The Wife Before Me(10)
He rings her late one night. ‘Would you like to come to Kinsale with me for the August holiday weekend?’ he asks.
She swallows, her mouth dry. It is three days since he was in touch, his phone going directly to message each time she tried to contact him. She had been distraught, convinced he had decided to end their friendship. That is all she can call this liaison that can sometimes feel more like a therapy session.
‘Elena, are you there?’ He sounds puzzled by her silence.
‘Yes, Nicholas. I’m here.’ She hopes he can’t hear the shake in her voice.
‘So, what do you think?’
‘Yes. That would be wonderful.’
What will they do in Kinsale, she wonders when the call ends. Go for long, bracing walks? Enjoy the gourmet restaurants, then kiss each other chastely as they go to their separate rooms? She breathes deeply and exhales. There is only one way to find out.
* * *
They browse the galleries and craft shops of Kinsale, explore the harbour clanging with boats, find small pubs where music is played and singers rattle out old, familiar ballads. A Do Not Disturb notice hangs outside their bedroom door. No thoughts of Zac play on Elena’s mind as she lies with Nicholas on the wide, rumpled bed.
Quivering from the touch of fingertips, feathery kisses on skin, they are seized by a whirlwind of desire, their nights and mornings tangled up in pleasure, unable to stop laughing, loving, talking. Only one thing mars her happiness. Amelia Madison. Her absence from their conversation has succeeded in making her invisible presence all the stronger.
On their last evening together, they dine in a restaurant with a view of the harbour. Twilight settles over the busy town and the setting sun casts a reddening glow on the water. The light on the ocean intensifies. Yachts, heading towards the marina, stencil the horizon like black Chinese lettering. Amelia must have witnessed a similar sunset, Elena thinks. Had she been so dazzled that she was unaware that the wheels of her car had only the most precarious grip on the mossy surface of Mason’s Pier?
* * *
Elena had visited the pier, drawn there by a voyeuristic curiosity that shamed her yet nagged her constantly. The sturdy barricade blocking entry to the pier had obviously been erected since the accident. No more cars would sink into that deep well. She could see the slipway, its dangerous slant. The shift in Amelia’s car must have been almost imperceptible at first. Perhaps, feeling the subtle movement, she braked too sharply. The skids on the tracks still visible on the slipway the following morning suggested she had lost control, though the handbrake was full on when her car was lifted ashore. She should have been a confident driver who knew how to brake gently; her work took her all over the country and she had written about her love of driving in one of her online features. Why had she chosen to visit Mason’s Pier with its tragic connotations? Was it possible that her drowning had not been an accident? Is that why Nicholas was so reluctant to discuss it?
After leaving the pier, Elena had driven to Lemon Grass Hill, the organic farm that Killian and Susie owned. Killian was picking plums in the orchard when she arrived and Susie was grooming their horse, Cassandra. Killian had shown her around the farm before leaving for a meeting with other organic growers, and Susie, preparing a lunch of cheese and olives, said, ‘You’ve a bloom about you. Who is he?’
‘You met him at my mother’s funeral.’
‘Nicholas Madison?’ Susie, who was cutting slices of home-made brown bread, paused and glanced enquiringly at her.
‘Yes. I’ve been seeing him for a few months now.’
‘Are you in love with him?’
‘I guess I must be.’
‘Love is not a guessing game, Elena.’
‘I went to Mason’s Pier.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Unable to hide her shock, Susie’s voice rose.
‘I don’t know… she haunts me. And I feel as if she’s haunting Nicholas as well. He never talks about her. Doesn’t even mention her name. How strange is that?’
‘Everyone has their own way of dealing with loss. Let his wife rest in peace. He’ll tell you about her when he’s ready.’
* * *
‘You’re very quiet.’ Nicholas is attuned to the shift in her mood. ‘Did I do something to upset you?’
‘Of course not.’ Elena sighs, remembering Susie’s words. ‘Everything’s perfect.’
‘You’re thinking of him again.’ An indent between his eyebrows deepens. Is Nicholas jealous? Has she been too frank in answering his questions about Zac?
‘How can you ask me that?’ She leans over the table to hold his hand. ‘You’ve well and truly exorcised Zac from my life.’
‘So, what’s wrong, then? You’re miles away.’
‘Why do you never talk to me about Amelia?’ She presses her lips together and waits for his reply.
His fingers stiffen into a claw-like arch under her hand. He sits back in his chair, his expression daring her to continue.
‘You never mention her name or refer to what happened to her. It’s as if she never existed. I want to help you—’
‘Help me? How do you propose to do that?’
‘By talking about Amelia. You’ve helped me through such a difficult time. Why can’t I do the same for you?’ Her words sound hollow, childish. They remind her of a woman who phoned after Isabelle’s funeral to apologise for missing it. She sounded like an authority on life after death as she informed Elena that her mother was free from pain and at peace. Elena had gritted her teeth, resenting the woman’s blithe belief that a few trivial platitudes would ease her loss. Is that what Nicholas believes she is doing?