The Mistress - Jill Childs Page 0,5

step, tugging on the shirt to cover my bare thighs.

‘Our daughter…’ she said. ‘She mustn’t know.’

Anna. I swallowed and tasted bile.

Helen twisted back to Ralph’s body, taking possession of it, cradling it in her arms. She reached up and tugged an old sheet down from a shelf, a dust cover perhaps, shook open the folds and stretched it over him. I sat, horrified, watching, listening to her sobbing, powerless to act.

Time stretched.

Somehow, shivering, I pulled myself to my feet and made it back to the sitting room. Everything was still. I forced myself to gather my scattered clothes and get dressed, then sat on the end of the settee – I don’t know for how long – looking blankly into the empty room, trying to breathe. We’d been here together, just a moment ago. He’d made love to me. I’d felt him come back to me. I pushed my knuckles against my mouth and bit against them, trying to stopper my own grief, struggling to keep myself sane.

Later, I rummaged in the kitchen cupboards and found a bottle of gin. I swallowed a slug myself, barely aware of the taste, just the burn on my throat, then went back to the top of the cellar steps.

She was still bent over his covered body, motionless, her face resting on his chest. I shuddered. He must be cooling. Stiffening. I couldn’t look. My stomach heaved.

I said, ‘I think I’d better call someone now.’

‘Wait!’ Her head jerked up. ‘Wait. We mustn’t wake Anna.’

I stared down at her. The shock was playing games with her mind. It was over, for all of us. Anna too.

I shook my head. ‘She’s going to find out. We have to…’

She closed her eyes. She seemed older than the woman who’d appeared in the doorway earlier. Drawn. Haggard. Her breathing was ragged. She looked as if she were struggling to rally her strength, to regain control of her shattered nerves.

She muttered to herself, ‘Think.’

My eyes strayed to Ralph’s protruding leg, his foot sticking out from the cover. The bare skin was puckered and shrivelled in the cold. The gin rose in my stomach.

I made it to the downstairs toilet before I vomited. My face was almost in the bowl, my eyes staring at the toilet brush in its holder. Pristine. A neat plastic case, oozing blue disinfectant, hung down from the rim. When I closed my eyes, everything swirled. I was a speck of dust, spinning through time and space, in free fall. Dear God, what had I done?

When my stomach was empty and I was retching nothing but acid, I crawled out on my hands and knees, like a dog. My head throbbed.

I pulled myself up the edge of the kitchen counter and splashed cold water on my face and wrists, took some sips from cupped hands. It was nearly dark outside. Through the window, the shapes and colours of the garden fence, the roses climbing their trellis, fused with my reflection, a pale, ghostly face with wide, frightened eyes staring back at me.

I couldn’t face going back to the cellar steps. I took the second door out of the kitchen back into the sitting room.

I jumped. Helen was sitting there, a solid shape, silent and motionless in the gathering gloom. She was still wearing her cardigan and clumpy shoes. She perched on the very edge of an armchair, her back erect. Her hands were clasped tightly together, the knuckles blanched. Her forehead was tight with concentration. She was deep in thought, or perhaps praying. For strength, perhaps? For resolve.

I hesitated. I didn’t know what to say.

Her lips twitched. She was muttering to herself, lost in her own world.

I took a step further into the room and she looked up, startled, then pointed me to the armchair opposite.

I opened my mouth to say again, ‘We need to call the police,’ then thought better of it, sighed and closed it again. I could give her time, if she needed it. I couldn’t refuse her that.

I sank into the chair and observed her. His wife. My rival. He’d wanted to leave her – he’d always said so. He just couldn’t bear to hurt her. It would kill her, he’d said. And there was Anna to think about, too.

I shook my head. It already seemed a long time ago, our battle for Ralph. Now, we’d both lost, after all. I clasped my hands in my lap. Clammy palms. My body wouldn’t stop shaking. My head ached. Nausea rose again and I