The Woman He Loved Before Read online

  It’s obvious why I wasn’t mad keen to do it again.

  It wasn’t Jack’s fault, but after the loss I spent a lot of time trying to get in touch with my body again. I wondered constantly in the early days afterwards if that was the reason why it’d gone wrong. If not being in touch with my body completely because I had effectively separated it from my heart and mind for so long was what made it happen. I knew logically that wasn’t the case, that there was very likely something wrong with the baby – which I was meant to call an embryo – and that is why it didn’t develop. Nature has its way of handling things, apparently. And maybe considering its conception, it might have been for the best. But that’s all logical. The reality is, I thought of him or her as a baby, and I wanted them, I wanted someone to love and care for, and I lost them, and I had no real reason or explanation for it happening. It was something else I had to carry with me. Another scar that I feared people could see. And I blamed my body for it. What else could I do? When it came to something like this, ‘just because’ was not a good enough reason.

  So I was not in a rush to have sex all over again, to take part in that act that had left me scarred. I don’t give a damn what anyone says about getting back on the horse again as soon as possible after a trauma – the last thing you want to do is go back to putting yourself in danger. Yes, even if that means you might not want to participate in that particular activity ever again.

  If I fell off a horse and was left feeling as I am now about the things I did, I would never go near a horse again. Not until someone could guarantee me that the horse I next approached – all those years later when I could put my fear of what happened into some kind of perspective – was one hundred per cent safe.

  Jack was safe.

  It took me a couple of months to work that one out. But the kissing was the best part, anyway. He told me that he’d kissed a lot of people, because it was what he had done instead of the other thing, but he hadn’t realised how much he could enjoy it until he kissed me. Which sounds very silly written here, but at the time I knew what he meant.

  I almost said (but didn’t) that he wouldn’t have to kiss anyone but me again, because I hoped I wouldn’t have to sleep with anyone else but him again. I’m sure, if this doesn’t work out with him, I won’t be doing it again. Not the sex part, anyway. No matter how much I want a baby, I don’t think I could face allowing another person into me.

  Probably won’t be writing much in here again for a while because Jack and I spend most of our spare time together. Every spare moment we have, we greedily claim for ourselves. I’ve only been able to write in here now because it’s Sunday afternoon and he has gone on a hunt for some food. We literally have nothing in the cupboards or fridge because we have not left the house, or really the bedroom, since Friday night. ‘I’ll go be hunter-gather,’ he said, beating his chest. And I’d had to kiss him several times before I felt safe enough to let him go.

  It’s silly, but whenever we leave each other I have to tell him I love him and seal it with a kiss because I am scared that if we don’t see each other again he won’t know. I’m not planning on leaving or dying but sometimes I get an irrational fear that either Elliot or Caesar is after me and I think they will find me and kill me.

  That doesn’t scare me as much as the thought of Jack not knowing before I die that in this life of mine, I have only ever loved one man. I loved Peter, but he was a boy. In this life, I have only truly loved one man and Jack is that man.

  So that’s it, my update.

  I don’t think I’ve made it clear how happy I am. Happiness is an alien concept to women like me, I think, but I am happy. He makes me laugh, he makes think, we talk, we kiss, we sometimes even decorate his house together. I won’t let him come to my flat because I think it’s important not to let another man – no matter how safe, no matter how much I love him – into my space again. I need a haven, and that’s why I keep the flat on even though I practically live here.

  I am happy. I have my jobs, I have my Access course, and I have my Jack. So I am happy. That is all that matters in the end: I am happy.

  Love,

  Eve

  22nd November 1999

  Hello old friend, you’re here again.

  I like that you are always here, never judging, never leaving. No matter how long I leave you for, I always know where you are when I need you. And I need you.

  What has happened now in the dramatic world of Eve? I have seen him again, that is what. Caesar. I have seen him again.

  Last night, after much persuasion because I do not like to do the ‘date’ thing, Jack took me to the opera in London.

  It was my chance to wear my dress. I haven’t worn it since that day I bought it, and putting it on again was like being embraced by an old friend. I felt as wonderful as I did that day in the shop, and I was grateful to Jack for persuading me to come to the opera, for giving me a chance to wear my dress.

  The opera, Madame Butterfly, was beautiful. I allowed myself to float along with the music, experience the emotions of the words, having read the story years before. I felt for Butterfly, so willing to do whatever she had to – including denouncing her faith – to be with the man she loved when all along he just wanted to get her into bed.

  During the intermission, I went to join the ladies queuing for the loo while Jack went to get us some drinks.

  In the mirror in the toilets, I noticed how different I looked. Not only because of the dress, but around the eyes, in the eyes, I was different because I was happy. I had no make-up on – make-up reminded me of Honey – so I never wore it now. But still, I was and looked happy.

  Making my way back towards Jack, I saw him talking to a man. No surprise, really, since Jack seemed to know people everywhere we went. But as I drew nearer, I realised who he was talking to. What he was talking to.

  I stopped walking as I took in the full horrific sight of him: Caesar.

  Jack knew Caesar. My knees went weak as I stood still, staring at the pair of them. Their body language was formal, reserved, so they did not know each other very well. But then, I looked from Jack to him and their similar height, their similar build, the shape of their faces … No, no, I shook the thought out of my head. No. Simply no.

  At the same time, I backed away, and then escaped the way I came, back towards the powder room, away from there. Inside the plush interior of the loos, I frantically scanned the faces of the women, looking for her, seeking her out among the posh frocks, expensive hairdos and heady perfume. And there she was: a cool, tall blonde with up-do hair, wearing a simple black sheath dress with pearls around her throat, expensive black shoes and bag, and immaculate make-up. Caesar’s escort. Other women would not notice her, would think she was like them, and there for the music, ambience and experience, few women would know that she was working. More of the men would know, because many of the men here could probably afford her.

  She glanced at me, having seen me watching her, and gave me a glacial, near-smile and I knew she could see it in me. She could tell what I used to be. Our eyes met and I knew she was nowhere near where I was towards the end. She was probably still telling herself that the money was worth it, that she was helping those men, that she felt empowered and liberated by what she was doing. She was probably pitying me for not being strong enough to go the distance and letting it defeat me. Stalking past me, she went back out there, and I followed, sticking my head out of the door, to see if I was right.

  I was. As soon as she saw that he was talking to someone, she kept her distance, hung around, looking in her bag, playing with her mobile phone, and generally being invisible until he was free.

  The bell ringing, telling us it was time to return to our seats, made me jump, and I pulled my head inside the powder room before Jack looked up and around to find out where I was. I stayed in the toilets, in a cubicle, until there was no sound from outside, and the second bell rang to tell people the rest of the performance was about to start.

  I wa
ited a few more minutes before I went out outside to find Jack standing alone, holding our drinks, our programmes tucked under his arm.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he asked. ‘You were gone for such a long time I was about to send out a search party.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said quietly. ‘I just … I don’t feel very well.’

  ‘You do look a little pale,’ he replied. ‘And you’re, you’re shaking.’ His gaze darted around, looking for the nearest flat surface. When he had disposed of our drinks, he came back and took my hand. ‘You’re freezing,’ he said, concerned. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’ I asked him. ‘Those tickets must have cost a fortune.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, all that matters is getting you well.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me,’ he said. ‘I love you. You look after the people you love.’

  Outside, in the fresh air, I felt a bit better, probably because I was further away from him. I inhaled London, remembering how in love with it I used to be, how perfect the city had seemed when I first arrived. And how scary and hidden with unknown dangers it seemed by the time I left.

  ‘You just missed my father,’ Jack said. ‘He was here at the opera. Should have known he’d be here. He tries to see every new production of Madame Butterfly.’

  I barely heard the rest of what he said because the first part had forced me to turn to the nearest wall and bend double as I threw up.

  Poor Jack was horrified. He took me in his arms after I had emptied my stomach, and then he held me until I’d stopped shaking enough to lean on his arm and walk with him back to the car. Later, he carried me up to bed and stayed awake until I had fallen asleep in his arms.

  What do I do?

  I have to finish things with Jack, of course. He’d been making noises about me meeting his family, but I hadn’t been keen. I couldn’t reciprocate, so I didn’t want to do that. I liked our world of two, as well. Having it made us seem all the more special. I didn’t like to let others in. And now I have more reason not to.

  It was weird, thinking about it, how Jack and I never talked properly about our families. I knew he had parents and a brother, he knew my father had died when I was young and my mother lived in Leeds, but it was only surface information. Anything deeper hadn’t seemed required.

  I should finish things with Jack, but how can I? When I haven’t been this happy in years, how can I be expected to just let him go?

  It’s not fair, this, you know? Haven’t I atoned enough for what I did? Wasn’t losing my baby enough punishment? Why does it seem I have to lose Jack, too? Why did Caesar have to be his father?

  libby

  I throw the book to the ground, desperate to get it away from me. I stare at my hands, looking for the grime and filth that must have rubbed off from Hector onto me.

  He can’t be Caesar, he just can’t.

  My body is very still, except for my panicked breathing. I look around the cellar, searching for her because she’s gone. Of course she’s gone. She couldn’t stay here and face this.

  I struggle to my feet, and start to pace, wringing my hands and fighting every urge in me to start screaming. How could she have lived with this secret? Did she tell Jack? She must have. But how could he have lived with it? Trying to force your son to have sex with a prostitute was one thing, but …

  How am I going to face Jack after this? How am I going to talk to him like normal when I know? Hector not only enslaved a woman, that woman was the woman his son married.

  Faintly, I hear a car pulling up outside, and then I hear Butch’s scampering and barking as the car door shuts. Jack.

  Working quickly, I wrap up the diaries and return them to their hiding place, then leave the cellar as quickly as possible. I make it into the bedroom seconds before the door opens and Jack enters the house. Butch’s barking stops for a few seconds and then I hear his nails scraping along the wood floor as he runs back to his bed.

  ‘Libby?’ Jack calls.

  ‘Yeah?’ I reply from my place behind the door.

  ‘I found a couple of waifs and strays on the way back who need feeding,’ Jack says.

  Angela and Grace. Oh, thank God. Thank God. They’ll hopefully stay all evening so I don’t have to speak to Jack and give away what I have just found out. I can work out how to deal with this.

  I open the door and stick my head out, smiling as I do so.

  ‘Hello, Liberty,’ Harriet says.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind us dropping in like this,’ says Hector.

  ‘We were in the area and Jack didn’t think it would be a problem,’ Harriet adds

  ‘It’s not, is it?’ Jack asks.

  Breathing, breathing, breathing. I just need to concentrate on breathing. Not talking, not standing, just breathing. ‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘It’s fine.’

  chapter seventeen

  libby

  Hector is sitting in our living room with a pre-dinner drink.

  Eve’s Caesar is our living room waiting to be fed.

  I’ve busied myself in the kitchen since their arrival even though Harriet has been trying to get me to take it easy, to go and sit down and talk to them. Hector makes everything about me crawl, as if I am covered in creeping, sliming film. Every time I look at him, I see nothing but the man who was capable of doing those horrendous things to Eve. How many others had he done that to? How many women had he paid for sex? Paid. For. Sex. The thought of it was bad enough, but to know that once he handed over his money, he saw nothing but a piece of flesh he could treat as he wanted …

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jack asks me and I nearly drop the dish in my hands out of fright. I have been focusing as much as possible on dinner, on trying to put the things I know out of my head so I can eat a meal with the man in the other room, I didn’t hear him approach.

  Does Jack know? Does he know what Eve did for a living because she felt so trapped by poverty? Does he know about Eve and his father?

  I turn to him and force a smile. ‘Nothing, why?’

  He reaches out to lay his hand on my arm and I flinch. His hand doesn’t make contact, but hurt spirals into his eyes. ‘You seem very nervous,’ he says through his disappointment. ‘We can tell them about the divorce if you want, so you don’t have to worry about pretending, if that’s what’s making you stressed.’

  Divorce? I think for a moment. Who’s getting a divorce? Then I remember. We are. I am. ‘No, no, it’s not that,’ I say. ‘I just want things to be OK with the dinner.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to help?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure.’

  ‘You know, Libby …’ he begins, then stops talking.

  Acting on instinct, I step forwards and slip my arms around him. It feels incredible to touch him again. I close my eyes and rest my head on his chest, listening to the beating of his heart. Slowly, cautiously he wraps his arms around me. He cups his hand around the back of my head, holding me gently against him.

  I love you, I think, hoping he can feel it through my touch, through my skin. I love you so very much.

  ‘I won’t let them stay too late,’ he tells me. ‘Maybe we can talk?’

  We haven’t done that, have we? It’s been too painful, the end too inevitable to have those truths of how he really feels about Eve, about me, spelt out to me. But how can I leave when we haven’t even talked it through properly? I haven’t even asked him how he truly feels about me. I have just assumed. ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

  He’s able to hold me closer then, to dare to breach the gap between us with a tighter hug, and I can feel his heart racing, matching the sudden racing of my heart.

  ‘Libby, that was fantastic,’ Harriet says, carefully placing her knife and fork on the plate side by side. I glance around at the plates, all empty – except mine. I didn’t realise until I sat opposite him that I would not be able to eat in Hector’s immediate vicinity. I’m finding it hard to tal
k as well, oh, and breathe.

  ‘Coq au vin is probably one of my favourite dishes,’ Hector says, cheerily. ‘I’m now torn between whose I prefer – yours or my wife’s.’ He reaches out, places his wrinkled, veiny hand on Harriet’s. ‘No offence meant, my darling,’ he says sweetly to Harriet.

  She smiles, receiving her husband’s touch with a grateful gentleness. ‘None taken.’

  Horrified, I look away and stand to reach for the plates.

  ‘No, you are not clearing away after all that cooking,’ Harriet admonishes and suddenly she is on her feet, taking plates and cutlery. Jack gets up to help and I can see what is about to happen: they’re going to gather up the plates, they’re going to take them into the kitchen and then they’re going to load the dishwasher or wash up and leave me alone with him. And I’ll have to talk to Hector.

  ‘No, no, I’ll help,’ I say frantically.

  ‘You’ll do no such thing,’ Harriet replies.

  ‘No arguments,’ Jack adds, ‘you sit down and relax.’

  When we’re alone, Hector sits back in his seat and smiles at me. I stare down at the table. The contours of his face are imprinted on my mind, so not looking at him isn’t even a respite. I can’t imagine what it was like for Eve after everything.

  ‘You’re looking very well,’ Hector says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mumble.

  ‘You must be ready to think about going back to work now.’

  I shrug, listening to the scraping and clinking sounds coming from the kitchen, willing Jack and his mother to hurry up and get back, to save me from this torture.