still but she also looked a little stronger.
There had been tears when they’d called at the hospital that morning to pick up Chris’s belongings but Julie had expected that.
His clothes were now upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, the blood-spattered garments laid out on one of the beds until they could be washed. It was as if Donna needed to keep looking at them; despite Julie’s entreaties, she had returned regularly to the room that day to view the torn clothing.
Next to his clothes lay his wallet and his cheque book, similarly splashed with blood.
After the hospital they had travelled to the undertaker. He’d been helpful and sympathetic in his practised way, a fat, middle-aged man with too much hair that looked as if it had been dropped onto his head from a great height. He asked the relevant questions:
‘Open coffin?’
‘Cremation or burial?’
‘How much did she want to spend?’
The enquiries had begun to blur into one another; Donna had left feeling that she was no longer in control of events. The undertaker would arrange everything, he assured her. She need have no worries. As she and Julie had left another group of people had entered, doubtless to be asked the same questions. Death had become like a conveyor belt, it seemed.
From the undertaker’s they travelled to a florist’s and ordered the flowers.
There were catalogues full of suitable wreaths and arrangements. Wreaths for all occasions. Donna noticed, with acute poignancy, that one page was devoted to ‘The Death of a Child’. How terrible, she thought, for parents to be confronted by that particular ordeal.
Everything appeared ready now; there was just the funeral to come. The time Donna dreaded most. The awful finality of it all. At the moment, she knew the body of her dead husband lay in the Chapel of Rest. Once it was laid in the earth then it was as if he was to be wiped from her consciousness, not just her mind. All she had to look forward to now were memories.
Memories and pain.
And anger.
Donna pushed her plate away from her and sat back in her chair, exhaling deeply.
‘You okay?’ Julie asked.
‘I feel so tired,’ Donna told her. She smiled wanly at her sister. ‘I’m sorry, Julie.’
‘Go and have a nap, I’ll take care of this,’ Julie said, waving a hand over the dirty plates and glasses. ‘Go on. I’ll bring you a cup of tea up in a while.’
Donna thanked her and walked away from the table, touching Julie’s shoulder as she went.
The younger woman smiled and kept on smiling as she heard her sister’s footfalls on the stairs. The steps groaned protestingly as she made her way to the bedroom. Julie continued eating, looking first at her watch then at her plate. Eventually she, too, pushed it away, got to her feet and began gathering the utensils, ready to take them through to the kitchen.
As she reached the dining-room door she glanced across at a darkwood cabinet inside the room. There were a number of photos on it, each of them in a silver frame.
Photos of Donna and Ward together.
Julie stood close to them, gazing at the pictures for long moments. Then she reached out one slender finger and gently drew it around the outline of Ward’s face, a slight smile creasing her lips.
Then she did the same around the image of Donna’s face.
By then, though, the smile had faded.
Fifteen
He used to call it The Cell.
The room where he imprisoned himself for six hours a day, five days a week. The room where Christopher Ward sat, with only his thoughts for company, pounding away at a typewriter until a new book was completed.
The silence in the room was something Donna had always found unsettling. Only the sound of the water in the radiators broke the oppressive stillness. One day, jokingly, she had said to him that he had an easy job, just sitting behind a desk alone all day. He had locked Donna in there behind the typewriter. After just ten minutes she had called to him to let her out. Laughing, he had agreed.
Laughing.
She had almost forgotten what the sound was like. At times she wondered if she would ever hear such joyous noise again. Certainly not now, seated in The Cell, peering round her at the notes scattered over the desk, at the books and the files.
He had always kept his work private. What went on inside his head was his concern, he’d once told her. And what went on inside his office was his concern, too. He hadn’t excluded her through any act of antagonism; he preferred to keep his work and his life with her separate. She had asked him about his methods of working, about how each of his books was progressing; she’d even been allowed to read portions of them before they were published. But as a rule Ward kept his work to himself. What little else she discovered was by reading interviews with him in newspapers or by hearing him on radio, watching him on television.
And now, as she sat amongst the remnants of his work, she felt a heavy sadness at this exclusion. Now it was too late for him to tell her, she felt she wanted to know every single stage of the processes involved in turning an idea into a finished book. But she knew it could never be.
She began by searching his attaché case, going through the papers. She needed the insurance policies, for instance.
She wondered why she felt as if she were intruding in the small room. It was as if she had no right to be in here, with the night closed tightly around the house like a tenebrous glove. Only the dull glow from the desk light illuminated the blackness.
Donna felt that chill she had come to know only too well over the last few days.