The Editor's Wife (31 page)

Anyway, I knew I was me, outdoors, and it was daytime. The water leaking from my eyes ran up into my hair and not down my cheeks, from which I deduced that I was lying
on a slope. My head was on something hard, the rest of me on something soft but wet. The distant sound identified itself as the bleating of sheep, and this released a whole flood of associations: the moors, Hartslip, home. I tried to sit up. A bright rocket of pain burst in my skull. I stopped. Very carefully I tried to move my feet: success. I clenched my fingers: they were fat and stiff with cold. I managed to raise and lower one arm: the other seemed to be pinned underneath me, and any more ambitious movements set off another rocket attack. My fingers brushed something. Instinctively I gripped it. A thistle.

An irresistible weariness stole over me. A little sleep and I'd be equal to anything. I closed my eyes. Don't move, I told myself. Conserve energy.

A bubble burst in my throat, filling my mouth with the taste of fish. Smoked haddock pie. Dish of the Day at the Crown in Hutton. It was all vividly before me: the walk to the pub, lunch, beer, and after that . . .?

A new noise – not sheep this time, but the far-off purring of a car engine. My eyes snapped open. I waited, tense with the effort of listening. It grew louder. Was I visible from the road? I had no idea. I lifted my free arm and began to wave it stiffly from elbow to wrist. It is difficult to shout without moving your head. I dropped my jaw open slightly and produced the word ‘Help', starting as a breathy whisper and building to a crescendo.

The car swept past, somewhere above me: the engine's rumble and the swish of tyres began to recede. This extinction of hope was far, far worse than anything that had
gone before. I closed my eyes, too leaden to move.

The noise stopped, and then started again, but at a different register. It was the whine of a car reversing, fast. I began my performance of calling and stiff-armed waving, all the while tasting the poison of hope in the back of my throat.

A door slammed and a woman's voice called out, ‘Hello?'

I wagged my hand in gratitude.

‘Don't move. I'm coming.' Stumbling feet squeaked on wet tussocks of grass. ‘Are you all right?' said my rescuer, crouching beside me. Her face swam into focus and I realised it was too late. I had already died and left the world behind, because here was Diana, my dead Diana, on the other side to meet me.

‘ARE YOU REAL?'

‘Of course I'm real. Don't try to move. I'm going to get help.'

‘I thought you were dead.'

‘Why?'

‘I . . . can't remember.' A shadow moved behind her. ‘Is that Owen?'

‘No. It's the taxi-driver. Owen's dead.'

‘Oh.'

‘I'm just going to that farmhouse to fetch help.'

‘Don't go!'

‘I've got to. I'll come straight back.'

‘You won't disappear?'

‘Of course not. Now don't move. It's very important. And try to stay awake.' She leaned forward and pinched
my earlobes hard: such an unlikely thing for a ghost to do. Even despite existing sources of pain I felt it.

‘I'm going to put this over you.' She unbuttoned her coat, pale blue and softly lined, and laid it on top of me up to my chin. It was still imprinted with the warmth of her body and gave off a scent of lavender. Not her perfume.

‘You smell different.'

‘Different from what?'

‘The real Diana.'

Another pinch. ‘I'll be back. Don't go to sleep.'

‘You won't just vanish?'

She had vanished.

I woke, startled, from Lurid Morphine dreams. Even though it was dark, I knew from the height of the ceiling and the rubbery antiseptic smell that I was in a hospital bed. Presently it didn't seem so dark: light was coming from the nurses' station in the corridor. There was a disgusting coppery taste in my mouth and I had a ferocious thirst. I tried running my desiccated tongue across my lips. It was like licking bark. There was something stuck to my head: I put a hand up to investigate and snagged the drip loose, sending a trickle of cold fluid over the bedclothes. Just out of reach, on the bedside locker, was a plastic water jug. Propped against it, also out of reach, was a stiff white envelope.

Dear Christopher

I hope the fact that you are reading this letter means that you have recovered from your accident and are feeling better.

I'm writing, firstly, to thank you for everything you did for my daughter, Alex, to ensure the safe arrival of her baby. (I was on my way to retrieve her car when I came across you lying in the ditch. I'm sorry that our meeting after so many years of silence should be in such bizarre circumstances, but very glad that I was there to help.)

On to even stranger matters. Alex gave me your manuscript. I hope you don't mind. Too late if you do: I have just read it. It's not often a person gets to read their own obituary. You dealt generously with everyone except
yourself. Thank you. It made extremely painful reading at times, all the more so since some, at least, of your grief was based on a terrible misunderstanding.

What happened was this: after you and I parted, Owen and I made great efforts to salvage our marriage, not just for the sake of the children, but because we felt it was worth saving. Of course it was awful at first, as I knew it would be. Even though Owen said he forgave me I don't think he could ever have loved me wholeheartedly again.

It was his idea to go to Greece, just the two of us. The idea was to get away from the scene of repeated arguments and rediscover each other, perhaps. I agreed in principle – I wasn't in a position to raise objections to anything – and booked the hotel and flights in our names, but I was very uneasy about leaving the twins with Bronnie – Owen's sister – for so long. I'd never spent even a night away from them and was dreading it.

About a week before we were due to leave I told Owen I didn't want to go. He was absolutely livid: I think he'd staked everything on the success of this holiday. It was going to make or break the marriage. Plus, it was an insult to Bronnie who had turned down much-needed work to help us out, etc. etc. We had the most almighty row, and he left, saying he was going to Greece anyway, and if I didn't want to come he'd take someone else. I made no objection. I was just relieved not to be going.

He took Leila. It was too late to change the booking
so she went in my name. I don't know whether they'd had an affair before – Owen's outrage at my infidelity made me think not, but something in your manuscript made me wonder after all. I knew that Leila was keen on him. Although we'd met at Oxford long before Owen came on the scene, I always had the feeling that she maintained the friendship on his account more than mine. As students we often seemed to be in competition for the same man. I'd assumed all that rivalry would end with marriage, but perhaps it didn't. Anyway, I didn't blame her for going with Owen: her behaviour was certainly no worse than mine.

The report of my death must have been filed before the authorities were aware that there had been a change of travelling companion. I had no idea that the mistake was in circulation – I didn't have much appetite for reading newspapers at that point. I heard about the accident from Bronnie: we'd put her down as our next of kin, so she'd heard the news first.

You can imagine the anguish I felt, and the terrible, terrible guilt. Owen and I had parted on such bitter, unfriendly terms, and I'd had no chance to say sorry. He was the one person who could forgive me, and he was gone. I felt utterly abandoned. What made it worse was that one or two of Owen's friends who knew about our problems were less than sympathetic – as if I secretly welcomed his death. If I hadn't had the twins to look after I don't know how I would have dragged myself through the days. I think for those first eighteen months I
was just functioning like a machine – an efficient, child-rearing machine.

I was slightly surprised that among the many letters of condolence I received there was nothing from you, but when you are suffering from a major shock, lesser surprises don't make much impression. We, too, had not parted on friendly terms. I assumed that you had accepted our last conversation as final, and moved on with no wish to revisit the past. Also, that you were young, resilient and unlikely to be unconsoled for long. Clearly I underestimated the depth of your feeling. I am sorry.

When you sent the cheque to Bronnie, but still no word to me, I admit I felt hurt and slighted, which is why I returned the cheque. I wondered if this gesture would prompt some response; when it didn't, I decided further efforts would be futile and undignified.

I had no idea until this week that you thought I had died along with Owen. I'm very sorry that you suffered unnecessarily as a result of this misunderstanding, and I hope you will accept this twenty-year-old apology in the spirit in which it is offered.

Thank you again for your assistance with the birth of my – and Owen's – grandson.

Yours

Diana Sutton (Goddard)

PS. Perhaps if you ever have any reason to come to London you will look me up? I would be interested to hear how your life has unfolded.

A HOSPITAL BED
is an ideal place to receive devastating news. When you're recovering from a fractured skull and hypothermia a few additional symptoms of shock pass off unnoticed – particularly in a private side room, unfrequented by visitors or staff.

In those empty hours before dawn I read Diana's letter over and over again, trying to force my opiate-addled brain to absorb this colossal revelation. It is hard to demolish decades-old certainties in a matter of minutes. For half my life it had been a core belief – a pillar of my existence – that Owen and Diana had died together in Greece leaving their children orphaned, and that I had been the agent of their destruction. That Diana was alive was, if not a miracle, at least half a miracle, and certainly a cause for celebration, and yet what I was feeling was closer to grief
than joy, closer to self-pity than either. There was a moment, as I read the letter for the first time and saw the once-familiar swoop of her signature, when I experienced an electrical jolt of something like happiness –
she's alive!
– but it was quickly stifled by bitterness that the universe could have played such a heartless trick.

I cast around for an object of blame: the journalist who had failed to double-check the identity of the crash victims; my mother, for her eagerness to pass on bad news; Diana, for her wilful misinterpretation of my silence; myself, for my wilful misinterpretation of Leila's silence. This mournful catalogue of ‘if onlys' naturally brought no relief. The staggering fact remained that for the twenty years I'd believed her dead, Diana had been getting up in the morning, brushing her hair, drinking coffee, bringing up her daughters, falling in love perhaps – no, inevitably – and I had been looking the other way and missed it all.

‘
I'M BEGGING YOU
not to press charges.'

‘He tried to kill me!'

‘He never meant you to get hurt. If you hadn't dived into the ditch he'd have swerved anyway. Here, let me peel you a grape.'

Carol sat beside my bed, dressed for work in a tight navy suit and heels, her wild hair scraped back into a bun and subdued with lacquer. She had brought me a hamper of delicacies – obviously a leftover freebie from a client: it contained a Christmas pudding and a jar of cranberry jelly among other things.

‘No thank you. He's obviously unhinged. He should be put away.'

‘It was a crazy thing to do, but it was a moment of madness. It wasn't premeditated.'

‘He was lying in wait for me!'

‘Jeremy's not a violent man. He just wanted to warn you off. He wouldn't hurt a fly actually. Even when I've lumped him in the past he's never hit me back, and God knows I've given him some provocation.'

‘That I can believe.'

‘This is all my fault. I didn't want to bring your name into it, but it's impossible to spend all night helping to deliver a stranger's baby, and then go home and
not mention it.
Anyway, I had to tell him where I'd been – he was convinced I'd spent the night with some bloke after he rang my mobile at 3 a.m. and got Gerald.'

‘But he evidently didn't believe you.'

‘He'd already got it into his head that I've been carrying on with someone, and my story just convinced him it was you. But he believes me now he's met Alex. And he's mortified that you got a bump on the head.'

I let this breezy reclassification of my fracture pass without comment.

‘He's prepared to apologise in person, if you'll see him,' Carol wheedled.

‘That's big of him. I don't suppose it's occurred to either of you that when he really was “carrying on” with you while we were married, I didn't try to assassinate him!' There were layers of irony here which I hadn't the energy to examine.

‘I know, I know. You were a perfect gentleman. And that's why I know you won't press charges. If he got a criminal record it would ruin his career.' There was a
pause while Carol helped herself to a chocolate liqueur from the hamper. ‘Anyway, you did say you owed me.'

‘Did I? When?'

‘At the cottage. When you abandoned me to look after Alex. You said you'd make it up to me. Well now I'm asking. Please?'

‘This is a change of heart. A few days ago you didn't have a good word to say for the bloke and now you're prepared to grovel on his behalf.'

‘We've patched things up.' Her eyes flicked up to the dressing on my head, and then away again. ‘I'm not saying everything indoors is rosy. We've got some major talking to do. But effort is being made on both sides. For instance – Jeremy's agreed to sell the Harley. That's how contrite he is.' A thought struck her. ‘You don't want to buy it, do you?'