The Woman He Loved Before Read online

  Her hair bobs forwards and back as she nods and I wish she would stop it. I wish she would stop having hair that moved. I wish she would stop having hair right in front of my face. ‘When Eve died and he started to get himself together, it seemed like all he lived for was to have sex with lots of different women. Before Eve, he wouldn’t, didn’t. He was waiting for the right woman to take that step with; he always said he had to be completely in love before he had sex.’

  ‘And that was with Eve,’ I state.

  Grace moves her slender shoulders up and down. ‘I guess so. She wasn’t a virgin. She was like the rest of us, had at least one notch on her belt. I think it’s all his father’s fault.’

  What does Hector have to do with anything?

  ‘Have you decided on a colour yet?’ Grace asks, fanning her fingers over the pots she has carefully set out on the table.

  ‘Red,’ I say absently. My mind is still trying to process this new information about Jack. Was that why he was obsessed with her? Most of us still have a soft spot for our first love, and for the first person we … For Jack that person had been one and the same and he married her. No wonder he couldn’t let her go completely.

  ‘Why would it be Hector’s fault that Jack was a virgin till Eve?’

  Grace stops looking over her colour collection, instead her eyes examine me with surprise and incredulity. ‘You two really don’t talk much, do you?’ she says.

  You have no idea, I think at her. ‘Not about stuff like this,’ I admit.

  ‘Well, I probably shouldn’t tell you, but I can’t see what harm it’ll do since it was such a long time ago. But when Jack turned fifteen, on his actual birthday, his father took him to an upmarket brothel in London and told him to pick a girl.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ I whisper, once the initial shock has allowed me to speak.

  ‘It gets worse. When Jack couldn’t because he was too scared and pretty freaked out, Hector angrily told him off for humiliating him and then wouldn’t speak to Jack for a week.’

  My hand flies up to my mouth.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ Grace says. ‘Can you imagine what it’s like for me? I’ve known Hector my whole life, and to find out something like that. It made my skin crawl then and it makes my skin crawl now. He and my father are really good friends so obviously that set me wondering … which made me freak out, so I had to stop thinking about it.’

  ‘God, you poor things.’

  ‘It really messed with Jack’s head. While I can never be certain that my father did anything like that, Jack had proof that his father cheated on his mother. He had to decide whether to keep quiet or risk destroying his family by telling Harriet. All of that on the shoulders of a fifteen-year-old. It’s no wonder he didn’t want to go near a woman until it was right.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you? No one looks at a man like Hector and thinks he … Anyway, Jack staying a virgin was also the perfect revenge on his father because it became this big thing in Hector’s social and business circles that he had this good looking son who wouldn’t “act like a man”, whatever that is. Hector was always making dates for Jack and introducing him to women, but Jack wouldn’t play along. He had the last laugh on that score.’

  ‘I danced with Hector at our wedding.’ He had his arms around me at our wedding. I’m trying not to think of all the times I had physical contact with Hector but failing, and that’s the main one that keeps coming to mind.

  ‘He insisted on dancing with me at my eighteenth party and at my wedding, which was just blergh! Eve was the smart one with them semi-eloping, eh? She got to avoid all that.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ I reply, my mind reeling. The first time I met Hector I actually liked him better than I liked Harriet. I thought Harriet was a bit odd, a bit over the top with how happy she was that Jack had fallen in love again and with how cool she was about being involved or not in the wedding arrangements, when clearly she wanted nothing more than to be involved. Hector was polite and friendly and affable, and he’d come across as the sort of person you’d want Jack to grow into. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  ‘OK, now, back to your nails. Which colour?’

  ‘I told you, red.’

  ‘Red? I have fifteen different reds – you’re going to have to be more specific than that.’

  ‘I don’t know, Grace, I’m not functioning on full power. I can’t even decide whether to wear a bra or not most days and that’s kind of essential – this is not. So I’m sorry, I can’t decide between the different shades of red. I don’t care.’

  ‘You don’t care? You wash your mouth out, young lady. I’m not letting a little accident rob you of your beauty duties,’ she says sharply. ‘Angela and I are going to get you back to your old self in no time.’

  ‘You’ve talked to Angela about me?’

  ‘Of course!’ she says. ‘You’re our friend: we’re going to do whatever it takes to get you well.’

  ‘I am well.’

  Grace’s eyes, a light blue with hazel flecks, fix on me and force me to stare back at her. ‘You know what we mean.’

  I immediately drop my gaze. I know what they mean. I thought I was getting better, but Jack’s dreams and the policewoman’s visit have knocked me back a bit. Or maybe it was a natural comedown, something that would have happened when the reality of my situation fully hit home. I feel so frustrated. I want to grab myself by my shoulders and scream at myself to snap out of it, to stop what I’m doing, what I’m feeling, to pull myself together. But I would be shouting at a woman deafened by the horror of what she sees in the mirror, defeated by the fear that the reflection will always be the same, petrified by the knowledge that something like this could have laid her so low. I want to be well, but I cannot see how at the moment.

  I reach down, my hand aiming for a nail polish pot. I pick up a dark red. Dark red, like the colour of my scars when they were two days old and I saw them for the first time. ‘This one,’ I say, holding it out to her as a peace offering, a white flag of surrender so she will leave me alone.

  Her cheeks dimple with the smile that moves across her face. Her eyes, as insightful and probing as Angela’s, tell me quite clearly they are not fooled. But she’ll accept my symbol, for now.

  chapter eight

  libby

  ‘I’m sure I speak for us all,’ Hector says, holding forth from his place by the fireplace, ‘when I say that we’re extremely happy that both Liberty and Jack are here with us today.’

  Around the room, our gathered friends and family nod and murmur in agreement. Everyone is here: Mum, Dad, Grace, Rupert, Angela, Angela’s husband Spencer, Paloma, Sandra, Inês, Amy and Vera, Grace’s parents, Harriet and, of course, Hector. A few people from Jack’s office are also here, as is Rachel, Jack’s assistant. Caleb and Benji are still on holiday, as is Jeff, Jack’s brother, and his family. I sit on the sofa opposite the fireplace, holding onto Jack’s hand as he sits beside me.

  ‘I’m sure you’re all as relieved as I am that they’re both on the mend,’ Hector continues.

  For some reason, he has appointed himself the one to do this, to be the leader and to make a speech. In the past, this would not have bothered me but, knowing what I know, I feel a little sullied by it all, as if he is infecting us with the filthiness and shame of his actions. Which is ridiculous, I know, because until it was brought up I had no need to be disgusted with Hector. He was simply Jack’s father who was no less or more likeable a person than many of the other people I have met since I became involved with Jack.

  ‘I hope you will join me in raising a toast to Liberty and Jack, and to the wonderful life they have ahead of them,’ Hector ends.

  ‘To Libby and Jack,’ most of the people in the room chorus, apart from Jack and me. He squeezes my hand in reassurance and I lean into him in reply. We both wear painted on smiles for everyone here. This is all a bit too formal for both of us. When Harriet and Hector suggested a small gathering so t
hat people could all see us in one go and so that we wouldn’t be plagued by a stream of visitors, I’d envisaged them and Mum and Dad, maybe Jeff and his family. I hadn’t realised they meant all these people, and I hadn’t realised they intended to get so much food made and sent over. It was all very not us.

  I’d felt awful when I realised yesterday that this was what was happening, because I knew Mum and Dad would have liked to have been involved, and also because it meant facing more people than just close family looking the way I looked. The sentiment was lovely, and their hearts were in the right place, but I’d have preferred a tiny gathering of only our nearest and dearest.

  I have a scarf around my head but it is too soon for make-up, so have had to brave people looking like I do. I’d kind of hoped to blend into the background, to sit in a corner, with my face partially hidden and let Jack get on with it. Hector has put paid to that. He’s drawn attention to me. The problem is, of course, that he can now do no right in my eyes.

  Thankfully, people seem to be entertaining themselves, many of those who don’t know me well are keeping their distance and only look at me when they think they can get away with it. Which, in the grand scheme of things, when the alternative is having to carry on a conversation where they’re trying not to stare at my scar, is the best option.

  ‘Liberty,’ Mum says, with a serious tone, sitting herself down next to me when Jack gets up to refill our glasses. I know she’s either going to try to get me to go to see her pastor about praying over my scars to heal them quicker or, worse, she’s going to say, ‘Why don’t we go shopping in London this week for wigs?’

  My heart and body sink. ‘Mum—’ I begin.

  ‘Mrs Rabvena,’ Angela says, suddenly appearing from nowhere, ‘I was thinking of asking you about the church you go to in London.’ She sits down on the other side of my mother, ready to throw herself into the line of fire for me. That’s why she is my best friend. ‘Can anyone go, and do they do the special all-day services for Easter and Christmas?’

  Mum is torn for about thirty seconds between persuading me to go along with her plan to make me look like a woman again, and finding another convert for her church. They are probably thirty of the longest seconds of her life but in the end she chooses God over harassing me.

  I’m watching Hector. I’m looking for any hint that he visits or has visited prostitutes. Or that he letches after other women, because I have never before felt uncomfortable around him. I’m trying to see if I can catch him surreptitiously looking at Paloma or one of the other girls I work with, or Grace or Angela, or the wives of the women that Jack works with, or even Rachel. Nothing, absolutely nothing. The only time he notices them is when he’s talking to them. Maybe Grace got it wrong?

  My eyes flick over to Grace, who is mercilessly questioning Paloma (as she did at our wedding) and probably has her sights set on the other girls for professional beauty secrets. Every so often, I notice that her gaze goes to Hector and, whenever it looks as if he is going to be on the same side of the room as her, she manoeuvres the person she is talking to away from the area, or she ends that conversation and moves to talk to someone else. It’s quite obvious, now that I know, that she is avoiding him. That he does indeed make her skin crawl. She hasn’t got it wrong.

  ‘How are you, Libby?’ Hector is standing in front of me, then he is bobbing down to get to my height.

  ‘Oh, I’m … I’m fine,’ I say, wishing that Mum was harassing me about the wig now, because at least I wouldn’t be talking to him. I don’t know what to say; I don’t know how to act. It’s like walking in on someone having sex – which happened to me with my flatmates a few times when I was at university: you can never really get that image of them out of your head. I hadn’t seen Hector do it, but the image of him handing over a wad of notes before …

  ‘It’s good to see you looking so well,’ he says, his face and voice full of genuine concern. ‘Jack was very worried about you.’

  I find Jack with my eyes across the room as I say, ‘I know. It’s been difficult for both of us.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re on the mend. I’m sure it’ll be no time at all until you’re at full strength and back at work.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I say. ‘Although I’m not really looking that far ahead at the moment.’

  ‘I understand.’

  I spot an empty plate on the table: this is my way out of this conversation. It’s all a bit much for me. I put my hand on the arm of the sofa and lever myself upright, just before Hector offers to help me. ‘I’ll put this in the kitchen,’ I tell Hector, seizing the plate. ‘Then I’ll be right back.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Hector says, standing and towering over me.

  Without looking back, I move through the room and out of the door, managing to breathe a little once I am away from the living room.

  In the kitchen, I slide the dish onto the side and tell myself to breathe. It’s not as if Hector has done anything to me. It’s not as if he had taken me to a brothel. But the idea that he could take anyone to such a place, let alone his fifteen-year-old son, is one of those things that I find it hard to ignore. Hard to reconcile with the man who put his hand on the small of my back and wrapped his other hand over mine and whirled me around the dancefloor to … I can’t remember the song. How was I to know two years later I’d be trying to remember the tune we’d danced to so I could make myself feel even more sick?

  I close my eyes and try to stop the world spinning so fast, and to give my stomach a chance to settle.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Harriet asks, causing me to jump and my eyes to fly open. I immediately turn to the side, and move the plates together, concentrating on piling up the empty dishes. They clink together, the noise suddenly magnified in the quiet of the kitchen, even though there are voices and music in the other room.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I say, trying not to sound flustered. I don’t want to look at her, I don’t want her to see disgust or the pity I feel for her on my face.

  ‘Are you sure? You seem very nervous.’

  ‘Oh, it’s … it’s … this is the first time we’ve had people over since the … erm … accident. Just a bit overwhelming. You know how it is.’

  ‘Here, let me help,’ she says, and starts stacking plates up for me.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and move away from the sink to the table.

  ‘You really should rest,’ Harriet says.

  ‘You’re probably right, but it’s hard with a house full of people.’

  ‘Would you like me to ask them to leave?’

  Harriet is a lovely person. That’s why it kills me that Hector did that to her. And it sounds as if that wasn’t the first time. I shudder inside at the thought of it. Does she know? Does she know and tolerate it, or is she completely clueless?

  I force a smile at her. ‘Secretly? I’d love it if you did. But it’s not fair; they’ve come all this way to celebrate the fact that Jack and I are still here, so I shouldn’t really wish for a bit of peace and quiet, should I?’

  My mother-in-law smiles at me conspiratorially. ‘Libby, if you knew the number of times I’ve thought the same thing at parties at my home … It’s expected, though, of a top businessman’s wife to be the perfect host. I’m a little envious of you sometimes that you haven’t allowed yourself to become simply Mrs Jack Britcham, if I may say that.’

  ‘But Jack’s nothing like his father when it comes to that world.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. But he could be, because the Britcham name means so much in the circles he works in.’

  ‘God, do you think Jack feels a bit wronged that I still work and have my own life?’ Did Eve slot into that world so much better than me?

  Harriet beams at me, and it kills me inside again that she’s been so ill-treated – whether she knows it or not – by Hector. ‘I think it’s a credit to Jack’s character that he has managed to find not one but two wives who have their own lives.’

  ‘Oh, God, sorry, I’ve just realised how
that sounds. I don’t mean you don’t have your own life, I just mean—’

  ‘I understand what you mean,’ Harriet interrupts. ‘And I’m not offended. I have my own life, but it is one that is based around my family and my husband. There’s nothing wrong with that choice, just as there’s nothing wrong with your choice. That’s what I like about the modern world: choice. We all choose what we have to live with.’

  My hand automatically goes up to my hairless head: the choice I’d made because of the choice another person made. My loss because of someone else’s decision to be selfish and stupid. This is why I am not enjoying the party – it’s not something I would have chosen; it’s not the sort of party I would have thrown. And this isn’t a party, it’s the wake that would have happened if we’d died in the crash.

  ‘Actually, Harriet, would it be really awful if I asked you to get rid of everyone?’ I ask. I don’t like to feel weak and powerless: I don’t like not being in control of my life and my destiny. I don’t like having my choice taken away from me.

  ‘Not at all, Liberty,’ Harriet says, her eyes loaded with concern. That’s a look I don’t like seeing, because behind the concern there is also pity. ‘Not at all.’ She pats my hand on her way out of the door.

  ‘Are you OK, beautiful?’ Jack asks after everyone – including Harriet and Hector, who respectively stayed behind to clear up and talk to Jack – have gone. I heard Mum kicking up a fuss about staying to help tidy up but Dad wouldn’t let her – he said they needed to get back to help an elderly neighbour. Poor Mum had been so conflicted, but when Dad actually got up and went to get his keys, she, thankfully, chose the neighbour – and needing to be up early for church in the morning. I couldn’t have withstood another conversation about getting a wig. A wig was not on the agenda, and that was a choice I had made not based on that driver’s actions.

  ‘Just tired,’ I say to Jack, allowing him to assist me in easing myself down onto the bed.