The Housewife(6)

“I like you, Eileen, truly. But don’t say anything to Roy. You know what he’s like. Talking about Deborah upsets him, you understand?”

She stares at me, her face twitching. She nods. “I didn’t… I…”

I open the refrigerator again and take out a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. I hand it to her. “Here you are, Eileen. And please ask Roy to open it. He loves opening bottles of champagne.”

She nods, takes the bottle from me, and stares at it like she’s reading the label, but her mouth is shaking. “I’m sorry if I— ”

“Not at all. Just don’t mention it to Roy. Like I said, it would upset him. And it’s not even true, so…” I smile, shoulders shrugging up. “You’d upset him for nothing.”

She blinks, nods a lot. “Of course. I wasn’t thinking.”

“No harm done, Eileen. But I do need your assurance that you won’t say anything.”

“God, I promise I won’t. I won’t breathe a word.”

“Thank you, Eileen.”

She walks away even more unsteadily than before, hugging her bottle.

I watch her leave, then light the candle and stare at the cake for a few moments. I shake my head, chuckling to myself, and retrieve the glass shard I’d inserted into Meredith’s slice of cake.

I shake my head. Don’t be silly, I chide myself. You’re not going to make friends that way!





3





“Shall I get the body now?”

Roy is staring at me, his jaw slack, his eyes blazing with anger.

The last of the guests has left. It’s almost ten at night and I’m in our bedroom, getting ready for bed, and Roy has just walked in. He’s had a couple of Scotches before he came up. I can tell from the glassy look in his eyes. I can even smell it from here.

“Why did she shoot herself in the face?” he barks, incredulous. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Jodie? What are you even trying to say?”

That’s actually an excellent question, but I don’t say that. Instead, I simply shrug while rubbing a shea-butter and rosehip-oil lotion into my arms. Roy may be a little annoyed with me right now, but men don’t leave because we’re jealous of the ex-wives. They leave because we shrivel up and there’s always a younger specimen waiting in the wings, which is why you cannot start too early to look after your skin .

“I’m not trying to say anything,” I say. “I was just curious.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You were just curious. Curious as to why I made her so miserable that she’d go and shoot herself? Is that it?” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “You know what your problem is? You’re jealous. It eats at you, Jodie. It consumes you. Whenever someone brings up Deborah, you go nuts. You turn into some kind of…weird, jealous bitch.”

“To be fair, Roy, there’s bringing up, and then there’s waxing lyrical about her for hours. But anyway, it was a genuine question. Because according to everyone who knew her, she had everything to live for. Money, beauty”—I glance around our gorgeous bedroom with its tall, double windows and buttery-yellow plaster—“this amazing house…and you. She had you to live for. So if somebody could give me a straight answer about what broke her down…”

He turns around. “For fuck’s sake! She’s not a car, Jodie. She didn’t break down. She was my wife! Can you not have a modicum of respect?”

I raise a finger. “Ex-wife, Roy. I’m your wife.”

He drags his hands down his face. “There you go again. My late wife.”

I look up at him. “But don’t you ever wonder?”

“Are you kidding me? Every day! You said so yourself: Her life was perfect, so why would she do these things to herself? Every day, I ask myself what drove her to this. Every day, Jodie.”

He unbuttons his shirt in quick, sharp movements.

I tilt my head. “What things?”

“What do you mean? ”

“You said, ‘do these things to herself.’ What things did she do?”

“I don’t want to discuss it.”

“Why not?”

He throws his shirt on a chair. I check out the muscles rippling down his back. “Maybe you should see someone, Jodie,” he says. “A psychologist.”

I chuckle. “I am.”

He shoots me a look. “You know what I mean.”

I rub some more lotion into my elbow. “Did you ask Deborah to see a psychologist?”

Suddenly, Roy is standing in front of me, his eyes black, his jaw set. He points his finger in my face, his mouth so tight that when he shouts, “That’s enough!” it’s like watching a ventriloquist without a puppet.

I stare at him, unblinking. He turns around, slaps both hands on his skull, and walks away.

“I’m going to get ready for bed,” I say.





I walk into the bathroom and stare at my reflection. My heart is racing. I’m doing this all wrong. I wanted today to be perfect and then I went and ruined it.

I lift my hair and turn to the side. Eileen is right; my earlobes are tiny, barely big enough for earrings other than the small diamond studs I’m wearing right now, and attached to the side. I study the shape of my small ears, turning this way and that. I had no idea that was a thing, or that Deborah and I had the same ears. I know we look a bit alike, but not so alike that you’d assume we were related.