I took a deep breath. Suddenly I had the courage to go back and reclaim my house. It was as much mine as his. I was glad now that we hadn’t filed for divorce. I hadn’t been able to afford it and Tom was playing a different game. It made things easier now; something he would have hated if he’d known.
On the way back I had to buy petrol. Since I’d left home I’d worried every time I’d had to do that, panicking in case one day soon I’d be flat broke. Now the opposite had happened. Since Tom died I’d found he’d had substantial savings that he’d kept hidden from me, and because we were still married and hadn’t changed our wills, that money became mine. His boss at work had called to tell me that his life insurance would pay out a large lump sum and he put me in touch with their pensions officer, too. I thought how I’d struggled financially even when we were together, how he made me feel guilty if I spent anything, but made me contribute half of all bills, even though I earned a fraction of his income. Often I’d go overdrawn and he’d bail me out. I always had to pay him back.
In Paris I’d tried to talk to Harry about it, when I had to explain why I’d be broke for a while. We’d been talking about putting a deposit down on a rental apartment and I wanted to pay my share.
“I’ll have the money from the house,” I’d said, “but that’ll take a few months to come in. I just can’t afford to put much down for a deposit.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he’d said. “Honestly, honey. That’s the one thing that I’m not worried about.” He’d looked at me with concern. “But what do you mean, he has savings and you don’t? That’s not right. You’re married; everything should be shared.”
I didn’t know where to start. I’d hinted at things that were wrong in my marriage but the problem was that I’d thought Harry knew nothing about control and possessive behavior. In his personal life he didn’t mix with people who were manipulative and who told him something was true when he knew in his heart that it wasn’t. And he didn’t know how over time it was easy to get ground down, so that it was impossible to know what was right or wrong, what was real or fake. Or that’s what I’d thought.
Of course the reality was that he was cheating on his wife. He told lies easily, without guilt. He’d lied to Emma every day of our affair. He’d lied to me about sleeping with her, about his longing for a child. He’d lied, too, when he said he couldn’t live without me.
After I filled up with petrol I got back into my car, feeling brave and determined, and drove through the familiar streets, feeling free for the first time in years. Since university, in fact. Since the day before my twenty-third birthday, when I first met Tom in a bar. I’d immediately fallen in love with him. I’d learned to blame myself at my mother’s knee; Tom had merely taken over the baton. It had taken years before I realized what he was really like. I knew that journey of discovery wasn’t going to end just because he was dead.
This time I parked on the driveway. Tom’s car was still there, so I had to park behind it, but still. I can’t begin to tell you how significant that was. The last time I’d parked up there had been the day I’d left Tom, but before then . . . well, I couldn’t remember a day when I’d been allowed to do it.
When I got out of the car, it was as though a weight had lifted from me. I felt lighter. Hopeful. The sun was shining brightly and I lifted my face to the rays. It was the beginning of August and the day was hot and sunny. It was a perfect summer’s day. Perfect in all sorts of ways. I thought I might sit outside for an hour or two with a gin and tonic and a book, and enjoy my garden again. Count my blessings.