The Widow(Kate Waters #1)(3)
In the early days Glen told me all about his job in the bank—the responsibilities he had, how the juniors relied on him, the jokes the staff played on one another, the boss he couldn’t stand—“Thinks he’s better than everyone, Jeanie”—and the people he worked with. Joy and Liz in the back office; Scott, one of the counter staff, who had terrible skin and blushed over everything; May, the trainee who kept making mistakes. I loved listening to him, loved hearing about his world.
I suppose I did tell him about my work, but we seemed to drift back to the bank quite quickly.
“Hairdressing isn’t the most exciting job,” he’d say, “but you do it very well, Jeanie. I’m very proud of you.”
He was trying to make me feel better about myself, he told me. And he did. It felt so safe being loved by Glen.
Kate Waters is looking at me, doing that thing with her head again. She’s good. I’ll give her that. I’ve never spoken to a journalist before, apart from telling them to go away, never mind let one in the house. They’ve been coming to the door for years on and off, and no one has got inside until today. Glen saw to that.
But he’s not here now. And Kate Waters seems different. She’s told me she feels “a real connection” with me. Says she feels like we’ve known each other for ages. And I know what she means.
“His death must’ve come as a terrible shock,” she says, giving my arm another squeeze. I nod dumbly.
I can’t tell her how I started lying awake, wishing Glen were dead. Well, not dead exactly. I didn’t want him to be in any pain or suffer or anything. I just wanted him not to be there anymore. I would fantasize about the moment when I’d get the call from a police officer.
“Mrs. Taylor,” the deep voice would say, “I’m so sorry, but I’ve got bad news.” The anticipation of the next bit used to make me almost giggle.
“Mrs. Taylor, I’m afraid your husband has been killed in an accident.”
I then saw myself—really saw myself—sobbing and picking up the phone to ring his mum and tell her. “Mary,” I’d say, “I’m so sorry. I’ve got some bad news. It’s Glen. He’s dead.”
I can hear the shock in her gasp. I can feel her grief. I can feel the sympathy of friends at my loss, gathering my family around me. Then the secret thrill.
Me, the grieving widow. Don’t make me laugh.
Of course, when it really happened, it didn’t feel nearly as real. For a moment his mum sounded almost as relieved as me that it was all over; then she put the phone down, weeping for her boy. And there were no friends to tell and just a handful of family to gather around me.
Kate Waters chirps up about needing the loo and making another cup of tea, and I let her get on with it, giving her my mug and showing her the downstairs bathroom. When she’s gone, I look around the room quickly, making sure there’s nothing of Glen’s out. No souvenirs for her to steal. Glen warned me. He told me stories about the press. I hear the toilet flush, and she eventually reappears with a tray and starts again about what a remarkable woman I must be, so loyal.
I keep looking at the wedding picture on the wall above the gas fire. We look so young, we could’ve been dressing up in our parents’ clothes. Kate Waters sees me looking and stands to take the photo off the wall.
She perches on the arm of my chair, and we look at it together. September 6, 1989. The day we tied the knot. I don’t know why, but I start to cry, my first real tears since Glen died. Kate Waters puts an arm around me.
THREE
The Reporter
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 9, 2010
Kate Waters shifted in her chair. She shouldn’t have had that cup of coffee earlier—what with that and the tea, her bladder was sending distress signals and she might have to leave Jean Taylor alone with her thoughts. Not a good idea at this stage of the game, especially as Jean had gone a bit quiet, sipping her tea and gazing into the distance. Kate was desperate not to pause the moment and damage the rapport she was building with her. They were at a very delicate stage. Lose eye contact and the whole mood could change.
Her husband, Steve, had once compared her job to stalking an animal. He’d had a glass too many of Rioja and was showing off at a dinner party.
“She gets closer and closer, feeding them little bits of kindness and humor, a hint of money to come, their chance to give their side of the story, until they are eating out of the palm of her hand. It’s a real art,” he’d told the guests around their dining room table.
They were his colleagues from the oncology department, and Kate had sat, doing her professional smile and murmuring, “Come on, darling, you know me better than that,” as the guests laughed nervously and sipped their wine. She’d been furious during the washing up, sloshing the suds over the floor as she threw pans into the sink, but Steve had put his arms around her and kissed her into a reconciliation.
“You know how much I admire you, Katie,” he’d said. “You’re brilliant at what you do.”
She’d kissed him back, but he was right. It was sometimes a game or a flirtatious dance, to make an instant connection with a suspicious—even hostile—stranger. She loved it. Loved the adrenaline rush of getting to the doorstep first, ahead of the pack, ringing the bell and hearing the sounds of life inside the house, seeing the light change in the frosted glass as the person approached and then, as the door opened, going into full performance mode.