It’s one of those stories you hear about all the time. Betrayal, deception and loss; it had all the key ingredients. Except this wasn’t about some random friend of a friend, or someone in the pub. This was us. This was me.
I once had this idea that I was different to everyone else. That I didn’t fit in with the norm. I didn’t. At least, not on the surface. I didn’t like rowdy clubs and getting drunk. I didn’t follow fashion and celebrity gossip. I was better than that. I was different.
I wore that anti-social label with pride. I liked being different. Unique, that’s how I thought of myself. But I was no more unique than the rest of them. He proved that.
Gullible. That’s how I think of myself now. I liked ‘different’ better. It was less insulting. Not that it matters now.
I reached forward and ran my fingers over the polished, dark wood. A shiver ran down my spine, filling me with an eerie sense of foreboding. It wasn’t what lay in front of me that concerned me, though – it was what lay behind. Or rather, sat behind.
The rows of people sitting just a few feet away had a very different word they would use to describe me. Guilty.
I shrugged. The outward symbol to the world, or at least within the draughty, old stone church… I didn’t care about their opinion. Mind you, I didn’t much care for the man before me, either. That’s probably why they think I killed him.
I figured that I’d stood there long enough to be deemed appropriate. In my opinion it was too long. But then, I’d rather have stayed home and watched TV than have been here, on show for all of them to study like an insect under a microscope.
I couldn’t really blame them for their disapproval. I had motive, as the police liked to tell me. Repeatedly. I had the opportunity and the means too, but I wasn’t going to help them figure that bit out.
I turned and walked out of the church. My black shoes clicked on the uneven stones as everyone watched. I kept my eyes fixed straight ahead, my chin raised and my back straight. No doubt they would all be adding ‘callous’ to their list of descriptive words for me now. My eyes were dry. I hadn’t shed a tear through the entire service. I’m certain that won’t have gone unnoticed.
I grasped the cold metal handle and hauled open the heavy wooden door. Ah, freedom – temporarily, at least. It was only a matter of time before the police paid me another visit. I knew it. They knew it. The question was, what was I going to do about it?
Professing my innocence didn’t seem like it would be sufficient to get me out of this mess. Talking had never been my strong suit. I was more the strong, silent type. That was one of the things Ian had loved about me. When he still loved me, of course.
Somewhere between ‘I do’ and ‘dust to dust,’ something had changed. He’d changed. Then again, considering I was now a grieving widow – without much emphasis on grieving – perhaps we both had.
I was two feet from my car, keys in hand and ready to escape, when she stopped me. ‘You are going to the wake, aren’t you?’
There was an undercurrent to her tone. An accusation masked in honey. I turned back to face her. Pretty, blonde and young. Every damn cliché she could possibly be. That was Isabelle.
‘I don’t think that’d be a very good idea, do you?’
‘He was your husband. It’s only proper for you to be there.’
‘Yes, but Isabelle dear, how will you all gossip about me behind my back if I’m there to hear it?’
Her pretty little mouth contorted into a thin, twisted line. ‘We’ll manage.’
I snorted. She was nothing if not honest. About some things, anyway. Mostly her hatred of me. Funny, really – it should have been the other way around, considering she was the other woman. But then again, I wasn’t supposed to know that. And for the sake of my freedom, I wasn’t about to let that slip.
I shrugged. I was getting quite good at that.
‘You have to come,’ Julia begged as she appeared at Isabelle’s side. ‘It’ll look suspicious if you don’t.’
Ah, sweet Julia. My one true friend. She’d been the only one on my side since this whole mess started. I’m not sure if she truly believes in my innocence, is hoping she can coerce me into confessing, or is simply afraid she might be next on my list if she crosses me.
Foolish girl. She’s already crossed me. She just doesn’t know I know. That’s another secret I’m keeping.
‘Julia, people already suspect me. Eating tiny sandwiches and sipping coffee will not change their opinion.’ I got into the car. I could still feel their eyes on me as I drove away.
I returned to the house that had once been ours. I had this nagging feeling that it should feel empty and hollow. That the house should feel incomplete and wrong without his presence in it. Instead, it just felt right. It felt like it was finally mine. I wasn’t just a guest living in his world. I belonged.
Now that I think about it, I can see that our relationship had never been quite right. We were always just a little out of step with one another. In the beginning, we tried desperately to fit together. It was like learning an intricate dance whilst trying not to step on each other’s toes. I don’t think we ever really mastered it, though. Our toes, like our hearts, just became more and more resilient to each heavy-footed blunder.
***
The knock on my door the next morning was inconvenient but not unexpected. ‘We have a few more questions for you, Mrs Peters,’ the smartly dressed detective informed me.
I nodded and invited him and his partner in. I’d met them both before. I indicated the green sofa and they sat down. I perched opposite them on the edge of an armchair.
‘Were you aware that your husband was having an affair?’ the detective asked.
I knew the question would come at some point. I’d considered acting surprised and denying all knowledge. After all, I didn’t particularly want them to realise I had a greater motive than the large life insurance policy they already knew about. But I’d never been much of an actress.
‘I knew,’ I replied, keeping my voice steady. ‘Isabelle was the latest in Ian’s string of affairs as he attempted to cling on to the fun and exciting youth he’d never really had in the first place. He’d tried to be discreet, but I knew. I always knew.’
The detectives exchanged a look. I could guess what it meant. ‘Apparently your husband had promised Isabelle that he would leave you for her.’
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. They frowned at me. My reaction had confused them and now required an explanation. No doubt they had already discounted Isabelle as a suspect as she had nothing to gain; his death had been a little premature for her bank balance to benefit.
‘Ian would never actually leave me,’ I informed them. Twenty years of marriage was long enough for me to learn that he was full of empty promises. Whilst we might not have had the marriage that either of us had dreamt of when we were younger, he couldn’t deny that it had its advantages.
I wasn’t one of those wives always nagging their husbands to do something. I didn’t demand explanations for his late nights and missed appointments. I let him have his freedom. He, in turn, was able to have fun, but always knew he had a safety net beneath him. His girlfriends could never demand too much from him, because after all, he was already married.
‘I’m sure Isabelle knew it too,’ I added. I could see their surprise. ‘I guess she didn’t impart that piece of information.’ I shrugged. ‘Maybe she really believed he would leave me,’ I added, contemplating the possibility. She loved him, or at least, she loved what he could do for her. Maybe she really did think he loved her too. ‘Or maybe she just needed you to believe it.’
‘What makes you think she knew he wouldn’t leave you and marry her?’
‘Because he didn’t marry Julia.’
‘Julia?’ Their bewildered expressions were almost comical.
I smiled slightly. Dear, sweet Julia. My best friend in the world. ‘Didn’t you know? Ian had an affair with her before Isabelle. I guess he upgraded her for a younger model.’
They looked at one another and scribbled furiously in their tiny notebooks.
‘So you had more of a reason to kill him, then…’
It wasn’t really a question. More of an accusation. A fact. I couldn’t really disagree with a fact, could I?
‘You mean because I’m the jilted wife?’ I asked softly, and they nodded. ‘Maybe, but I accepted that a long time ago. If I wanted vengeance I would have taken it after the first affair, don’t you think?’
I could see they didn’t look convinced.
‘What was it you called it the other day? Oh yes, I remember – “a crime of passion”.’ I shook my head sadly. ‘Is it possible to commit a crime of passion if you don’t feel any passion towards the victim?’ It was a genuine question. ‘I don’t feel anything for Ian any more, and I haven’t for a long time. No love, but no hatred either. We just co-existed in the same house. Not really friends, but not strangers either.’
Silence filled the spacious lounge. It, like the rest of the house, was accustomed to silence.
‘I would have thought that a jilted lover, or maybe someone who realised that she was about to become one, would feel more passion… Wouldn’t you say?’
***
It had been a long day sitting in the court house. I’d worn the same black outfit as I had for Ian’s funeral. It seemed appropriate. I held my breath as they read out the verdict.
‘Guilty.’
I flinched at that word as a murmur went through the crowd.
‘No! You’ve made a mistake. It wasn’t me.’
I was vaguely aware of the sound of banging before silence was restored. I remained frozen in my seat as the sentence was issued. Ten years. The words echoed in my brain. Ten years. It didn’t really seem enough for destroying someone’s life.
I looked up to see Julia crying. Her face was all red and blotchy. Dear, sweet Julia. I shook my head slightly as a uniformed officer took her arm and pulled her to her feet. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she insisted again. But her cries were ignored as she was led away.
I took a taxi home and let myself in to the big, empty house. With a sigh I sat down on our old-fashioned green sofa. I stroked the armrest and wrinkled my nose. I’d never liked it. Green was Ian’s favour colour, and as it was his salary that paid for our furniture, carpets and decor, there were touches of green everywhere.
I leaned forward and slid my fingers under the sofa and along the carpet until I felt the smooth, sharp edges of paper. I pulled out the magazine that I’d hidden there and leaned back as I flicked through the colourful pages.
I couldn’t help smiling as I thought about how much better the designs in the magazine would look when I actually brought them to life in my home. Colour would spring from every wall. But no green. Never any green. I’d waited too many years to be rid of that colour to have any reminders of it now. Of course, the same could be said about Ian.