The Perfect Widow. A.M. Castle
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dread was that someone else would see my yearning for what it was – and would tell him. The shame, the humiliation, didn’t bear thinking about. I had to make myself less vulnerable. And I had to be a lot less available. There’s nothing people like more than a bit of a challenge. Watch kids in the playground. They all want the same toy. One picks it up, and it’s suddenly the hottest thing in the sandpit. Meanwhile, a hundred identical toys, just as good, lie unwanted and unseen.
At the moment, I was like a discarded plastic bucket, aching for Patrick to pick me. I needed to stir things up, make him see me, realise that I was a must-have. And feel that he had to fight to get me.
Or I had to contemplate something much more difficult. Something terrifying.
I needed to accept defeat and move on.
Now
Becca
Becca stared straight ahead, kept her eyes on the sitcom, just the way her mother liked her to. She could sense her mother’s gaze coming to rest on her occasionally when the canned laughter rang out, checking she was smiling. Becca stretched her mouth obligingly, but inside, she was thinking. She’d have to stir things up. If she was right about Louise – and she was – she’d have to make others see it. Because at the moment they were blind.
This was the easiest way to be with her mother. Let it all wash over her. And if Mum wanted to have her say about Becca’s life, the telly was the referee. All points were made via the set. ‘Doesn’t she just look lovely?’ Compared with the state of you. Her mother sighed as a 20-year-old with a size-six body wafted across the screen.
‘That mother is so kind, isn’t she?’ Why can’t you stop being a bitch? Becca countered, as the cosy TV matriarch poured out more tea, apparently without the whiff of martyrdom hanging over her every action.
They sat in a silence that passed for companionable for a while, then Becca burst into speech. ‘Would you ever think that she’d be capable of murder?’ she asked, jabbing a biscuit towards the sitcom daughter.
‘Murder?’ Her mother’s eyes were as round as the coasters on the coffee table. ‘But why would she need to kill someone? She’s got everything, hasn’t she? Look at that boyfriend, he worships the ground she walks on, you can tell.’ Why haven’t you got one? Her mother was tutting, shifting in her chair. Becca knew the signs, realised glumly she ought to go. These Saturday nights were never easy, at the best of times. And now, with her mind so occupied with thoughts of pulling that one trailing thread that would make Louise Bridges unravel, well, she hadn’t got the energy to play her mother’s games.
Suddenly, her mother turned to her, actually looked straight at her. ‘It’s not like before, is it, love? You know, when you got everything … out of proportion?’
Becca stared at her. She thought they had a pact never to mention those dark months, the medication that had kept her tethered to her bed, as secure as any strait jacket. ‘No. No. Of course not, Mum. Why would you say that? I’m better now, that was ages ago. All in the past.’
‘It’s just … you’ve got that expression again. You know, that look on your face …’ Her mother was still gazing at her, checking for something, Becca didn’t know what. She shook her head.
‘You’ve got it wrong, Mum. Just busy. Busy at work, you know. But it’s great to be here. So relaxing after a hard week.’ Her fingers gripped the armrest.
Her mother subsided. So willing to be reassured, so glad to have her fears laid to rest. She didn’t want that trouble again. Becca didn’t blame her. It was … well, it was a hole that she had fallen into. But she had crawled out of it, too. This wasn’t the same at all. Back then, she obsessed about anything. Everything. Light switches, lampposts. Yes, she could see now that it wasn’t healthy, she’d needed help. But this time was different. She was looking into something, legitimately. A concern. A desire to protect the public. And this time, she was right.
On the screen, the soundtrack erupted into guffaws again, then a smattering of applause. Becca chuckled obediently, felt her mother’s eyes rake her face again, smiling this time. Becca slumped back in her chair, forgot about escape. She let the evening wash over her. She’d play the game her mother’s way, for once.
Then
I assessed the rest of the herd. Yes, they all played at wanting me. But it was just a game. They were little boys, compared to Patrick. I sensed, though, that Patrick would only make a move – say a few more words, even – if he thought there was real competition.
There were possibilities, all right. So many men, and all of them apparently so single. While Patrick remained immune to my charms, the rest of his floor was mine for the asking. But that gave me pause. Did I really want to foul my own nest? Risk a recommendation scrawled in the gents? I, of all people, knew what men could be like.
At the moment I had an ice queen reputation. That gave me an odd kind of status, that I surely didn’t deserve by virtue of birth, education, or anything else much. If I unbent enough to date one of his cohort, would Patrick forever see me as tainted? I thought he might. Men can be territorial. I’d seen that often enough with my mother. It was fine for them to stray, make it clear they’d lost whatever interest they’d had, but if she put a foot out of line, started sizing up the next Mr Oh-So-Wrong, well … It was never pretty.
I wasn’t saying that my lovely Patrick was anything like the scum Mum chose to hang about with. But still. I wanted everything tidy, above board. Letting him see me with another guy from work was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
I decided, instead, to try to get a little bit of practice elsewhere. For now, I’d accept that things were going nowhere with Patrick, that he was just out of my league. Instead, I’d make the day of one of the blokes in my French class, just by trying a bit of light ooh-la-la flirtation. Because, despite having seen enough rounds of the battle of the sexes to write the book on it, thanks to my mother, I actually had no direct experience.
This was in pre-Tinder times, when dating advice ran along the lines of, do an evening course or die alone. Do you know anyone who met their life partner learning to upholster or gleaning the basics of car maintenance? No, of course not. But still the advice got dished out, as though there was something deeply erotic about adult education centres. There wasn’t. They were basically schools used after hours, and most of the time we were all sitting on those piddly orange plastic chairs that are big enough for you to swing your legs like metronomes in Year One but pretty well cut off the circulation in grown-ups. How could anyone think of sex while scrunched up like an old crisp packet? Must have been desperate. I know I was.
True to form, I would hunch there once a week, vacuuming up information. I was always trying to claw my way up. But there were a couple of guys on my course who’d already sidled up to chat, and not just about whether dimanche came before lundi. Perhaps they’d been given the ‘join an evening class’ spiel by a well-meaning parent or friend. The next time one of them came over, I told myself I’d try not to blush, stammer or freeze. Instead, I would chat. Heaven knew I could do with a few more moves, which would hopefully stop me needing a defibrillator every time Patrick spoke to me. If he ever did again.
The first of the likely lads was Mike. A nice enough boy. He’d read somewhere – or been told by his mum – that humour was the way to a woman’s heart. All those personal ads with ‘GSOH essential’ had a lot to answer for. His jokes were terrible. But it was sweet of him to try. I couldn’t help smiling up at him after one of his better efforts, not wanting to encourage him too much – after all, he wasn’t fit to lick Patrick’s boots – but grateful all the same. It felt good to be seen, for once.
And